#i just really wanted to draw his hair as greasy as I possibly can and nothing more

[scolo-evil-centipede]

[joonliebe]

These are my two Tf2 AUs Modern AU, and Dark Fortress

The Modern AU is a bit old and I haven’t done anything to the story in a while but I suppose I will share it anyways. (I am NOT sharing the first drawing I did of them in the beginning of 2023. Unless it’s highly requested but it’s pretty bad and it’s crazy how much I improved in about a year)

Dell(engineer): he’s a mechanic and tool maker. Dell is a Texan man who is a kind hearted man. He spends his spare time hanging out with a few of his buds and having a cool beer or two, not enough to get drunk however just a little tipsy. He likes sitting in his truck and listening to country music on the radio. He lives with Jude and helps him through his breakdowns. He has deeper feelings for Jude however keeps silent as to not possibly ruining things between them despite Jude having the same hidden feelings.

Dell wears a plain red collar necked shirt, blue jeans, brown belt and brown boots. He often wears his cowboy hat that he loves despite its rougher edges and wear. He wears his reddish colored safety goggles a lot considering he forgets to take them off most of the time. He has tan skin. He has dirty blonde body and facial hair that he keeps decently groomed. He has short blonde hair that is usually slightly greasy due to sweat however it’s soft anyway. He has gray blue eyes

Jude(pyro): he is amab but identifies himself as genderfluid. Jude is Italian who has some physical disabilities due to his past trauma involving a house fire however he uses fire to keep himself calm so he usually carries a lighter at all times unless it’s not aloud then he tries to find other things to keep himself calm. He is very sweet and caring but can be a little over protective. Jude lives with Dell and is very close with him. His emotions towards Dell can sometimes make him overwhelmed so he tries to separate himself from Dell so as to not cause anything awkward.

Jude wears a vanilla white colored turtleneck sweater, baggy light blue jeans, and pink converse. He wears a gray face mask to cover most of his facial scars. He wears glasses that help his sight. He has pale skin with pinkish scars in numerous spots all over his body. He wears a dark gray bucket hat to hide most of his patchy auburn hair. He has olive green eyes

Jeremy(scout): he is kinda rude but overall he’s pretty chill. He lives next to his dad(spy) in a one bedroom apartment. He has a dog named Rico that is a dachshund. He has slight anger issues and will curse at anything or anyone out but will apologize after realizing he was being mean. He’s not really a cat person nor a fan of cats. He doesn’t really have a specific job and most of them involve fast food. He has harsh mixed emotions about his dad but he doesn’t like to think of it often. He wants to make his dad proud however he feels like his dad doesn’t care about him.

Jeremy wears a black tank top, gray skinny jeans that are ripped at the knees, and plain black shoes with white laces. He wears a backwards gray hat, a silver necklace his mom gave him before she passed away and black earrings. He usually listens to music on his phone with orange and black wired earbuds. He has mixed tan skin with a few freckles across his face and shoulders. He has dark golden brown hair. His eyes are brown.

Jane(soldier): he works as a ROTC teacher in a college. He was formerly in the military. He may look like a complete asshole but he actually has a good sense of humor though he is brutally honest. He is supportive however he doesn’t let people disrespect him and still receive his respect. Jane has a tough love demeanor. Jane is married to his wife Zhanna (heavy’s sister). He is good friends with Tavish who he helped out of a tough time in his life.

Jane wears a white tank top under his camouflage jacket. He wears dark green cargo pants and black boots. He wears a dog tag necklace and his wedding ring. He has a light 5 o’clock shadow. His skin is tan with a slight sunburn. He has graying short brown hair.

Theo(spy): he is a French man. He lives next to his son(scout). He works illegally as a hit man (aka assassin). He seems to be cold hearted however he does care about the people he loves. He has a cat named Cherie who is a Siamese . He feels bad about how Jeremy views him however he doesn’t want to intrude on his life as he knows Scout is dealing with the death of his mother just like him. Theo feels terrible about Colleen’s (Jeremy’s mom) death as well considering how he loved her.

Theo wears a tan turtleneck sweater under his maroon coat with matching pants and dress shoes. He carries a picture of Colleen holding Jeremy as a baby with him at all times. Theo has mixed tan skin that is slightly darker than Jeremy’s. He has black slick backed hair with gray streaks. He has a light 5 o’clock shadow on his face and his eyebrows are plucked to look nice and clean. He puts on black eyeliner. His eyes are black.

Ludwig(medic): he is a German surgeon. He cracks jokes that are kinda dark (like death or gore jokes) but sometimes he just makes straight up dad jokes. He of course has his dove archimedes as a pet. Doesn’t get unsettled by grotesque wounds often at all. He can get a little irritated at his coworkers at times but he manages to keep himself to calm down before something bad happens

Ludwig wears a black vest and tie over a white button up shirt, he wears black pants and shoes. He wears oval shaped glasses. He has tan skin and sky blue eyes. He has short dark gray hair with some noticeable light gray streaks. He tries to keep his hair slicked back however it often gets into his face.

Tavish(demoman): he is a Scottish bartender. He is good friends with Jane who helped him get out his habit of drinking at work when he was upset. He lives with his white cat named Bonnie and his beagle named Dougie.

Tavish wears a white button up shirt with a black bow tie, black pants and nice black shoes. He has a missing eye which he covers using a patch. He has dark brown skin and Hazel eyes. He has short hair and dreads at the top of his head. He has well groomed facial hair.

Mick(sniper): Mick works with Theo sometimes to assassinate people despite them not quite liking each other too much. He lives in a camper with a taped up busted window. He drinks coffee way too often. He has bad social anxiety that makes him dread interacting with people however he can sometimes push himself to do it. Mick sympathizes with Theo’s loss however he isn’t very good at supporting or comforting others.

Mick usually wears a white tank top and plain black boxers around his Camper however he sometimes will put on a robe when someone is around or he’ll wear a black tee shirt, blue jeans, brown leather jacket, and boots when he’s away from his camper. He always wears his pair of black and brown ombré sunglasses. He has dark tan skin and blue eyes. He has a messy dark brown mullet and sideburns with a slightly outgrown 5 o’clock shadow.

Mikhail(heavy): Mikhail is a retired weaponsmith. He is a tall Russian man. He works out sometimes but not as much as he used to since he’s pretty big already. He is very kind and sometimes too friendly, however he is stern when it comes to his loved ones and will protect them with his life. He owns a pet Guinea pig named Goliath.

Mikhail wears a dark brown coat over a white tee shirt, brown belt, black jeans, boots and he wears a ushanka. He has light tan skin and has a light 5 o’clock shadow. He has dark blue eyes.

The au is in a modern day society. The nine men live in a town called fortwell. Dell and Jude met in high school. Dell met Theo in college where Jane doe now works. Jeremy was supposed to go to college there but decided not to because “it was a waste of time” though it probably would have put him in a better situation than now. Jeremy didn’t have a good state of mind when he should have been starting college due to his mom passing away. Theo tried not to let her death get to him resulting in going to the bar often. Theo became pretty good friends with Tavish who comforted him when Theo would vent to him. Theo learned of Tavish’s bad habit of drinking however he didn’t judge since Tavish listened to him vent. Once Theo got back in a good head space he reunited with his college friend Dell. Dell told him about the college and how it was way better than when Theo and Dell met there. Dell met Jeremy soon after Theo and him reunited and talked him into going to college to try to get a better job if not better life. Jeremy decided to join ROTC to try to be a better son and make his mama proud if she was still watching. Jane pushed Jeremy to work hard which pissed him off but he continued anyway. After a while Jeremy started to give up. He ended up cursing out Jane. It wasn’t anything new from what he’d heard from other students so he kept a stern voice and talked Jeremy through his outburst soon finding out about his mothers death and the reason why he decided to come to college. Jane realized Jeremy wasn’t mad he was just in pain. Jane shared his experience of pain from his years of being in the military. Jeremy was surprised by the way Jane showed sympathy for him. Jeremy thought he was just an asshole but he found out Jane just showed tough love to help his students become tougher. Jeremy didn’t give up after talking with Jane instead he became more confident about continuing college. Jane was glad to have changed Jeremy’s point of view and happy to see him work hard.

Theo visited the bar and brought Dell with him though Dell wasn’t really the type to drink besides a beer every here and there. Dell met Tavish and had a few drinks with Theo and talked with Tavish as well. Theo accidentally bumped into the wrong guy at the bar. The guy caught an attitude with Theo when he tried to apologize resulting in a heated argument. Dell didn’t like this. He usually wasn’t the type to fight but he was a bit buzzed from the alcohol and he stepped in. He was not only shorter than Theo but definitely shorter than the guy. He threw the first punch which the guy didn’t like at all causing him to slam Dell on the ground and break his arm. Tavish noticed the ruckus and called the police as soon as he saw Dell get slammed and his arm broken. Theo slipped out his switchblade and slit the guy’s throat when he wasn’t looking. Nobody noticed how the guy disappeared due to all eyes focused on Dell being taken to hospital once the police and ambulance came. Tavish noticed however he said nothing. Tavish didn’t like that guy anyway since this wasn’t the first time he had caused problems in the bar. Theo somehow discarded the body without anyone but Tavish noticing but Tavish wasn’t one to run his mouth unlike his coworkers who luckily weren’t working that night. The bar got closed for the night and Tavish went to the hospital to sit with Dell. Theo went to sit with Tavish and Dell soon after telling Jeremy he wasn’t going to get back to the house that night. Dell had to have surgery to put his bones back in place. His doctor happened to be one of Tavish’s high school classmates and sort of friend. His name was Ludwig and he happened to notice Tavish even without one of his eyes. He was surprised that Tavish wasn’t the one who needed surgery due to all the trouble Tavish used to get into when they went to high school but then again he figured Tavish had matured more as an adult. After the surgery was successful Ludwig had reintroduced himself to Tavish. It took a minute but Tavish recognized Ludwig. He was slightly embarrassed when Theo heard how Tavish used to misbehave in high school but luckily Theo didn’t mind. Ludwig was happy to see him again and glad that he wasn’t upset at the way Ludwig described younger Tavish. Then again the way Tavish described how he knew him wasn’t exactly the best either. Ludwig had been quite shy and nerdy when he was younger but he wasn’t really that known either. Ludwig found out Tavish worked at a bar where Ludwig’s best friend Mikhail went to every now and then. Jude came to the hospital asking about Dell. He was very confused to see other people there and he was also nervous due to not really being social since he was bullied as a kid due to his burn scars all over his face and body. The others didn’t know about Jude until Dell came out of the room with a cast on his arm to let his arm heal properly. Dell explained how he met Jude to Tavish and Theo then he explained to Jude how he met them. Jude was still a little nervous from being socially awkward but Theo and Tavish told him that they didn’t mind him being there. Tavish told Dell how he knew Ludwig since he was still standing there reminding Ludwig that he still had a job to do and he excused himself after trading numbers with Tavish so they could stay in contact. Dell went back to the house with Jude so he could help Dell until he recovered. Later Ludwig went to the bar with Mikhail to see Tavish and talk and hang out with his friend and let them get to know each other.

Mick met Theo again after he found a property next to Theo and Jeremy’s houses. For a good while he didn’t like Theo due to thinking he was one of those guys who was full of himself. Theo didn’t know how to feel about his somewhat coworker living next to them. Jeremy made up dumb ideas that he was some weirdo who was a homeless guy that stole someone’s camper or something dumb like that. Obviously Theo didn’t believe his son. He decided to go talk to Mick. When he walked up to the camper and knocked on the door Mick opened the door before Theo could even say anything Mick closed the door in his face. He said something like “if you’re gonna say something about my camper or something like that just leave” Theo didn’t like that but he knew he wasn’t gonna say anything like that anyway he just told him he was just gonna talk to him again and clear up some possible misunderstanding. Mick already knew who he was or so he thought so. Mick walked out with his arms crossed. He looked at the perfectly dressed man waiting for him to say something. Theo told him his real name and asked about his name. Mick with a slight attitude told his name. Theo offered him a drink at the bar. Mick wasn’t exactly against the idea so he accepted though he was still cautious of the man. He didn’t really like him until they chatted more at the bar. Mick soon grew to realize that Theo wasn’t exactly what he thought. They soon started getting along better. Theo and Mick started talking more often. Not too long after Theo introduced Mick to the other guys. They started bonding more and Mick became less introverted.

I don’t have much Information on the Dark Fortress AU since it was mostly made for fun but basically this takes place in a different universe where Dr. Ludwig (aka medic) is a mad scientist who’s done all these crazy experiments for the soul purpose of being interesting.

Here’s the list of characters and what monster they are

Scout: werewolf

Soldier: Gargoyle

Pyro: fire spirit/phoenix

Demoman: cyclops

Heavy: mothman

Engineer: Cyborg

Medic: mad scientist

Sniper: Sasquatch

Spy: vampire

(Pyro is haunting Dr. Ludwig for his actions. Dell used to be Dr. Ludwig’s assistant however after Dell refused to be apart of another one of his experiments Dr. Ludwig turned him into a experiment by using his own machinery again him)

[elliebyrrdwrites]

Draco Drabble

Thanks to the potions my mother handed me, I no longer feel like heaving my guts onto the kitchen floor, though food is a no-go. My headache is manageable, but now I’m sitting in front of a table with a weepy eyed Astoria who is refusing to have her hair or makeup done because she is embarrassed.

I’ve embarrassed her. How can she possible walk down that aisle when the entire world knows that the man she is to marry is actually in love with someone else.

What, exactly, did you expect to happen when you let your parents arrange a marriage, I ask her.

“I expected you to do your duty!” She shouts, throwing down her tissue and jumping to her feet. Her anger is nothing like Grangers. It’s more insidious. Grangers is all warmth and fire. Astoria is cold and her touch like a fish out of water when she reaches over and grabs my hand.

“It’s one thing to have an affair after we’ve been married but like this?”

I pull my hand back and shift to face my father, who is sitting at the head of the table, popping sausages into his mouth like he has his entire life to burn them off.

“Is that what you planned to do? Wait a couple of years? Get your fancy home, your posh little life, pop out a son and then what? Start up an affair with the first idiot who shows you some attention?”

Astoria’s lips press together, forming that thin little line, and before we can say another word, the door slams open and in steps Guy Greengrass.

Astoria’s father is burly. He’s big and hairy. His beard is trimmed but takes up the entirety of his lower face, his salt and pepper hair is slicked back. And he’s dressed like he’s about to give his daughter away.

To me. His wife, who is a carbon copy of Astoria, looks timid and meek as she follows him inside of the dining room.

“You,” Guy’s finger is pointing at me, his hand shaking, his eyes wide and dark. Cold lumps of coal stare at me, damning me to hell. I have to fight the yawn as I wait for him to continue get on with his rant. I’m not stranger to patriarchs ranting and raving but this is just getting boring.

“How dare you smear our name!” He goes on. “And all for a vile little mudblood.”

“Vile?”

My mother clears her throat, her passive aggressive way of telling me to shut the hell up.

“I should kill you.”

Yeah, yeah. “What, exactly, are you waiting for?”

“I want to renegotiate the terms.” Guy demands, turning to my father. My father, who is still shoving little greasy bits of meat down his throat. His mouth is stuffed with it, his eyes rolling, as he tries to swallow the massive bite.

“And change what?” I ask with a chuckle. “Demand more money?”

“She deserves it after what you’ve put her through.”

“I’d pay you a thousand galleons if it would buy me out of this marriage.” I admit.

Apparently, this was not helpful.

Guy’s wand was out, a renewed anger burning inside of his dark eyes. A wizard can only rely on instinct when someone draws a wand on him. Fight or flight, is it? I imagine muggles feel the same when a pistol is drawn on them.

My wand finds its way into my hand and then Guy and I are standing with our wands drawn, a large dining table between us.

My mother and Astoria’s mother cried out. Astoria descends into sharp wails of despair. My father, inhales sharply, just as a plain owl sweeps into the window.

It’s aiming for me. With a quick stupefy aimed at Guy, I accept the letter and pick up a blueberry from the dining table to feed the bird.

Guy is thrown into the wall, before he slumps and slides down, unconscious.

Astoria starts to scream at me and my mother is moving, hurrying over to my father while I open the letter.

The world around me goes quiet as I read it.

Please, come and clean up this mess. -H.G.

It’s from Granger. She’s asking me to come to her. Yesterday, she asked me to leave. Part of me can acknowledge the fact that she’s upset about what I’ve done. But there’s a part of me that might be delusional but, I believe she really wants to see me.

Because, undoubtedly, I am hers. And, now the entire world knows.

“You bastard!” Astoria’s shouting at me and it jolts me back into the present. When I look up from the letter, I find that chaos has evolved into madness. Astoria is stringing together a slew of curse words as her father still lays unconscious. But my mother, she’s hitting my father on the back, slamming her hand and her fist over and over, as if to give him the beating he’s always deserved.

Horrifyingly, though, she isn’t trying to punish him. She’s trying to save him.

I watch as my fathers face swells, his eyes bugging out. His skin is purple, and he’s clawing at his throat. His greasy lips are turning blue as the bits of sausage tumble from his mouth. He’s stuffed too many pieces in. He’s choking on the bite he couldn’t finish before he shoved more in.

My gods.

My father is dying.

My body is filling with something I can’t describe. A sense of fullness and lightness consumes me as I watch my fathers eyes lock onto mine. I don't know if he is seeing me or not. But together, our eyes remain, as he gasps, uselessly, for more air.

There’s warmth seeping into my face, my fingers feel tingly, and my feet are lighter than ever.

“Draco, do something!”

But, I can’t. I’m stuck. I’m frozen to the floor as my mother cries and panics. She’s running around the dining room, as if in search of something that may save him. But there is no saving this man. The world he built is imploding around him as he dies. Choked out, suffocated by his own greed.

It’s a fucking miracle.

When he finally slumps forward, his face falling into the greasy plate in front of him with a loud smack, I can’t help the choked laugh that escapes.

My mother is too upset to notice, but Astoria is frozen, staring at my fathers dead body before she finally blinks and looks at me.

I fold Granger’s letter back into the neat little envelope before tucking it into my coat pocket.

“Astoria, I think it’s safe to say that we shouldn’t get married.”

She says nothing, she just stares at me. Wide eyed and shocked.

“I’m sorry for hurting you, I am. You deserve more than that. You deserve to marry for love, not...” I hold a hand out toward my family. My mother running around, crying. My dead father, blue faced and covered in sausage grease. “This.”

Surprisingly, she just nods, agreeing.

[misscherrys-world]

Random things I think about:

Chrollo Lucilfer.

So there’s some random things I think about because my first one of « religious chrollo » didn’t make it very well, so because I love this fandom I will write another one for chrollo cause why not?

Also these are my early morning thoughts, I’m hungery and writing it at 5:21 in the morning.

Warnings : Spoilers from the manga, death, nsfw

I genuinely feel that Chrollo is so guilty for Shalnark and Kortopi, he took their nen abilities for the fight, left them unprotected, that’s what he’s thinking he had done.

Of course no one would think Hisoka would survive this, but he did and took his revenge, which I really think it was despicable thing to do.

As you start to get really into details, the more you’ll start to doubt the troupe was behind the Kurta massacre.

I’m not saying they are innocent but you’ll start to doubt it. Especially the same pattern was done to Sarasa, the note.

Still it’s not clear what happened and why it happened to the Kurta’s.

Manga Chrollo is superior to the drawing in 1999 and 2011 adaptations.

Also unpopular opinion: hxh 1999 drawing was better than the 2011, Idk I guess i prefer it because I used to watch it since I was 4 or 5? And yes Chrollo was my favorite and remember crying over his “fake death” in yorknew’s arc. Iconic isn’t it?

Chrollo’s favorite soda is cream soda, who drinks that? me

His favorite meal is dinner, he loves ramen.

He can’t tolerate spicy food. Shalnark and Uvo would purposely get his food spicy just to see his ears, nose, eyes and lips red and tearing up. Won’t give him water though.

I still think he’s not into sexual activities, but when a mission requires it to get something he wants he’s distant and emotionless

Only doggy style or any style that doesn’t make him really intimate with the person.

He won’t stay in the bed beside them, he’ll get himself cleaned in the shower. Of course after getting the information or the object he wants.

He will get himself checked up for any diseases that could possibly be transmitted to him.

Not talkative during the act yk, different story if he’s in love though.

He may seem a little bit greasy because of his slicked back hair, but trust me that man smells like soap.

He loves old movies.

He suffers from nightmares from his childhood, what happened to Sarasa and the note haunt him in his sleep.

He dreams of the day he would reunite with his deceased friends, so they can finally be able to continue their dream as a theatre troupe, the “Phantom Troupe”.

Soooo this is it. Tell me what do you think about it? What or who should I do next in “Random things I think about” 🤍🎀

Have a lovely day and drink some water. 🤍

[drarry-soulmates]

HBO remake... my thoughts! (Hagrid was STICK-THIN in the books & misc.)

I think people need to separate the movie from the show. The show is trying to do book-accurate actors/actresses, right? I heard that they are trying to be more faithful to the ages of the characters too (THANK GODS). i really want them to show that Hagrid was NOT fat. he was tall, sure (11 feet). But nowhere in the books did it say he was necessarily 'fat' or 'round' unlike Molly Weasley and Neville. I write a lot of fanfic & i always try to portray my characters as book-accurate as possible and all my Hagrids are never fat because I can't find book proof of that. In fact, he seems pretty thin, when his weight is factored in. He is 11 ft but weighs only 289 lbs. He's a walking stick.

But i fear a bunch of non-book readers will have issue with certain book aspects in the show bc it doesn't match the movie versions.

Like, please give us BLACK-haired GREEN-eyed Harry. Give him a wig and contacts. Those bright green eyes were mentioned way too often in the books to be glossed over. And Harry was supposed to be a hot jock like his dad. Daniel Radcliffe isn't ugly by any means, but he didn't turn heads in the same way Tom Felton did. I know this isn't something that can be controlled though /:

The movie versions did a very poor portrayal of the book characters IMO, including the ages. Idk what they were thinking with casting 30-40 yo ppl to play Harry's 21 yo parents... Adrian (James Potter) who played his 21 dad was 43 in first movie...... I think JKR purposely made all the characters (Potters, Sirius, Lupin, Snape) younger so they could be a bit more relatable to a younger audience. PLEASE MAKE THEM YOUNGER HBO!!! Age really reflects A LOT in the perception of characters! Esp now that most HP fans are around the age of these adult characters.

Also, as a POC, I want them to keep all the ethnicities the same. Unfortunately, the book characters were mainly white (as shown in various pictures throughout the books--like JKR's hand-drawn picture where Hermione was drawn with Dean and only Dean was shaded in since he's black and she's not. It's notable that Harry doesn't look Indian either & his hair doesn't have curls). As much as we wish these characters were different ethnicities, JKR clearly never intended for them to be:

In the late 90's (at the time the books were written), no one was 'woke' like we are now. JKR had no incentive to try to be diverse in her story. Any POC was glaringly obvious by their names. 'Cho Chang' or 'Patil.'

I believe her comments on a black Hermione for HPCC was to support the black actresses that played Hermione, likely because she knew the backlash that those actresses might receive.

As far as I know, the only canon POC characters were the Patil sisters, Cho, Dean, Lee Jordan, and Kingsley. Why don't we as a fandom prop those actual POC characters up? Include them as part of the main ship in more fanfics rather than side ships, make more fanart, etc., rather than try to turn white characters brown?

I don't want any ethnicity changes just for diversity's sake, as that is a bit disrespectful to us POC. The hope is that future stories will be more ethnically diverse from the start, rather than have token characters thrown in just for diversity's sake.

Changing Snape to black (like the rumors I've heard) would look so bad--a skinny black kid who straightens his 'greasy' hair, targeted for bullying purposes by James, a pureblood white wizard. Umm. See how godsdamn awful that looks?

Snape official book drawing (not black at all--he actually looks kinda Asian in the first pic):

Not to mention:

"Snape’s sallow skin had gone the color of sour milk." -Harry Potter & the Prisoner Of Azkaban

Indeed, even Dumbledore's sexuality was so subtle it was never explicitly mentioned because JKR didn't write the books with the intention of being 'woke.' She just wrote an epic kid's adventure for children ages 9-12, and I truly believe it's the fans who have made the books more meaningful than JKR intended them to be!

—Just a fan that wants CORRECT portrayals (ages, ethnicities, looks).

HBO promised a book-accurate show. GIVE US WHAT YOU PROMISED.

[livelaughwhump]

Worthless - Part 12

Masterlist | Previous

Content: reference to past noncon, self-deprecation, self-hatred, dehumanization, flashback, degradation, threat of noncon (flashback), fear of noncon, pet whump, hurt/comfort

This takes place the day after chapter 11 (3 days since Lyra left)

(Italicized text indicates a flashback)

-

Elliot stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His dull blue eyes were sunken. His previously tanned skin was pale and lifeless. There was no color in his cheeks, and hardly any light in his eyes. His sandy blond hair was stringy and greasy, even though he'd just had a bath a couple of days ago.

He was so thin, far too thin to be healthy. He'd always been much smaller than everyone else, thanks to his less-than-ideal childhood, but now, he didn't just look small. He looked fragile. No wonder his teammates were suddenly so gentle with him. He looked about as healthy as a skeleton.

Elliot ran a hand through his flat, lifeless hair, his fingers catching on multiple tangles. Several strands fell out and collected at the bottom of the sink. The sight made Elliot want to cry. He looked pathetic and broken. There wasn't a single thing that he liked about himself anymore. He used to be so confident and boastful, but now, he could hardly remember what the old him used to look like. All he could remember was the bright smile that his friends missed so much.

Elliot concentrated on his colorless lips as he tried to force them into a smile. It was shaky and forced, fake and weak, and it faded faster than it had formed.

Elliot's chin started quivering.

Have I always been this ugly?

A sudden knock at the bathroom door broke Elliot out of his thoughts. He flinched as Landon's voice said, "Elliot? You okay in there, buddy? You've been in there a while."

Elliot hesitated for a moment, waiting for his racing heart to slow before he slowly opened the door and faced his teammate. "I'm fine," he said in his small, broken voice.

Landon was silent for a beat before he said, "Okay. Just making sure." An awkward silence followed and Elliot nervously shifted his weight from side to side. Elliot kept his head lowered, unable to bring himself to look Landon in the eye. "You know," Landon started. "If something's wrong, you can talk to me." Elliot lowered his head even further. "I know there's more I have to do to make up for yelling at you the other day, but-but you can trust me, I promise."

Elliot nodded, and in the smallest voice he could muster, he said, "Yes, Sir."

Landon furrowed his thick brows in confusion. "Are you okay, buddy?"

Elliot didn't move. "Yes, S-Sir," he answered.

Landon kneeled in front of Elliot so he could look into the smaller man's downturned eyes. "Hey," Landon said, as gently as possible. "What's wrong?"

Elliot's breath hitched, and he closed his eyes to keep from looking directly at Landon. "N-Nothing, Sir."

"Why do you keep calling me that? I told you, you don't need to call me that. We're friends, right?"

Elliot bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir." His voice was shaking and he fought to keep his tears from falling. The truth was, he didn't know why he was calling Landon 'Sir'. It just felt right, it felt necessary, and he was too afraid to stop.

Landon sighed and Elliot flinched, biting back a whimper. "I'm sorry, buddy," he quickly apologized. "I'm not upset with you, okay? I just need to talk to Karine really quick and then I'll be back, yeah?"

Elliot stiffened as Landon stood and made his way around the corner. Elliot stood there for a few seconds once Landon was gone. He wasn't quite sure why.

He slowly dropped onto his hands and knees and started crawling toward the corner of the living room, where he hugged his arms around his knees and buried his face between them.

. . .

"Karine?" Landon shouted as he threw open the door to the leader's bedroom.

Karine gasped and started. She held a hand to her racing heart, as though that would slow it, and turned to face Landon. "What the hell, dipshit? Ever heard of knocking?"

"I'm sorry," Landon quickly apologized.

Hearing Landon respond with an apology, rather than his normal retorts, sparked panic in the pit of Karine's stomach. She quickly stood to her feet and approached him. "What's wrong?" She questioned.

Landon clenched his jaw. "Do you know what's up with Elliot?" He asked.

Karine furrowed her brows. "What are you talking about? What's wrong with Elliot? Is he okay?"

"I don't know," Landon admitted. "He-He just seems kinda down today. I mean, he-he won't even look at me and he keeps calling me 'sir'." Karine pursed her lips. "He was also just sitting in the washroom for like fifteen minutes. I don't know what's going on, but I'm worried."

Karine sighed. "He's probably just depressed. I would be too if I was stuck inside for over a year. Poor thing probably hasn't properly seen the sun in ages."

Landon ran a hand down the side of his face. "So, what should I do?"

Karine rolled her eyes. "I don't know, take him on a walk or something? Why don't you ask him?"

"Okay, first of all, he's not a dog, Karine." Karine glared at Landon for that, as though to say 'you know what I meant'. "And second of all, I tried asking him, but he just says that nothing's wrong. He doesn't trust me."

Karine folded her arms across her chest. "And who's fault is that?"

Landon's gaze wavered. He was well aware that Karine was still angry with him for yelling at Elliot. He already felt horrible about it and seeing her look at him like that just worsened his guilt.

"Karine, I'm sorry. I don't have an excuse, but I want to help him as much as the rest of you do. All I'm asking for is some guidance. He trusts you, and I want him to know that he can trust me too."

Karine merely stared at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. "My only advice is to talk to him."

"But, he won't-"

"Talk to him," Karine interrupted. "And if he doesn't want to talk, leave him be. I think that's the best you can do for him right now."

. . .

Elliot stared forward at nothing, his eyes overflowing with salty tears. He was lost in his own mind, horrible memories plaguing his thoughts. In that moment, it didn't matter that he was safe and clothed and warm. He felt like he was right back in that cold cell, naked and covered in bruises while his owner loomed over him threateningly.

. . .

"Are you ready to be a good boy, mutt?"

Elliot sniffled and choked on his tears. "Ch-Christian, p-please-" the whip snapped down on his back, leaving angry red welts in its wake. Elliot whimpered, his arms shaking with the effort to hold up his exhausted body.

