#there are some ways i can even summon the Rasp. very neat

[keeps-ache]

i have GOT to- [phases out of existence]

[bullet-prooflove]

Ex!Joe Part Five: Wishes - Joe Velasco x Reader

Tagging: @plaidbooks @misscharlielulu @witches-unruly-heart @storiesofsvu @magic-multicolored-miracle @rosaliedepp @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @mysoulisasunflower @legit9thlunaticwarrior @thatesqcrush @mydarkestsecretlol @upsteadlogic @wooshwastaken @kiwiithecrazybird @justreblogginfics @anime-weeb-4-life @alwaysachorusgirl @telepathay @weiwei0210 @dancingonthebeachatdawn @spaghettificationandpretzels @nu1freakshow @trublu2u @yezzyyae @thiashazzywriting @altsvu @whateversomethingbruh @a-noni-love @collegegirl83

EX!Joe Series:

Part One: Left Behind - Joe’s life is thrown into turmoil when you show up in the Squad Room.

Part Two: Brighton Beach - Joe finds out why you’re back in Manhatten.

Part Three: History - You explain what happened all those years ago.

Part Four: Crash - Joe has a lot to think about.

Joe dreams of dark-haired children, he chases them around a garden that resembles the park that he goes running in. He hears their laughter in his ears, catches a glimpse of them as they duck behind the trees. He dreams of nights with you, the past and the future, hands teasing over sensitive flesh, lips caressing soft skin, the sound of his name as you come for him. He dreams of the family he could have had, the one that’s always been just out of reach.

He mourns their loss when he wakes up in a hospital room he doesn’t recognise. You capture his arm as he tries to untangle himself, preventing him from wrenching out the wires that are attached to him.

“Joe…” You say softly and he squeezes your hand tightly because you’re a soothing presence amongst the disorientation that assaults him.

Joe knows why you’re here, why out of everyone in his life you are the one they summoned to the hospital. He hasn’t changed his emergency contact. You must think that it’s an oversight but it isn’t. The truth is he doesn’t have anyone else in his life that he trusts to make decisions on his behalf, to understand his wishes, to fulfil them.

“How bad?” He asks, his throat scratchy, his voice a rasp.

“Nothing broken.” You reassure him, stroking his arm lightly. “You have some nasty gravel rash and a concussion, that’s why they’re keeping you here…”

Joe heaves himself up into sitting a position. Agony ricochets through his body. He hisses through his teeth as it sears through him, grating across his nerves. He yanks at the sensors that are attached to him, tossing them onto the bed.

“Can you get me discharged?” He asks you forcefully.

“You hit your head pretty hard even with the helmet on.” You tell him, raising to your feet. “They want to keep you in for observation.”

“Can you do it?” He repeats, his green eyes meeting yours.

He’s antsy you can tell. You’ve forgotten his phobia of hospitals, how they made him feel like he wants to crawl out of his own skin. He’d had a bad experience back in Juárez, he would never tell you the details but anytime he ended up being treated in a hospital, he’d sweat bullets, his jaw would tense and he’d clench his fists until his knuckles went white.

You sigh as you withdraw your badge from the pocket of your overcoat and drape it around your neck.

“I’ll do what I can.” ----

Joe’s apartment is an incarnation of his previous one. It’s neat and sparse with very little in the way of personal effects. You see it a lot with people who’ve spent the majority of their careers undercover. There’s a photograph of his mother and his priest in a slender black frame on the mantlepiece but that’s it. Everything else is boilerplate, the way it was when you first met him. He merely exists in this space, he doesn’t live in it.

“You don’t have to stay,” he tells you after you close the door to the apartment behind you.

“Kinda do.” You tell him, stripping off your overcoat and hanging it on the coat pegs installed alongside the front door. “That was part of the agreement about leaving the hospital. You have to be supervised for the next twenty four hours.”  

He’s too tired to argue with you, instead he retreats to the bedroom, shutting both the door and you out. You don’t blame him, he’s had a lot of turmoil tonight. You know he’s overwhelmed at the moment, that he’s trying to process everything that’s happened. You’re probably the last person he wants here but there’s nothing you can do, you just have to make the best of it for now. You open his fridge and sigh, before withdrawing your phone to order groceries.

You cook for him, it’s a throwback to a time when the two of you lived together. He misses this, all of this, he’s been with multiple women since you but not one has come close. The problem is even after all this time he’s still in love with you. He knows how pathetic it is.

He doesn’t say anything when you rap your knuckles on the bedroom door. Part of him wants to tell you to leave, so that he can go back to the way things were but the reality is, that can’t happen. He knows why you left now, about the baby, about the depression you fell into in the aftermath of the miscarriage and he can’t blame you. Going through something like that, enduring it alone…

It fucks with you.

“I’ve made something to eat if you’re hungry.” You say as you open the door a crack.

“Come inside.” He finds himself saying as he sits on the edge of the bed. “I want to talk a sec.”

You comply, closing the bedroom door behind you.

“Joe…” You begin.

“Can I hold you?” He says quietly. “Will you let me have that tonight?”

“That depends.” You murmur as you come to stand in front of him. He takes your hand, his fingers entwining with yours as he tugs you down into his lap. “Are you going to let me take care of you?”

“Baby…” He mumbles, his thumb chasing along the line of your jaw as he looks into your eyes. “I’m sorry for what you went through, that I wasn’t there…”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” You tell him, cradling his face between your hands. He closes his eyes, and you kiss away the salt that ebbs down his cheeks. “It’s just something that happened, it’s no one’s fault.”

“I wish…”

That things were different, that we had a baby, a family, a life together. He doesn’t say those words but you know that’s what he means. You wish for the exact same thing.

“I know.” You whisper against his skin. “I do too.”

Love Joe Velasco? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[sickficsies-and-whumpsies]

OOOOH GOD I JUST HAD A NEW IDEA.

If you can do both, I will be very happy.

So...

Nanami has a fever, he overworked himself during the last fight, and he is bound in his bed, trying to recover. He keeps dreaming of Gojo while he shifts from sleep to reality and feels like he is there with him but doesn't know if it's true. He has lots of delusions and hallucinations regarding Gojo breaking his heart and feels like he is slowly burning alive.

Also, I have to add this, if you are able to describe him as tiddies out, you would save my life. I thirst for Dilfs in pain.

“I THIRST FOR DILFs IN PAIN” HAD ME WHEEZING, HELP- oh man, I hope I put Nanamin through enough pain with this one, I did my best to depict his disorientation :D Have fun, I hope this is enough f*cked up!! All I want to say is... Sorry.

(TW in the tags)

///

The blurred digits danced across the tiny screen, forcing Nanami to squeeze his chestnut-brown eyes painfully. It read 40,1°C, or so he supposed. His fever-addled brain, while aware that he was, in fact, feverish, wasn’t quite in control of the body, eyes failing him.

The blond sighed, resigned, and moved to sit up on the bed with a pitiful groan. As soon as his torso was perpendicular to the mattress, a wave of dizziness made him flop back onto the firm yet comfortable surface, head spinning in a violent, overwhelming manner.

Nanami wanted nothing more than to reach for his phone, located on the neatly-arranged night stand, next to a book and a half empty glass of water. Just an arm-length away, maybe less, and yet, the man hadn’t enough strength in him to move that much. His limbs felt heavy, bones lined with lead, head filled with grey fog, eyesight faltering.  

“I jus’ need… to call in…” he murmured, not quite sure if he’d said that out-loud, either. The effort of turning his head to look at the phone left him breathless, disoriented; shaky fingers reached for it, barely a couple of centimeters above the mattress. Beads of sweat dripped down Nanami’s pasty face and he grit his teeth, summoning every last ounce of power left in him. 

If I could just warn someone, I would be fine. I just need to sweat this off. But I have to let Satoru know, or he’ll come bursting in here soon, and get himself sick. I don’t want that to happen, taking care of him is annoying. He is annoying when he’s sick. He is always annoying. I just need to let him know I’m fine. I just need to tell him not to come. I just一

He blinked his eyes open, startled. When had he closed them? 

Nanami allowed his vision to focus, albeit slowly and not entirely efficiently either, and noticed how his arm was stretched out toward the night stand, not quite touching it due to his slightly bent elbow. It just laid there, motionless, fingers barely twitching, not obeying his command.