"Know your place, whore!" Christian shouted, whipping him several more times for good measure. Elliot struggled to stay on his hands and knees, as instructed. "I am your master now, and you will refer to me as such! Understand?"

Hot, burning tears streamed down Elliot's dirt-crusted face. "P-Please, l-let me g-go." Those words earned him five more lashes. "What-What did I do?" Three more lashes. "P-Please, s-stop." His voice was barely above a whisper now. One more lash and his arms would surely give out.

The whip clattered to the ground before Elliot's eyes, and Christian's hand snatched hold of his jaw, jerking his head up to face his captor. Elliot yelped, his eyes burning and his lip trembling. He felt absolutely pathetic.

Christian glowered at him with fire in his black eyes. "If this method of training doesn't work for you, pet, would you prefer a different method?" Elliot's eyes were wide and full of fear and tears. "You're already exposed and available for me to use. Would you prefer if I bend you over and split you open right here? You're already so delicate and weak. It wouldn't be hard. Or would you like to try to be a good boy for me? Your choice."

Elliot burst into uncontrollable sobs. This couldn't be happening. What had he done to deserve this?

Elliot sniffled and lifted his eyes to meet Christian's. "I-I can be g-good, M-Master." His stomach sank as the words left his lips. Christian had truly broken him.

Christian smiled and released his bruising grip on Elliot's jaw. "There's my good boy." Christian began to scratch behind Elliot's ear like one would a dog. Elliot whimpered, disgusted with himself for reveling in the gentle touch. "I knew you had it in you. You'll be the perfect little pet for me, won't you? You'll be a good dog for your master."

. . .

Elliot wrapped him arms tighter around his knees, trying to make himself as small as possible. He was trying so hard not to cry, but the memories wouldn't stop replaying in his head. That was the moment when his old self had finally died, the first time he had ever called Christian 'Master'. The first time he had embraced his role as a pet. He never fought again after that.

Elliot's lip started quivering again. He sniffled and clamped his eyes shut to stop the tears from escaping. He couldn't imagine how disappointed his teammates must've been when they found what was left of their friend. As much as they tried to hide it, he knew how much they missed the old Elliot, the one that was all smiles and laughter.

He didn't even deserve to be called by that name anymore. He was a pathetic excuse for the person he used to be.

"Buddy?" A soft, distant voice said. Elliot lifted his gaze from the ground to meet Landon's sky blue eyes. Elliot was barely tethered to reality, still trapped in his own harrowing memories. "Are you okay?" Landon's voice was slightly clearer as Elliot's consciousness slowly returned to his body.

As Elliot became more aware of his surroundings, his eyes went round.

Landon smiled awkwardly at him. "Hey, buddy. You okay?"

Elliot wiped the tears off of his face and bowed his head. "Yes, Sir."

Landon's smile died and Elliot tried hard not to burst into tears.

You just can't stop disappointing people, can you?

"Karine said you might be depressed. Is that what's happening?" Landon questioned.

Elliot didn't know how to answer. Depression was a human emotion and Elliot was just a stupid animal. He reluctantly shook his head. "N-No, Sir."

Landon hummed. "So, just having a bad day, then?" Elliot sniffled and clamped his eyes shut. "It's okay, you're not in trouble," Landon assured him. "We all get bad days sometimes, and-" Landon paused as an idea struck him. He smiled. "I think I know something that can help. Come with me." Landon stood up and extended a hand out to Elliot.

Elliot stared at the outstretched hand for several long seconds before touching the top of his head to Landon's palm. Landon pulled his hand back and looked at Elliot with confusion in his eyes. "What are you doing?" He asked.

Elliot flinched. "Wh-Whenever M-Master didn't have my-my leash, he-he would always pull me around by-by my hair." He hunched his shoulders. "I-I just thought-"

"I'm not going to pull your hair," Landon snapped. Elliot flinched and whimpered. "And I'm not putting a leash on you either. That's so fucked up."

Elliot tried so hard not to cry, his body quivering with the effort. "I-I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't mean to offend you."

Landon took a deep breath and started over. "I didn't mean to snap at you, Elliot. I'm sorry. You haven't done anything wrong." Elliot's trembling slowed slightly. "I just wanted to help you up, that's all."

Elliot's face turned pink.

Dumb, stupid, brainless bitch

"O-Oh." Elliot placed a trembling hand into Landon's and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Elliot kept his head down as they walked. He didn't want to know what Landon was planning to do with him, but he did know that he would try to be good for him.

Elliot was a little surprised, to say the least, when they arrived in his own room. His fear only grew as Landon led him over to the bed.

"Okay," Landon began. "So, you can lay down and get comfortable. I'm just going to grab a few things and I'll be right back, yeah?"

Elliot glanced up at Landon when he heard his instructions. Landon wore a wide, proud smile. Elliot's eyes widened.

No, no, no, this can't happen again. Please, not again

Landon's smile faded. "Something wrong?" He asked.

Elliot panicked.

Be good. Be a good boy and maybe it won't hurt as much. Maybe he'll make it feel good

Elliot shook his head. "N-No, Sir. I-I will do whatever you say."

Landon didn't look satisfied, but he nodded and left the room, presumably to fetch everything he needed to use the pathetic little bitch he'd left behind.

It was then that Elliot's efforts to avoid crying failed. Tears trickled down his face as he sat on the bed, the place where he slept.

Hopefully he'll let me change the sheets once he's done

Elliot gingerly held the hem of his shirt between his thumb and forefinger. He sniffled and suppressed the urge to sob as he gently pulled his gray shirt over his head.

The cold air hit his bare skin and he started violently shivering. He'd started getting used to wearing clothes again, but he should've known it wouldn't last. He didn't remove his pants yet. Landon would probably want to do that himself just like Master.

Elliot kneeled in the middle of the bed with his head bowed. He quickly wiped away his tears and held his breath while he waited for Landon to return.

. . .

Landon was very proud of himself.

When he was little, his younger sister would have a lot of bad days, and he would always tuck her into bed with some tea or hot cocoa to cheer her up. Sometimes he would even read to her or put on her favorite movie.

He just hoped it would be enough to cheer Elliot up, even just a little bit.

Landon was grinning from ear to ear as he carefully carried a book, his laptop, and two mugs of peppermint tea into Elliot's room.

However, the moment he opened the door, his smile disappeared.

Elliot was shirtless and kneeling in the center of his bed. His shoulders were trembling and he looked like he was about to cry.

"Elliot?" Landon said, hoping his confusion didn't come off as irritation.

Elliot suppressed a flinch. "I-I'm ready, Sir." His breath hitched. "I-I will be good for you, I-I promise. P-Please, don't make it h-hurt."

Landon furrowed his brows. "What are you talking about?" He exclaimed, setting down all of his things on Elliot's nightstand.

Elliot whimpered and offered up both of his wrists, as though expecting to be restrained. "I-I will be good, Sir," he repeated. "I-I will be silent and-and still. I will make you f-feel good." Landon didn't understand any of what Elliot was saying, but he grew more and more concerned with each word. Elliot sniffled, and several traitorous tears slipped down his face. "I w-will be a g-good s-s-sex toy for you."

Landon's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. "Oh, my God, Elliot, no!" He shouted.

Elliot flinched and yelped, but he didn't move from his submissive position. He didn't even lower his outstretched wrists.

Landon violently shook his head. "No, no, no. Elliot, I would never do that to you, oh my God! I-I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make you think that I...oh, buddy."

Elliot was sobbing and pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes to stop the heavy flow of tears. Landon desperately wanted to give him a hug, but he didn't think that was the best idea, given the circumstances.

"I-I'm so s-sorry, Sir. I-I shouldn't have a-assumed. I'm so stupid. I'm sorry."

Landon felt his heart drop. "Elliot, no," he said in the softest voice he could muster. "You're not stupid, and I'm not mad at you. I just-" Landon stared at the sobbing mess in front of him as rage boiled in the pit of his stomach. How could someone do this to another human being?

For some reason, it was only then that Landon realized what an assumption like this meant.

Fury burned behind Landon's eyes, but he wouldn't make the mistake of taking his anger with Whitlock out on Elliot again. Landon forced himself to take several deep breaths in order to calm his racing heart. Then, he knelt in front of the bed so he could meet Elliot's downturned eyes.

"Elliot, buddy, I'm going to need you to look at me for a second, okay?" Elliot reluctantly obeyed, lifting his teary eyes to meet Landon's. Landon's stomach clenched. He really didn't want to have to ask, to bring up such painful memories, but he needed to know. He needed to be sure. "Did Christian...do that to you?" He couldn't bring himself to say the word. That would only make it so much more real.

"D-Do what, S-Sir?" Elliot asked.

Landon's insides churned. He really didn't want to elaborate, but he knew he had to. Still, he refused to say the word. "Did he...use you? Like you thought I was going to use you?"

Elliot's face darkened with understanding. He tore his gaze away from Landon's face as more tears flooded his eyes. He gave a gentle nod, but he didn't do anymore than that.

Landon's heart sunk. He'd already known the answer, but having Elliot admit it was so much worse. Landon wanted to scream and break something, but he refused to do any of that in front of Elliot. He refused to traumatize the poor boy anymore than he already had.

. . .

How fucking pathetic is that? You're so useless and ugly and disgusting that he doesn't even want to fuck you! You really are good for nothing, you worthless bitch

Elliot wanted to crawl into a hole and die. He was utterly horrified at the accusation he had made, and he was sure Landon was too. Red hot shame crept onto his face and every part of his body was trembling.

Stupid, empty-headed mutt

"Elliot," Landon's soft voice said. Elliot couldn't move, couldn't bear to look at the man in front of him. He was utterly humiliated. Surely, Landon hated him even more now, especially now that he knew what Christian had done to him. Surely, he thought Elliot was disgusting and dirty. However, those thoughts did not match the words Landon said next. "Elliot, buddy, it's okay. I-I'm not angry or anything. I just...I'm so sorry that happened to you."

Elliot sniffled and wrapped his frail arms around his exposed body. "Wh-Why?" He mumbled.

A moment of silence followed. Elliot still refused to look at Landon, so he couldn't see the look on the older man's face as he said, "What?"

Elliot whimpered. "Wh-Why are you s-sorry? You-You don't l-like me."

Landon's eyes grew sad and his voice softened as he said, "Elliot...first of all, what-what you went through, I-I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy." Elliot lowered his head. "Second of all, whatever I did to make you think I don't like you, I'm so sorry. I do like you. I'm your friend, remember?"

Elliot's lower lip was quivering. "Really?" His voice was shaking just as much.

Landon thought for a moment. "Wait here," he said. He stood up from his kneeling position and moved about the room. Elliot flinched, his whole body tense as he waited for Landon to return. When he did, he was holding a mug, a blanket, and Elliot's discarded shirt. "Here, put your shirt back on." Elliot did as he was told. Grateful to cover up his exposed body. Then, Landon wrapped the soft blanket around the younger man's shoulders and handed him the warm mug.

Once Elliot was sufficiently warm and comfortable, Landon sat beside him, though a couple feet away. Elliot stared sadly into the contents of his mug. Landon pursed his lips and sighed. "When my sister was younger, I would always read to her when she was sad." Elliot glanced over at Landon. "Sometimes I'd make her tea and I would snuggle her up in as many blankets as I could find. Then, I would cuddle with her and read her one of her favorite books."

Elliot hesitated. "That's-That's very nice of you," he said.

Landon met Elliot's dull gaze. "That's all I was planning to do with you. You were having a bad day and I thought-" Landon broke off when Elliot's face fell and he turned his head away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

Elliot sniffled and stared into his tea once more. "It-It wasn't your fault. I-I was pr-presumptuous. I'm sorry I accused you."

Landon reluctantly reached a hand toward Elliot's shoulder, but he stopped himself before he could touch him. "Elliot, no one in this house would ever do that to you," he said as he pulled his hand back. Elliot didn't react. "Myself included. We all just want what's best for you. We want you to be happy. We would never hurt you."

Elliot took a reluctant sip of his peppermint tea. It was only lukewarm by that point, but he was still grateful for it.

Landon's gaze wavered. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Elliot glanced over at him. "About what?"

Landon hesitated. "About your time with...Christian. About what he did to you." Elliot tensed, but he didn't speak. "You don't have to. I-I just want you to know that I'm, um, I'm here if you need someone to talk to."

Elliot was silent for several long seconds, holding his breath to keep from crying again. "Th-Thank you, but-but I'm n-not ready." Elliot flinched, preparing to be hit.

"That's okay," Landon assured him. Elliot relaxed just a bit. "You can talk when you're ready. We're all here for you. You're not alone anymore."

Elliot hunched his shoulders, and in a brief moment of bravery, he said, "Landon?"

Landon hummed in response.

Elliot nervously fidgeted with the mug, tapping on the ceramic and swirling the contents around. "Can-Can you, um..." His bravery was beginning to fade. "Can you-Can you h-hold me?" He stammered. Elliot didn't dare chance a look at Landon. He didn't want to see the expression the larger man wore. "Just-Just for a little bit? I-I promise I'll be-be good."

Several long seconds of blistering silence followed and dread filled Elliot's stomach.

Stupid dog. He hates you, remember? He's disgusted by you! He knows what a dirty slut you are, now. Why would he want to be anywhere near you, let alone touch you?

Elliot started to cry again. "I'm sorry," he choked out. "Just-Just forget I s-said anything."

"No, no, no, it's okay," Landon frantically assured him. "I was just...a little shocked, that's all. Of course, I'll hold you! I'd be happy to hold you."

Elliot glanced up at the older man, his lower lip trembling. "R-Really?"

Landon forced a weak smile onto his face and awkwardly opened his arms. Elliot stared at him with uncertainty for a few seconds, sure that the minute he got close, Landon would smack him. Elliot's gaze wavered. "I won't hurt you, buddy. I promise," Landon said.

Elliot stiffly scooted closer to Landon and let himself fall into Landon's arms. Landon was strong, but not in a threatening way. He was warm and inviting. Elliot felt safe and secure instead of trapped. After a few awkward minutes, Elliot reluctantly melted into Landon's embrace, burying his face in the man's chest. Tears slipped out of the corners of his closed eyes as Landon began to rock him back and forth, rubbing soothing circles into Elliot's back. Elliot whimpered.

"It's okay," Landon whispered. "I've got you. You're safe. I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you again, Elliot. I promise. I've got you."

For some reason, Elliot didn't doubt a single word.

-

Sorry this one took so long, you guys! It's been a rough week, but hooray for another Landon chapter! I think this one ended much better than the last one

I didn't really get a chance to proofread this one much, so sorry for any typos!

Taglist:

@l-antre-des-merveilles @pigeonwhumps @nicolepascaline @burningkittypoet @whumpinggrounds @suffering-and-misery @make-them-scream @honeycollectswhump @rabass

If anyone wants to be added to or removed from the taglist, please let me know😊

[burning-the-write-oil]

Guardian

Summary: Compilation of a few different scenes of Sandor and reader.

Characters: Sandor Clegane/F!Reader

Words: 1.9k

Rating: Explicit, 18+ only

Warnings: swearing/explicit language, indications of intended non-con/r*pe, explicit sexual references, penetrative sex, oral (f), alluded age gap (reader is in 20s), how fucking large Sandor Clegane is

A/N: So I’ve written yet another piece that wasn’t on my list of things I needed to write, but I have an issue with new characters that I thirst over and having an overwhelming urge to write them, so here’s the result! It’s kind of all over the place, but it was an idea I had that only compiled of a few scenes so I just connected them. I hope you enjoy if you do read! Thank you for your support and please like, reblog, and comment if you desire!

Masterlist

           “C’mon poppet, we don’t bite...much.”

Try as you did, there was no possible way to press yourself any closer against the wall in an attempt to distance yourself from the men. You wished you could melt into the wall, become one and get away. Escape. But there was no escape. Three guards of Kings Landing had you cornered, deciding they were going to have their way with a handmaiden they’d found wandering the halls of the castle alone. A bad decision on your part, it seemed. However, you’d made this trek to the gardens before, spending any time to yourself there, should the weather be suitable.

           “Don’t you fools have enough fun at the brothels? Just let me be on my way,” You pleaded, your heart rate increasing at the sneers and laughs they gave.

           “No charge for you, love. Here for the taking. Can’t give that opportunity up, now can we?” One of the guard’s sickly sweet tones made you grimace, trying to push their grimy hands away from your body as they began to reach to pull at your dress.

A sharp strike to your face at your refusal and attempt to escape caused you to whimper as one man quickly turned you and pressed your face to the wall behind you. Tears pricked in your eyes as you tried to call out for help, only to be met with another strike and a harsh tug to your hair. You tried to tune out the murmurs of “how fun this one will be” and “feisty one, she is” as they decided who would have the first go at you.

Tears slid down your cheeks as one of the men ripped at the fabric of your gown, tearing a strip down the back and side just as the sound of someone drawing their sword met your ears. You froze, immediately noticing the hands of the guard leave you. You hesitated to turn around at the proceeding sound of steel colliding and groans of the men being struck, sliced and falling to the ground, slashed with the stranger’s sword.

Silence filled the air immediately after. You reached for the ripped fabric of your dress, attempting to hold it to your chest to cover yourself in some way before turning around, your red eyes meeting the stranger’s.

Sandor Clegane. The Hound. The king’s bodyguard.

He sheathed his bloodied sword, eyes softening when he met yours, carefully taking a few steps towards you. The guards now in a pool of their own blood. You exhaled shakily, eyes remaining fixed on the metal armor that covered his chest as he stood before you. He carefully brought a hand to your jaw, gently tilting your head up ever so slightly to get a better look at your injuries. His thumb barely brushed the mark and the quickly forming bruise from the man who had struck you and knew there were more than likely more bruises to be found on your body. His touch barely pressed your cheeks as he wiped away the falling tears from your cheeks. Less from the fear in the present and more from the events that had just occurred. What could have happened had Sandor not been there.

           “Let’s get you back to your quarters.” He quietly spoke and you nodded with a sniffle, his hand on the small of your back as he led you down the hall.

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

           “Aren’t they going to notice the king’s bodyguard is missing?”

           “Fuck ‘em…” He mumbled against your neck, the scruff around his mouth scratching against your skin at the contact.

You smiled, shaking your head slightly at the retort. The rate at which you’d gone from barely touching the man before you to now having his hands on you almost constantly when you two were together was very quick. Your touch, kisses, and affection were now welcomed to Sandor.

           “You’re going to get us both in trouble.” You smirked, starting to run your fingers through the greasy strands of his hair.

He pulled away from your neck with a sigh, shifting you to now straddle his lap from your original position of sitting to the side. He raised a brow, looking up at you.

           “Are you really that concerned about those cunts right now?”

You shook your head with a small grin, tilting your head to press your forehead to his, brushing the tip of his nose with yours.

           “That’s what I thought.” He growled, gently guiding your head with a hand grasping your chin to place more kisses now along your jawline.

You paused for a few moments, appreciating the attention he gave you before speaking again, much to his displeasure.

           “I missed you.”

He pulled away to look up at you, this time not in slight annoyance but to better listen as you spoke.

           “Not easy protecting the little shit and handling his insistent demands. Finding time to come to see you without being summoned isn’t as easy..” He simply replied, eyes searching your face. 

You nodded understandably, brushing the back of your hand along his cheek. You knew he wanted to see you, but you both had to keep up the image that nothing was going on between you two.

           “Guess we should make the most of our time then.”

           “Aye, that’s what I’ve been trying to do since I got here.” He mumbled in fake annoyance and you could immediately sense the playfulness in his tone.

Rolling your eyes, you immediately leaned down to press your lips to his, hands resting on the back of his neck. You loved these moments.

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

           “Gods, don’t stop, please!” You whined, doing your best to keep your voice low as your eyes fluttered open to attempt to look down at the man between your thighs, eagerly licking at your pussy as you were laid across the wooden table in your quarters.

Sandor harshly sucked your clit between his lips before pulling back ever so slightly to speak,

           “You keep whimpering like that and I won’t be able to finish. Don’t like people interrupting my meal…” He grumbled, using his thumbs to separate your lower lips and lick a long stripe along the length of your labia.

You bit your lip to muffle the moan that wanted to escape your lips as you were steadily brought to the edge for the second time, your sensitive clit aching at the contact and the wet squelching sounds of his lips and tongue giving attention to your swollen center.

           “Come up h-here so I can give y-you the attention you deserve.” You managed to get out, your body jolting slightly as he removed his mouth from you moments later.

He chuckled lowly, slowly rising from his knees to stand before you, lips shiny with your arousal.

          “You mean so I can fuck you?”

           “Works out for both of us, now doesn’t it?” You raise a brow with a teasing smirk, hands reaching up to pull the top of your dress down even further, baring more of your breasts to him.

He groans, leaning down to drag his teeth across one of your nipples before unbuttoning his trousers and pulling them down to free his hardened length that was now leaking at the tip.

           “You could always have your betrothed do the job for you.” His tone bitter at the reference to the man your father had arranged for you to marry.

That couldn’t be further from what you wanted as he pulled you off of the table, flipping you around to now face the table before shoving you to bend over it.

           “If I wanted a boy to fuck me, I’d be over there right now.” You told him, your body shivering in excitement as he used his knee to spread your thighs further apart.

          “Oh, that’s right. You want a man to fuck you proper… Plenty of other men in King’s Landing, girl.” He slowly dragged the tip of his cock along the length of your slit, coating him in your arousal before pausing at your entrance.

          “Fuck, Sandor! I want you, okay? I want you to fuck me, please!” You practically begged, your hands trying to reach for an edge on the table as you tried to push your ass back towards his hips.

           He chuckled at your pleading, knowing very well that he was who you wanted. “That’s right, girl.”

He thrust into you roughly, his large hands immediately grabbing onto your hips and pulling them back to meet his thrusts. You pressed your mouth to your arm in front of you, trying to muffle the moans that fell from your lips as your body jolted forward with every quick thrust.

           “Such a sweet girl, but like it so rough, doesn’t she? Imagine what your father would think, knowing you let The Hound ruin you.” He growled as he brought a hand forward to gather your hair and pull you up towards him.

You could only whimper in response, mumbling for him to fuck you harder before your lips pressed together in hopes your cries of pleasure wouldn’t be heard past the doors of your quarters.

           “You going to come for me, sweet one?” He grunted as his thrusts slowed ever so slightly, still continuing to plow into you.

           “Yes, please let me come!” You whined, your hands searching for anything to grab on the surface below you.

Sandor’s grunts and growls grew louder as he reached his peak as well, the rhythm of his thrusts beginning to falter.

            “Come on then. Come for me.” He groaned as your walls clenched around him and your orgasm hit you moments later, your head falling to the surface as your body shook, feeling him reach his release not long after you. 

Both your pants and heavy breathing were the only thing that could be heard now and you weren’t sure you’d be able to stand without your thighs shaking. He pulled out of you slowly as he caught his breath and you could feel his release slowly begin to leak out of you. A few soft pats to your ass and he helped you up and over to your bed, laying you on your back. You began to cover yourself with your sheet as you watched him begin to dress.

You wished he could stay but you both knew he couldn’t. Someday, you hoped he could.

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

           “Father, please! I love him!” You sobbed, following after him as he departed from the gardens, tears steadily falling from your cheeks and your breath ragged with fear.

           “No, you are betrothed! I will not have you seeing that man anymore. I am astounded at your behavior.” He answered, pausing at the edge of the garden, expression stern.

           “I won’t see him anymore, I promise. Just don’t make me leave, please!” You struggled to get out, eyes pleading as he shook his head. 

           “You leave at sundown and that is final. I will not hear any more of this. You’re never to see that man again.”

Your father strode off, leaving you at the edge of the garden astounded. Your eyes shut tightly as your body shook with quiet sobs. Shakily inhaling, you angrily wiped the tears from your eyes and when you looked up you saw Sandor standing near the side of the castle, a small distance away. You knew he’d heard the entirety of the conversation, you could see the rage in his eyes at your father’s words.

Tears began to fill your eyes once again, his saddened expression one due to your own reaction to the situation. You paused for a moment, watching him, your eyes locked. You knew he knew, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

It took everything in you to turn away and make your out of the garden, away from the man you loved.

[missgeniality]

Opaline Moon (m)

“The Moon can never breathe, but it can take our breath away with the beauty of its cold, arid orb.” - Munia Khan

➺ Banner: @hobiandsprite​ 💕

➺ Pairing: Seokjin x Female Reader

➺ Trope: Friends to Lovers, Idol!AU

➺ Genre: Angst, Smut, Fluff

➺ Rating: 18+

➺ Word Count: 11.2k

➺ Summary: You are ingrained to love Jin, right upto the blood that courses through your veins. Confessing, however, is a whole other game. So it’s a good thing you’re bad at keeping your hands to yourself, because happenstance can handle the rest. 

➺ Warnings: talks about dance floor fucking, making out in the bar bathroom, fingering, pussy slapping, passing out drunk, daydreams about thigh riding, reader masturbates, they make out A LOT, neck kissing, a hickey, nipple play, some biting, cum eating (kind of, you’ll see), blowjob, protected sex!, reader and jin are corny, the hurt is real but the sex is real-er

➺ Author’s Note: My lovely, lovely moots - @taegularities​, @kithtaehyung​ and @baepsaetan​, thank you so much for betaing this and hyping it up, your comments made this fic a hundred times better! As I mentioned on the teaser, this fic took a lot out of me, but I thoroughly enjoyed writing the angst and will write more whenever the story aligns! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing, and I hope this lovable Jin reaches your heart! (ngl, in usual fashion, I will come back and edit it again, so if you see a spelling mistake, your eyes are lying to you) Do let me know what you think, your asks and comments make my day!

This is the second part of my Dress Down series, find more at it’s masterlist!

ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ | ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Sweltering heat. Blaring traffic. Little to no sleep. Through all things wrong, one man’s thoughts wrapped around you like a cooling breeze, a shield to protect you from the vicissitudes of reality, to draw you back into all of him. Unfortunately, your reality may never see that day come to light.

Kim Seokjin.

Kim Seokjin, the man who cooked you up a greasy break-up meal at three in the morning with not a sight of discomfort, putting your needs above all.

Kim Seokjin, whose puns make you roll your eyes heavenward, half awed at how he manages to pull one out of his collection at a moment's notice, and half irked by the untimely laugh it brings out of you.

Kim Seokjin, the man who will never be yours, and you have no one to blame but yourself. 

One could argue that the miscommunication that had caused this present condition was two-way. If you had stopped him, corrected him, let him know the truth… you wouldn’t have to resort to the extreme measures you’re currently entangled in. One would also say, you are trying to redeem your mistake by trying too hard. Surely, everyone and their mothers could see through your ruse. 

This is the fourth time you’re visiting Jin for his BE shoot - a shoot taking place two hours away from the city, disguised under various layers of secrecy to prevent any leakage of the album concept, or Jin in general. Of course, you had been made privy to such exclusive information, because you and Jin were ‘best friends’. 

Best. Friends.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Best friends. The term you coined for (and forced upon) the bond you had. The bond that was too close to sprouting into something new, something fresh, something that was filled with glimmering allure and dragged you in like quicksand. But also, it reeked of commitment, of shadows, of newness that you hadn’t felt in the longest time, and fear of already being far too deep in without even taking the first step. 

The loud thrum of some internet kid’s new hit pulses through the air of the club as bundles of couples occupy the dance floor, laughing and gyrating to a song that, in your opinion, most definitely does not suit gyrating. But with enough of the weekend happy hours intake combined with hormone-riddled minds, one could very well throw it back to a church choir. 

You weave through the drunken bodies, trying not to spill the precariously held three drinks in your hands, making your way to your inner circle, the only people to blame for dragging you to this slosh-fest.

“Y/N!” 

Somehow Hoseok’s voice can echo across the club, but you didn’t even need his addressal because Jin’s laughter is loud enough to navigate anyone to your table. Seeing you struggle with the glasses (and mostly the crowd, with some of them living their exhibitionist dreams), Hoseok gets up to assist you.

“I swear, if I see one more couple pretending to be dancing as they rub one off of each other’s thighs, the black market will have my eyes.”

“Oh yeah?” Jin’s breathy voice interjects your black-market dreams, still bursting in short laughs from whatever sent him rolling before your arrival. “Why don’t you go join them?”

“And whose thigh is she taking, yours?” Yeji snorts out, one hand holding her nebula blue drink, the other wrapped around Hoseok, urging him to come closer. Jin’s features scrunch into a cringe, and you’re thankful for the dim lighting because the disappointment in your features does not reach them.

“The only action these leather pants are getting is in the damned laundromat,” he points to his shiny trousers, “some jerk dropped his drink on it.”

“You could be the first person to give some chick an orgasm and a yeast infection.” Hoseok giddily adds, his fifth shot clearly making a mess of his brain cells. 

Jin claps and gets up to move away from the group. “Better than a pregnancy!” he yells, before zigzagging through the crowd, possibly to the restroom. He is on his third cocktail, and you’d think cocktails are lighter drinks. But in this bar, their taps just seem to flow with tequila, and it is very evident in the way Jin is currently walking.

His absence hits you harder than you think, but it might be the alcohol talking. Jin has always been the mood-maker of the group, the one who brings everyone together. Of late though, his magnetic persona has been an irritant in your life. Any outing you two take, any chance you have to come clean about the burgeoning crush you have on him, is effectively disrupted by one of his posse. And today, Hoseok and Yeji took that trophy. 

“Earth to Y/N. Has the cocktail finally broken you?”

You flutter your eyes in a manic fashion, to disperse the daydream you were indulging yourself in, and bring your attention back to the couple calling for you. Surprisingly, they have stood up, Yeji emptying the last of her neon drink. 

“What happened?”

“We are going to the club nearby, they have better stuff. And that’s code for ‘they actually add water to the drink and the surround sound doesn’t shatter your ear drum’.’” 

She isn’t wrong. The cocktails and music here are a 19-year-old frat party dream, not something the working class can digest. But you’re tired at this point, and don’t want to be smothered by someone else’s love life when your own is down the dumps.

“You guys carry on! I’ll tell Jin where you are and he’ll meet you there!”

You watch as Hoseok and Yeji lead each other to the exit, hands circling their partner’s waist. They giggle on and on, about nothing and everything, and it only hardens the emptiness you feel inside you. 