The sorcerer inhaled a shallow, rasped breath, trying to coax his body into cooperating to reach that damned phone. 

He didn’t need Gojou to come, he needed him not to. He wouldn’t have come anyway, Nanami thought. He never did.

The sky-eyed man wasn’t a bad person. He wasn’t a bad boyfriend, Nanami knew it, he’d repeated that to himself so many times, too many times, trying to carve it into his brain, to learn it by heart. Gojou wasn’t a bad boyfriend.

He was simply… a not conventional one. 

More than once, Nanami had to remind him about their dates. More than once, he had to hint that his birthday was coming up, or that he’d asked him for a favour of any sorts一 not that he’d do that, Nanami was capable of doing everything on his own.

Maybe that’s why Gojou had never bothered to offer his help. Maybe it was out of admiration and reverence in regard of Nanami’s skills一 as a sorcerer and as a civilian, too一 that he’d never offered his help, nor helped unless strictly necessary. 

Nanami forced himself to shake his head, aware that he was dozing off again, thoughts swirling in his pounding, boiling brain. No, he needed to get the phone first, he needed to inform that he wouldn’t come, and that he… maybe, he could use some help. 

Gojou’s.

But he won’t come! he thought, bitter. He won’t come on his own. It’s not like him, he won’t come here, he won’t notice. I’m glad. He doesn’t need to worry, I’m fine. I’m happy that he’s not going to come, he doesn’t need to. I can handle a little cold. I don’t need to worry him. Not that he would. But it’s a good thing, because he一

A faint knock echoed through the neat apartment. Nanami opened his eyes一he’d closed them again, hadn’t he?一 and tried to pinpoint the source of the noise, curious. Certainly, something must have fallen from the table, maybe a spoon he’d left out of place.

“Spoons don’t sound like knocking when they fall, Nanamin~” someone purred from outside the door. Someone that Nanami knew, certainly. Someone that wasn’t supposed to be there, or rather, someone that he didn’t think was ever going to come.

“S-Satoru?” he croaked, weak. He wished that his technique allowed him to move objects with his mind, willing to unlock the door without, however, having the necessary strength to get up and walk the way to it. That would have meant crossing the bedroom, reaching the tiny corridor, walking through it and up to the genkan. He would have had to sit on the step at the entrance, slip his shoes on to walk the tiny distance between the wooden floor and the door, not wanting to soil his slippers.

Speaking of slippers, he didn’t know where he’d left them. He’d come home around midnight, after an extenuating fight. Nanami had wrapped everything up rather slowly, and once it was over, he barely waited for the EMTs to check him over before he gave up and walked the way home, in the freezing weather. 

The walk home, and the time from when he reached the doorstep to when he flopped on the bed, were a blur of flashes and thumping noises, voices and phones ringing, people yelling一 he’d left the TV on, he didn’t know how he allowed himself to make that mistake.

He, who would always reprimand Gojou for forgetting to turn the lights off, for not cleaning the bathroom mirror after he’d brushed his teeth, for leaving the spoon in the plate when he reheated food in the microwave. Nanami would always tell him off, tired of how careless Gojou acted, tired of how the other man seemed to have mistaken him for his personal butler, tired of一

“Nanamin, my poor Nanamin.” Gojou said, running a hand through the blond’s sweaty hair, letting his fingers cradle the mane and massage the scalp delicately, “All sick and lonely, my little Nanamin~” 

“You shouldn’t一” Nanami was caught off guard, wheezing as a painful dry coughed escaped his mouth and scraped his throat. Teary eyes glanced at the bottle on the dresser just a few meters away.

The mattress lifted and then dipped again. 

Nanami grabbed the glass of water that Gojou had filled for him, and drank greedily, letting the cold liquid soothe the agony, feeling the fog thin out in the slightest. 

“You shouldn't have come.” he finished, “You’re going to get sick too. You aren’t even wearing a mask, everyone knows that it’s necessary to protect yourself when you visit someone sick, Satoru.” he scolded, thin eyebrows furrowed on his damp forehead.

“You’re always so cold with me, Nanamin! Your lovely boyfriend came all the way here to watch you suffer, and you treat him like that? Cruel.” the white-haired man hummed, laying next to Nanami, not quite touching him. Truth is, he didn’t even seem to be willing to reach for the man.

Ah, Nanami reasoned, Infinity. Nothing gets through.

“I could deactivate it, Nanamin. The Infinity, you know, I could deactivate it and touch you. You want that, don’t you?” he teased, blinking at the ill man.

“Y-you don’t have to.”

Gojou laughed in that way that made his enemies’ skin crawl, so hollow yet light. Carefree, intimidating for just how genuinely amused he sounded.

“Oh, I wouldn't think about it, Nanamin.” he said, “It’s bad enough that you’re out of commission, we can’t have both of us out of the games.”

Nanami swallowed the dryness in his throat to no avail, averting his gaze just in the slightest, just enough to have that annoying, mocking grin out of his sight. “Good.”

“But you want me to touch you, right? You want me to care for you, you want to feel my breath on your skin, to bite into it with my teeth and let them sink in your neck, don’t you, Nanamin?” he whispered. Had he not activated the Infinity, Nanami would have been able to feel the ticklish warmth of Gojou’s breath on his ear, surely.

“It wouldn't be wise, since I’m sick.” he hummed, still not looking at Gojou. He couldn’t bear it.

Nanami couldn’t stand that cocky, teasing bastard, he couldn’t stand his malicious threats and offerings that he was then going to deny, he couldn’t stand the way Gojou referred to him and to himself, as if they were on widely different levels, as if Nanami was supposed, no, bound to do something to earn his boyfriend’s kindness.

“Go home, I’ll be fine.” he rasped out.

Leave. Please, leave. 

Was he going to cry? The fever was playing atrocious tricks on his mind and body, so Nanamin paid no mind to the sudden stinging sensation in his eyes, he didn’t care about his twitching chin and shaking hands.

“I know you will. I don’t need you to tell me you’ll be fine.” Gojou hummed, matter-of-factly, sounding almost offended at Nanami’s implication. Nanami himself really didn’t know what it was, though.

Was Gojou annoyed because Nanami had implied that someone like him could get worried? Or, was he mad because Nanami had implied that he was enough to make Gojou, of all people, worry? 

Both, probably.

“Then leave.” he hissed, heart hammering in his chest, head throbbing in the heat.

“I will.” 

“Good.” 

Gojou sat up, before a sweaty hand grabbed at his wrist, causing the man to cock a white eyebrow in what Nanami hoped wasn’t annoyance nor anger. Yet, he could tell it was.

“Do you even care?” he breathed out, eyes watery only because of the fever. “About me. Do- do you care? Did you ever...?”

The taller sorcerer grinned, features softening. “Of course I do, Nanamin. You’re one of the strongest sorcerers out there, how could I not care?” he purred, grabbing Nanami’s trembling jaw with his strong fingers, gaze penetrating.

Not reassuring in the slightest, either.

Nanami felt his face heat up, façade crumbling as hot tears welled at the corner of his blurry eyes. “Not- not as a sorcerer, Satoru!! Do you... care about me?”

The grip tightened, Gojou’s short nails leaving faint indents in his boyfriend’s cheeks, “Care how, Nanamin? What do you mean by care, what does care mean to you?” he grinned, shortening the distance between their faces, noses almost brushing against each other’s. 

“Y-you’re hurting me,” Nanami breathed out, faint, “Let go of m一”

“Say, Nanamin,” Gojou’s fingers dug deeper, grin growing wider, colder, “is it love you’re looking for? Is it what you’re asking me?”

The blond brought a shaky hand up, trying to pry Gojou’s hand away to no avail, too weakened by the debilitating fever, too shocked to act efficiently.

“Is it, Nanamin?”

“Y-yes.” he hiccupped, dry, voice barely above a whisper, his words whimpered and fragmented, “Do you love me? H-have you ever loved me?”

Gojou chuckled, licking his lips, “Of course I did, Nanamin. Of course. You’re so pretty, so strong… I would have been a fool not to love you, don’t you think?”

He did not let go.