Why can’t you gather the balls to spit your feelings out? What could possibly go wrong? Yes, you may lose one of your closest friends, but is this friendship really worth the agony? The bitterness you feel when you see any couple enjoying themselves? The anger you harbor whenever Jin tells you about his dates? The heartache, when he hugs you and tells you that you’re the best thing that’s happened to him… as a friend? Is it? Your plastered brain tells you to not make any rash decisions, so you don’t, instead choosing to get up and search for your best friend. 

The corridor leading to the washrooms is dimly lit, throwing a merlot filter over your eyesight, making you squint in search of your friend. You being shitfaced does not help, and while relishing in your floating wooziness, you see Jin come out, and feelings you’ve held at bay for so long slither through your currently porous defenses. 

He has always been good-looking. He himself has said so a dozen times.

But wow.

His hair lays messily atop his beautiful face, unkempt, like a breeze of beauty swept across his mighty looks and displaced every strand, causing disarray, but even the disarray only frames his superior looks and adds to its potent charm. The black, patchy sweater hanging loose off his broad shoulders makes you feel things you shouldn’t feel as a friend. That stupid gut of yours is currently screaming, yelling for all hands on deck, trying to block all the feelings from gushing in and sending you into overdrive.

By the time you can gather yourself to stop from giving in to those dangerous thoughts, Jin has crossed the distance between you, coming close, too close. Chocolate-brown eyes peer into your soul, searching for whichever fantasy you chose to lose yourself in. His eyes flit down to notice your rumpled dress that has found its way a couple of inches above its designated spot. His gaze returns to yours, but not without a newfound hardness, an almost steely glaze over the kindness that you usually find in the chocolate pools, accentuated under the garnet lighting. 

“Hey, umm…” You beg for a reprieve, from your thoughts, from your filthy mind, from the way he is eyeing your cleavage, or just for the burning between your legs. You’re about to make some serious mistakes, you can feel it down to your bone.

You’re far too overdressed. 

You knew it when you were in the process of getting dressed, but right now, you feel it much more - you look like a shiny disco ball orbiting amidst the plethora of loose tees, leggings and flannels. Everything screams comfort, because the amount of work they’re putting into this begs for it. 

The strappy lace sundress you wear is extremely out of place, the halter-neck tie behind your neck fastened a little looser than necessary, giving your breasts the exposure they deserve, a nice valley view. Your dress skirt, adorned with pretty frills and dainty flowers, cut across your thigh to frame your petite hips. You are one floppy sun hat away from an extravagant Greek cruise - and in the moment you wish you had one to hide your face in shame. 

You’re just out here, trying to escape the zone. 

“Oh, would you look at the time, it’s tits out Tuesday already?”

Your eyes roll before Sanghoon even finishes his sentence, because you wouldn’t expect anything else from him. On the team of the set design, he is carrying a whole drapery worth of plush, mauve curtains, struggling with the slipping fabric. But apparently not struggling enough to stop him from getting his nose into your business, it seems.

“Literally not even a time you just mentioned. Can’t get one thing right.” You can’t stop yourself from stretching a hand out to feel the curtain fabric, the satiny sheets begging to be touched. Before you can though, Sanghoon moves away, not allowing you to shift the focus of the conversation.

“Don’t steer away from the facts. Your tits.”

“That’s the fact?”

“They’re out.” He bucks up, trying to point with the hand stuffed underneath all the cloth. “That’s the fact.”

“Ugh, can’t a girl dress up once in a while?” The pointed attention makes you uncomfortable, because everything he’s insinuating is true. With every passing staff member, you count a new shade of grey, interspersed with occasional blacks and greens, a stark contrast to your floral overtones. Amidst the thousand footsteps taken in your vicinity, only yours are pointed heels, echoing across the studio with every clack. But you’re a stubborn one, refusing to give in to his totally valid argument. “I just woke up early.”

“Girl.” Like light through frosted glass, he sees through your bullshit, but only partially. “You put an alarm to dress up? I have nightmares of the boss brandishing her whip and telling me to get into position, and even that doesn’t wake me up.” 

“Have you ever considered… not announcing your kinks to everyone and their sisters?”

“Ehh,” he simply shrugs, “nothing is new when you’ve serenaded your boss drunk in a karaoke bar and still managed to keep your job. Wait. Is that highlighter?”

“Stop staring into my tits!” You can’t believe you got caught, but also, who can you blame? After testing this outfit out from the crack of dawn, you decided your cleavage needed some extra help. Three YouTube tutorials and one TikTok lady - who make it look far easier than it is - down, the contouring brought out the swell of your breasts, and against the light fabric of your dress, it does look too good to be true.

Memories of that night in the bar come in billows and waves, of how enamored Jin was with the way your boobs looked at that time. Even under the dingy lighting, in the cramped space, under heavily inebriated scrutiny, you couldn’t miss the flicker of heat in his gaze every time it passed your chest. 

One thing led to another, and it was a cascade none of you could stop. The heat of attraction between you two does not help your wandering mind, and the fever drowns the knowledge that what you’re feeling is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, crossing some lines that can never be mended back again. With the proximity, his musky scent invades whatever defenses you were trying to patch, piercing through all your inhibitions and you pull him into you, claiming his lips to be yours. 

With his wobbly knees and your wobbly heels, you somehow find your way to the washroom - mostly he does, you give in halfway to wrap your legs around his lean waist, his sturdy legs balancing your weight on them as your back hits the wall, and his lips tear down your walls. 

“You look so fucking sexy today,” between bated breaths and indulgent sighs you confess, “just driving me nuts.” Letting your hands drag along his abdomen, feeling the ups and downs of his abs, you attempt to rid him of the sweater that’s been on your hit list all night. But to your dismay, your endeavor is blocked, when Jin gathers your wrists in his palm, turning you around to bend you over on the countertop, the smooth marble chill hitting your braless chest, perking your nipples under the cold. 

“And you?” Jin bends to give your earlobe a languid lick, progressing very slow, a complete contrast to the movement of his hips as he ruts against your ass, your already short dress bunching up with every move. “You think it’s smart to have your tits torment me like this?” Grabbing a handful from behind, he tests the weight of each fleshy mound, and by now you are certain your perked nubs can pierce his palm. 

His free hand, not yet torturing you, decides to get in on the action and disappears under the counter, swiftly crossing the bunched fabric of your dress, gaining easy access to your pussy. The cold touch of his pads sears against the heat of your core, finding your pleasure button and languidly fiddling with it, with no intention to cross you over the brink in sight. The only pleasure you can indulge in is the reflection of him abusing your nipples, pinching and tugging them down, whispering filthy words into your ear as he takes in your fucked out countenance. 

You feel lacking, weak hands balancing your dizzy self, finding purchase to keep you upright - but you’re both drunk on alcohol and hypnotized by his beauty to do much more than stare at his mirrored counterpart. “For fuck’s sake, kiss me.” 

How he understood your slurred words, you don’t know, but you are glad he did. In a moment you’ve been displaced, the hurried motion sending your neurons into a flurry. Once your back meets the hard marble, and your eyes have the privilege to see his, you pull him in closer, the force enough to hold you against the wall while your legs wrap around his lean waist. 

Originally not a fan of drunken misadventures, that side of yours is strangely mute to the going current onslaught. Well, you don’t have much breath left to say anything, because Jin is efficiently stealing it all, his teeth clashing with yours as you engage in the messiest kiss ever known to mankind (or at least, to you). He changes pace often, dragging his tongue leisurely against your lower lip, conveying tacit words, just to switch it up with a sharp bite and reel you in. 

One corner of your senses can feel his fingers messing around your cunt, and playing with the wetness your thong can barely contain. It makes you shudder, the damage that his fingers can cause solely circling around your hole. 

“Fuck me.” 

In your drunken stupor, you don’t know if the words leave you right, but you get confirmation when his long fingers finally penetrate your cunt, giving your walls something to clench on - although nothing could possibly compare to what you imagine you can get from his dick.

“God, you feel that grip,” he grunts, with two of his fingers in you, and Jin’s smile is the most sinister you’ve ever seen. “I think we should take this home,” is what his lips utter, but his fingers delve deeper, searching for the spot that crumbles you. The base of his palm grinds against your throbbing clit, and you are forced to bite down on this sweater, lest an embarrassingly loud moan escapes you and cues outsiders into your filthy doings. 

“Now,” you half-hiss, half-growl as you grab the cusp of his legs to feel his half-hard erection grow under the pressure of your hand. Your palm sliters up just to go down again, this time without the blockade of his pants, but you are stopped short of success when Jin’s fingers slip out of you to give you a sharp swat. 

“Stubborn, aren’t we? Can’t fucking wait,” he whispers into your ear, and as he envelops your lobe with his cushiony lips, he continues, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

No, no, no. 

Your brain rejects logic, chews and spits it out before any of the rationale seeps into you. You have wanted this for far too long. The need inside you for a meaningful relationship materializes in the form of recklessness, desperately looking for surface-level relief for the moment. A night of sewing sutures to your battle-worn heart, stitches that may come off at the slightest strain - but right now, that will do. 

“Please, Jin,” your tantalizing tone riles up his cock again, eagerly waiting for your next words, “can’t you feel me dripping? Come on, I can take you.”

“Fuck, hear that wetness.” He lets his palm slap against your sopping entrance, not stopping with one. With every slap, droplets of your arousal splash out, the insides of your thighs coated in the sticky sweetness, but your body is an endless reservoir producing plentiful more for Jin to play with. “Have you been sitting with this all this time?”

Two long fingers invade your channel again, leaving you with no response other than a gasp. They scissor incessantly, preparing you for what could be the railing of your lifetime. One curl inside and his fingertips hit the spot he was looking for, making you warp your body to take the pleasure coursing through your veins. His tongue seems to mimic the actions, looping around your earlobe as he sucks it inside, both ends of your body engulfed in all the attention he could provide. 

Your cunt is weeping against the assault of this man’s hands, tears of your cum flowing down your legs with every pump of his arm. You are getting there, the sweet swell of release inching closer and closer.

But something doesn’t feel right.

The tightness in your belly, that is to a point caused by Jin, is harboring other sensations that are not entirely pleasant. Maybe you’re anxious about the happenings. Maybe you haven’t had a good orgasm in a while and have just forgotten how this thing works.

Or maybe, the bar should have the water tap actually give out water.

Either your eyes close, or your brain does, but suddenly all you can see is darkness.

 Again, you are just trying to escape the zone.

“Step under those studio lights,” pointing at the too-bright stage lights being set up at the moment, Sanghoon continues, breaking your daydream, “I bet you could signal to aliens with the booby-reflection. Call them to Netflix and chill.”

“In about five seconds, my heel will be puncturing your eye. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” 

Sanghoon’s drivel was cut short, and so were your murder plans, with his entry. “Oh look, he’s on set. Gotta go!” 

It’s like the lights, earlier threatening to burn away your skin, dim down in reverence of the glow of his face. The twinkle of his eyes when they meet yours. The shine of his smile when he throws you one. The vibrance of his tone when he calls out your name. Everything he does now threatens to burn you whole and it’s a wonder you’re not scalding, but the singe hurts you deep inside.

“Y/N! How do I look?” It’s a bathrobe. Like satin, or silk. Fucking hell, your brain could explode with the adjectives coming up, a whole chunk of them very much inappropriate to utter out in the current scene. Your arms want to rise, engulf him into you, and you have to physically halt the muscles from doing anything stupid. Brain, quick! Say something snarky and spicy, as best friends do!

“What’s the theme, unicorn puke?” The safest way to deflect is to attack. So you do just that. “You look like you dressed out of Hannah Montana’s closet. Which if it's true, I really need to see it. There’s a top that I’ve been eyeing for decades!”

“Don’t say decades.” Jin’s eyes crinkle in humor. “Makes me feel so old. Your dress is pretty cool too!” 

Cool.

You find out how difficult life can be when you count every single minute of yours. So far, you have counted 4,310 minutes. That is two days, twenty-three hours, and fifty minutes. Ten more minutes and it will be three whole days since you and Jin spoke. 

Yet again, you can’t blame him. When you came to the next day, you were in your bed, clad in the same shimmering silver bodycon that you had donned last night. The same one that had been privy to the colorful deeds you had committed in what was a dreary, colorless setting. 

One ibuProfen and ginger ale, downed with some severe recollections of the previous night, and you had been ready to throw it all up again. 

I don’t want to hurt you.

Words couldn’t describe what you were going through, and numbers weren’t invented to count the endless thoughts racing in your brain. You don’t know what is more upsetting. The fact that you actually had a chance to open your heart and you totally let your pussy think instead? Or that he was the one coherent enough to stop you from getting too far, and you let your desperation get the best of you? Everything about that night was wrong. And all the wrongs lie on your side. 

I don’t want to hurt you.

In the moment, it was physical, he had to have meant that. But there was a tremor in his voice, you can remember clear as day, a slightly shaken side of him had emerged through the intoxication, and the words he had breathed were not shallow. There was a gravity to them, that you’d stupidly ignored in the heat of the moment.

And now, here you are. Counting up till the last minute, after which you can effectively call the friendship ruined. Stirring your tea mindlessly, you try to focus on the show on TV, the variety show comedy not striking the usual funny bones that they could 4,311 minutes ago. 

The programmed ding of your phone bursts your thought bubble, a sound you have missed the past 72 hours. The ring you dedicated to Jin, that always had you running to receive because anything he sends brightens your day. But unlike those happier times, this ring has your gut fall into a pit of despair, struggling to choose between dispersing the suspense or remaining blissfully unaware of the damage you caused.

Jin: Free tmrw? We could grab coffee Jin: And talk

Talk. How? You barely remember what went down, save for fleeting moments that you recollected with great difficulty. Your fingers type back, trying to mimic the nonchalance in his text, that is very much absent in your actual demeanor.

Y/N: Sure. Paik’s at 1? Jin: Yup. See ya

Three texts, zero laughs. Of course, you’re not expecting him to land his jokes in this situation, even someone as talented as he can’t flip this tension. You’re just going to have to wait for tomorrow, when he decides whether you have a place in his life or not. 

The painstakingly worn outfit, accessorizing the whole look, the straps of your heels digging into your toes, the specks of makeup dust lying stale on your collar bones, the shine faints at that word. Cool. A perfectly normal phrase for a normal friendship. You are left maimed, while he absent-mindedly tends to the rope of his robe, blissfully unaware of the cyclonic emotions churning inside you. All you can possibly do is gulp it down. 

He runs his hands through his hair, beautiful locks coming out of place, and from one corner of the set, a groan of anguish emerges. 

“Oppa! Don’t play with your hair and face.” A masked lady runs forward waving combs that look like artillery, “We just got done setting it!”

Some finger guns, a happy apology, and some silly jokes later, all the stylists merrily round up to undo his doing, and Jin signals to you to catch up later. And as he walks away, the strings tugging at your heart reappear, as they do every time you come to meet him.

You have a masochistic streak in you, putting yourself through this every day, when he had made it clear, that you two never stood a chance. 

As if things aren’t already difficult, he looks like a dream. 

Soft, snowy skin gleaming like it has personal lighting wherever it goes, you get flashes of the rarely witnessed sweat on his skin, from the ferocity of last night. He’s blowing away the foam of his cappuccino, and tiny bubbles float into the air before falling flat on the table, like an animated shine that follows him along. God has His favorites, and God makes sure all the lighting in the world is perfect for these favorites. 

In no hurry, you wait at the counter to get your latte. After receiving it though, you can’t linger any longer and drag yourself to the table of doom.

“Hey.”

If the rasp in your voice is evident, he doesn’t show any recognition on his face. But you’ve learned to never trust an acting major. 

“Hi. How are you doing?”

Inadvertently, a snicker escapes your lips. “Are you interviewing me for a job?” you joke, trying to disperse the heavy air, filled with unspoken words. “If so, at least know that I’m very expensive.”

The familiar windshield wiper laugh does not greet you. Dead silence does. The half-smirk he painfully gives you is heavy, and the furrowed brows haven’t an inkling of joy. It shoots daggers in your heart, to know that you are the reason for this jolly man’s despondency. 

“Listen, I don’t think we should skirt around the issue too much. It happened, these things happen. You think Hoseok and Yeji didn’t have sex before making it official?”

His matter-of-fact nature isn’t new to you. Jin has always been a very practical man. Regardless of his inane sense of humor, his logical point of view has always been flawless. 

But right now, at this very moment, logic isn’t what you are looking for. You are looking for answers, but as far withdrawn from logic as possible, to take the edge off of the tension-laden air that surrounds your table.

“Yeah, but even… unofficially… we aren’t a thing, right?” 

Your abrupt question takes Jin unaware, almond eyes widening, like a toddler caught in an act. 

“No, no! Of course not! I would never!” 

His confession slips out with an ease that hurts you, digs deep to carve out the part of you that dreamt of anything more. Your eyes fall to your knees to avoid his perceptive gaze, the sting clear as the sky on a summer day. 

You force a smile and continue. “Then there’s no issue. Anyway,” you gulp your coffee down, burning your throat, but it's a distraction from the burning inside, “I need to get to work. Anything else?”

He’s still searching you, for what, you can’t possibly fathom. From the looks of it, he should be happy with this homeostasis; he doesn’t even know what this means for you. To still stay suspended in limbo, not being able to move up or down, to continue having thorns digging into your beating soul as you watch him like nothing bothers your already frail feelings. Scene by scene, you can visualize the future, him distancing himself from you as he finds the one he calls his, with you left in the shadows. Your knees tremble in fear of the impending future.

Seeing you in a tizzy, he calls out, the voice too loud for the cafe and your mind’s prison cage. 

“We’re still best friends, right?” If you knew better, you’d say his expression is that of sadness, of regret. But your judgment is clouded with your own bothers, and you interpret it as a look of pity. Like a lovesick puppy, kicked to the streets, with nowhere to call home. 

“Yeah! Always.” You give it as much enthusiasm as you can muster. 

Best friends.

Ropes wind around your heart, tugging and causing the deep ache that sets in as you walk back into your dreary building. Each string pulls you into a different dimension where you could move on, where you could be okay with the setting you had just agreed to. Where you would keep up your end of the promise and truly remain friends with him.

But no matter how strong the tug, your heart never yields, never lets go of the castle of dreams you built, staying steadfast in its own misery, choosing to hope, choosing to live the life of unrequited love.

“And that’s a wrap! Good job everyone!”

Applause and hurrays echo across the set to bring you back to the present. The shoot has officially concluded, which means it's time for your most favorite and least favorite part of the day - Jin and you doing best friend things, like grabbing lunch, gossiping about obnoxious coworkers, threatening to disembowel each other (in Mortal Kombat, of course) and other friendly activities. 

Ever so respectful, Jin takes his time thanking every member of the set, regardless of whether they moved a cushion or held the reflector screen for hours. All the women gush over his beauty, reminding him of how, even amidst the glowing ornaments, his face was the brightest. His responses vary, from quiet little giggles, to complimenting the crew for making it happen, to straight up owning his charisma like a boss. That’s your man. 

Well, not quite. Not one bit.

After exhausting the handshakes and hugs to be received, Jin walks to you, hands pushing his robe back to give it a cape like effect. You’re just glad that the man’s child persona still stays with him, no matter the situation.  He guides you to his green room, cracking his bones on the way, (very sexily, might you add).

“Holding a pose for that long gives me cramps! You’d think dancing breaks my back, and you’d be wrong.”

You’re desperately avoiding looking at his fingers, and keep your eyes below them - shoot! His ceaseless stretching gives you a glimpse under his shirt - it is dragging your memories back to the last time you saw them, and you’d rather not. It is hurting you in more ways than one. 

Eye contact is your safest bet. Looking up, you give him a lopsided grin. “Your grandfatherly days are approaching, Jinnie.” 

“Hey!” 

The rest of the conversation was less speaking, more yelling and chasing after each other to the green room, Jin taking mock-offence at your jab at his age, and his fingers reaching out to flick your forehead in retort. In your noisy, messy fashion, you both finally enter the room, dim gold light bulbs and shiny mirrors meeting your huffing self. 

One hand on your knee, you hold on to Jin’s arm with your other, gasping for breath. 

“Your grandmotherly days are already here, Y/N,” he snorts, and earns a kick on the shin, but that doesn’t stop him from bursting into snickers.

“Wow, why does one man need 4 mirrors?” You gape at his current green room, mouth wide open. It looks better than your entire apartment, with the counter carrying top-of-the-line makeup products. Only the best for this man. “So you can admire yourself from 4 different angles?”

Jin has disappeared into one of the inner rooms, but you can hear him snort at your comment. “Come on, I’m not that conceited. When the whole crew shoots together, the extra mirrors help.” The last part of that sentence is muffled, and that cues you into an important fact. 

Jin is currently changing into something more comfortable.

A process that includes him getting naked.

Well maybe he doesn’t get fully naked, top on, top off, bottom on, bottom of-

Still. You’re sweating like a whore in church. 

And things only get tougher when he finally comes out. 

The ocean blue sweater he dons is tucked in. Who tucks in sweaters? Kim Seokjin. Why does he tuck sweaters? Oh, because he’s got an amazing waistline that he should most definitely show off, and the heat between your thighs becoming increasingly potent is a testament to that. You pretend to adjust your heels, giving the right expressions to show you’re in pain, but in actuality you are bringing your legs closer to get you some relief, just any relief. 

Ripped jeans too. You get a peek of the thighs you were denied access to the night of the fuckening. Ridged and beautiful, not a speck in sight to mar his perfection. You are glad the facial expressions for pain and pleasure are not far apart, because your thighs, albeit very lacking, are helping the imagery in your head. Just Jin, seated on one of these leather chairs, and you straddling his thigh, clit aching against the strands of the rips in his denim, the fabric soaking up the wetness, with every push forwa-

“Now that you mention it, I do look dashing.”

And there goes that dream. 

You pinch his cheeks in adoration, the vulgarity of your thoughts getting whitewashed by his silliness and blooming heart-shaped flowers in their stance. You feel your own pinch in you, wondering if this scene would be the same had you blurted your feelings out that day at the cafe.

It's times like these when you remind yourself why you choose to quieten that side. This dynamic cannot reincarnate in any other form. Any imbalance to this equilibrium could cause a serious case of best-friends-turn-awkward-acquaintances, and you don’t know if that’ll hurt you more than you currently do. You don’t plan on finding out.

But on God, he tests that resolution every single day.

Jin doesn’t even hint that he knows of the turmoil blasting behind your eyes. He nonchalantly fixes his hair, gives you a one-over as you are mentally undressing him, nonchalantly as well. Then he moves to grab his cologne, and two spurts disintegrates all the whitewashing and takes you back into the obscenities you were unfolding. 

“So I’ll just go over the shoot photos, and then we can leave! You’re cool waiting here?”

“Hmmn, yeah!” You don’t let your mouth run any longer, fearing what might slip out. 

He gives you a wide, innocent smile. “Great! See you in a bit.” Poor guy. If only he knew how debase plans you were conjuring just from the aroma of his cologne. 

It is musky, like cedar or pine, perfectly suiting him. It is the same scent you remember inhaling, face stuffed in his sweater when he was fingering you to the tenth circle of hell. As he walks away, the fragrance diminishes, save for the slightest hint of lingering. You search for the source, and find the culprit strewn across the sofa.

The outfit Jin wore for the shoot held remnants of the perfume, and when you bring the shirt close and take a long, deep whiff, you transport yourself to the land of your dreams. You relish the fever smell of his cologne, mixed with his own natural scent, deciding that this is what you wish to smell like every waking morning.

Your longing for him has crossed way beyond physical boundaries. You longed for his love, longed for his attention. Longed to be the one that brings the light to his face. From morning rays to the darkness of the night, you wanted to experience it all by his side. To be his lone star, shining bright beside the moon. 

Your hands are moving without your control, disrobing you of your thirst trap of a dress and putting on Jin’s shirt instead. One look at the mirror and you let out a silent groan - it fits you just right. Just enough to cover your ass cheeks, loose enough to let the air conditioning hit your heated pussy. While well-fitting shirts have never been the cornerstone of a successful relationship, your delusional mind takes whatever wins it gets.

Adding layers to your pipe dream, you don the robe that gave you a tough time throughout the shoot. When you press the tails of the robe to your cheek, the softness of the material is soothing. Soft, like Jin’s eyes, like his hugs, like his smile. Like him.

Leaning against the counter, you steady yourself, mind split in titillation. Your fingers find their own path, drawing circles on your breasts over his shirt, imagining Jin’s long fingers in place. While teasing your nipple to pointed peaks, you slip your other hand under your panties, trying very hard to mimic his digits, twiddling your clit between your fingers. Alas, the effect isn’t achievable, because Jin seems to know how to play you better than yourself. 

The scent is getting stronger, without any provoking, and it is doing wonders for your immersion. You let out a loud moan when your fingers press inside, and you’re just glad no one can witness this.

“Y-Y/N?”

Fuck.

You are pulled away from your dreamland that was so impenetrable that you didn’t hear Jin step into the room. All the blood gushing to your nether regions has made a U-turn to flood your brain to think of a plausible explanation for this position. Instead it makes you giddy, and when you try to stand you wobble in your heels, to be rescued by what you think is a very scandalized Jin. 

Time stands still when your eyes meet, and what you see are blown out pupils trembling, many questions fluttering between you two. Jin crosses a tenth of the distance between you, lips flutter as they try to make a decision - do they want to part and give way to the voice of question? The voice of reason? The voice that will break this hush, burst this bubble where he has the one chance to give in to his longing?

You bring your lips closer, and cause immense disquiet in his dome, the way of his heart gathering speed against rationale. Your eyes dance between matching his gaze and finding his lips, every fraction of an inch you cross sending tremors through you. You can feel the shockwaves traverse through your body, making a pitstop at your lips, tingling them awake. They move downwards, passing your heart, beating it wildly against its cage, and then to the pit of your stomach to tighten in anticipation; finally reaching the tip of your toes, where you stand right now, a nanoscopic distance between you. Each one of you is afraid to cross the bridge, unaware of the other’s desires. 

Finally, Jin acqueises and meets you on your side. 

Atomic explosions ring through your head, clearing out every single thought that is not about Jin’s lips on yours. The ropes that held your heart from beating to the tune of your want, they’ve loosened their knots to give you the leeway to love freely. As your lips exchange positions, his teeth lightly drag across your plush petal, and it brings back the most important part of that night that you couldn’t recollect - the one where his lips sang wordless songs of adoration against yours. Blind as a bat, you were.

You dig your fingers into his hair, not minding your residual arousal coating his locks, and you feel his hands doing the same to you. With your eyes closed, you feel a rough edge to his cushiony soft lips, but Jin fixes that mistake - one stray strand of hair trapped in the middle of your indulgence - he pulls it away to give you all of the kiss. The hand tucked in your tresses pushes in, silently demanding more access, and you’re nothing but ready to give it.  

His tongue sneaks in to play a game with yours - when you seek it, it goes into hiding, finding perfect pleasure in soft, sweet kisses, but when you stay, it comes back in, awakening your tongue to deepen again. Everything he is doing is too much and not enough in one go, and you whine into his mouth in desperation, seeking some well-earned relief after months of holding back.

Amidst the flurry of your lips, your back hits the vanity countertop, and Jin pushes away everything on top to make space for you, not caring what expensive item flies down the counter to accommodate your ass.

As if you’ve made up for the months of holding back, the softness of the kisses erodes, teeth coming into play more and more, reminiscent of the night that went by in a blur. He swallows every mewl you give in return, blissed out beyond repair, your neediness making his cock strain against the denim. 

His hand snakes down, spreading his fingers to get a hold of your back to push you towards him, covering any gap that dared to intervene. Now unworried about the shoot, your hands have effectively ruined his perfectly placed locks and messed them up to resemble the craze he let you spin in.

Before he can glide his tongue back in, you break the kiss, lest you lose yourself in it to the point where you forget to breathe. With attached foreheads, you take deep drags of air, letting the oxygen flow to your brain before you make some ill-advised, unclarified decisions.

“I- I was jus-”

“Shhh. Wait,” he breathes out, wanting to take a second and fully savor the moment. You nod in return, making his head move along with yours.

After sufficient air fills his lungs, Jin starts. “Y/N, we should stop.”

Last time this had happened, you had tried to force your way through his barrier, without giving his feelings a second of consideration. So this time, you don’t repeat your mistakes. “Tell me why.”

“Because, I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I’m way deeper in this than you think.”

“Jin, I-”

“Let me finish.” He stops you before you can explain how much you reflect his emotions, possibly more. He doesn’t seem to want to listen now. “Let me finish, or else I’ll chicken out, for the millionth time.”

You’re dumbfounded. Millionth time? When was the first? Acting majors, by God. 

“I love you, Y/N.”

No, now you are dumbfounded. Your hands, holding his precious locks, drop down in shock, at sheer disbelief that all this time, he has been ready and waiting to return you the favor. Jin though, misinterprets it as a look of disdain. 

“I-I know I do, and I’m sorry that I do. I know you don’t feel the same way. You can hate me all you want, but this is the truth.”

“And yes,” he continues, refusing to halt for even half a second, afraid that the courage he mustered to confess would dissipate the moment he does, “I’m attracted to you, and I don’t know what went down here --” flicking his wrist to mention your (his) outfit, “--but I’m looking, okay? And I’m hard as fuck. But that’s not all there is to it.”

“I need all of you.” He takes an audible gulp, trying to stymy his emotions from overpowering him. “I want to take you out, I want to hold you hand, I want to bring you to all the places I love. I want to introduce you to people, not as my best friend, but so much more than that. It hurts me,” bringing his hand to his chest, he emphasizes the point of pain by clutching over his heart, “hurts to call you that because I’m lying through my fucking teeth.”

You break eye contact, because there are tears smarting your eyes at his heartfelt revelation. You can’t believe the idiot that you have been all this while. The man of your dreams stands in front of you, baring his soul, and you can’t even do him the decency of telling him what you felt yourself before jumping his bones.

And you love him, too. Maybe you haven’t said so, even to yourself, but you’ve known all this while.

You love him.

“If you are just looking for a fuck, or want any sort of a ‘benefits’ situation, we should stop. I can’t lie to myself anymore.”

“Jin, my God,” you half-sigh, half-laugh, feeling a burden lift off of you after months of pining.