“Do I not show you enough love, Nanamin? Do you not think I love you? Do you believe that I’m a bad boyfriend, Nanamin?” he asked.

Something in his tone wasn’t quite right. It sounded unfamiliar, having lost its arrogant edges, replaced with something that the blond couldn’t identify yet. And it creeped him out.

“N-no.” the ill one gulped, “It’s… S-sometimes, you don’t- I don’t think th-that you care. I, I feel like you don’t.” Nanami confessed, trembling.

“So you think I’m lying?” Gojou inquired.

“No!! I’m not- it’s not that.” 

“I think it is.”

Nanami shook his head vehemently, squeezing his eyes shut. He forced himself into a sitting position, willing the dizzy spell away, swallowing the bile that scratched the back of his tongue, ignoring how his shirt and bedsheets were soaked, ignoring the stale air in his room.

“P-please, Satoru, don’t一!!”

“It’s getting late, Nanamin.” Gojou sighed, clapping his hands once as he got up and stretched his legs, ignoring his boyfriend’s pleading look, ignoring his watery gaze and wet cheeks, ignoring the hand that feebly attempted to reach for his, uselessly.

“A-are you leaving me?” he sobbed, not caring about the snot that dripped down his fine nose, not caring about how pathetic and helpless he sounded. It was the fever.

“Is it not what you wanted me to do, Nanamin?” Gojou asked, hands deep in his pockets.

His eyes, clearer than the sky, bore a sour shade of regret, a glint of annoyance that Nanami prayed wasn’t addressed to him. Those eyes that looked down at him, on him, pissed.

“Y-yes, no, I don’t- I didn’t mean it l-like that, I meant一 please, wait, I’m not一”

“Goodbye, Nanamin.” Gojou muttered, headed for the door. He knocked Nanami’s glasses off the low dresser they were on, unconcerned, not bothering to pick them up.

The ill man faintly heard the door click in the distance again. Unfocused, bleary eyes scanned the room, because he couldn’t be gone, he couldn’t have left him like that, Nanami couldn’t believe that he did.

His gaze dropped to the floor, neat, untouched, glasses still placed on the dresser, the bottle still full of crystal-clear water.

Nanami could only breathe out a desperate whimper, a prayer for Gojou to come, for him to stop being so distant in every sense of the term. He wished and prayed, and fell into a restless slumber, plagued with other nightmares and suspected premonitions.

3/20/2021

[jadethest0ne]

In need of Refueling, Chapter 8 - Torrent

Summary:  “You?! Why would I trust you? You have brought me nothing but failure. Time and time again; nothing but disappointment!”

His father’s words might have been a result of his possession by the  White Bone Spirit, but whether or not they were his true thoughts, Red  Son vows to prove them wrong. To do so he seeks to attain a power strong  enough to destroy his father’s immortal enemy. After all, he’d much  rather throw fire at his problems.

Word Count: 3739

Ratings/Warnings:  Teen and up; injury, burns, angst and hurt/comfort, toxic thoughts caused by toxic parents, panic attacks, abuse

Notes: I got excited and decided to post the next chapter early. This fic is still going to be Red Son-centric, but I do want to focus a lot on MK. I think it'd be fun to explore some of his issues, including the darker parts of him. He's a good and kind-hearted kid, but at times has been shown to be a bit petty, impatient, and selfish. And like Red Son, I find it interesting to see what he'd do if pushed. I'd also like to point out that some of this chapter includes semi-competent JTTW lore (thanks again, Lem, for your help with that)!

Credits: Big thanks to @painted-arachnid and @simplyfornardo  for helping me bounce ideas off of them. And also thanks to @lemonsqueazie for providing me with “Journey to the West” lore. I don’t know much  about the original novel or other iterations, but I still tried to keep  some things compliant with the lore. You should check all of them out, since they’re really great content creators with neat ideas!  

Read on AO3

———-

Wind flows from MK in angry waves as he lands in between the Monkey King and DBK. If the stakes weren’t so dire, he’d think about how cool of a superhero landing that was. The blue fire has spread around the area, and though his landing pushed some of it back, none of it was extinguished. Fear flutters in his chest at coming face to face with the same power that had seemingly consumed his mentor, and it flares even more so to realize that this time it was DBK who seemed to be wielding the fire, and not Red Son. He glances on either side of his enemy to see Princess Iron Fan trying to put out some flames that had caught on her dress, and Red Son lying unconscious farther away. DBK seems off. It reminds him of when he was possessed by that weird white ghost before. An unhinged Demon Bull King wielding the very fire that could kill the Monkey king? Not good.

“Kid?!” calls a weak voice from behind him.

“Monkey King!” All thought and focus leaves him as he looks to the voice of his injured mentor. He’s still alive! The Monkey King looks angry. Or in pain?

“Look out, Kid!” he rasps.

MK turns around to see DBK charging at him, eyes ablaze. Before he can react, a giant, metallic fist slams into DBK, throwing him out of the way of MK.

“I got your back, MK!” Mei calls from the cockpit of the Monkey Mech that had entered the scene.

MK smiles up at her and waves. “Thanks Mei!”

“You check on the Monkey King! I’ll hold DBK off!” she says with a salute and takes giant leaps meeting DBK as he resumes his charge.

MK nods and rushes to his mentor’s side. He doesn’t look good. His fur is singed and parts of his clothes are blackened and ripped. Not only that, but there’s a flare of blue fire coming from his left side and right hand. MK reaches out to him. He doesn’t know what he can do, but he wants to help.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Monkey King shouts in a strained snarl.

MK flinches at the harsh command and his hands pause midair. He looks on helplessly as Monkey King wheezes and coughs, as if his yell took all his energy. MK brings his hands to his chest and tugs at his shirt as anxiety tugs at his heart.

The Monkey King’s expression turns to something softer and more sympathetic, and he corrects quickly, “No, no, kid.” He pants trying to catch his breath. “Y-you can’t touch me. You might catch on fire, too. You-- you need to go--” he says before devolving into wheezing coughs.

MK lets go of his shirt and clenches his fists. He wouldn’t let his mentor get in trouble trying to protect him again. “No, I need to help! I’m- I’m the hero guy now! I can do this!” He locks eyes with the Monkey King giving him a fierce and determined look.

The Monkey King stares back, steadily reading his student’s expression, before closing them and giving a nod. He looks up at MK with a strained, but proud smile and trusting eyes.

MK smiles back. Though it worries him that the Monkey King seems to be having trouble even talking right now, having his mentor’s affirmation means everything to him.

Suddenly a metallic screech blares behind him, so grating that he has to hold his hands to his ears. Turning around he sees DBK latching onto the Monkey Mech’s fist, twisting its metal, and grappling the giant mech to the ground. Flames twist around the fist and travel upward to the face of the mech, blooming into a fiery explosion.

“MEI!” MK screams as worry fills his heart. For a second he can’t breathe as he sees blue flames envelop the cockpit area, obscuring any sight of his best friend.

A streak of blue flies upward out of the head of the mech and for a moment MK thinks that it’s the flames flying even higher, until he realizes that it’s humanoid shaped. As the streak arcs downward he recognizes that it’s Sandy! With Pigsy and Mr. Tang hanging on his shoulders! And Mei held protectively in his arms!

He lands next to MK with a smile, a hearty laugh, and smoke trailing behind him. “Hello, MK! I brought some friends!”

Pigsy and Mr. Tang jump off quickly and rush to his side. He lets Mei down gently, who wobbles slightly and holds onto his arm for some support. Small blue flames start blackening her jacket sleeve. “Let me just take your jacket for you, Mei,” Sandy says, quickly, but carefully, pulling it off her shoulders in a practiced motion and flinging it to the side.

“Mei!” MK exclaims, rushing over to her and giving her a big hug. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just a bit dizzy,” she says with slightly unfocused eyes. “I think I breathed in too much smoke.” She winces and holds her head.

MK looks over her, worriedly, and then a flicker of light catches his eye.

“Sandy! You’re on fire!” Pigsy exclaims.

“Well, I do think that was an exciting last-minute save, thank you!” Sandy says cheerily.

At everyone’s pause he looks to his shoulder to see a small blue flame burning there. “Oh you mean that!” he says, cheery voice not faltering in the slightest.