“You don’t have to pacify me, it’s okay, I’ll be fine.” Even in this moment, he is looking out for you. His lips are curved upward to show you that he’s okay, but his pupils are shaky and restless, not in sync with his smile. You hope your next words can fix that for him.

“Pacify you? Hate you?” You shoot him an incredulous look, one you will explain to him very soon. “You are a much better person than I am, Jinnie. For months now, I’ve loved you, but even at this point, I didn’t stop to tell you.” The guilt of letting your hormones cloud your judgement for the second time lays heavily on your conscience. “I’m sorry for not making this clear earlier, but let me now. I love you, Kim Seokjin. I have for way too long. I want you, I need you. You have me, in every possible way.”

It feels unparalleled to get that off your chest. The leaden weight of your emotions immediately disappears - or the fact that it's shared, makes it much, much lighter. But then you look at Jin, and he still seems to have not put two and two together. You patiently wait for him to process all the information. 

When he finally recoups, he yells, “What?!”

You let out a loud guffaw, the first one with no inhibitions in the longest time. “What?”

“Why didn’t you say anything that day at the cafe?!” 

“You said you’d never date me, asshole!” You punch his chest softly, before slipping your hands behind him and pulling him closer. “I might not look like it, but I have some dignity.”

“I said that?” Jin brings one hand to pinch his nose in annoyance. “What an idiot. I think I was just inverting everything to make sure I don’t accidentally slip up.”

You lift your head to meet his eyes again, letting him see the tears you were hiding. You find a couple in his eyes, too. But the smile on your face is genuine, and that is all that matters. “I was blind too, so don’t beat yourself up about it.” 

Flitting your eyes down to find the contour of his cock against his jeans, you ask him innocently, “How about we make up for lost time?”

“Fuck, yes, please.” And with that, your lips are engulfed again.

When you have all your guards down, the kiss tastes sweeter than before. Mere moments ago, while thoroughly enjoying the kiss, a sense of reticence had clouded your pleasure, holding you back from luxuriating in the headiness. A series of what-ifs had plagued your subconscious without your realization, but with all that cleared, you wholly submit to the kiss, emptying your mind until nothing but his name remains.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Jin gasps out, when you bite into his pillowy lower lip, “I thought you looked the prettiest in the dress earlier but,” after pulling away, he drinks your current attire in, “you look the most beautiful in this.”

You snicker. “Even more than World Wide Handsome?”

His eyes bore into yours, no hint of the joking lilt he always carries in them. 

“So much more.”

Your hands find their place amidst his shaggy hair again, and you lodge his face into your neck - a command Jin acquiesces to with great pleasure. After a long, wet lick to your collarbone, he lays feather-soft kisses on the trail he left, starting from your shoulder and working inward, until he brushes against the back of your ear. You grasp at his sweater, because his lips feel so good. Your breaths are short, sucking in every time he allows your skin the luxury of a soft peck.  Once he lays a kiss on your forehead, he brings his gaze down to one of the main reasons that causes his cock to stir.

“Fuck, look at your nipples under my shirt.”

Gazing down, you can see the two pointed peaks that caught Jin’s eyes. 

“That tends to happen when I’m thinking of you.” 

He twists a nipple over the shirt, hardening it further, and you throw your head back in the satisfying pain. “Yeah, I remember.”

You are unraveling every second, the ache swishing amongst the bliss his fingers are bringing in you. He’s switched over to drawing circles around your nipple, until he snaps and tugs your shirt up, finally revealing the palmfulls of flesh awaiting his hands. 

“Ah that night, I didn’t get to do this. Take this off.” But then, he makes you put on his robe again. You throw him a questioning look, to which he responds with a sheepish smile, “Just so, you know… you don’t feel cold… or something.”

“Just say you like me in your clothes and move on.”

“I love you in my clothes,” he admits in a heartbeat, his expression that of anguish, “can we move on?”

“God, gladly.”

Unexpectedly, he bites the side of your boob - not hard at all, but feeling his teeth against your skin sends your head reeling backward. Your involuntary response is to wrap your legs around his waist, grinding your core against him. His teeth continue to nip you lightly across the expanse of your breasts, the trail of saliva he leaves cooling parts of your flushed body. Finally, finally, he latches onto your left nipple and gives it a long, pleasurable suck.

“Ahh, Jin - you’re too - God damn it - you’re too good at this.” 

Without stopping the onslaught he is unleashing on your breasts, his fingers begin to move - but soon, they stop, hesitation rippling off of their tips. His pace falters, and his mind is fighting on the next course of action.

“Can I-”

“Finish what you started that night?” you complete for him, already prepared with your answer. “Yes, please.”

All forms of uncertainty shoot out of his touch, and he confidently trudges forward. Playing with the band of your panties, he gives you a well-intended chuckle, murmuring, “As far as I remember, I was so good you passed out.”

“Boy,” You groan, intended in jest, but his teeth slide against your jaw and it mostly comes out more wanton than jovial, “let me see you have tequila for dinner and remember much the next day.”

“Fair fair,” he gives in, shifting to buss the valley of your cleavage, feeling your heart thud against your ribs holding it in place. “Well today,” he starts without moving his face, his nimble fingers moving past the barrier of your underwear, pressing two fingertips directly on your clit, and hissing like it's him at the receiving end, “I’ll give you enough to remember.”

You pull his sweater off and chuck it away, not wanting to be reminded of any blockades that kept you apart, and your hands roam the expanse of his back remembering the touch of his skin from the night at the bar. His body isn’t new to you, but the circumstances make it feel different. 

Finally, his fingers find their way inside you. 

Yes, this. This was what was missing from your drunken tryst. With your heads in place, your ardor intensifies, and you move his lips back to yours needing to release your animalistic desire into his mouth. Pleasure surges through both of you as you threaten to swallow him whole.

You can feel him being more present, and considering the merciless finger-fucking you had earned that night, this is taking it to a whole other degree. 

The night at the bar, his fingers did their best to ravish you, but now, Jin is paying attention, close attention to the way you respond. Every muscle movement is recorded in him as you struggle to accommodate three of his lengthy digits. Leaning close, he gives your peaked nipple the lightest feather lick - the suddenness sends shockwaves through you as he continues to tweeze the other, talented pianist hands performing his musical piece on both ends of you.

His fingers pump into you with determination, finding new depths to explore that he missed out on, and with a curl of his pointer, you blank out, screaming in the orgasm that is washing over you. Every skincell of your body feels the quiver of lust spreading, your cunt squeezing for an eternity, milking the orgasm out to the extent that you can. 

When you look down, your metaphorical orgasmic flood manifestes as a deluge of your arousal leaking on the table. And when you look back up, you can see the salacious ideas making their rounds in Jin’s head as he looks at the inundation you released. 

Hurried hands still convulsing from the intensity of your orgasm, you undo his belt, followed by his jeans and finally - getting the pleasure you were heartlessly denied of - his cock is out, in all its glory, twitching as the cool air hits its naked skin. Jin’s plans don’t go hand in hand with yours though.

“Are we just - holy fucking shit - just, umm, leave that to waste?” he lustfully looks down to your leaking core, and someway, through your hold on his dick, he tries to steer you into his plans.

“I don’t know about that,” you cheekily reply. You have the right idea to satisfy both of you, and get down to the task.

With the flat of your palm, you swipe across the droplets of cum you released, gathering them to transfer them onto his thick length. Jin thrusts into your hand, the wetness jolting him into attention, and he places an arm on your shoulder to steady himself. 

“You’re going to taste yourself?” he asks as you continue your vacillating motion, twisting at the base of his head with the wetness you graciously provided yourself. You give him a nonchalant look, something he is trying to do to you as well. 

“Who said I’m gonna suck you off?”

His look changes, and the one you get in return is cocky, arrogant, downright rude if you were honest. You expected him to play on with your banter, but one raised eyebrow and the lazy smirk he gives, to what he probably thinks is a joke - Zeus could land on earth and not be able to stop you from gobbling his meat. 

Your mouth is filled with his dick even before your knees hit the ground. Jin staggers back, but your suction on his dick is funnily strong enough to pull him back before falling.  You switch positions, having him balance himself against the counter, all while you refuse to leave his cock out. His giggle of endearment has you pouting, but it swells your heart and makes you want to give more, more of anything and everything. With your renewed vigor, you push yourself in until his pubes tickle your nose, and his tip tickles your throat. 

“Your-”, “I-”, “uhh-” 

Every new sentence Jin starts crumbles to your actions. You furrow your brows both in concentration on your blowing skills and trying to decode what he is trying to say. 

Jin takes a large gulp, adamant on making this one a coherent sentence. “You know, I used to imagine this, and in my dreams I used to be very sexy and suave, talking my way throug-oof-” You run your tongue over the tip of his leaking dick, emphasizing the point he is coming to, “Now I can’t even complete sentences here.”

“You being you is super sexy in itself.” And you curve your tongue to match the arch of his cock, letting the incoming saliva pool on it before letting it run down his shaft, dripping down from his balls. Strings of his precum connect to your lips, and you swipe your tongue through them, relishing the salty goodness before going back in for more. 

“Y/N, shit, did you just moan?”

How couldn’t you? The fact that he is horny for you, so much so that rivulets of precum don’t stop drizzling down your throat, has you preening. You hum your assent in response, not willing to let go even for a moment, but Jin pulls you off before you can get a chokehold on the base of his cock again. 

“Never had a woman moan while sucking me off. It’s sexy as fuck,” Jin breathes into your lips as he dives in for a kiss.

Your chest is heaving, catching the breaths you lost when you were down. “Then why’d you stop me?”

“Are you kidding me? I was about to lose it right there.”

“Jinnie, come on,” you break the fragmentary kiss you were sharing, looking into his glassy eyes, “let me feel you come on my tongue.” To emphasize your conviction, you lick his lips, persuading him of the sinful deeds your tongue is capable of doing if he’d just let you.

“Oh man, stop. What’s worse than busting a nut in your mouth? Busting it while you’re kissing me. Making me feel like a teenager.” You erupt into a loud laugh, soon followed by Jin as well. It is so him to joke about this. 

“And babe,” all hints of embarrassment vanishing from his tone, “I’m only going to come inside you.”

“Fuck, fuck, yes. You got a condom on you?”

“Yeah, let me grab my wallet.” The instant he moves away, you feel naked, shivering from the comfort stolen away from you. But then you hear Jin grumble, “I hope I don’t have the bacon-flavored one.” And the absurdity of it all puts you at ease again.

“Ew, stop, even you can’t make that sexy. My lady boner is dying.”

He envelops you again, and you can feel the laughter echoing in his lungs before making it out to your ears. He brings your attention to the familiar rustle of foil wrapper. “Thankfully, we got chocolate.”

“Mmmh, gotta love chocolate.”

You take the condom out of his hands, and roll it onto his stiff length, flattered that he’s holding his erection for so long. 

“Okay, stick it in me!” And you smack your ass in readiness, and a very flabbergasted Jin breaks out chortling.

“Y/N, stop being my best friend for like, five minutes!” His brows are furrowed in pretense exasperation, but you can see his lips holding back a genuine smile through the grimace, just happy that your dynamics haven’t changed the slightest, even though everything else has shifted.

“Okay okay,” you try and suppress your own laughter, before continuing, “how do you want me, baby?”

“Bend over on the vanity. And keep your eyes on the mirror.” And as you move into position, his palms grab your ass and squeeze it hard, feeling your glutes push back against his grip, and he pushes you forward till you're on the tips of your toes. You watch him through the mirror, watch him admire the way your ass curves over the table edge, how your toes struggle to keep you up, and how the dimples of your back are deepened by the arch, peeking under the bunched up robe tails, just waiting for him.

“Jin.” Your hushed whisper puts him in action.

Pushing the head in is anguish and relief at the same time. His bulbous head stretches your entrance; even with your preparation, you feel it sting. The searing gets better and better with every inch slipping in, and when he finally lodges inside, you let out a heavy breath, still panting and keeping yourself from screaming bloody murder in pleasure. Jin bends forward to paint the back of your neck, sucking the flesh till the circular bruise comes to surface. 

“Can you- can you-fuck, no, wait-” Your brain is at war with itself, battling between adjusting to his girth and having him pump you into adjustment. 

You can feel Jin’s snicker from behind you, and he finally makes the decision for you. “I’ll wait, I have things to do here,” he says before playing around the patch of skin, spreading from the base of your hair to the expanse of your back, his teasing licks relaxing your walls and accommodating his girth. The pain is almost gone, expect for the lingering ache that only helps you.

“You can move now, babe.”

“Okay, okay.” Your words snap him out of the painter’s dream he was in, and he twitches inside you. Something about the ease at which you both have adopted nicknames for each other softens his heart and hardens his cock. 

Pulling out till only the head rests inside, Jin himself struggles against the third degree grip your pussy has on him. As he is thrusting inside again, your walls tense up, making it harder and harder for him to hold back. 

“Y/N, sweetie, relax. I got you.”

“Jin, I’m-” You have tears running down your eyes, the pleasure and unsurmountable happiness rolling out in fat hot drops. “Fuck me harder. I won’t last.”

“Shit. Okay, hold on then.”

To what? Is what you’re going to ask before Jin unleashes his carnality onto you. Your breasts, dripping in sweat and saliva, are plastered to the countertop, which in itself is jiggling to the beat of Jin’s thrusts. His dick is curving inside to hit you repeatedly, and you have to gather the satin fabric to wipe your eyes to keep your gaze fixed on him. 

He looks majestic. Forehead embellished with beads of sweat, his hair coiffed up, lips sanguine red after your vicious kisses - you swipe your tongue along your own lips to find them battered in response. His honey chest is heaving with every push, and a particular one hits you just right. 

You let out a guttural groan, and Jin takes note of it immediately. 

“Up,” he commands, and loops an arm under your belly to you pull you up and closer and now every thrust hits deeper into that spot he has found in you, your back connected to his chest as the two of you move in tandem; this is the most together you’ve ever felt with anyone. This moment is to be etched in your memories forever.

You scream into your fist to muffle the sounds, the edge of the table digging into your hip bone as you feel yourself getting closer to the brink. One swipe to the clit is all you have left to bring you to your release. 

And from some telepathic force, or from the clutch your pussy has on him, Jin beats you to it. His fingers come down and carefully find your swollen nub, pinching it between his fingers. If he thought you’d shown him your hardest clench, he was wrong, because right now your dam has broken, and the iron-clad grip you give his cock sends him reeling, too.

You are gushing on his dick, the rubber dripping with your wetness. Jin too releases into the condom in stuttered gasps, his thrusts becoming shorter and shallower as he comes down from his high. 

Petal-like kisses fall on your back as the two of you regain your breaths. The mirror that served you two well is covered in a fog of hot breath and perspiration, blearing your vision of yourself, but somehow, it sparkles with Jin’s reflection. His nobility-esque visuals use the haze as a valance for his appearance, framing them to make him look like you’re among the clouds. And in some way, you actually are.

“Ah, let me go.” You jiggle your shoulders back to make the man above you move. “Fuck, can you check if my spine is in place? I think you dislodged it.”

“Shut up and come hug me, I’ll squeeze it back in place.”

Now this is something you could get used to.

As he ties and throws away the used condom, you flip over to face him and fall back into his embrace, broad shoulders promising to protect you, making you feel safe in his care. Jin on the other hand is simply ecstatic to feel you on him, feeling your thumping heart beat for him, after months of pining and pondering whether anything would become of the seed of your tumultuous friendship. Now, it has blossomed to a garden of prospect and promise, every petal of every flower here reading a new opportunity to tell you how much he adores you, cherishes you, treasures you. How much he loves you.  An opportunity he doesn’t wait to use. 

“I love you.”

The pink tinge of your cheeks either comes from the sex, or from his comment, but either way, he is glad its from him. 

“I love you too, Jin. So, so very much.”

If your heart could leap out of your chest, it would do so, to find its way to his and fuse into one. But for now, your entwined bodies give you all you want. 

You hear Jin stifle a laugh, and pull back in question. He points to something odd on the countertop.

“What is that?”

The cream white surface of the table, that was maligned by your ignoble deeds, now sports two glistening, wheatish semi circles that look very similar to the sizes of one person who was splayed on top of it just moments ago. 

“Is that…” Jin is trying to contort his lips and halt the looming snicker, and he brings his eyes down to your chest (trying not to get hard again), “Did you have makeup on your chest?”

“Shut up.” All you can do is fall closer into his arms, hopefully masking the tint of embarrassment highlighting the apples of your cheeks. “I wanted to make them look extra good for you.”

He’s given up on holding back, the full-bellied laugh that resonated from him echoing across the room. But it dwindles down fast, coming to small chuckles of tenderness, and he slips his digits beneath your chin to have you meet his gaze.

“They always look good,” he whispers, his admittance setting your chest aflame, “trust me, I’d know.”

Taglist 💛:  @little7bitchh​, @afangirllikeme-blog​, @h34rt1lly, @marpotterhead​

Thank you so much for making it to the end! I hope you enjoyed the fic, my ask box is always open for your lovely opinions. To read more of my work, find my main masterlist here. :)

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Quite at Home in Hell

For @whumptober2021 day six & day 21:  blood-matted hair & hunger

CW: Vampirism, blood drinking, noncon touch, creepy whumper, sadistic whumper, biting, captivity, dehumanizing language

Vampire Chris AU Masterlist | Follows directly from this piece

Thanks to @boxboysandotherwhump for helping me with the German & @alittlewhump for helping with the French!

-

1918, the Western Front of WWI

The prisoners are held in a small, hastily constructed sort of barracks far too close to the front lines.

Gefrieter Erich Eeten knows why, of course. The hope is that his own people will hesitate before they blast this bit of dirt apart, that they will be concerned enough about killing their fellow soldiers that they’ll give up a few key moments of pause to the French, the Americans, and the British. Give them the advantage in a firefight.

They want to shield themselves with the bodies of the men in this tent, unwashed and dirty, who are exhausted from a day spent digging trenches for their enemies to hide in. 

He can’t exactly blame the Allied powers for it. 

It’s a brilliant bit of strategy, if less and less effective as men on both sides become so battle-hardened that they cease to care about their own lives, let alone each other. Still. He’d almost rather be at one of the true POW camps further away from the front lines, where the Red Cross at least comes to check on their treatment.

Here, so close to the front, there is no one keeping watch on what happens to them at all… and the longer the war draws on, the more viciously they kill each other, the more the prisoners kept here too far for oversight feel like they are teetering at the edge of some terrible invisible cliff. 

There’s a stiff breeze outside the tent, whipping the heavy, waterproofed canvas edges. They’re flapping a little, making a sound that Erich will one day hear in his nightmares. The cold sneaks in through the slight space between tent and ground, and the men in here are huddled together for warmth, sharing the meager blankets they are given. 

At least, though, their captors are officially the French. 

Say what you will about the blasted frogs, they never deny their prisoners a nip of strong cognac to help hold off the cold. The Americans, on the other hand, seem to be laboring under an enforced lack of good liquor, not just for prisoners but for their own soldiers, too. That seems a worse crime than nearly any other, in circumstances like this. To force a man to be a cruel killer without even a nip or three to soothe his conscience… to Erich, it sounds like brutality.

There’s a bit of a scuffle outside the tent, and the prisoners look up. Erich is at the back, leaning back against the rough frame of a cot he sleeps on at night, cards in his hands wrapped in strips of bandage cloth just for warmth. What happened to his gloves, he’s no idea. Probably one of the Allies took them for a souvenir.

The canvas wraps work well enough.

“Au garde-à-vous, prisonniers! Sur vos pieds!” Erich knows the voice - it’s the main guard of the tent they sleep in, a man named Alain who looks entirely too old for war. Here he is, anyway, all moustache and silvering hair, pulling open the entrance of the tent, moving the flap aside. 

Erich glances left and then right, meeting the eyes of his fellow prisoners, and the half-dozen of them that share this single small tent push heavily to their feet, shifting apart as much as the tent will allow, hands behind their back. 

His stomach dips, a low drumbeat of dread alongside his heart. Something tells him this isn’t a social call he wants to be part of. 

He’s even more certain when a tall, thin American steps into the entrance, nearly silhouetted by the dim, barely-there light behind them. Their hair is long, in a loose plait with parts undone, and their eyes gleam, briefly seeming to glow in the dark. Erich is reminded of his mother’s cat, who would stalk mice at night and whose eyes did just the same when light hit them.

He feels very… mouselike.

They wear a medic’s uniform, but it’s a little tattered. There are unrepaired bullet holes through the heavy woolen tunic, and they move with grace and disdain for how heavy wet wool must be, how itchy and uncomfortable. As if it simply doesn’t matter to them.

Because, of course, it doesn’t. The damn thing is a walking corpse, baring fangs in a grisly smile.

“Hello, soldiers,” They say, in a voice that isn’t quite a purr. “You all look a fright.”

“Verdammte Blutsauger,” Lukas Müller mutters to his right. 

Erich hates the bloodsuckers. Everyone does. They come with the Americans, monsters brought from the shadows as a kind of secret weapon. Erich has never seen vampires out in the open before - back home, they are creatures of hiding. They live in cellars and basements and houses with the windows painted in thick matte black. They sweep along the streets at night, a risk for anyone who stays out too late.

But they’re not part of anything. 

Here, they’re death itself, demons quite at home in hell.

 Oh, sure, the Americans claim they use them only for bringing the injured back to safety - and some of them, he’s sure, are kept to that purpose. Some kind of ability to deny the truth of them, if there are enough seen doing only what the official story claims.

Erich, though, has seen one dispatching wounded German soldiers one by one left behind in a field, killing them before they can be recovered by their own people. He’s seen one with fangs buried in the throat of a man who would otherwise have lived. They’re listed as medics, but those things are what keeps the Germans on their own side of the battle lines after dark, and everyone knows it. 

His own side brings canisters of poison gas. The Americans respond with an army laced around its edges in abominations the gas can’t touch.

The vampire sighs, faintly disappointed. “No good morning for me from my audience?”

Erich speaks the best English out of them all - his grandmother was English, taught it to his father in the cradle, who taught it to him. It’s made him more or less the spokesman for his small group of prisoners, and for the larger group when they are moved and briefly allowed to interact with the others. He clears his throat, stepping forward slightly. Lukas and Vilhelm, on his other side, nudge him just a little with their shoulders. It’s meant to be support, he supposes. 

He feels like he’s being pushed onto a target painted on the floor, one invisible only to him. 

“Good morning,” Erich says, voice flat, letting his accent roll far more heavily off his tongue than it needs to, turning good into gut. It’s always good to let the enemy believe you know less than you really do, so he pretends that English comes with difficulty and not ease. “Should you not turn to ash?”

Their eyebrows raise just slightly, not quite in amusement, and they give a brittle little laugh. “First off, Fritz, that’s a myth. Secondly, it’s not even morning. Probably close to evening now, honestly.” 

Erich rolls his eyes. Lukas mutters something under his breath next to him, but the slight creaking of their boots seems to cover it too much to be understandable. Erich sighs, heavily. “Then why did you have us say to you good morning, Blutsauger?” 

“Because it’s funny that you don’t know what time it is, of course. All right, who here is Fritz, who is Hans, and who am I just going to call Kraut?” 

“No one here is named Hans and no one is Fritz, fangs.” Erich tips his chin down slightly, a lock of greasy brown hair falling into his eyes. “May you drown in holy water.”

He spits at the vampire’s feet.

He feels a pang of regret when the vampire turns to look at Alain, the French guard and points back at Erich, cheerful. “I want that one. He’s rude.”

“Das ist pech,” Lukas whispers.

When Alain simply stares at them blankly - and Erich knows Alain speaks English, they’ve spoken before in a tongue they had in common when neither spoke the other’s mother-tongue -  the vampire groans. They don’t seem to know Alain is pretending not to understand them. “Fine. Let’s try this again. Je veux cet homme, s'il vous plaît.”

Alain’s expression tightens a little. He nods, and he won’t look Erich in the eyes as he draws the entrance open a little wider. “Emmenez-le alors.”

“Merci beaucoup,” The vampire says, giving a little bow. Erich backs up, but there isn’t anywhere to go, and none of them is armed. Besides, any resistance is met with removal of meals, with being denied the smallest comforts that make this bearable. With the possibility of all of them being handed over to a vampire, not just one.

This war had been civilized, in some ways, before the Americans brought their monsters.

It’s not actually true, but in this moment it comforts him to pretend it, to have a place to put his furious disgust as the vampire’s thin, long fingers close around his arm and yank him forwards with inhuman strength. They’re clicking their tongue against the top of their mouth in a strange animal way. Erich thinks again of his mother’s cat, making just that sound watching birds outside the windows.

“May your hands be pressed into the holy cross,” Erich snaps as he’s forced out into the freezing humid air outside the tent. There are others walking around - a war camp is never less than controlled chaos, no matter the time of day - but none of them will look at him. No one acknowledges him, although they’ve all seen this before. They know what’s going to happen here. 

“Je déteste ça,” Alain mutters.

A bell is rung, clanging in a discordant note, and soldiers move into the POW tents. Erich is led towards a pole in the center of the ring of prisoner tents, something that a half-century ago might still have been a flogging post, a punishment for mutinous men. 

“Crosses don’t really harm us,” The vampire says, careless and casual. “Very little does, actually. I’m a big fan of garlic, for instance. Silver, though…” They hum, dragging a fingernail over Erich’s wrist. “That hurts.”

He jerks his hand back and free, only to have the vampire laugh, bright and brilliant, and grab him again, spinning him around until they’re behind him, chest pressed to his back, using that demon strength to twist his arms up his back until his bones creak and ache, forcing him forwards towards the pole. 

“I hope you have silver shoved down your throat,” Erich manages, but his heart is pounding in fear as the vampire grabs his hair and jerks his head to the side, forcing his cheek against the rough-hewn wood. Splinters bite into his skin and he grunts as his arms are moved, forced to encircle the pole. His wrists are tied with rope, leaving him looking a little ridiculous, as if he decided today to go for a hug. 

Another rope goes around his shoulders, keeping him in this awkwardly pressed position. He tries to kick back, pulling viciously, but then his ankles come next. The rope goes from them to small metal hooks driven hard into the ground, keeping his legs more than shoulder-width apart. He can’t kick, or even balance himself. He must rely entirely on the pole he’s tied to in order to stay upright. 

“I’m going to enjoy you,” The vampire murmurs. 

Behind Erich, the sounds of a crowd gathering begin. Soft mumbles, exhalations of surprise and disgust. He closes his eyes against the rush of heat he feels - more rage than tears - knowing the prisoners are being brought out to witness this, to be shown what could happen to them next.

It does an excellent job of making them grateful for every day it’s not.

The French commander of the POW camp is barking a running list of commands to his men, but Erich doesn’t speak enough French to clearly understand them. Someone comes close by behind him, and he jolts as there’s a clap to his back. There’s a laugh behind him, not the vampire but someone else.

He manages to see from the corner of his eyes. A different American, of course. Comfortable enough with the vampire to get this close to them. 

“Isn’t this a sorry sight,” The American says, and laughs. “What’s the prize for, fangs?”

The vampire lifts their hand, gently brushing Erich’s hair from his eyes. He spits in their face, this time, and is gratified by a flash of very real anger that briefly overtakes their constant amusement. They slowly wipe the spit away, then clean their hand - sort of - on Erich’s uniform. 

It’s so dirty they’re probably even less clean after that than they were before.

“Reported a desertion. Now I get fresh food.” They lean down, meeting Erich’s furious hazel eyes. “I’m so hungry, Fritz. All the time. Imagine being surrounded by schnitzel and cabbage as far as the eye can see, and you’re not supposed to eat your fill. Imagine how empty you would feel.”

“Fick dich.” 

“What, you won’t even curse at me in English anymore?” The vampire pouts, lower lip sticking out. He hates them more than he’s hated anyone during this godforsaken war. “Come on, you have to understand how hard this is for me, right?”

Erich ignores them, jerks his wrists again, trying to yank himself free of the ropes through sheer force. His back already is aching from being slightly bent forward, his thigh muscles stretched. He does the only thing he can think of - he slowly, with effort, drags his face along the wood and manages to turn away, and look the other direction. 

“Well, fine. I suppose you’ll be mad at me for acting like you all eat schnitzel and cabbage, too,” The vampire says behind him. He doesn’t dignify them with an answer. He fixes his eyes, instead, on a point in the dark roiling clouds in the sky, above the remaining trees. 

“The prisoners are well-positioned to witness,” A French officer states, speaking with a light, dancing accent but without the difficulty and hesitancy some of the regular infantry have. “You may feed when ready, Private Saathoff.”

That gets Erich’s attention. “Saathoff?”

“That’s right.” The vampire laughs, stepping up behind him. Their fingers move through the hair that curls, grown a little too long, over the back of his neck. He shudders with disgust at the intimacy of it. Their mouth moves close to his ear, but there is no heat of breath. Only the brush of lips. “Ich bin Deustcher, genau wie du.” 

“Nothing like me,” Erich grinds out with his teeth gritted together so hard his jaw is already aching. He presses his forehead into the rough wooden pole and closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. 

If he’s going to die…

“Vater unser im Himmel,” he begins, halting. He hasn’t seen the inside of a church since he was fourteen, and that was twelve years ago now. Still, the words to the Lord’s Prayer come easily, more muscle memory than thought. “Geheiligt werde dein Name. Dein Reich komme, Dein Wille geschehe, wie im Himmel so auf Erden-”

“Zu jeder anderen Zeit hätte ich dich als Haustier behalten.” They use his hair to jerk his head back, and their fangs jam into his neck with a flash of sudden agony.

It’s a white-hot pain that races down his spine to the very tips of his toes, and Erich screams, the sound strangled and thin but still echoing, bouncing off of trees and tents and back into his mind, crashing like the shells that slam into the earth. 

Lukas jerks forwards as if to run to help him and is pushed back by one of the French soldiers, their expression set in a grim line. They have to twist Lukas’s arms behind his back to hold him as he shouts, angrily, that this isn’t fair, it’s against the laws of conduct. 

There’s laughter, at that, from their captors. 

The other prisoners grumble and shift uncomfortably, look at anything but Erich whenever they can, but they can’t escape the sound of his horror, of his pain. 

There’s no pulse of the much-spoken-of venom. There’s no numbness to drift in, there’s no fog to cloud out his awareness of what is happening to him. Every muscle of Erich’s body is tensed tight enough to snap the bones they wrap around, the veins standing out in his throat as if giving them a roadmap of where the food can be found.

He didn’t know vampires could choose not to use the venom.

He didn’t know they could make it feel like this.

When his scream dies, he can’t get enough breath to make another. All he can do is let out high-pitched, thin whimpers and cries. Spots dance before his eyes. Beneath the sound of his heart pounding in a sudden panic to push more blood faster to replace what is being lost, he can feel - can hear - a low rumbling sound against his back.

Erich has heard the rumors that vampires purr, and now he knows they aren’t rumors at all.

He can feel it right through his back, just barely. It’s a vibration that would be pleasant if it didn’t seem to be somehow making everything hurt even worse, waking up his nerves the way the venom is supposed to deaden them. Their hands are closed around his ribs, pressing the tips of their fingers rhythmically against them, as if playing a piano, as if he is dough to be kneaded, as if he isn’t human at all.

As if he’s nothing but a field mouse that found his way into the wrong house, and the vampire is the housecat who has waited too long for a living toy to torment.

There is no prayer, in pain like this. There is no thought beyond the body’s fight for survival and the mind wanting to flee from it, if surviving means this feeling will not end. There is nothing but the feeling of his blood being pulled forcefully out of his body, nothing but his nerves screaming to escape it, nothing but the bite of the ropes that ensure he can do no more than jerk in his bonds and choke on his agony.

It feels like forever - and like a moment - when their fangs pull free, their cool rough tongue lapping at the wounds to close them, purring against his ear with contentment. Their fingers knead into his skin a little bit longer, drawing the moment out as he slumps against the wooden pole he’s tied to. He’s only standing because of the ropes.

Pain rolls through him, breaking against the edges of his body from the inside, like the smaller waves after a storm falling onto a beach already strewn with debris. He slumps. His own breath is a rasping wheeze, taking far more effort than it should.

Nein, Erich, Erich stirb nicht…” Lukas’s voice comes from somewhere so far away, filtering through the noise in Erich’s mind slowly. He can’t even begin to form a response. His mouth won’t answer his commands. It only hangs open, panting, pulling in the chilly air over his tongue. He starts to shiver as the breeze hits the cold sweat in his hair and on his neck, cuts through his uniform somehow.

He doesn’t have enough blood left to warm himself.

Their tongue licks up his neck behind his ear, matting his own blood into his hair there, sticky and hot. It starts to cool and dry immediately in the cold air. Erich’s stomach twists.

“Oh, he won’t die,” The vampire coos, petting through his hair slowly. Their nails scratch at his scalp. “Not today.” Their mouth presses back against his ear. “Thanks for the meal, Erich. And for being so entertaining. Maybe I’ll find you after the war. I’ll buy you a beer… and some schnitzel.”

They push themself away from him, turning away to wipe a bit of blood from the corners of their mouth, and walk with a jaunty step through an opening that appears in the ring of watching prisoners, whose eyes follow them with apprehension and no small amount of fear. 

When Alain comes up to untie him, Erich simply collapses into the Frenchman’s arms as soon as he’s free of the ropes. Lukas is allowed to move up to stand at his other side, putting Erich’s limp left arm around his shoulders, while Alain supports his right. Erich lets his head fall into Lukas’s shoulder, hitching his breath as he forces down a sob. 

“Wh… why do you let them do this?” He asks, his English slurred with the exhaustion that means he is dragged with his boots carving paths through the mud back towards the tent. 

Alain is silent until Erich is dropped onto his cot, the hard frame digging into Erich’s back right through the thin mattress. He glances over his shoulder, the three of them alone in here for the moment, and then looks back. 

“It is believed that this is how we will win,” He says, and pats Erich’s hand. “My apologies. I do not believe in the monsters, but I am not the one to run this war.”

“None of us are,” Erich says, weakly. He closes his eyes. “We are only the ones who must fight in it.”

There’s a pause, and Alain’s exhale is audible in the quiet tent. “I will ensure you are given extra meat rations tonight, and I will find you some schnapps. Essaye de dormir, maintenant, si tu peux,” he says with soft regret lacing his voice. Then there is a shuffle of footsteps, and he’s gone.

Lukas shifts and sits with his back to the cot, in the same position Erich was in before. He swallows, picking up the abandoned cards from the game they’d been playing, looking over Erich’s hand. “You’d have won, you know, on the next hand,” He says in German, before he reaches out to grab the others’ cards and reshuffle the deck.

“Do I still get my… my winnings?” Erich can barely move his lips to speak. He’s so tired. So, so tired. He can feel his hands starting to shake, now that it’s over, the trembling moving slowly up his limbs, stuttering his breathing. 

“My share of the liquor? Not on your life.” Lukas pauses, and then his tone gentles as he looks Erich over again. “You know what... of course you can. You’ll need warmth. What did the bloodsucker say to you, anyway? I couldn’t hear.”

Erich thinks about the promise to find him after the war, about the way they spoke into his ear as if he were little more than a toy top to be spun at their command. In another time, I’d keep you for a pet, they had whispered, before they bit down. 

He shakes his head, slowly. “Lies,” He answers, and feels the softer-edged darkness of sleep begin to take him.

“Lies?” 

“I hope… I hope they were lies.”

For the moment, at least, he is too exhausted by the present to feel terror for the future.

-

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @endless-whump @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump @thefancydoughnut

[lazywonderlvnd]

Hi, if you are still taking prompts; A magically powerful Harry not noticing that his magic does things to make Draco happy. This can be pre-relationship or established relationship. Like it starts of with his tea being exactly as he likes and always the right temperature. Then evolves to rooms changing colour or weather changing or people being unable to invade Draco’s personal space due to an invisible barrier or something ridiculous. Btw Draco doesn’t notice as well.

anon.....you really killed me w this one. i’ve been so emo over this wyugeahrwiw might end up writing smth longer tbh bc this concept is literally the only thing that matters to me!!!!!!! i hope u enjoy i had so much fun with it ❤️❤️❤️

“Harry, you do it. Please.”

“No.”

“Please!”

“We’re fucking watching something, Draco!”

“So just pause it!”

Harry grabs the pillow on his lap and slams it onto the sofa next to him. Hermione can see dust rise in its wake. He pauses the telly. 

“Are you doing it?” Draco asks hopefully. Harry scowls at him. 

“Well you won’t shut up until I do, will you?”

“Definitely not.”

Harry disappears into the kitchen and Draco sits there looking smug.

“It’s kind of sick how you get off on bossing him around,” says Ron, his tone one of simple observation. His fingers are idly playing with Hermione’s hair, but she doesn’t think he notices he’s doing it. 

“If I’m not mean to him a few times a week I break out in a rash, Weasley,” Draco says blithely. “Besides, he makes it perfectly. I don’t know how he does it, it’s always exactly the right temperature and sweetness and all that. I s’pose his years as a house-elf for those Muggles gave him plenty of time to perfect the art.”

“You’re a twat,” says Ron. “And my mum makes tea better than him.”

“Well you’re just a pitiful little mummy’s boy, aren’t you, Weasley? We can hardly trust your opinion.”

“Hark who the hell’s talking,” Ron scoffs. “Least I’m not twenty-three and still calling my mum ‘mummy’ like the world’s biggest bloody ponce.”

Draco splutters but before he can retort Harry’s coming back into the room hovering four cups of tea that float placidly to each of them. Draco looks exactly like a satisfied cat as he takes his and Harry drops back down onto the sofa next to him. Not too close, but certainly not too far, either.

“Literally exquisite,” Draco declares after he’s taken a sip. Ron rolls his eyes.

“It’s just tea, Draco,” says Harry, and he grabs for the remote to turn the film back on. “You’re such a demanding little brat. Merlin’s fucking tits.”

But Draco looks happy and Harry looks suspiciously content as well. Ron turns to her and makes a silent gagging face. Hermione snorts and puts a finger to her lips. They’ve decided not to say anything yet.

*

“Wasn’t this place a lot … uglier last time?”

“What?” Harry says absently. He’s not listening — he’s got all his attention zeroed in on a stack of parchment he’s holding. They’d only barely dragged him along to lunch; earlier the captain of the English National Team had apparently owled him a great number of brand-new Quidditch plays and required Harry’s extensive thoughts and notes before their next practise, which was tomorrow morning. 

“Uglier,” Draco says emphatically, and Ron mutters something she doesn’t catch. “Remember? The walls were that tragic egg-yolk colour.” He shivers. Hermione thinks it might have been an honest-to-god shiver of revulsion. She also thinks she knows what’s happened, even though the extent of it surprises her.

“Maybe someone heard you whingeing and changed it,” Ron apparently can’t stop himself from saying with a snigger. Hermione elbows him hard and he shoots her a glare, mouthing, he doesn’t know!

Harry would usually be the one to take the lead and get them a table when all four of them go out to eat together but today he’s too wrapped up in his Quidditch plays, so Ron steps forward and does it, which makes Hermione’s chest flutter pleasantly. He’d blush down to his bones if she ever said it aloud but he’s quite capable of being a leader in Harry’s absences. 

“Whatever happened,” says Draco pointedly as they’re led to their table, “it’s a great bloody blessing, I was genuinely unsure I’d have the mental fortitude to survive another assault like that on my delicate senses. And, I mean, this —” he gestures to the walls, which are now an admittedly pleasing dark teal above a white trim “— is stunning. It’s my favourite colour.”

“Is it? So weird they picked your favourite colour completely by coincidence,” Ron says, and Hermione elbows him again. Draco notices nothing and neither does Harry, although he does finally set the plays aside once they’re seated at the table.

“Are you complaining about the wall colour again?” he asks drily. They would both be extremely displeased to know they sound like an old married couple. Draco snatches haughtily at the paper napkin on the table and unfolds it to place over his lap. The first time he’d ever done this at a regular, decidedly not upscale restaurant Ron had taken it upon himself to spend the entire meal adopting a posh accent to match Draco’s and saying things to the waiter like “Don’t you have crystal?” while holding up a glass cup full of Pepsi and then commenting “These aren’t real silver, you know” after making a show of inspecting the titanium utensils. 

“I can complain about hideous design choices if I want to,” Draco tells Harry with his nose in the air. “Thankfully they’ve rectified it this time.”

On the other side of the restaurant, Hermione sees two employees talking, one of them gesturing at the wall with utter bewilderment. She doesn’t point it out.

*

“Twelve o’clock,” says Ron, nodding past Draco’s shoulder. “Some bloke staring you down hard, Malfoy.”

Draco looks excitedly behind him, but what Hermione takes more notice of is the way Harry’s face falls a little. She can’t help but wonder if he even realises it’s happened. She’s almost certain he’s aware of his feelings for Draco even though he still hasn’t said anything to her (and she’s been waiting months now, the effort of holding her tongue growing only more difficult by the day, and she knows Ron’s always seconds away from shouting at him) but she doesn’t think he knows how obvious he is. Draco doesn’t seem to know either, but she thinks that’s because Draco feels exactly the same way. She’d have called them morons, but she remembers too well how long it had taken her and Ron.

“What the fuck, Weasley,” Draco hisses, turning back around with a scowl that makes Ron laugh and Harry perk up again a little bit. “He looks like he hasn’t washed his hair in weeks.”

“Now, now,” says Ron, “mustn’t judge books by their greasy covers.”

“Then you go shag him if you think he’s so fit.”

“Maybe I will,” Ron says airily, as if he really is considering it, and Hermione can’t help chuckling and kissing his cheek. Then his expression changes to one of wicked amusement, which makes all of them look round to see the bloke coming their way. Hermione glances at Harry to find that — oh yes, he looks flustered and vaguely upset.

“Hullo,” says the greasy bloke to Draco as he comes up beside him at their table. He’s really not terrible-looking, but if she’s learned anything about Draco in the last couple years it’s that his standards amount to models and Harry Potter, so this man has almost no chance.

“Hello,” Draco drawls, reminding her fiercely of his younger self at Hogwarts. “I’m not interested.”

“Right little narcissistic bugger, aren’t you?” the man says. And now, finally, he’s begun to look as revolting to Hermione as he’d done initially to Draco — a repellent personality can do that. “Maybe I just wanted to come and have a chat.”

“Then why aren’t you looking at any of the rest of us?” Ron asks, sounding halfway between amused still and a little put off.

“Can you leave, please?” Draco interjects, cringing away from the man encroaching slowly on his personal space. And suddenly, as he looks on the verge of antagonising Draco further, he shifts his feet and slips, landing right on his bum with a yell of surprise. All four of them get to their feet to see, but there doesn’t seem to be any liquid or even slimy food for him to have tripped on.

“The fuck ...?” the man says, getting back to his feet. But when he moved towards Draco, he only slips again, on absolutely nothing at all. Something clicks and Hermione looks at Harry: he seems as confused as anyone else (if obviously pleased).

She looks at Ron then, who catches her eye and lifts his brows like he’s thinking the same thing.

Draco’s suitor gets up once more and steadies himself, looking a bit dazed. Some deep animal instinct seems to tell him to stop trying, and with a wary glance at Draco he finally leaves.

“Well that was a bit of a fucking scene,” says Harry. Draco, coming out of his own startled daze, laughs.

“Yeah,” Ron says sarcastically, “wonder what could’ve possibly happened.”

*

“I really thought it was going to rain,” Draco mopes where he’s standing at the window. It’s grey outside but it definitely doesn’t look like rain and Draco appears so upset about it that Hermione actually feels badly, even though she’s quite glad for the clear weather. 

“Just shut the curtains,” Ron suggests from his place on the floor. He’s sorting through Harry’s collection of VHS tapes, trying to decide on a good Halloween movie. Not that he’s ever seen any of them, and Hermione suspects he’ll end up choosing whichever cover he likes best.

“It’s not the same!” Draco wails. “The thunder and lightning is all part of it, you uncultured pillock! The atmosphere is all wrong.”

“It’ll be just as good when we shut off all the lights and draw the curtains,” she assures him, but it doesn’t remove the look of disappointment from his face. It’s a pouty sort of thing that echoes the brattiness of his youth; she imagines a five-or-six-year-old Draco giving his parents similar looks when he wasn’t getting what he wanted.

 At that moment the front door opens and Harry walks in carrying two grocery bags, one of which contains alcohol, which Hermione can tell by the way the plastic is bulging around the cans.

“The fuck are you all doing here?” he says by way of greeting.

“You said eight o’clock, fuckhead,” Ron tells him without looking up. “But it’s fine, I’ve had time to pick a film and Malfoy’s had time to moan about the weather.”

“What’s wrong with the weather?”

“I wanted a storm!”

At that exact moment, a flash of lightning lights up the sky behind Harry where he hasn’t even closed the door yet. Seconds later a downpour begins, and then there’s a rolling crash of thunder.

Hermione’s eyes widen and once more she finds Ron’s gaze, who looks about as shocked as she feels. Draco, meanwhile, has his hands over his mouth and looks like a child on Christmas morning.

For the first time since his magic had begun picking up on Draco’s wishes and granting them of seemingly its own accord, Hermione sees Harry look suspicious. He peers behind him at the storm suddenly raging outside his house before slowly closing the door. When he turns back he looks directly at Hermione, who looks away quickly.

They set up the food Harry had gotten — all kinds of Halloween-themed sweets — and once everyone has their drinks (“Make mine,” Draco tells Harry, “you do it best”) and is comfortable on the two sofas in the room (Harry and Draco are, as usual, as close to each other as they can get without actually touching) they start the movie: The Thing, which Harry swears is one of the greatest horror films of all time.

Funny thing is, an hour and a half into it she looks over and, with a jolt, realises the two of them are kissing half-covered beneath a blanket. She elbows Ron, who positively beams when he notices.

“Fucking finally, dear sweet Merlin,” he whispers, the sound muffled by the continued rain and thunder. “I nearly hit him upside the head when he made it rain, are you fucking kidding me?”

“Shh!” Hermione hisses, though she’s smiling. “They’ll hear you. We’ll rag him about it tomorrow.”

A soft sound of laughter comes from the other sofa that Hermione identifies as Draco’s, and when she risks another peek after a moment she sees that Harry has a hand on Draco’s jaw, and that he’s smiling.

[babbushka]

Some of those prompts are so funny! Can you please write this one for Flip or a Kylo AU? It’s hilarious!

“I may be loves bitch but at least I’m man enough to admit it.”

A/N: This silly little something is completely inspired by chatting with my dear friend @safarigirlsp !

2k, Flip chugging his respect women juice aka being his wife's #1 fan (he's a lil confused but he's got the spirit) cw: lowkey 1970s misogyny

Flip’s about ready to bang his head on the fucking desk in front of him from frustration, when he hears it. Those magic words that somehow get him through the day, each and every day, when the hours drone on and on and on at the station, when he feels like he’s been there for six years instead of only six hours.

In the habit that he and Ron have built up ever since being desk neighbors in the narcotics unit’s special glass office, Ron has finally come around and saved him from sudden death by boredom, by slapping a hand on Flip’s shoulder and happily announcing, “Present for you in the lobby.”

“Shit it’s already lunch?” Perking up at once, Flip shoves himself away from his desk, sparing a glance to his watch and seeing that it was in fact noon. He doesn’t even bother to push his chair in as he weaves through the other desks in the office on his way to the door, stopping himself before practically bolting to ask, “Thanks Ron, you stickin’ around? She said she was bringing stuff over for us.”

Ron only nods, knowing that Flip wants to get to you as quickly as possible, and so he spares him the conversation so that the detective can do just that.

You’re beautiful, as you always are, in the lobby of the CSPD. Currently chatting away with one of the secretaries at the front desk, you’re dressed in that new outfit Flip likes so much, your hair done up all pretty and fashionable. Instantly, his day is made better just by your being here -- something that he’s grateful for, because his day had been pretty fucking trying up until this point.

“Hi honey!” You catch sight of him, face lighting up, and Flip can’t resist a smile when you’re so happy to see him like this.

His cowboy boots take him across the lobby and into your arms, and he’s immediately taking the weight of the basket that you’re carrying out of your hands, placing it gently on the floor so he can squeeze you tight with a hug and a kiss.

“Hey ketsl, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” He pats your ass lovingly, before picking up the basket and leading you through the lobby back towards the rec room.

“Right back at you handsome, I hope you’re hungry, I brought you the biggest roast beef sandwich I could possibly make.” You wink at him, and like clockwork, his stomach growls, making him chuckle a little.

“You’re a fuckin’ miracle and a half, I’m starvin’ -- ”

Suddenly, you stop with a frown, looking through the little window of the door to the conference room as you pass by it.

“What’s going on in there?” You ask, pointing your thumb in the room’s direction, and Flip doesn’t know what you mean.

“Huh?”

“Is there a meeting that you’re missing?” You ask, and Flip frowns then, because he doesn’t think so anyway.

But save for Jimmy and Ron, it looks like the entire narcotics unit is crammed into the conference room, along with a handful of rookie cops, homicide detectives, janitors, and even some of the press. They’re all watching someone draw a big graph on the black board, the unmistakable sound of chalk squeaking punctuating the speaker’s passionate presentation.

“No, Chief would’ve said something...oh for fuck’s sake.” It takes Flip two seconds to recognize what’s on the chart, and immediately he’s shaking his head.

It’s a line graph, the Hot-Crazy Matrix, this new thing that’s got all the men in the country thinking they know everything about women. The gist is the hotter a woman is, the crazier she gets, and everything about it rubs Flip the wrong fuckin’ way, especially when he presses his ear against the door and listens in on what they’re actually saying.

“...If you find yourself in the Fun Zone, your main goal is to move out of the Fun Zone to a more permanent location.” “Now above the ‘crazy’ line, we have the Danger Zone. This is your redheads, your strippers, uh, anyone named Tiffany -- ”

“Hairdressers!” One of the men from the back of the room shouts.

“Yes, hairdressers, this is where your car gets keyed, your tires get slashed, and you wind up in jail. At this point you have to understand that this is not a static environment. This is a situation where you have got to use this matrix over time to develop some relatable data. At any moment in time, any woman that you have previously located on this chart can vanish, and reappear anywhere else on the chart.”

“Let me break this up really quick -- ” Flip reaches for the door with a dark scowl on his face, but you put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“No.” You look at him with wide, playful eyes, “No I think we should sit in on it, see what they say. Cause a little trouble.”

Flip loves the way you think, and with a sigh, he makes sure you stay behind him as you both slip through the door, unnoticed with how quiet you are. All eyes are on the blackboard as the speaker -- a greasy looking beat cop -- draws a line on the chart.

“Now, above an eight ‘hot’ and between a seven and a five ‘crazy’, this is your Wife Zone. When you meet this girl, you should consider a long term relationship. And if you find a woman who is below a five crazy, and above an eight hot, this is your Unicorn. We call them that because they do not exist. If you happen to find one, please uh let us know, we’d like to study it and try if we can, to replicate it.”

There’s a round of laughter from the crowd, and Flip can feel your hand tense in his own. He’s practically unable to hold himself back, when the cop finally sets down the chalk, dusts off his hands, and regards the room as someone else turns the lights back on.

“Anyone have any questions?” The cop asks, and Flip’s clearing his throat before he knows what he’s even doing.

“Yeah, hi.” Drawing all attention to him, Flip puts his hands on his hips, towers tall above all the other men in the room by at least three inches, and deadpans, “Have any of you actually spoken to a woman before? I mean, for longer than the two minutes it takes for them to reject you.”

That’s clearly not what the men in front of him were expecting, because they just blink, slackjawed like the morons they are.

“What?” The speaker asks, caught off guard.

Flip sighs, lights up a cigarette and crosses his arms over his chest, puffing out a big intimidating cloud of smoke.

“Show of hands, who here is married?” He waits, and predictably, no one comes forward. He knows this, because he knows all the married couples at the station. You make it a point to know them, anyway. “Okay then, well, who here has a girlfriend? Who here has ever had a girlfriend?”

Still no hands, and maybe Flip shouldn’t be surprised, the kind of men that believe this shit are the kind of men that either wind up alone or abusing poor women that they can manipulate into staying with them, and Flip doesn’t have the time or energy for it much longer.

“Interesting.” He muses, having made his point while the room murmurs amongst themselves.

One particularly stupid cop makes the mistake of trying to be a tough guy, some pipsqueak five-foot-four wannabe wrestler speaks up from near the front of the room, “We don’t need your condescending bullshit, okay, Zimmerman -- ”

“And women don’t need your bullshit charts splitting them into categories of fuckable or not, and yet here you are.” Flip cuts him off, and you feel a sense of pride blooming in your chest. Flip is a good boy, it’s why you married him after all.

“You’re only saying that because your wife is standing right next to you.” The cop tries to push his buttons, and maybe it’s because Flip hasn’t eaten yet, but anger itches up his spine, and soon the crowd is parting like the Red Sea, for Flip who is gunning straight for him.

“Oh yeah? How’d you think I got my wife you piece of shit? Because I promise it wasn’t by treating her like some shiny object to win.” Flip grabs the cop by the front of his uniform, and hoists him clean off the floor so that he can pull him up to eye level.

“Well then maybe you got lucky and married the only woman in Colorado Springs who isn’t a huge bitch.” The cop doesn’t know when to quit, does he?

“That’s not fucking true, my wife is a bitch and I love her for it.” Flip’s temper flares, and he’s about to raise his fist to punch this guy in the face, when he hears your voice from across the conference room where you’ve been watching with an amused smile.

“Flip, come on let’s go eat, lunch is getting cold.” You say, even though technically the sub sandwiches were supposed to be cold anyway. They don’t need to know that though.

Flip drops the schmuck, lets him fall to the floor with a thud, and walks towards your outstretched hand. Apparently that’s funny to the guy, because he slaps his knee and scoffs with a dry laugh.

“See? You’ve gone soft from love. Maybe we’re better off without it.” He tries to get the other guys to chime in, but they at least know what’s good for them, and instead just scratch the back of their necks, averting Flip’s gaze.

“I may be love’s bitch but at least I’m man enough to admit it.” Flip places his hand in yours, and you give his palm a tight reassuring squeeze. Looking down at you sweetly, he flicks the ash of his cigarette onto the floor and holds the door open for you leaving the conference room with a patronizing, “And at least I have a damn good woman to come home to. You losers enjoy your pity party.”

Finally in the rec room, you and Flip relax with Ron and Jimmy, your CSPD boys enjoying the big sub sandwiches you made and brought over. The little excursion in the conference room ate up only about fifteen minutes of Flip’s lunch hour, something that you and your husband are happy about. He’d be pissed off if he wasted any more time than that.

Everyone enjoyed the sandwiches and bottles of pop, most especially your Flip, who happily sat you down on his lap and wound his arms around you, feeling extra possessive.

“Out of curiosity, where in that chart would you put me?” You ask Flip, expecting him to take a couple moments to mentally weigh his options.

To your unamused surprise, Flip, Ron, and Jimmy all unanimously answer just about as soon as you’ve finished asking the damn question, not one of them even bothering to swallow their sandwich first before replying, “Danger Zone.”

“Hey!” You smack Flip’s chest with a scoff, and Ron and Jimmy immediately break out into laughter.

“You asked.” Jimmy points out with a shrug, just lucky that he’s out of your reach, lest he get smacked too. Ron also dips out of the way, but it’s only a moment later that Flip’s got his hold on you tighter, preventing you from swatting at your friends.

Flip holds you and kisses all over your cheek, his goatee tickling you as he presses his face against yours, nuzzling his nose against yours sweetly even though he’s basically just called you crazy.

“I married you anyway, didn’t I?” Flip’s big brown eyes try to sweeten the deal, and as much as you want to give him a hard time for being such a dork, you have to admit that it works.

“Thin ice, Zimmerman, thin ice.” You shake your head playfully, relaxing into Flip’s embrace a little as he settles you properly onto his lap again from where you were a wiggle worm, squirming away.

“You love me.” Flip smiles.

And despite it all you have to roll your eyes and grin because, “Yeah, I really do.”

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

-----

Tagging some Flip lovin’ friends! @mochabucky@sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions@direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @thembohux@kylorenswhxre @sunflowersinthesnow@babayagakeanu @safarigirlsp @steeevienicks@materialisthicc @hswritingrecs @han68000@rosi3ba3z @chapterhappygirl @loverofallthings@groovetoob @bxnnywriting @glassbxttless@angel-bxby3 @smallgirlbigpersonality @lovelyyy-luna @2000andwhat @raddo1975@cornmousequeen @metsienmenninkainen@caillea @painttheskylineforme @holding-on-to-starwars @caitlin-was-here @icarusinthesea

[lady-of-the-lotus]

Drink, No Drink

xuexiao - M for violence - 4.9k - AO3!

In which Xiao Xingchen drunkely flirts with an oblivious Xue Yang ____________________________

They come by once a month on average, sometimes twice. Once, about eleven months after Xue Yang came to Yi City, three come at once, but that's a group and Xue Yang, always fair, counts them as one.

Still three times the fun to kill, of course.

The men step into the Coffin House courtyard at noon, just ten minutes after Xiao Xingchen and A-Qing had left to buy groceries.

Xue Yang is busy dumping fresh dirt into a raised bed. He and Xiao Xingchen have built raised beds throughout the courtyard to plant vegetables in. Xiao Xingchen had wanted flowers, but Xue Yang had vetoed the idea, flowers being useless, and the daozhang isn’t one to argue.

He looks up as the men step into the courtyard. “Who are you?”

The leader of the group, a tall, brutish-looking man with a cauliflower ear and broken nose, seems almost angry at the question. “Where is he?”

Xue Yang dusts his hands off. And here he thought he’d be bored until the daozhang returned. “Who is this ‘he’?”

“The blind cultivator in white! Xiao Xingchen! We know he lives here!”

Xue Yang taps his chin. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

The musclebound man on the right steps forward, seconds away from grabbing Xue Yang by the collar and losing a hand. “We were told there’s a blind cultivator living here!”

“Ohhh, I thought you meant the other blind cultivator in white. I lose track. What do you want from him?”

“To take a strip out of his hide!”

Xue Yang rolls his eyes. “Let me guess, you committed some crime once upon a time, and he got you in trouble for it, and now that he’s blind you want your revenge.”

“How did—”

“It’s all very original.” Xue Yang’s knife is in his hand. He tosses in the air, catching it deftly. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

The skinny little man on the left shrugs. “Not reall—”

He never finishes his sentence. A flash of silver blade, and Xue Yang’s knife is sprouting from his eye. Shrieking, he falls backwards into a vegetable bed, yanking the knife out of his face.

Xue Yang shakes his head. “Don’t you know not to pull a knife out of a wound? Trust me on that one, I should know. Look, now you’re bleeding all over the place.” He produces a second knife and turns to face the other two men, who stand gaping at him in slack-jawed shock. “How about you two? Up for some first aid practice?”

“You—you—”

“Got any weapons? Get them out. It’s more fun that way.”

Still looking confused, the leader draws his own knife out and stands there, blinking, while the other man drops to his knees beside his companion, who’s writhing in the dirt and shrieking like a wounded fox.

Xue Yang makes a face. “Can you shut him up? He’s going to give me a headache at this rate.”

“He—he—”

Xue Yang floats over and slices the man’s tongue out with a practiced twist of his blade, but the man continues to emit bone-chilling scream from deep inside his throat.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—” Another twist of the blade, and the man falls silent. Permanently. “You’d think he’d never been stabbed in the eyeball before.”

“You killed him—”

“Like you were going to do to the daozhang?” Xue Yang flies back over near the leader. “And for what, arresting you? You clearly escaped whatever the charges are. Grow up and let it go.”

The leader’s hand tightens on his knife. “The magistrate beat me so badly I couldn’t get honest work again as a porter—”

“Your back, your arms, your legs, what was the problem?”

“My left leg was broken so badly it—”

Xue Yang jams his heel into the man’s left kneecap, shattering it. Howling, the man collapses, knife falling from his spasming fingers. “Like I want your life’s story?” He hauls the man up by his collar and flies him over to one of the raised beds, dumping him in the dirt. Dislocates the man’s shoulder, just to be safe, and nicks the side of the man’s throat so that he bleed out into the soil.

Best kind of fertilizer, or so he’d been given to believe.