“SANDY!” Pigsy yells angrily.

Sandy laughs sheepishly. “Ah hah, I must’ve got singed a bit when rescuing Mei. But don’t worry, we’re here to deal with that problem. MK, you can stop DBK while Tang tries to find a possible cure in that book of his.”

Mr. Tang pushes his glasses up his nose. “Yes, I will research on how to extinguish the True Fire of Samadhi…” he says calmly, before his voice raises into a fearful shriek, “just as it iS COMING RIGHT AT US!”

True to his shout, a blast of fire is headed their way. MK isn’t going to let it get advantage of them this time. He quickly summons his staff. Though he doesn’t know the fire repellant wards that Monkey King does, he can at least deflect the flames with the staff. He twirls the staff catching up the fire with it, and whips it around sending it back the Bull King’s way. DBK absorbs the fire back into his chest and growls angrily.

“MK, go and deal with the Demon Bull King!” Pigsy says. “I’ll keep an eye on these guys while Tang tries to find a solution in that book of his!”

MK nods and rushes to battle the new commander of the flames that took down his mentor.

DBK breathes out a couple of fire blasts, which MK swats out of the way with his staff. He closes in on DBK and swings a third swipe right at his head. DBK catches the attack with one of his horns and flicks it backwards. He swings a punch at MK’s midsection, which MK blocks with his staff. He retaliates with a few quick jabs of his staff, forcing DBK to take some steps back to dodge. The demon stamps one of his hooves to the ground, emitting sparks as if they were a flint hitting stone, causing fire to flare around him. MK is forced to do an impromptu jig to dodge the sparks. Doing so leaves an opening for DBK to thrust his head forward in an attempt to gouge him with his horns.

MK hears his shirt tear and feels a sharp point slash across his skin. He squints his eyes shut at the pain that is sure to come, but before he can even think, DBK has thrown another punch his way, ramming into his chest and flinging him across the battlefield.

Wind whips past his ears and he feels his body hit a wall, debris scattering about him. Dust surrounds him and obscures his vision. He hears a ringing in his ears and the shouting of his friends’ worried voices, calling his name. His feet land on the ground and he stumbles a few steps forward, but does not fall. There is surprisingly little pain. The dust clears and he blinks his eyes, looking down at himself. He is… fine…? His shirt is torn, and there is a clear indication that he was thrown several yards, what with a furrow in the ground and a crater in the wall behind him. But there are no apparent injuries on him. He remembers to breathe and huffs out a surprised cough.

“..What?” he asks to no one.

He looks up and everyone, including DBK, looks just as confused as MK feels. Except for the Monkey King. Who he can see looking at him, with half lidded eyes and a contented smile. He recalls the moment back at Flower Fruit Mountain, when Monkey King sent him away. That hit to the chest!

“Monkey King...” he breathes. “You-- you undid the seal on my powers!?” he yells.

His mentor smiles wide enough that his eyes squint shut.

“So, you’re invincible again?!” Mei says excitedly.

“Yeah!” MK can’t help but mirror his friend’s smile as he pulls at the tear in his shirt. “I guess so!”

An angry snarl comes from DBK’s direction as does a stream of blue fire.

MK yelps and leaps out of the way. “Well… invincible except for the fire!” He runs away from the trail of fire following him, dodging around in a serpentine motion. He shouts over to where Pigsy and Mr. Tang are hovering by the Monkey King. “Mr.Tang! You got a solution to the fire problem yet?!”

Mr. Tang’s expression belies boredom, but his jaw is tight and his speech is sharp and hurried. He flips through his book and responds, “According to my research, the Samadhi Fire can only be sent away by the creator of the fire, held at bay by a fire repellent ward, or extinguished by a drop of sweet dew from the Bodhisattva Guanyin's vase.” He readjusts his glasses as a bead of sweat drips down his temple. “And unfortunately,” he gestures at DBK, “the creator of the fire doesn’t seem to be in the mood to stop shooting fire at us…” He gestures at the Monkey King, “...the only one who knows fire repellent wards is having trouble breathing, much less is able to form seals…” MK grimaces at this remark, but listens to Mr. Tang as he continues. “...And I don’t think we have any Bodhisattva’s present and willing to provide us with a drop of dew.”