Then he turns to the third man, who’s cowering on his knees, forehead pressed to the dirt. “How about you? Going to put up more of a fight, I hope? I mean, what were you three arrested for, anyway? Couldn’t have been anything requiring actual fighting skills. Tax fraud?”

“Forgive me—forgive me—I won’t harm Xiao Xingchen! I swear I’ll leave here, I’ll never speak of this—”

“A bit late for that, I’d think.” Xue Yang tilts his head down at him. He likes seeing the man grovel. Kowtow, really. A trembling heap of peasant clothes and greasy hair, not half as good as if it had been the daozhang or one of the self-righteous cultivators who’d dogged him half his life, but it still fills him with heady tingling pleasure. “You should never have come here.”

“It wasn’t my idea—I swear it wasn’t!”

“Great, a spineless lackey. Even better. Now, the question is how to kill you.” He crouches before the man, patting his trembling cheek with his knife while he thinks. “I usually go for something more creative, but we need to wrap this up before the daozhang gets home, and more than two beds needs fertilizing, so here we go.”

The man makes a feeble effort to resist, taking an easily-dodged swing at Xue Yang's jaw. A flick of his hand, and Xue Yang’s knife is suddenly plunged deep into the man’s throat. Grabbing him by the hair, he hauls the man into the neighboring vegetable bed and gives the knife an experimental jiggle, then wiggles it a bit farther up his throat. A delicate balance, this—he needs the man alive to pump out as much blood as possible, but can't resist playing with him a bit. Of course Xue Yang could always rip out his intestines and bury them in the dirt, but that would be messy, and Xue Yang hasn't time to clean up.

A sigh, and the man bleeding out from his eye socket expires.

Xue Yang hesitates, then removes his outer robes and flies the man over the back wall of the courtyard, dumping him in the forest outside the city.

The second man has died by the time he returns. Xue Yang flies him out, then the third man when he too dies.

He stands beneath the trees, eying his handiwork.

Not a bad day’s work.

If only the daozhang knew that Xue Yang, his worst enemy, had been saving his life for the past eleven months. Knew how deeply indebted he is to the delinquent from Kuizhou.

But the daozhang can’t know.

Not just yet.

He’d probably make me stop, Xue Yang thinks, no matter what the personal risk. He’d insist on arresting all these opportunistic degenerates and bringing them to justice, as if such a thing exists.

The idiot. Xue Yang finds himself smiling at the thought. The sanctimonious idiot, blind in more ways than one. For all Xue Yang knows, he might even hear the men out—“Oh, your leg was broken? The scoundrels!” and embark on a journey to track down the magistrate who’d wronged the criminal degenerates—

A vulture approaches, drawn by the scent of blood, startling Xue Yang out of his thoughts.

“Wait your turn,” he tells the bird. “It’s first come, first serve around here.” Chuckles to himself—too bad the daozhang is completely unsuited for the day’s activities. He knows Xiao Xingchen would have appreciated the afternoon’s humor—maybe even relished the irony of watching Xue Yang, the man who was going to one day kill the daozhang, protect him—

Well, perhaps not that. But he could have gotten a few laughs, at least.

Xue Yang cuts a lock of hair from each of the men, just as he has for the last thirteen criminals who’d come after Xiao Xingchen, removes their tongues, and flies back over the wall.

He can take care of the bodies later, if the vultures don’t handle them for him.

He places the tongues in jars he sets inside a coffin painted with preservation sigils. Then, grabbing a rake, he begins mixing the blood-soaked earth, evenly dividing it among the dozen raised beds that take up half the courtyard and patting the soil down in preparation for tomorrow’s sowing. He’s just finishing up when Xiao Xingchen and A-Qing return.

The first thing out of the daozhang’s mouth is, “What’s that smell?”

“What smell?”

“Smells like blood,” says A-Qing, who can always be counted on to say the wrong thing.

Xue Yang fights the urge to tell the daozhang the truth, see the look on his face. “I got bored without you, and went for a walk in the woods, and found a fierce corpse.”

Xiao Xingchen’s face softens at the words without you. Xue Yang is still at a loss to explain how readily Xiao Xingchen displays his feelings. Surely letting another person know that you value their companionship is a dangerous show of weakness?

Xue Yang has learned to reveal nothing that can be used against him in the future.

What Chengmei says to the daozhang is different. His esteem for the blind white fool is all an act, and there is no way a lie might harm him.

“I have the beds all ready for planting,” he tells Xiao Xingchen.

Xiao Xingchen moves towards him as A-Qing runs inside with the groceries. “Were you wounded?”

“By what, tripping and falling on the rake?”

“The blood smells fresh. Did the fierce corpse manage to hurt you? That’s unlike you, Chengmei.” He lays a hand on Xue Yang’s chest, eyebrows rising slightly at the feel of Xue Yang’s thin, silky inner robe beneath his hand instead of his textured outer robes. “I know you, Chengmei. You wouldn’t tell me you were hurt, even if you were.” Slowly, he runs his hands over Xue Yang’s chest, pats his arms, feels his waist.

Xue Yang swallows hard, freezing.

From the touching, he tells himself. Not from the display of concern. It’s hard not to tense up when touched, given how often past touch has been something bad.

Truly it means nothing, the daozhang’s concern. Xue Yang knows this. Has always known it.

What good is the compassion of a man who only cares because he doesn’t know the truth?

Xiao Xingchen rests his hand briefly on his hip, but seems unwilling to go any lower and check Xue Yang’s legs. “You’d tell me if you were hurt, right?”

Xue Yang’s heart is pounding. “….I wouldn’t lie to you…”

“I know you wouldn’t.” Seeming to realize how close they're standing, Xiao Xingchen moves away. “I’ll go help A-Qing make dinner. We'll keep the seeds from tonight’s vegetables, we can plant tomorrow…”

Xue Yang slips his outer robes back on but doesn’t head back into the house. He’s cursing himself for having lost his composure for even a second, especially in front of Xiao Xingchen, of all people.

It’s not like he noticed. You sounded normal, and he’s blind, for fuck’s sake.

The reddish gold sun has sunk beneath the courtyard walls when Xiao Xingchen comes out onto the porch. He looks blue in the twilight, slender and beautiful and somehow soft despite the boniness of his long slim body.

“Chengmei? Dinner’s ready.”

Hesitating, though he’s not sure why, Xue Yang heads inside. Xiao Xingchen hands out the bowls and chopsticks while A-Qing serves.

Xue Yang is silent during dinner, mechanically shoveling rice into his mouth.

Xiao Xingchen does most of the talking, as if sensing Xue Yang is in a strange mood. He talks about the past, places he’s seen, people he’s met. He’s a poor storyteller, with a laughable memory of details, but his tendency to ramble from one story to the next without finishing any of them is amusing in its own way, and A-Qing's interjections of her own more colorful experiences keep any heavy silence at bay.

After the meal, Xue Yang removes Xiao Xingchen’s horsetail whisk from where he keeps it on a shelf in the corner.

“Just combing it,” he says when A-Qing, who has even better hearing than the daozhang and an uncanny knack for getting in his way, asks him what the hell he thinks he’s doing. “It’s getting tangled.”

“Tangled. Right.”

Normally Xue Yang would bicker back, but he doesn’t have the energy tonight. He sits on the steps, the horsetail whisk in his lap, while A-Qing lies on a blanket, staring up at the dazzling carpet of stars as if she can see, and Xiao Xingchen polishes his sword beside him.

Xue Yang knots the locks of hair he’d taken from the three convicts into the flowing mane of the whisk, streaks of black staining the pure white.

A little ritual he’d developed after the first would-be murderer had come to Yi City. Watching the daozhang parade around with a murder trophy tucked under thin white arm was endlessly entertaining.

Now…

It’s still a good joke, Xue Yang tells himself. Still good fun to see the streaks of black against the white. But it’s become a symbol of something else, now, too.

Of what, Xue Yang isn’t entirely sure.

But of something.

The eggplant is starting to sprout when, five weeks later, another convict comes to the Coffin House searching for Xiao Xingchen.

Xiao Xingchen is inside the house making dinner with A-Qing. Xue Yang had just stepped outside to fetch more water when he sees a shadow detach itself from behind a coffin and slither across the courtyard, a flash of silver in its hand.

Jiangzai is out before Xue Yang can even think.

Footsteps.

Xue Yang flies across the courtyard and grabs the shadow by the throat. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“Xiao Xing—”

Xue Yang cuts his throat before the man can finish, flying him over the wall before so much as a drop of blood can splash onto the stones of the courtyard.

A shame to waste the fertilizer on the trees of the forest, but Xiao Xingchen is expecting him back any second now.

He’ll fetch the tongue later.

“Thank you, Chengmei,” Xiao Xingchen says when he returns, accepting the bucket of water. “Do you mind chopping the potatoes? The oil should be hot enough any minute now.”

“Fried potato? Not boiled? Do my ears deceive me?” His pulse is reverberating through his skull, so that’s very possible. The quickness of the kill had done nothing to diminish the euphoria that always accompanies it. If anything, it had heightened it, a half-hour’s torture compressed into an intense dose of power and pleasure and blood.

“I figured I would fry it, as a treat. It’s been a year since…well, it’s been a year since we all came to the Coffin House.” Xiao Xingchen turns to the stove, blushing slightly, as if almost ashamed to have kept track of the anniversary, as if he doesn’t think it's as important to Xue Yang as it is to him.

Xue Yang doesn’t speak. A-Qing is glancing at the floor, looking uncharacteristically solemn.

“I know it’s foolish—” Xiao Xingchen begins again, but Xue Yang shakes his head, forgetting for a moment that he can’t see him.

“It’s never foolish to fry potatoes,” he says emphatically. “That boiled stuff is for the dogs. Anything else?”

Xiao Xingchen smiles. “I bought nian gao at the market today.”

“Now you have my attention.” He slices the potatoes swiftly, hand shaking slightly. Lingering euphoria from his recent kill, most likely. “The sweet cake kind, right? Not that vegetable stuff.”

Xiao Xingchen affects chagrin. “Do you take me for an amateur?”

Xue Yang discovers that he’s grinning.

Still from the murder, no doubt. It’s been a while since he’d killed anything larger than the rats that sneak into the Coffin House.

It’s not that he needs to kill. Enjoys it, yes. Who wouldn’t enjoy holding complete and utter power over another human being? Being the most important thing in their world, if only for those final moments? The pleasant exercise of the fight, the witty banter, the desperation in the victim’s eyes as they bleed out?

But, if he’s being entirely honest, he hasn’t thought about it much these past few weeks.

A-Qing turns in early that night, having eaten too much fried food and nian gao, leaving Xiao Xingchen and Xue Yang alone on the porch. Xue Yang plays with the dead man’s hair in the horsetail whisk while Xiao Xingchen sits beside him, just a little too close, knee almost touching his, having misjudged the distance. It’s odd, how the daozhang can spin through the forest to sever a fierce corpse’s throat without disturbing a single leaf or blade of grass, but he’s rather clumsy around Xue Yang, stumbling into him at times, brushing his hand with his while handing him something, mistakenly letting his shoulder touch his as he passes.

“I have a surprise,” says Xiao Xingchen.

“We’re getting a puppy.”

“We can, if you want."

“Just joking.” Briefly, Xue Yang wonders what a dog would make of the corpses popping up around the Coffin House.

Well, it would be one way to dispose of the bodies, and save on buying dog food.

He grins to himself at the idea. It's a real shame he can’t share some of his best thoughts with Xiao Xingchen.

Who’s tilting his head at him expectantly. “Chengmei?”

“You’re buying us a new house. A-Qing found a husband. We have an invitation to Jinlintai.”

Xiao Xingchen smiles. “I feel quite inadequate, now. I bought some of this.” He draws two wine jars from his sleeve. “Or rather, traded some protection talismans for it with the local weaver.”

“Is the daozhang a secret wino?” Xue Yang accepts the small white jar. He’s not one for drinking, but he can’t turn Xiao Xingchen down. “Is that what you’re really doing during your private meditation sessions?”

Instead of being offended, Xiao Xingchen smiles. “Given how many great poets were drunks—going by their poetry—I could do well to follow their example.

‘Life in the world is but a big dream;

I will not spoil it by any labor or care.

So saying, I was drunk all the day,

Lying helpless at the porch in front of my door—’ ”

“A tripping hazard for A-Qing.”

“ ‘When I awoke, I blinked at the garden-lawn;

A lonely bird was singing amid the flowers.

I asked myself,

Had the day been wet or fine? ’ ”

Xue Yang struggles to keep a straight face despite the fact that Xaio Xingcheng can’t see him. “Baoshan Sanren teaches cultivating by way of winemaking? No wonder she has to hide on her mountain. Every cultivator for miles around would be trying to sign on with her.”

Xiao Xingchen laughs. “Given how many classic poems are about drinking wine, I wouldn’t be surprised if such a thing existed...at least the poems in Shifu’s collection. She didn’t focus much on classical poetry.” He pulls the stopper from his jar, sniffing it. “So…I just…drink it? Is there some kind of…I don’t know…”

“A wine-drinking ritual? Like you walk in a circle three times, flapping your arms—”

“…do you think we can forgo it, just this once?”

Xue Yang is the one to laugh this time, though he’s not sure if Xiao Xingchen is joking. “You just drink, from what I’ve seen.”

“From what you’ve seen?”

“I don’t drink.” He instantly regrets his words at the look on Xiao Xingchen’s face. “I mean…”

“It’s fine. I wouldn’t want to make—”

“I mean—” And suddenly he hears himself saying, “I could never afford to be…impaired in any way. For…my own safety, I mean. I was just never…look, it’s…” And then, just as suddenly, he’s uncorking his jar and taking a deep draft.

It burns unpleasantly in his throat, but it’s worth it for the smile on Xiao Xingchen’s face at the silent admission that he feels safe here.

That Chengemi does, at any rate.

“How does it taste?”

“Good, I think,”Xue Yang lies.

Xiao Xingchen sips delicately at his jar, then wrinkles his nose. “The poems made me think it would be a lot more like drinking moonbeams and lotus blossoms.”

“More poems about passing out on the lawn?” Xue Yang asks. Poetry is just as useless as he’s always imagined it to be, but it sounds nice coming from Xiao Xingchen. Melodic. Kind of like singing...

...Must be the wine, that idiotic thought.

" 'A cup of wine, under the flowering trees;

I drink alone, for no friend is near.

Raising my cup I beckon the bright moon,

For he, with my shadow, will make three men.’ ”

Xue Yang frowns slightly. “I’m sitting right here, daozhang.”

Xiao Xingchen smiles. “So you are.”

Xue Yang shakes his momentary pique away. “Four men, then. Five, counting my shadow. You know, I don’t think those poets knew what the hell they were talking about, like with anything.”

“That’s not true…well, not entirely…there are some very pretty poems about nature…”

“How about a drinking game: I say something untrue, and if you correctly guess that it’s a lie, then I have to drink.”

“Alright.” By Xiao Xingchen’s amused smile, it’s clear he doesn’t think Xue Yang can successfully lie to him.

“I’m ugly. Hideous. Ladies pull their skirts away from me in the street and I frighten children and old people.”

Xiao Xingchen laughs, misjudging the distance between them again and touching his arm by mistake. “Not going by what I’ve heard.”

Smirking, Xue Yang takes a drink. “Your turn.”

“I…I have two heads.”

Xue Yang rolls his eyes. “That the best you can do?”

“I’m not accustomed to falsehoods!”

The pretentious way he put that should have made Xue Yang roll his eyes again, but the strong wine has mellowed him. “Drink. I hate candy.”

“Drink!”

“See, it’s not fun if it’s something too obvious.”

“Fine. I want that puppy you mentioned.”

“…drink?”

Xiao Xingchen raises his jar. “No drink! I wouldn't mind a puppy."

“You seem more like a cat person.”

“I like all animals. Would you rather a cat? You seem like a cat person. Like…” Xiao Xingchen hesitates. “Takes a while to warm up, independent, but loyal once you know you can tru…” He trails off, as if sensing he’s gone too far.

Biting his lip, Xue Yang looks out over the beds of budding vegetables, silver in the starlight. He’s never imagined anyone examining him in any way other than to evaluate him as a threat. Certainly not to comment on any traits in a tone Xue Yang tells himself is definitely not one of fondness, no matter how much it sounds that way. “Well, I have always liked cats better.”

“My favorite food is congee.”

“No drink, for reasons I’ll never understand.”

“You can add anything to it, and you have a nice warm meal!”

Xue Yang shakes his head. “I killed a man today for trespassing.”

“Oh, that’s terrible, Chengmei! Drink….”

It’s late when Xiao Xingchen's wine jars are empty. He'd had another two tucked away in his long white sleeve, and grown melancholy as the night wore on.

“I did everything I could to ruin my friend’s life,” he says, raising the last of his wine to the moon.

Xue Yang glances at him sharply. He’s kept his head better than Xiao Xingchen, only pretending to drink most of the time. “You what?”

“Song Lan. Zichen. The destruction of his temple was all my fault…” Head drooping, he slides sideways, cheek resting on Xue Yang’s shoulder. “All my fault, his eyes, all me…”

Xue Yang sits very still. Xiao Xingchen is warm against him, his breath soft on his neck. Then, very delicately, he pries Xiao Xingchen’s fingers from the wine jar and sets it beside them on the step.

“That was not your fault,” he says, and feels a thrill at his own words, because of course it was Xiao Xingchen’s fault, it was all his fault, and one day Xue Yang will get to throw it all in his face—

But not tonight.

“You did more than most would,” he says instead. “You gave him your eyes.” And he took them, the fucker! he wants to add. You do-gooding moron, mutilating yourself in service of that plodding lump of self-righteousness—

“My fault, my fault…”

“For what, doing your duty?” Xue Yang’s throat is beginning to tighten. He’s not sure why Xiao Xingchen would be telling him something so personal. For all his friendly, open nature, Xiao Xingchen is guarded when it comes to anything too revealing, to the point that Xue Yang sometimes feels as if he only half knows him. “You’re not responsible for that madman’s actions.”

Xiao Xingchen moves slightly, eyelashes brushing Xue Yang’s throat. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” says Xue Yang, and then, mentally, Drink!

And suddenly Xiao Xingchen is all smiles again, straightening up. “You always know just what to say to cheer me up. You—you wouldn’t leave me like Zichen did, would you? Not even if…I…” He hiccups. “I’d…I’d miss you too much…”

“Drink,” Xue Yang says automatically.

“No drink.”

Xue Yang glances away. Xiao Xingchen chooses this moment to pitch forward, to be caught by Xue Yang moments before he sprawls forward onto the stairs.

“I might be a little tipsy,” he mumbles into the hollow of Xue Yang’s throat.

Xue Yang tightens his grip. It feels…it feels wrong to be holding a person that isn’t a corpse.

A warm, living person, who seems to want to be in his arms.

Not hate being there, at least.

Or so he thinks. Xue Yang has never embraced another person before and isn’t quite sure how people are supposed to behave. Surely Xiao Xingchen would have pushed him away if he found his touch detestable—?

“You really can’t hold your liquor, can you,” he says before he can think into it too much. Gently, he scoops up Xiao Xingchen and half-carries him into the house. He weighs almost nothing, and Xue Yang thinks, I should get him to eat more, then chases the ridiculous thought away and bleaches the spot it had rested.

Xiao Xingchen grips the front of his robe as Xue Yang lays him down on the Coffin House's single bed. “Stay with me. Talk to me.”

Xue Yang hesitates, glancing over at his coffin in the corner of the room. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Xiao Xingchen almost pouts. Drunk daozhang is a petulant daozhang, it seems. “Just for a little while.”

The feeling of wrongness increases as Xue Yang crawls into bed beside Xiao Xingchen, keeping on top of the covers.

It shouldn’t be like this.

It’s not as if he hasn’t pictured sharing a bed with the daozhang. Who wouldn’t, if they had only a claustrophobic coffin to sleep in? But he’s never imagined an inebriated Xiao Xingchen curling into him, picking up his good hand, playing with it. Tracing the scars, running his fingertip between his fingers, brushing the palm with his thumb.

Soft, harmless touch that makes Xue Yang freeze, every nerve in his body screaming at him to snatch up Jiangzai.

“You have nice hands,” says Xiao Xingchen, voice thick with alcohol, almost giddy, and Xue Yang, focusing on the familiar voice, feels himself relaxing.

He’s safe, here. Safe with the daozhang.

The daozhang would never hurt Chengmei. And Xue Yang is Chengmei, for now.

The daozhang cares about Chengmei.

And in turn—

And in turn, the daozhang belongs to him.

Xiao Xingchen, the man who despises Xue Yang more than anyone else, now owes him more than he can ever repay in a single lifetime. He has saved Xiao Xingchen’s life a dozen times over without him having so much as suspected his life was ever in danger.

True, Chengmei could have killed the unsuspecting daozhang hundreds of times over the past year.

But this is different somehow.

Better.

Xue Yang is the guardian of the man he hates most in this world. Has held his life in the palm of his hand and chosen not only to let him live, but to actively destroy his enemies.

A delicious perversion of what he knows will come on the day he tears off his mask and reveals everything to Xiao Xingchen.

Finally takes his life, after preserving it for so long.

Xiao Xingchen rolls over, soft black hair in Xue Yang’s face, still holding Xue Yang’s hand in his.

Xue Yang wonders what Xiao Xingchen will say in the morning. If he’ll be embarrassed or realize that this was all simply the wine. If Xue Yang should pretend to have been too drunk to remember, or if he should say something, maybe crawl under the covers tomorrow night before Xiao Xingchen gets into bed, see what happens…

The bed is far more comfortable than the coffin, after all.

Will be warmer in winter, too…

He winces at the thought. He should go back to his coffin, stop whatever this is.

"You don't really want me here," he says.

“Drink,” Xiao Xingchen mumbles, and drops off into slumber.

Xue Yang takes a deep breath. He wants to free his hand but is afraid of waking the daozhang. As if sensing this even in sleep, Xiao Xingchen tightens his grip on his hand.

Xue Yang stares up at the ceiling, mind settling, the last of his tension fading.

He thinks he’ll go into town tomorrow and buy some flower seeds.

_______________________

thanks for reading! Spare a reblog? AO3

[tothemeadow]

Commissioned by @tanjhero​

Rengoku Kyojuro x Reader

- Being the Flame Pillar’s tsugoku is no easy task; saving his brother, however, proves to be something else entirely. - 

warnings: mentions of blood, angst

words: 2.5k

-

Burning hearts, brilliant eyes, wishes that never come true. There’s almost something beautiful in sorrow, the slight glimpse of light in the vast darkness. To be a demon slayer, one must bury their heart. They have to hide it under lock and key, learn how to forget what crying feels like. You’ve always carried this ideology close to your heart ever since you started your training as a young adolescent.

Six years have then since passed, and the Final Selection is well behind you. Ragged scars cover your arms, chest, and back, all trophies from your brutal battles with blood-hungry beasts. Demons, to be precise; you see ragged, glinting teeth in the night, in the hours of the day when you’re finally allowed to dream. Whatever the reason, whatever the cause, these teeth seek to ravage you, to sink into your skin and rip your throat out.

The world is dark. You’ve long since grown cold, refusing to properly feel anything. To be emotional is to be distracted; if you wanted to survive, for others to survive, you cannot afford to deal with such interruptions. This is the very reason why your mentor – the gracious Flame Pillar himself, Rengoku Kyojuro – always struck you as odd. Like the sun itself, he’s full of light and eternal brightness.

You’ve never been more jealous of someone in your life.

You train by his side, let him whip you into proper shape. Being a tsugoku is no easy task; both mentally and physically draining, you’re often left scrambling for any sensation left in your numb fingertips. Although your body suffers from the constant thrum of pain, you are strong. You don’t take your strength lightly, and neither does your mentor.

As time and his persistent nature eat away at your skeptical brain cells, he’s more or less become a friend. Much to your initial displeasure, you allowed him to root himself to you. However, as you grew stronger, wiser, your heart did so as well. Kyojuro, this dear man, has cracked open the safe of your heart. With each rising sun, you envision him, his dazzling smile, his abnormal irises. It’s the first time in your life you’ve been blessed.

The days grow into something long and dark whenever you train with him. He doesn’t give up, refuses to let you to wipe away the sweat at your brow, keeps going and going until you’re a trembling mess at his feet. He’s to make a slayer of you yet.

Some days, you consider yourself lucky. Kyojuro is a soft man despite the hard cording of muscle covering his skeleton. Sometimes, his gaze melts into something akin to honey, dangerously sweet and tempting. He’ll call training off early, opting to massage your weakened muscles and guide you through breathing exercises. You don’t take these treatments lightly; after all, Kyojuro is a Pillar, a highly respected one at that. To have a pathetically weak tsugoku will only bring shame onto his namesake.

And, if he’s really in a giving mood, he’ll insist you spend the night at his residence.

Already well fed and bathed, you dismiss Kyojuro with a tight-lipped smile and a prayer for his safe return. He explained that he and his father were to travel into town and seek out the beloved liquor his father adores so much. Although his face is stoic, you can see the pain and disappointment in the depths of his eyes. Like himself, Rengoku Shinjuro is a man deserving respect – or at least used to be. Since the passing of his wife, he’s been drowning his sorrows (amongst all other emotion humanly possible) until he sees the bottom of the bottle.

You find solace in your room, wet hair unceremoniously thrown over your shoulder. Like your father and grandfather, you wear your hair long; the one true tradition that’s been passed down your bloodline for generations. Even as shorter hairstyles become widely accepted, your clan refused to do so, following the old rule of cutting hair once one was shunned. You lose yourself in thought, mindlessly combing through hair with a comb made out of bone.

It isn’t the first time you’ve stayed in the Rengoku household, but you always find yourself drawing hesitant. Kyojuro’s own room sits right down the hallway, a silent temptation that you never give into. To do so would be disrespectful to your kind mentor, even downright inappropriate. Mentor and tsugoku was a strictly former relation – nothing more. You’d be damned if you stepped out of line.

A slight knock at the door stirs your curiosity. Kyojuro and Shinjuro have yet to return from their shopping trip despite the sky being cloaked in an ominous purple. Instead, you’re greeted by Senjuro, Kyojuro’s younger brother. Like the other two – and the rest of the males in his bloodline – he sports the fire crackle hair, the robust eyes. The entire Rengoku clan has been blessed by the sun, by fire, since the beginning of time. You’re not good friends with Senjuro, by you’re way past the line of casual acquaintances.

You glance to the cheesecloth in his hands, your eyebrow raising itself in a silent question. Senjuro sends you a cheeky smile, though the edges are tinged with nervousness. It startles you just how much he resembles Kyojuro. As you beckon him to enter, you set your comb down and tell him to join you on the futon.

“Aniki and father aren’t back yet,” Senjuro tells you as he sits down. “And I figured… Well, maybe… If it was okay for us to hang out?”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. Senjuro’s always been like this, awkward yet exceptionally kind. As he unwraps the cheesecloth, you’re greeted by the sight of plump grapes and rice crackers.

“I know we already had dinner, but sometimes Aniki and I sit around with some snacks and talk about everything.” Senjuro’s smile grows at the mention of his brother; you find it extremely endearing. “And you’re always nice to me, so I thought that we could…” His sentence trails off into nothing and he worries his bottom lip.

You promptly pick a grape from the bunch and pop it into your mouth. Its sweet flavor erupts on your tongue and you hum in appreciation. “Thank you for the treat.”

The nervousness in Senjuro’s smile melts away. “I watched you and Aniki train earlier. You’re incredible,” he gushes. “It’s no wonder why you’re Aniki’s tsugoku!”

You wave off his compliment with a dismissive hand. “First you bring me food, then you flatter me; is there an ulterior motive to this?” you tease.

With a slight giggle, Senjuro shoves at your shoulder. “I just wanted to be in your company, that’s all.”

You find the gesture to be incredibly sweet. As you ponder on his words, you realize that Kyojuro must be busy all the time, attending to his work as a Pillar, and Shinjoru spends almost every waking moment getting drunk. “Look at you, being the charmer,” you throw his way. “You definitely take after your brother.”

Senjuro visibly perks up at your words. “Really? You think so?”

You chuckle at his excited response. “Yes, really. I think you’re going to grow up into a wonderful man, Senjuro-kun.”

His cheeks warm up at your praise. “I can see why Aniki likes you so much.”

The cracker you hold stops centimeters away from your mouth. You instinctively lower your hand. “What do you mean?”

Senjuro cocks his head to the side. “Oh, you mean you don’t know? Aniki’s had a crush on you for months.”

The cracker falls into your lap. “He what?”

Something snaps outside the screen door. The hairs on the back of your neck come to a sudden rise; the sharp smell of blood fills the air and your mind kicks into autopilot. Shoving Senjuro away, you quickly grab onto your blade as the door is ripped from its hinges, the sight of bright yellow eyes shining through the dark.

A demon.

“Shit,” you curse, shooting to a stand, drawing your blade from its sheath, and holding it out before you in a defensive stance.

The demon stalks into the room; its body is nothing short of massive, all flexing muscle the color of moss. His head easily brushes the ceiling as he draws himself to his full height, inky, greasy hair falling in his grotesque face. His nostrils twitch as though they’re following a scent. “Where is he?” he growls, his voice rumbling from deep within his chest. “Where is the Flame Pillar?”

Your grip on your blade tightens. While it’s fortunate that Kyojuro isn’t home, that means you’ll have to take out the demon and protect Senjuro at the same time. Maybe, just maybe, you can convince the creature to turn around and leave.

“My apologies,” you say, your voice brisk. “The one you seek isn’t here.”

The demon’s yellow eyes stare down at the blade in your hands. His lips pull back in a snarl, his razor-sharp fangs shining in the light. You sharply inhale at the sight, a slight spark of panic traveling down your spine. “Pathetic little slayer,” he hisses, “thinking you can stop me? I’ll rip your head off and drink straight from your neck.”

You shift your weight on your feet. “Senjuro, get out of here. Now.”

Behind you, Senjuro scrambles to his feet. You can hear him gulp, but you ignore the urge to turn around and see if he’s okay. “B-but what about…”

“Get your brother. I’ll take care of it, okay?”

With another drawn out growl, the demon lowers itself, ready to pounce.

“Run!”

A large flash of green fills your vision and you hastily swing your sword. The battle you engage in is fierce, intense, too quick to be seen by the naked eye. Your body twirls and evades the monstrous demon’s attacks, bouncing off the walls and slithering between his legs.

You don’t necessarily realize it as you move the fight outside, the night’s breeze carrying your hair and whipping it into your face. Biting back a curse, you jump backwards just in time for a clawed hand to slash at the space where you previously stood.

“I will kill you!” the demon roars.

“Breath of Ashes: Shimmering Coal!” you cry out. In a great, fantastic arc, your blade grows to an unbearably hot temperature as you slice through the demon’s chest.

He screams in agony at the searing pain, reeling back and clutching at his chest. His eyes scream murder as he charges you; this time, though, you aren’t so lucky. Your back makes a sickening snap noise as you’re thrown into a nearby tree. Struggling for breath, you quickly get back up, charging at the demon again.

Time is lost. A faint hint at a new moon fills the sky; the only light comes from the inside of your room, leaving you in almost complete darkness. Your movements are bold, swift, straight to the point; you slash and strike at the demon, landing devastating blows, but his neck is too thick. You curse and howl in pain as claws rip at your sides, your arms, your face; blood openly flows down your face and the rest of your body, soaking the material of your torn yukata.

You groan from your spot on the ground; the coppery taste of blood coats your tongue, the back of your throat. Struggling to sit up, your fingers claw into the grass and dirt as you fight off the wave of nausea. It can’t end like this – you can’t end like this. You refuse to give up, to die. Even if this demon spills your guts, you’ll slice off his head and take him to hell with you.

Black fills the outer rims of your vision. There’s a harsh ringing in your ears, ready to steal your hearing away from you. Death is creeping up onto your doorstep, waiting, just waiting for you to answer.

There’s a cry of your name and a swirl of flames. Kyojuro comes seemingly out of nowhere; a war cry spills from his lips as he swings his blade and brings it down on the demon’s neck. Although he’s incredibly fast, your trained eyes follow his every move. The muscles in his back flex as he slices the demon’s head clean off. The demon releases an animalistic sound, spittle flying from his mouth as his head lands nearby.

“Fuck you, Flame Pillar! I’ll see you in hell!” he screeches before his head turns into dust.

A ragged breath punches its way out of your lungs as you slump back onto the ground. Kyojuro rushes to your side, worry etched into his features. You see his mouth move, but you can barely hear the words tumbling out. He gingerly slides his arms under you and picks you up, holding you close to his chest. The rest of the world passes by in a blur as he carries you back inside, instead of stopping in your room, however, he continues all the way to his room.

“Can you hear me?” his voice filters into your mind. You nod your head and groan as he places you onto his bed. “Gods, (y/n),” he breathes, pushing the damp strands out of your face. He gulps at the sheer amount of blood coating your face. “Hang on,” he tells you.

Rising from the bed, he fetches an abundance of medical supplies and gets to work at cleaning you up. Both his eyes and movements are gentle as he wipes away the blood, revealing your exhausted face. As he removes your yukata, he averts his gaze and hastily covers your privates up before working at your exposed arms and stomach.

“To do what you did,” he starts, his voice hoarse. He sounds suspiciously close to crying. “You saved him. You saved Senjuro.” His voice shakes as his hands begin to tremble. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Flicking your eyes to him, you notice how he’s biting hard onto his lip, desperate to keep the tears at bay. You’ve never seen such a pained look on his face a day in your life. His eyes shift between the two of yours, tears welling up and clouding the surface. Your heart jumps to your throat.

“You saved my baby brother,” he spews. Tears rush down his handsome face. “You risked your life to save him. It’s just… I…” He frantically rubs at his eyes with a sleeve. “I didn’t want to lose you, too.” Despite his tears, Kyojuro manages a tiny smile. “I can’t imagine what I’d do if you died,” he confesses.

“Kyojuro-san…?” you croak.

Taking your hands in his, he swiftly brings them to his lips and presses kisses to your knuckles. “I was so scared.” He frantically shakes his head. “I couldn’t live with myself if you died.” His voice cracks at the end of his sentence. “You see… I- I love you, (y/n).”

Your breath stills in your throat. He… He loves you? Rengoku Kyojuro, a man blessed by the gods themselves, loves you.

Leaning down, he gently presses his forehead to yours. “I love you with my very being,” he mutters. “And to know that you’ve saved Senjuro… It makes me love you even more.”

Before you have time to register it, your hands link around his neck. This man was the one to melt the ice surrounding your heart; he was the one to make you feel again. You smile weakly at him. “Kyojuro-san… I… I love you, too.”

[silhouetteofacedar]

Fox Mulder, Closet Romantic Ch. 15: Silk and Salt

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated E

A real date.

Mulder hasn’t been on a blatant, show-up-with-roses, ‘I’m into you and would like to get laid maybe’ date in a good five years. Possibly longer; he really doesn’t remember at this point. His life before Scully seems strangely two-dimensional in memory these days.

Part of him thinks that fancy dinners or elegant nights out don’t really seem like their style, but he figures they can decide together after the fact. They have to try it at least once, right? God knows she deserves it.

They’re busy with Mulder’s Gettysburg ghost case for the next few days (he was right, which Scully would not accept), but by Wednesday things have settled down, and he’s able to plan.

“Saturday, May sixteenth, at five,” he announces without preamble on Thursday morning. “I’ll pick you up. And don’t be alarmed, but I’ll be wearing a tuxedo.”

“Okay,” she says, surprised. “I take it this is the date I requested?”

“Yes it is,” he replies. “But that’s all I’m going to reveal. The details are a surprise, and if I recall correctly, somebody wanted to keep personal discussions outside of working hours, so by that metric I’ve already said too much.”

Scully presses her lips together, nodding. “Say no more,” she says. “Now where’s your report?”

He’s not nervous. He’s a grown man; a federal agent, for fuck’s sake. This is nothing compared to some of the tense situations he’s been in throughout his career. Knocking on his partner’s door with a bouquet of red roses under his arm doesn’t even make the list.

Regardless… he’s a little nervous.

Scully opens the door in a flurry of dark blue silk and delicate perfume. “Wow, hi,” she breathes, stepping back and opening the door wider. “Nice tux.”

“Thanks,” he says faintly, drinking in the sight of her.

She’s wearing a silky floor length slip dress with teeny little straps, and he has the fleeting image of snapping them with his teeth, leaving bite marks on her smooth shoulders. She sees him staring and smiles.

“Navy blue; exciting, isn’t it,” she says, gesturing sheepishly to the dress. “I can only handle one fashion adventure at a time.”

His eyes travel her body, appreciating the way the fabric skims her hips. “You look incredible, Scully,” he says, voice oddly hoarse. He clears his throat. “These are for you,” he adds unnecessarily, holding out the bouquet.

“Thank you,” she says, taking the roses. “These are gorgeous, Mulder. Let me put them in water.” She steps into the kitchen and sets the bouquet on the counter. “You know, the last time somebody gave me flowers, I was dying of cancer,” she says conversationally, bending to retrieve a vase from the cupboard under the sink. “Needless to say, this is a preferable occasion.”

“Mark didn’t…?”

“No,” Scully replies, filling the vase under the tap. “I think flowers happen less in real life than they do in movies, at least in my experience. I can count on one hand the number of times a date brought me a bouquet.”

“Nobody’s ever gotten me flowers, so I think I have you beat,” Mulder says.

“I’ll get you some sometime,” Scully says, and it doesn’t seem like she’s joking. She unwraps the stems and places them in the vase. “I’ll give them food and a fresh cut later,” she says, and Mulder nods as though he understands flower care. So water’s not enough…?

“So where are we going?” Scully asks, taking her wrap off the back of the couch and draping it over her shoulders. “I’m assuming - actually, hoping - there’s food involved.”

“I would never neglect to feed a lady,” Mulder assures her. “We have reservations somewhere, but that’s after this.” He withdraws an envelope from his jacket and hands it to her.

Scully peeks into the envelope and pulls out two tickets, scanning the tiny print. “The Kennedy Center?” she says in surprise.

He nods. “The National Symphony Orchestra is playing a selection of Vaughan Williams,” he replies. “Thought you might like it.”

“Mulder, this is amazing,” she says. “I haven’t heard live music in ages. It’s one of those things that’s hard to prioritize.” She slips the tickets back into the envelope and hands it back to him. “So, are you ready to go?” she asks, picking up her little evening bag, gathering the long chain in one hand. She loops the other around his elbow.

He tucks the tickets back into his jacket pocket. “Let’s go paint the town.”

In Mulder’s estimation, one of the best things about going to the symphony is that there’s not much to watch aside from the waving arms of the conductor. Therefore he feels free to close his eyes, absorb the music, daydream a little without risking missing anything important.

The most important thing, after all, is sitting right next to him.

He glances at Scully often, taking in her beautiful face, the rapturous look in her eyes, the elegant curve of her nose, her tender mouth. He loves the way she wore her hair tonight; it’s shiny and wavy, pulled back on one side with a little comb. He fantasizes about slipping the comb out of her hair, sifting his fingers through crimson strands as he draws her in for a kiss. Feeling tendrils brush his face as his lips travel to her earlobe, her neck…

She’s looking at him now, an eyebrow arched. He shrugs, heat in his cheeks as he faces forward again.

He feels something brushing his finger and glances down to see her small, manicured hand creep on top of his, their little fingers intertwining.

The music soars, and he floats away with it.

“That was wonderful,” she says as they walk out of the theatre. “The last piece especially, The Lark Ascending,” she notes, glancing at the program. “It was magical. I’m so glad we did this.”

“Not bad for our first real date?” Mulder asks, hand on the small of her back. He secretly relishes the slip the fabric beneath his palm.

“Not bad at all,” she replies, smiling up at him. God, what did he ever do to deserve that smile? He’s grossly inadequate.

Mulder glances at his watch when they reach his car. “I expected the concert to be longer,” he admits, wincing. “Our reservation isn’t until eight, at that French place on northwest M Street.”

At that exact moment, Mulder hears Scully’s stomach growl.

She looks up at him apologetically. “You can ignore that, can’t you?”

“How hungry are you, Scully?” he asks, leaning against the car. She grabs his elbow and pulls him forward. “Mulder, you’re going to get dusty,” she warns. “And I’ll admit I haven’t eaten much today… I’ll admit I was a little nervous.”

“You were nervous? Why?” he asks, concerned.

“Well, nervous and excited. Because this… this is new. It’s a good thing,” she explains, “But it’s going to take some time to get used to.”

He nods. “Adjusting.”

“Exactly.”

Her stomach lets out another rumble.

“Scully, we should eat now. We can save the restaurant for another time,” he says. “I can’t have you passing out on me; you’re the doctor in this partnership. What’re you in the mood for?”

She licks her lips. “Don’t laugh,” she warns. “Actually, let’s just start walking,” she says, looping an arm with his. “There’s a spot not far from here that I really like. It’ll be a surprise.”

This is incredible.

Mulder wasn’t aware that it was possible to fall this hard for a person, but Scully never ceases to amaze him. Of all the places she could have picked, she chose an ancient, cramped little fish and chips shop down by the Potomac. So here they are, dressed to the nines at a tiny table with two heaping baskets of fish and chips between them. Their ten minute walk had made them both a little warm; his jacket is off, shirt sleeves rolled up, bow-tie undone and hanging loosely around his neck. Scully’s shawl is draped over the back of her chair, her arms enticingly bare as she cuts tender sections off of a slab of crispy battered cod.

“People are staring at us,” she says in a low tone, dipping a bite of fish into the saggy paper cup of tartar sauce. “You think maybe we’re overdressed?”

He grins at her. “Might be. They’re all looking at you,” he insists. “A gorgeous redhead in a silk gown, chowing down on greasy seafood? It’s like spotting Halley’s Comet,”

She locks eyes with him as she chews, a smile quirking her lips. “You think I’m gorgeous?” she teases.

“Of course,” he replies easily, pouring ketchup over his chips. “And brilliant, and compassionate, and adorable, and-”

“Stop,” she implores, holding up a hand. “I can only handle one compliment at a time.”

“Then we gotta increase your stamina, Scully, because I could easily go on.”

“Oh could you?” she says, raising a brow. “I’d like to see that sometime.”

“I’m ready when you are,” he replies.

“Mm,” she hums, busying herself with her fork. “I’ll keep you posted.”

He leans forward, knees bumping hers beneath the postage stamp-sized table. “Can I confess something?”

“Sure,” she replies, popping a chip into her mouth and brushing salt off her fingertips.

“I can’t stop thinking about kissing you again. I would have earlier but your lipstick looked really nice and I didn’t want to smudge it.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Wow,” she says softly. She drops her hand to the table, runs a fingertip over his knuckles. “Well, when we get out of here…” she trails off suggestively.

He hopes she doesn’t notice him start to chew faster.

[robininthelabyrinth]

My fav MDZS stories are ones where Mo Xuanyu lives and WWX takes him under his wing when the Sacrifice Summons goes slightly wrong. I would love to see your version of this au bc your writing is very very good and I've fallen in love. However you want to character MXY is fine, but I know you'll make him compelling.

also on ao3 because long

“It’s not wrong if you write it down,” Mo Xuanyu muttered to himself like a mantra as he scribbled down a rough explanation of what he was going to do. “If you write it down, it’s just an experiment, and that makes it okay.”

That’s what they used to say back at Koi Tower. Not all of them, no – most people didn’t talk to him, stupid shy useless stuttering bastard that he was.

But Jin Guangyao had smiled at him, smiled the way he smiled at everyone no matter how lowly, and Mo Xuanyu, flattered at the unfamiliar feeling of positive familial attention, had tentatively smiled back. That had been a mistake, of course, but he hadn’t realized it at the time – he was still young, then.

He hadn’t been crazy, then.

(Had he? He didn’t remember. The screaming nightmares weren’t until later, after he’d swallowed down that medicine that Jin Guangyao gave to him, that he’d forced down his throat with Xue Yang holding his shoulders down – they’d been regretful about it, he remembered that. That’d been nice. No one’d ever been sorry about what they’d done to him before. Or after, for that matter.)

That came later, though. Towards the end. The experiments – that was earlier, wasn’t it?

Yes. Back when Jin Guangyao still thought he might be useful, and he let him follow him around; back before Xue Yang had disappeared – wait, if Xue Yang had disappeared, who’d held him down? – back when he still called him Xue-gege because Xue Yang thought it was funny, and if he did that he could sit around in a place where no one would find him and watch while Xue Yang did…stuff.

Usually bad stuff.

Still, it was better than being anywhere else in Koi Tower. With Madame Jin, who hated him and threw things at him, just like Auntie Mo did, and his father who wanted him to talk about girls (Mo Xuanyu didn’t know anything about girls), and all the people who giggled at him and talked about him behind their sleeves as if he couldn’t still hear them.

If you write it down, it’s just an experiment, Jin Guangyao told him, smiling, because he always smiled. That’s why what Xue Yang does is okay.

Xue Yang taught him the basics of drawing arrays, how to hold the brush in your hand and push spiritual energy into it. Mo Xuanyu didn’t have very much, so it made him very tired and then he dropped the brush; that made Xue Yang laugh at him, push him down until his face was on the ground so he could get a better look at what he was drawing, and then he got bored and pulled him back up to try again.

It was still better than being taught by the Jin sect cultivators who sneered at him and ordered him to get hit with boards any time he made a mistake, and Mo Xuanyu made a lot of mistakes.

Mo Xuanyu didn’t like to talk to people much, wasn’t very good at it. Wasn’t much good for anything, really.

Except this, he supposed. This was something he could do.

Xue Yang taught him the basics of drawing arrays, but it was only ever the basics – as soon as he figured out how to do it, Jin Guangyao took over the teaching, and he only ever wanted Mo Xuanyu to learn one array in specific.

It didn’t have a name. It was an ancient, forbidden technique; those didn’t get names. Jin Guangyao’d found it in a book, hidden on an abandoned old mountain – a place where lots of people died in a battle a long time ago, and then again not so long ago – and he’d thought it was just right for Mo Xuanyu.

The array required blood, blood of the caster, incisions all over – painful ones – and the point of it was to offer up your body to some extremely villainous ghoul so that it could take revenge for you.

“But I don’t want revenge,” he’d told Jin Guangyao, plaintive and naïve. “And I don’t know any villainous ghouls.”

“You don’t have to ask for revenge,” Jin Guangyao had told him, patient. He was always patient when he wanted something. “You can ask for something else, if you want. Revenge is just the usual reason.”

“Not many things besides revenge are worth sacrificing your soul for,” Xue Yang had opined, and Jin Guangyao had glared at him like he’d said something stupid. “What? It’s true.”

“We’ll discuss the Chang clan later, Chengmei. I was talking to Xuanyu.”

Mo Xuanyu had been poking at the manuscripts, feeling doubtful, and Xue Yang’d huffed and grabbed them. “Don’t touch the papers! Wei Wuxian didn’t leave much behind; I’m not losing the bit we got.”

“Wei Wuxian,” Mo Xuanyu had said, feeling the weight of it on his tongue. He didn’t know much, but even he’d heard about the Yiling Patriarch. “Is he the villainous ghoul you want me to summon?”

“No,” Xue Yang’d giggled. “He wants you to bring back Nie Mingjue.”

Mo Xuanyu hadn’t known that name – he really didn’t know anything – but the weeks that Jin Guangyao thought that he could one day become him were probably the best in his life. He’d never been petted or coaxed before, never been treated so well; he ate nice food every day, wore nice clothing, slept as late as he liked, took lots of baths…Jin Guangyao wanted his body to be in good condition before he did the ritual. He gave him lotions to make his skin feel soft, used medicine to nourish his organs, spent hours and hours teaching him to braid his hair the way the Nies did, all complicated and pretty yet practical.

(“He’ll hate it so much,” Jin Guangyao whispered in his ear on the nights he let Mo Xuanyu share his pillow. “Soft and decadent and weak – you’ve got the weakest golden core I’ve ever seen, Xuanyu, weaker even than me, and you’re too useless to even have any ambition to make it stronger. I could push you down with one hand, overpower you, make you crawl…no one will ever be scared of you. Let’s see how much you like being the weak one, da-ge.”)

It’d only been when the ritual failed – not just once, but many times, no matter how many cuts Mo Xuanyu made on his arms or how well he painted the array – that Jin Guangyao had given up on Mo Xuanyu.

They hadn’t been able to figure out why it wasn’t working, back then, but now Mo Xuanyu thought that maybe he just hadn’t wanted it enough back then. He’d wanted to make Jin Guangyao happy, yes, and he hadn’t really cared what it cost to do it – Jin Guangyao’s arguments that he was useless and pointless, his life worthless, and so he might as well do something useful with his death were pretty convincing – but he hadn’t wanted it.

He wanted it now, though.

Something worth sacrificing your soul – it really could only be revenge, couldn’t it? Xue-gege knew what he was talking about. Revenge was something you needed, something that ate away at your soul until sacrificing it was the only thing left to be done with it, and that, that, was what was going to make the ritual work this time.

Mo Xuanyu was going to get revenge. Revenge on Auntie Mo, on Master Mo, on Mo Ziyuan, on A-Tong…they deserved it. He hated them. He hated what they did to him and how often they did it, he hated that this was his life and that nothing would ever get better, he hated hated hated…!

(“You don’t have to do this,” the young sect leader surnamed Nie had told him when they’d had tea for the last time. He’d bought Mo Xuanyu the cosmetics he liked – he’d offered to buy him something nicer, but Mo Xuanyu had his preferences; the expensive stuff didn’t feel heavy and greasy on his face, didn’t make him feel like he’d painted himself into being somebody else, someone braver. “Just so you know.”

“I know,” Mo Xuanyu’d said. Sect Leader Nie had come to ask him for any information he had about Jin Guangyao. He didn’t say why, but – Nie, Mo Xuanyu’d thought to himself, Nie like Nie Mingjue – he hadn’t been at all expecting to hear the story Mo Xuanyu’d had to tell him. He hadn’t been the one to suggest the ritual, that’d been Mo Xuanyu – he hated, hated, hated – but Mo Xuanyu never did learn the name of any of those extremely villainous ghouls so he’d asked him for a suggestion.

He’d suggested Wei Wuxian, and that’d made Mo Xuanyu giggle to the point of hysterics. Don’t touch the papers, Wei Wuxian didn’t leave much behind – oh, Xue-gege, you’d think this was so funny!)

“Gotta write it down,” he said to himself as he made the cuts and drew the array: it was already starting to glow in a way it hadn’t any of the other times he’d done it, and it wasn’t that he’d gotten any stronger. “Writing it down makes it okay…”

He went to get some paper, and that’s when the cat came in. A big old fisher cat, vicious and mean.

And, well, Jin Guangyao and Xue Yang were always talking about how you’re supposed to try stuff out before you do the real thing – practice makes perfect, that’s what they always said, until the day Jin Guangyao got tired of Xue Yang’s practice and made him disappear, and after that it wasn’t all that long until the day that he got tired of Mo Xuanyu, too, and made the sect kick him out.

(They said he was a cutsleeve, which was true, and they said he’d attacked Jin Guangyao, which was laughable – wasn’t Jin Guangyao the one who was always commenting on how weak Mo Xuanyu was? But that was after he drank the medicine that came with the nightmares and the weird spasms and the rest of it, and it wasn’t as if anyone in Koi Tower had ever listened to anything he said even before that.)

He wasn’t actually going to do anything bad to the cat. He just wanted to use it to make sure he got the markings all done right; it wasn’t as if the array would actually work, not without him in the middle – this array ran on resentment, on revenge, and how much resentment could a cat have?

Apparently Mo Xuanyu’d underestimated cats, or possibly his array-drawing skills, or maybe even it was only that he’d poured so much hatred into the array that when he put the cat down in the middle to see if the positioning was right the whole thing exploded right in Mo Xuanyu’s face.

He woke up to Mo Ziyuan kicking him and yelling about how dare he report him to his parents (he hadn’t reported anything, just asked for his stuff back, he hadn’t even meant to do that because he knew it was pointless but they’d asked what he was thinking about and it had just slipped out) while A-Tong broke all his stuff, but that was pretty normal so he didn’t think too much about it.

The cat leaping for Mo Ziyuan’s face, howling something that sounded an awful lot like the words fuck you except sort of halfway into being a cat’s meow, was new.

Kind of funny, too.

Mo Xuanyu giggled and lay back down on the floor while Mo Ziyuan ran out, crying for his mother, with A-Tong right on his heels as always.

The cat made its way back over to him and jumped up on his chest, looking down at him. It was a pretty handsome cat, now that Mo Xuanyu was looking at it: long and black, with white on its chest and like little socks on its forepaws, a noble appearance that had been concealed by the messy state of its fur.

“I’m sorry I accidentally nearly sacrificed you to a villainous ghoul,” Mo Xuanyu said to it.

“Who told you that I’m a villainous ghoul?” the cat said back. “You couldn’t find another wandering ghost as harmless as me!”

Mo Xuanyu was crazy, yes, but it wasn’t – it wasn’t that type of crazy. He had fits that sent him down to the floor, limbs thrashing crazily; he had days in which he wanted to do nothing but die; screaming nightmares at night and sometimes during the day, hearing and seeing things that weren’t there…

This was still new.

“Did you just talk?” he checked.

“You bet I talked,” the cat said. “Now tell me, how in the world did you manage to offer up the body of a cat? That’s not how that ritual’s supposed to work!”

“It was supposed to be my body, Master Cat,” Mo Xuanyu explained. “But they said that you should always try something out first –”

“First off, you shouldn’t be sacrificing yourself either,” the cat said. “That’s your soul you’re talking about – the ritual just says the soul goes back to the earth, but what if it destroys it entirely? You could’ve been doomed never to reincarnate!”

“That sounds restful,” Mo Xuanyu said wistfully.

“…you have serious issues. You know that, right?”

“Yes, Master Cat.”

“Stop calling me ‘Master Cat’. You know my name, you can use it.”

Mo Xuanyu blinked, long and slow. “But I don’t know your name? You were just the stray that lived out back behind the grocer…”

“I’m Wei Wuxian! You summoned me here and offered me a body!”

Mo Xuanyu hadn’t realized it’d worked. “Does that mean you won’t help me get revenge?” he asked, disappointed.

“I don’t exactly have much of a choice, do I?” The cat – Wei Wuxian – huffed. “That stupid ritual…how many cuts do you have?”

“Four,” Mo Xuanyu said automatically, except when he checked they were about half-there, half-gone, and after a little bit of investigating it looked like the other half of them were echoed in appropriately parallel locations on Wei Wuxian’s fuzzy feline body. “Oops.”

“Oops, he says,” Wei Wuxian said, but he already sounded cheerful again. “Seems like you bound our souls together when you brought me back – probably because there were too many souls in the center of the array, once you added in the cat. Anyway, don’t count me out – two legs or four, I can still help you get revenge. Who on, by the way?”

Mo Xuanyu tried to explain. He wasn’t very good at it, tongue tripping over his words as he tried to put into words why he hated them so much that the idea of killing them had possessed him in every one of his three souls and seven spirits, and it all sounded really stupid when he said it so he went off on a tangent and explained how his father had wanted to use him but he was too useless for that, and his half-brother wanted to kill him but he was too useless for that, and his family just wanted him to die, but –

“Too useless for that,” Wei Wuxian said, and his ears were pinned back against his head with his hackles raised and fur all puffed up all over. “Yeah, I got the gist. Okay. I’m sold. Let’s kill ‘em.”

“Really?”

“…I’m actually pretty bad at cold-blooded murder, even if the people you want me to kill do sound like scum. Hmm. Maybe we could just cause them a lot of trouble? A lot of trouble?”

“That seems like a bad idea,” Mo Xuanyu said doubtfully.

It was, if only because Mo Xuanyu was about as terrible at causing a disaster as he was at anything else.

Wei Wuxian ran off into the main greeting hall and started knocking things around, bellowing unconvincing meows as if he’d never met a cat in his life, and Mo Xuanyu wanted to die of embarrassment, stuttering apologies at the visiting Lan sect disciples that looked about as awkward about the whole thing as he was.

(They’d tried to get him to deal with the fierce corpses first, sending him out to the hills and yelling at him to do something, but he’d never been invited to night-hunts back at the Jin sect so he just stood around uselessly until they’d given up and invited some real cultivators.)

Auntie Mo was furious – even more so when Mo Ziyuan showed up and started trying to hit Mo Xuanyu for being a liar, except he wasn’t lying (Wei Wuxian had shouted something about theft and robbery, about cutting off someone’s hand if they stole from him again, and everyone thought it was Mo Xuanyu doing the yelling and then he’d had to explain, hadn’t he?) and eventually the entire thing got to be so stressful that it brought on one of his fits.

He woke up not long afterward, with his head in a Lan sect disciple’s lap – he was transferring spiritual energy, which was nice of him but unnecessary – and Wei Wuxian on his chest, frantically licking his cheek and trying to whisper questions of “Are you okay? Mo Xuanyu? Can you hear me?” into his ear.

“I’m okay,” he said, blinking away the daze. There were broken teacups and wine jars tossed all around – it must have been one of the screaming fits, where he threw himself down on the floor and tossed and turned and screamed and sometimes frothed at the mouth. He broke a lot of things during those fits, almost always his own. “Sorry for disturbing you.”

“I told you he was a lunatic,” Auntie Mo said, her voice shrill as always. “Always breaking our things, and then he still complains when A-Yuan borrows a little, as if he wouldn’t just break it himself anyway…! Wretched thing! Useless thing! Honored cultivators, please pardon us this embarrassment, forgive me. We’ll take him away at once –”

Mo Xuanyu flinched, and the Lan sect cultivator who still had his fingers on his pulse frowned. He was very young, and Lan sect; he’d probably never encountered a lunatic before. “No need,” he said. “We need to go and get started with setting up the array in the Western Courtyard. Senior Mo here can show us where it is…can’t you?”

“I can,” Mo Xuanyu said, eager to avoid being locked away again. He scrambled to his feet, not forgetting to scoop up Wei Wuxian the troublemaker. “Follow me.”

They said a few more words, reminders not to go outside once the array was set up, and then they followed him, talking quietly behind him –

“Why’d you call him Senior, Sizhui?” one of the Lan sect disciples was asking the other in an undertone. “He’s a lunatic!”

“He’s a cultivator,” the one that had helped him earlier said. “He has a golden core, and he’s older than we are; that means he’s a senior.”

“He’s got a golden core? No way! He paints his face like he’s a hanged ghost!”

“Jingyi! What does it matter what he does with his face? It’s true, I felt it when I transferred him spiritual energy. Anyway, I didn’t want him to get punished just for having a fit…hey!”

That last exclamation had been because Wei Wuxian had twisted out of Mo Xuanyu’s arms and leaped towards the flags they were carrying, snatching one to the ground and rolling around with it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Mo Xuanyu said, wanting to cry. He didn’t have any grudge against these Lan sect disciples; why was Wei Wuxian making trouble for them? “I didn’t mean to mess up your flag formation, or the…”

“Spirit Summon Flag,” Wei Wuxian muttered from his feet and Mo Xuanyu quickly used a foot to slide him back behind him and pretended he’d been the one to speak, smiling earnestly at them. “Weak, with a range of no more than five li, but serviceable enough; they can go ahead and use it.”

“You know about Spirit Summon Flags?” the taller Lan sect disciple – the one who’d been called Jingyi – asked, looking surprised, and Lan Sizhui elbowed him in the ribs.

Mo Xuanyu shrugged helplessly. “They used them sometimes at the Jin sect,” he said, which was true, even though he’d never gotten involved in that sort of thing. Saying that just made them all look even more surprised, though; probably at the idea that a lunatic like him had been part of the Jin sect in any way shape or form. “That was back before I went crazy. And you don’t have to call me senior – I got kicked out before I learned anything useful.”

“You’re still a fellow cultivator,” Lan Sizhui said, and smiled at him. Mo Xuanyu felt his face go red and he looked away, regretting how easily he showed his emotions; it would probably embarrass Lan Sizhui later on, when he heard the rumors about Mo Xuanyu’s sexual preference. That wasn’t the reason he’d blushed, he’d never had any interest in children – it was only that he liked it when people smiled at him.

“I’ll be going,” he said, and grabbed at Wei Wuxian again, only to miss and nearly trip before finally managing to pick him up. “Good luck with your hunt. I hope it goes well.”

It did not go well. Mo Ziyuan got himself killed by stealing a Spirit Summon Flag – Mo Xuanyu and Wei Wuxian both checked their left arm or forepaw at the same time, seeing the cut there heal up before their eyes; apparently the curse considered it to be close enough, maybe because Wei Wuxian had invented the thing – and somehow Mo Xuanyu ended up being accused of his murderer.

And that was before things got really bad.

“Set up a blocking array at the corner,” Wei Wuxian hissed in his ear.

“I can’t!” Mo Xuanyu said, hiding behind a tree. “I don’t know any arrays!”

“What?! Impossible. You did the body offering array – that’s extremely difficult, especially for someone of your cultivation level.”

“It’s the only one I was ever taught,” Mo Xuanyu explained, and Wei Wuxian’s fur suddenly puffed up all over again.

“Someone is going to die, and not necessarily the Mo family,” he said darkly; it might have been more intimidating if Mo Xuanyu hadn’t tied a red ribbon around his throat earlier to try to make the idea of him being someone’s pet a little more believable. “Whoever did that really only wanted you for one thing, didn’t they? I wonder why they wanted me back so badly.”

Mo Xuanyu was about to explain that actually Wei Wuxian hadn’t been the original target, but then there was more yelling – the Lan sect juniors were very competent but the ghost hand was terrifying – and Wei Wuxian got distracted, hissing at Mo Xuanyu to kick Lan Jingyi.

He obeyed on instinct, which saved Lan Sizhui’s life, and then Wei Wuxian was out of his hands again, streaking towards the corpses like a bolt of feline lightning, and suddenly there were three more corpses standing up and fighting against the possessed remains of Auntie Mo.

“Looks like I can still cultivate,” Wei Wuxian said happily, strolling back over and using the tree to leap back up to Mo Xuanyu’s shoulder. “I thought I should be able to use your golden core, given the way the curse bound us together…how are we doing on the curse, anyway?”

Mo Xuanyu checked. “I think that’s everyone, actually? I should thank whoever sent the ghost hand.”

Wei Wuxian was silent for a moment. “Huh, you’re right,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking about it at first, but those Spirit Summon Flags definitely didn’t have enough of a range to summon a ghost hand like that from far away – and we would have heard of a lot more deaths if it’d been that close. Someone must have released it near here.”

Mo Xuanyu hadn’t been thinking along those lines at all. It was only that no matter where he lived, Mo Manor or Koi Tower, there was almost always someone causing bad things to happen.

“Should we do something to help?” he asked hesitantly, watching the battle unfold and then flinching when there was an unexpected sound – two strums on a guqin, full of spiritual power.

“Nope!” Wei Wuxian said. “In fact, we should leave. Right now.”

“Leave…?”

“You can’t be planning on staying at Mo Manor now that everyone’s dead? Come on! Let’s go! Hanguang-jun’s here; he’ll take care of the ghost hand.”

“I wasn’t planning anything,” Mo Xuanyu argued even as he headed towards the exit obediently. “I was going to be dead, and the body would be yours, and you could do whatever you liked with it when you were done.”

“Well, we’re done,” Wei Wuxian said. “And you’re not dead. You’re just going to have to live with that.”

“Live with…not being dead?”

“Just accept the glorious wisdom of your elders already,” Wei Wuxian said cheerfully. “Either way: we go. As quickly as possible. Before anyone notices. Is there anything you need to pack? We should take the donkey in that courtyard.”

“And money,” Mo Xuanyu said practically, heading for Auntie Mo’s room first. After all, she was dead and wouldn’t need it, and he was the last living heir of the Mo family – it was only reasonable that he take the first pick before everyone else got it. “You can always use money, even if you’re dead. Or a cat.”

Travelling was a bizarre experience.

Mo Xuanyu hadn’t been allowed to go outside of Mo Manor in a few years – Wei Wuxian hissed and spat some very impressive curses on the Mo family name, present company excluded – and even at his time in the Jin sect, he’d always been taken places by other people. Now, for the first time, he was alone…well, alone but for Wei Wuxian, who insisted that they had to stay together, curse or no curse, because of how they’d been bound. Mo Xuanyu suspected the real reason was because he didn’t think Mo Xuanyu could make it by himself, and he was probably right.

At any rate, he didn’t have anywhere to go, so instead he followed Wei Wuxian’s instructions to head towards Dafan Mountain to see if they could find some tombs that Wei Wuxian would be able to use. He still had fits, still wanted to die rather a lot, but he ended up spending so much of his time trying to coax the donkey (dubbed Little Apple by Wei Wuxian after they figured out that apples were the best and possibly only incentive to get it moving) that he didn’t have time to think about it too much.

Not being around either Auntie Mo or anyone from the Jin sect helped. Wei Wuxian wasn’t too bad – he may have been a villainous ghoul once, but now he was a cat.

“Didn’t you used to cultivate with a flute?” he asked as they walked along the mountain paths late at night. Well, the donkey walked, Mo Xuanyu rode the donkey, and Wei Wuxian rode in Mo Xuanyu’s arms. “What are you going to do about that? You can’t play a flute anymore; you’re a cat.”

“Cats are innately musical creatures,” Wei Wuxian said. His voice had become a lot more human in the past few days, rich and compelling and increasingly lacking the rough meows that had initially interrupted his speech. It was no surprise that someone as talented as him could pick up being a cat faster than Mo Xuanyu had ever learned to pick up being human.

Mo Xuanyu narrowed his eyes. “That’s a lie, right?” Wei Wuxian had been trying to teach him how to distinguish those, but they weren’t having very much success with it. “I don’t think I’ve heard a single decent sound out of –”

“Why don’t we see who’s making that noise?” Wei Wuxian said loudly, so they dismounted and went to go look.

There were people yelling, caught in a golden net.

“Can you get them down?” he asked Wei Wuxian, who reached out with his claws to grab a leaf, muttering something that was probably uncomplimentary.

And then –

Oh, no.

“Why are you hiding behind a tree again?” Wei Wuxian asked him, not keeping especially quiet. “Don’t tell me you’re hiding from that little Jin sect boy who clearly didn’t have a mother to teach him?”

Mo Xuanyu dropped him like he was a boiling hot skillet.

Like everything he’d ever done on instinct, the move immediately backfired: Wei Wuxian landed on Little Apple’s foreleg claws first and suddenly Little Apple was braying loud enough to wake the dead, which set Wei Wuxian off yowling and hissing right back at him.

“Who is that?!” Jin Ling demanded, striding over with an extremely cross expression that suggested he’d heard the bit about mothers. “Who is – oh. It’s you.”

Mo Xuanyu weakly lifted up a hand. “Uh…it’s nice to see you, Jin Ling.”

Wei Wuxian’s yowls cut off as if he’d been suddenly smothered.

Jin Ling glared at him. “Stupid cutsleeve, you think I didn’t hear what you said earlier?”

“I didn’t!” Mo Xuanyu said immediately, starting to shake at once. He couldn’t bear it when people in bright yellow were angry at him, not since those last few days at the Jin sect; it was a sure-fire way to bring on a fit. “I swear I didn’t! I – I –”

Jin Ling lifted his sword and Mo Xuanyu squatted down to cover his head at once, feeling his eyes overflow with blubbering tears as he began to panic. “I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t,” he wailed. “Don’t hit me! I don’t want to drink any medicine! I don’t want to get hit! I didn’t do it!”

“You…!” Jin Ling didn’t seem to know what to do now. “You’re such a coward! You – damnit!”

Mo Xuanyu had his face hidden away, so he didn’t see what Jin Ling did next, braced as he was for a blow. He could vaguely hear the sword being put away, but that didn’t diminish his fear in the slightest: the majority of the Jin sect had never been willing to use swords on each other, thinking it disgraceful. Even Jin Guangyao didn’t use his sword very much – he preferred other methods.

Mo Xuanyu was most afraid of those other methods.

He flinched violently when someone lightly touched his shoulder.

“Stop crying, you’re making a fool of yourself!” Jin Ling said, his harsh voice at odds with the gentle touch of his fingers. “Have some thought to your face, okay?! You can’t embarrass yourself like this! Aren’t you my uncle, after all?”

“He’s your what?!” Wei Wuxian’s muffled voice came from under a bush.

“It’s true no matter how you look at it, even if I don’t want it to be,” Jin Ling said with a sniff, clearly assuming the exclamation had come from Mo Xuanyu. “Listen here, what are you doing on Dafan Mountain anyway?”

Mo Xuanyu snuffled, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “Well, my cat –”

“Night hunting!” Wei Wuxian hissed.

“I mean, I was night hunting,” Mo Xuanyu repeated obediently, then frowned. “That’s not really believable, is it?”

Jin Ling looked pityingly at him. “Not really. Do you need – is there something…?”

“Those words from earlier were really rude,” Wei Wuxian said from the bushes, and Mo Xuanyu covered his face with his hands. “They shouldn’t have been said.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. It’s not like I haven’t heard it all before –”

“Jin Ling, get away from him,” a low, cold voice said from behind him.

Mo Xuanyu’s shoulders slumped. It wasn’t relief so much as it was resignation: if there was one thing he knew, that everyone knew, it was that you didn’t cross Jiang Cheng. They said he could smell the stink of demonic cultivation on you, and once he did, that was that, and Mo Xuanyu was pretty sure, though no one had ever said for sure, that the body offering array was some form of demonic cultivation.

They said Jiang Cheng would take demonic cultivators back to the Lotus Pier to be tortured to death.

Mo Xuanyu was almost looking forward to it. Other than the horrible sword flights back and forth to Koi Tower in Lanling, Dafan Mountain was the furthest from home he’d been, and Wei Wuxian had been waxing poetic about the beauties of the Lotus Pier for days now; it would be nice to see it, however briefly, before he died.

He’d probably get to see lots of Jiang Cheng, too – he’d only ever caught glimpses of him before, when he was visiting Koi Tower, so he’d never had a chance to look his fill. And whatever could be said about the man’s temper, it couldn’t be denied that he had a first-rate face.

“Why?” Jin Ling asked, not moving. “It’s only Mo Xuanyu. Did you ever meet him? He’s –”

“Not him,” Jiang Cheng said, and he looked – bemused? That wasn’t the expression Mo Xuanyu would have been expecting. “It was – Wei Wuxian…wait, the cat?!”

Mo Xuanyu’s mouth dropped open in shock. How did he know?

“Definitely not!” Wei Wuxian blurted out, which didn’t seem smart, and suddenly Jiang Cheng looked extremely confused and abruptly sat down.

“Uncle, what are you talking about?” Jin Ling said. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Jiang Cheng said, a hand to his temple as if he had a headache, or possibly questioning his sanity. “It’s – it’s the cat. I heard – that voice – Wei Wuxian wouldn’t be sniveling on the ground like a newborn infant, and the only other thing around is – so it must be –”

“Is lunacy contagious or something?” Jin Ling demanded. “Uncle, I know you’ve been looking for him for years, but you can’t seriously think Wei Wuxian resurrected himself as a cat!”

“Meow!” Wei Wuxian said desperately, except it was as awful a meow as it’d ever been – entirely human. “Meow, meow –”

“That voice –!”

“Uncle!”

“Shut up!” Mo Xuanyu abruptly yelled, pushed entirely beyond his limits. “All of you! Just shut up! Stop yelling and stop harassing my cat!”

With that, he grabbed Wei Wuxian and ran blindly into the woods.

He kept running until the air wouldn’t enter his lungs anymore, and then he fell down under a tree and burst into tears again, the fear and panic and exercise all escalating uncontrollably until he fell into another fit, no matter how much Wei Wuxian tried to talk him down.

When Mo Xuanyu woke up, he felt as though he really had gotten beaten up by Jin Ling, even though he knew he hadn’t been. He groaned.

“You’re awake again, good,” Wei Wuxian said. He was standing on his two hind legs, forepaws behind his back as he slowly paced a circle. “Those fits of yours – they only started after you went crazy, you said?”

Mo Xuanyu nodded and sat up, rubbing his face – he didn’t have a mirror to check, but all those tears must have messed up his make-up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the case of cosmetics he’d insisted on taking the time to remove from Mo Manor, no matter how much Wei Wuxian had urged him to leave quickly before they were found.

“Based on the things you’ve said, it seems like there was a particular point in time where you went crazy – enough that you can accurately pin-point things as being before and after.”

Mo Xuanyu nodded again, using his fingers to apply more red paint around his eyes, which were still a little swollen and tender from all the crying.

“And you said something when Jin Ling was holding his sword – damnit, that was Suihua, I should have recognized it at once – anyway, you said something about…about not wanting to drink medicine?”

Wei Wuxian certainly fixated on the strangest things, Mo Xuanyu reflected. Maybe lunacy really was contagious.

“Someone poisoned you,” Wei Wuxian concluded. He still had the red ribbon around his neck – in combination with the way he was just barely maintaining his upright balance and the way his tail was lashing around, it was rather cute. “If it took place in the Jin sect, it was probably something with quicksilver, since they use it to make vermillion. It damages the brain and liver if consumed in high quantities, and it’s associated with epilepsy, hallucinations, and terrible nightmares; it’s been used since ancient times to make men into fools.”

Mo Xuanyu nodded politely, mostly disinterested. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know who was behind it, and it didn’t really matter what exactly was involved – if anything, the medicine could almost be seen as Jin Guangyao’s way of being nice. He could have had Mo Xuanyu disappeared the way he did for Xue Yang, or he could have fed him to Xue Yang’s fierce corpses, or even just slit his throat...at least by going mad, Mo Xuanyu would still be useful to Jin Guangyao, a vivid demonstration that any madness in their bloodline must have come from their shared father’s side, not the mother.

He wasn’t sure why Jin Guangyao cared about that, but at least he wasn’t dead. No, wait, didn’t he want to be dead? His half-brother was so confusing sometimes.

Maybe sending Mo Xuanyu back to Mo Manor, back to Auntie Mo and all the others that Jin Guangyao knew Mo Xuanyu feared, maybe it was supposed to teach him how to hate enough, so that he could make the ritual work – if so, Mo Xuanyu’d probably disappointed Jin Guangyao all over again.

“…some ways to at least ease the symptoms, maybe more if we can find a good enough doctor.” Wei Wuxian was still talking, for some reason. “At least you have your golden core; if you were a regular person, there wouldn’t be any hope at all.”

“Hope is overrated,” Mo Xuanyu said. “It just makes it worse when you’re inevitably disappointed, and then you die, if you’re lucky.”

Xue-gege had taught him that one, and he was even pretty sure he’d quoted it correctly, but Wei Wuxian didn’t look particularly impressed.

“I’ve heard that quicksilver poisoning can cause qi deviation, which is associated with suicidal urges,” Wei Wuxian said, dropping to all four legs and then hopping onto his shoulder. “Let me try to stabilize your qi – maybe it’ll keep you from saying things like that all the time. Go on, get up and stretch your legs a bit; they’re probably sore from all the running and thrashing you were doing.”

Mo Xuanyu walked all right, walked right into a confrontation with a stone goddess, which was honestly just how this day was going. Wei Wuxian really needed to stop being so surprised when bad things happened.

“Can you play the flute?” Wei Wuxian hissed into his ear, all thoughts of qi stabilization forgotten. “I need to summon something powerful, and yowling, while surprisingly effective, isn’t going to cut it.”

“I can play the dizi,” Mo Xuanyu offered. “But I’m not good at it, and anyway we don’t have –”

“Good enough! Grab that piece of bamboo and give it to me, I can use my claws to make the holes, and you can follow the tune that I show you –”

Wei Wuxian meowed, Mo Xuanyu played, and Wei Wuxian’s ears went flat backwards in apparent agony.

“Whoever taught you should be tortured to death,” he said briefly before resuming his guidance, focusing in on whatever demonic cultivation technique he was doing – it made the Ghost General appear, so Mo Xuanyu assumed it was successful, although Wei Wuxian’s shocked muttering suggested something had gone wrong regardless. Again, not much of a surprise.

One thing led to another, and then a tall man in Lan sect white showed up along with the juniors from Mo Manor, along with Jiang Cheng and Jin Ling, and at that point Mo Xuanyu decided that some of this bad luck had to be Wei Wuxian’s, because even the worst of his bad days weren’t usually this bad.

Wei Wuxian panicked when they bumped into the tall man – Hanguang-jun, apparently? Mo Xuanyu vaguely recalled hearing about him, but he’d never come to Koi Tower while Mo Xuanyu had been there – and it was very uncomfortable to have a panicking cat on his shoulder, especially when he was still trying to remember enough flute-playing to follow along with the tune Wei Wuxian was meowing, something more relaxing to try to calm down the Ghost General.

“…Wei Ying?” Hanguang-jun said, staring at the cat.

Mo Xuanyu stopped playing and turned his head to stare at Wei Wuxian. “How are you this obvious?” he asked.

“This is not my fault,” Wei Wuxian exclaimed, aggravated. “I’m a cat! Nobody should be blaming me!”

“I think I’m losing my mind,” Jiang Cheng, located somewhere further away on the field, said, his voice sounding strangled. “I really do swear I just heard….”

“That was me!” Mo Xuanyu said quickly. “Totally me! I picked up ventriloquism to better process the auditory hallucinations! I’m very sick, and also a lunatic – you can just ignore me!”

Nobody seemed especially convinced.

“…Sect Leader Jiang,” Hanguang-jun said after a while. “There are very good healers dedicated to the calming of the mind at the Cloud Recesses. I can take Young Master Mo – and his cat – with me to see them, which I think will be beneficial to everyone involved.”

“Fine,” Jiang Cheng said. “But I’m coming too. I think I need it.”

Hanguang-jun frowned for a moment and the two of them stared at each other for a long time, unspoken emotions crackling in the air between them. Finally, he nodded. “Very well.”

“You know, I don’t think we’ve ever agreed to go to -” Wei Wuxian started to say, but Mo Xuanyu stuffed his fingers over his little snout. Hanguang-jun was the second master of the Lan sect, which meant Zewu-jun was his brother, and Zewu-jun was Jin Guangyao’s friend – and you didn’t go against what Jin Guangyao wanted, not if you knew what was good for you.

Mo Xuanyu might be stupid, but even he could figure something out after it hurt enough.

“It’s fine,” he said. “We’ll go with you for a little, but you have to promise to let us go afterwards. You have to promise, you hear me? I don’t want to be locked away again!”

Hanguang-jun had a strange expression on his face, which was about the same as the expression on Jiang Cheng’s face, and Jin Ling’s, and all the Lan juniors – had Mo Xuanyu said something wrong?

“Your freedom and safety will be assured,” Hanguang-jun said.

“And my cat’s!”

Jiang Cheng put his hand on his head, looking pained.

“And your cat,” Hanguang-jun agreed peaceably, and turned and started to lead the way.

Mo Xuanyu and all the others followed behind.

“Fine,” Wei Wuxian muttered in Mo Xuanyu’s ear once the others were far enough ahead to not immediately overhear. “We can go with Lan Zhan back to Gusu one time. They really do have good healers there, anyway – but I want to talk to him about that ghost hand. Someone released it right next to Mo Manor, probably the same person who wanted me back so badly that he taught you how to do the body offering array, and I want to have words with that person.”

Mo Xuanyu was a little confused: was it Sect Leader Nie he wanted to talk to or Jin Guangyao? And why was Wei Wuxian so angry at them? They were both so nice, at least some of the time…better not to ask.

“You should get some Emperor’s Smile when you get to Gusu,” Wei Wuxian added.

“I don’t drink,” Mo Xuanyu objected.

“For me.”

“Cats don’t drink.”

“I’m not planning on being a cat forever,” Wei Wuxian said. “And won’t that be a surprise to everyone?”

Mo Xuanyu thought about it. “No,” he said after a moment. “I really don’t think it will be, actually.”

[mizelophsun11]

Mizeloph's Tale Chapter 7

Pairing - It is still General Kirigan x OC Sun Summoner but will eventually switch over to Kaz Brekker x Sun Summoner OC

Summary - Anna is continuing to adjust to her life in the Little Palace and her life and things will continue to pick up once she is presented to the king. She is missing some of the old parts of her life and thinking about it her childhood before crossing the Fold.

Word Count - 2273

-

Anna had been dressed in a First Army uniform that she knew all too well. What she was not used to was the golden veil that was attached to her hat, she had a hard time seeing through it. Something else that was different was her hair that had been tucked into the hat so it wouldn’t be seen. The idea behind it being that Anna would truly be seen for the first time as the Sun Summoner when she pulled her hat off in front of the king. She and Genya were walking to the courtyard where they would meet General Kirigan. He would take Anna over to the Grand Palace for her to be presented in front of Ravkas monarchy and other important people.

“Can you please explain to me again why I have this veil? I just don’t see what purpose it has” Anna said as she touched the veil

Genya tapped Anna's hand to stop playing with the veil “you look fine”

Anna sighed and stopped touching it “um, so I was wondering, is there any way that I might be able to leave the Little Palace? It wouldn’t be for a long time I swear” Anna was starting to feel the effect of being sealed away in the Little Palace and wanting to just get out and possibly see her friends

“But you have everything here that you might need” Genya knew that there was more than just missing a some items, but it was dangerous for Anna to leave the Little Palace

“Yeah, but there are a few things I wasn’t able to get before I was whisked away to the Little Palace” which was true, she had been dragged to the carriage and taken away before she could even think about what was happening “I could go back, get those items and make sure that I stay safe” she also hoped that getting those things would allow her to see Mal and Alina

“What could be so important that you would want to go back there? Plus, you were attacked on the way here, why would you want to risk that?” Genya thought that maybe if it was truly important maybe something could be done, but Anna’s friends would have to wait to see their friend

“I know it's a huge risk.. But it’s my sketchbook, I’ve always had one since I got to the orphanage.. It’s stupid I know, but it’s really important to me” for Anna drawing was very important to her. With it she was able to make new friends while also thinking about her first friend Kaz. In the orphanage, Anna and Alina would draw pictures that reminded her of the places she and Kaz use to draw in the dirt. Ketterdam was not for someone with artistic talents like Anna, but she remembered Kaz supporting her passion. Anna knew that she could never make a career out of drawing; it was always something she used to just escape. Now that she was in the Little Palace Anna needed a little bit of time to escape.

Genya nodded “It’s not stupid, I will see what I can do, now come this way, we don’t want you to be late to meeting the king” she pulled Anna along

Anna smiled a little and started to blow at the veil still trying to make the best of it “now this is fun, I can’t wait to get this thing off” she kept blowing at it

“Stop that!” Genya laughed at Annas antics

Anna laughed, she was having a good time with Genya, they had gotten along from the beginning and it was really nice. With Genya at her side she felt like she had made her first friend in the Little Palace. She knew that friends were probably hard to come by in the Little Palace with everyone being cold stone serious, but Genya was different and Anna loved it.

“Remember, no one can see you until King Pyotr does, I’ve told you this when I was tucking your hair into your hat” Genya said

“I still don’t understand why, it’s not like other people have already seen me before, I am just the supposed Sun Summoner now” before she was a living myth Anna was just a regular map maker, why was it so important now to cover up what she looked like?

“It’s all ceremonial, the King wants to see you, a humble girl taken from the ranks of his army, as if he is taking credit for you” Genya tried to explain

“Yeah.. but still I feel like I should be wearing a kefta or something, not a cleaned First Army Uniform that has never seen a speck of dust ” Anna said

“You’ll get a Kefta once he has seen your power” Genya knew that this was a lot for Anna and was trying to be there for her

“Yesh, that power that I definitely have a full grasp on..” she said sarcastically, Anna just wanted this demonstration to be over with, she wanted to start training right away

“The important people who will be there are King Pyotr, the Queen, Crown Prince Vasily, and the King’s spiritual advisor, the Apparat. He’s a greasy rat, then there will be other Lords and Ladys there close in the kings court” Genya went on but something grabbed Annas attention

They had walked past a library, Anna stopped for a moment to look inside and see the rows of books. When she had been living at the orphanage Anna would read any book she could get her hands on in order to escape the world she lived in. She had also taken interest in books with illustrations, she always enjoyed the prospect of drawing what she was reading. Another escape she had acquired when Anna was taken to the orphanage, with the drawings came the reading.

“Wait, did I just see a library? Please tell me that is available to us” Anna asked really hoping it would be someplace she could visit

“Everything here is available to all of us, General Kirigan built this palace to be a home for us so we could thrive and not have to always look over our shoulder” Genya knew that it had not always been like this, a palace safe space

Anna nodded “has a Grisha ever escaped?” she joked, not being serious

General Kirigan knew she was joking, but decided to approach “does that mean you are going to make a break for it?”

Anna turned around to see General Kirigan “oh, I didn’t mean to, it was just a joke, sorry” she smiled a little and he smiled back

“It’s alright, I know you are still adjusting to life here, it’s good to laugh a little” he wished that sometimes he could smile more and laugh, but he was always serious and take care of everything, the world was on his shoulders

They walked out to the courtyard that connected the Little Palace and the Grand Palace “The royals paid for a palace that looks like crap?” Anna said without thinking “oh my.. I just said that”

General Kirigan chuckled “I couldn’t agree more, I think that the Grand Palace us the ugliest building I have ever seen”

Anna smiled “well that’s good, otherwise I would be questioning your sanity”

General Kirigan looked at her as they walked “I hope the room was to your liking, did you get some rest?”

“Yeah I did, surprisingly, once I was finally able to fall asleep it was probably the best sleep I have had in a while” Anna had gone through so much she had tired herself out, she needed to rest “but now there is this demonstration and I don’t even know how to summon the sun properly.. I am scared that I will fail in front of everyone”

General Kirigan stopped, Anna noticed and faced him, understanding he wanted to have their conversation before entering the Grand Palace. “Remember the promise that I would keep you safe?” Anna nodded, she knew that he would keep his word to her. “During this demonstration, just focus on me and you will be fine, we will get through this together. All of this is for formalities and I promise I will be by your side every step of the way” General Kirigan smiled at her and grasped her hand “we have nothing to fear” Anna felt at ease and her worries had dispersed.

They let go of each others hands and continued on to the Grand Palace “once we sees what you can do then get his blessing, you will remain here to train” General Kirigan said

“His blessing? I know he is the king, but I thought you ruled the Grisha” Anna asked, she knew that there was a lot to learn so she hoped that she wasn’t coming across as stupid

“I only lead the Second Army, the King has the final say in things, but I always make sure that my Grisha have the best and are not held back”

They walked into the Grand Palace, as they walked down the large stairs she looked around at the room filled with people. As Anna and General Kirigan walked to the center of the room, it felt nerve racking, there were so many eyes on her. General Kirigan and Anna both got to the center of the room and bowed to the monarchy. Once everyone was settled in Anna looked over to General Kirigan who nodded to her, she took the hat off allowing her white hair to flow free. The people in the room gasped and began to whisper, the unnatural color catching everyone off guard, this made Anna even more nervous. Eventually everyone became more quiet once the Queen spoke up.

“Your hair color.. I have never seen anything like it before, it’s.. interesting” the Queen said trying to appear as nice

“Thank you, Your Highness” Anna was able to spit out

The Queen continued to look at Anna curiously “what are you?”

Anna was still feeling nervous and looked to General Kirigan pleading for help without saying a word “She is Anna Mizeloph, the Sun Summoner moya tsaritsa and she will change the future. Starting now..”

General Kirigan brought his hands up to call forward the shadows into the room, making it dark. Anna watched as the room was consumed with darkness, she looked to General Kirigan who then faced her.

He gently grasped her hands and put his under hers “now call the sun”

Anna nodded, she brought her hands together beginning to call the light, then she felt General Kirigans hands come under hers and the light moved out completely surrounding the room. She was glowing, feeling every molecule of light and the energy that came with the sun, warmth and power. Anna looked up at General Kirigan and smiled, she felt more like herself than she ever had. In the moment, it felt like it was only them in the room, wanting to get lost in each other but remembering they had an audience. General Kirigan then let go of her hands and the light she had summoned disappeared. Everyone in the room was clapping and cheering, the Sun Summoner had been found and the people could not be happier.

Their transe was broken by the King's standing ovation “Bravo! Bravo! How long will she need?”

“Destroying the Fold will not be easy. She will remain with me in the Little Palace to train.. Undisturbed” General Kirigan wanted to get his point across to the King

The King nodded “Then train her quickly, our wars have been a noble pursuit, but this chatter from the West about becoming a sovereign nation needs to stop. The sooner we are one country again the better”

“Agreed, moi tsar” General Kirigan and Anna bowed and turned around “you were perfect”

Anna smiled “thank you, it felt amazing, I don’t even know where it came from” she was still feeling the joys of using her small science truly for the first time

General Kirigan stopped and looked down at her “it came from everywhere, because you called upon it” he leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek “Welcome home, Miss Mizeloph” she blushed a little and smiled watching him walk through the group of Grisha that had gathered around to greet her

One Grisha gave her a hug “it’s such an honor to formally meet you” Anna smiled and saw the Squaller, Zoya approach her

Zoya smiled and hugged Anna “white haired Ketterdam trash” Zoya whispered into her ear

Anna didn’t have enough time to react as Genya grabbed her arm pulling her through

“You are truly one of a kind, the entire country is going to be talking about you now” Genya smiled and pulled her away from the group

Anna walked with Genya back to the Little Palace, she was still in shock, first she had been able to summon the sun. Then after it all, General Kirigan had given her a kiss on the cheek, she touched the place where he had kissed her. She was surprised by it, but it was actually kind of nice, she was feeling so many different emotions. Once they got back to her room there was a blue kefta that had gold embroidering that resembled the spiralling rays of sun. Anna took off her First Army uniform and put her new kefta on, she went over to a mirror and looked at herself, she felt like she finally finding her true home.

-

Author Note - Thank you everyone who has been reblogging my chapters and leaving comments! I really appreciate everyones support in my story! Please feel free to continue leaving comments if you would like to! Also if anyone would like to please feel free to pm me and if you would like to talk I think that would be amazing!

Tag List - @rika90 @itsemy01 @hotleaf-juice @teatimeforusreaders @benbarnes-supremacy @graciefullygracie @aleksanderwh0r3 @klaudosh @herbatkazmilosica