That’s not good. The Monkey King’s state is getting worse and worse. The fire has already gotten on Sandy, and despite the big guy’s grin, he can tell the spreading burn is weighing on him. What can MK do? Keep fighting the Demon Bull King, and wait until each of his friends, including himself, accidentally catch on fire? He’s not sure he can dodge DBK forever, and even if he tires him out or defeats him, that’s not going to put the fire out. The flames from their battle are even beginning to overtake the surrounding area. Even if stopping DBK stops the flames, he’s not sure if he’d be able to do it in time to prevent more destruction or to save Monkey King!

He dodges another blast of fire. He squints his eyes shut in frustration. What can he do?!

Upon opening his eyes, everything is golden. True sight! He looks around and everything appears as if in slow-motion. Or rather, it’s all going at normal speeds, but it’s like he can see how everything moves and every single detail. He sees the flames curl around him, and which fiery hoops to dodge through. He can see the flames flare at DBK’s center and the pained squint around his eyes as if even the Demon Bull King is at the fire’s mercy. He can see Princess Iron Fan’s attempts to put out the fire only causing it to spread more, and Red Son’s still body. He can see Mei look between them all worriedly and how that causes her to become even dizzier. He hopes she didn’t get a concussion. He can see the corner of Sandy’s eyes squint in pain despite his smile, and Pigsy’s spittle as he yells at Mr. Tang to hurry up. He can see the cool expression on the scholar start to break as he flips through his book. He can see an illustration in the book of a drop of dew being poured from a heavenly looking vase. Somehow he sees the dew drip down the page and onto the ground. Except that the ground suddenly becomes an ocean, as if an entire body of water was held within that one drop of heavenly dew, and he is completely enveloped in its vastness.

He blinks. The ocean is gone and the golden view is receding. But before it leaves completely it focuses on the Monkey King. The fire has crept up to his chest and shoulder. He is no longer breathing. As if the flames have claimed the air in his lungs.

MK has no more time.

He thinks of the ocean.

He knows what he must do.

MK leaps through another twist of flame, but instead of landing he thrusts his staff to the ground, and extends it to hurl himself high up into the air. He looks out, across the city, to the bay and finds what he is looking for.

“Picking up an entire ocean can’t be too much harder than picking up a mountain. Right?” he jokes in an attempt to alleviate his worries. It doesn’t really.

He hopes this works. It will work. It has to work!

He enlarges the staff further and extends it over to the waters. He’s in the air, but does what his mentor taught him as best he can. “Step into the strike.”

He swings the now gigantic staff, thrusting the end into the ocean, and putting his entire body into the motion. He strains his muscles, and even for an invincible and powerful being, this is hard. Slowly, but surely, the staff moves. And the ocean with it. The force of the strike pulls the ocean right out of the bay, out of the earth, and a near infinite wall of water seizes up behind him.

MK swoops the staff around, and brings it, and the entire ocean crashing down. He doesn’t do so carelessly, no. He wills the waters to drench the area, the buildings, his friends with a strong enough flow to extinguish the flames, but not to harm. But as for the demons who caused this mess, he lets the full weight of the water slam into them. Angrily. Mercilessly.

Like the torrents currently surrounding him, anger and hatred swirl around MK. He pushes the water down onto his enemies. He forces the water to seep into the tech on DBK’s chest, making sure that he extinguishes every last bit of that blue fire. He throws it down on Red Son and Princess Iron Fan, as well. They all deserve this, right? They tricked him! They used him to bring them to the Monkey King. They hurt him! They hurt his friends! They tried to kill his friends! They almost killed his mentor! Had they killed his mentor? Is he still alive? Is this even helping?

He looks to his friends. The fire had gone out. But his friends look distressed. He sees Mei strain to look up at him through the streaming waters whipping around her. She looks shocked and worried. MK notices his face is scrunched up and his brows are furrowed harshly. What must he look like right now?

He looks over to his enemies, the water is pushing them back, threatening to force them into the bay and be lost at sea once the waters return there. Red Son started this, but he had been out the entire fight, injured and unable to defend himself. DBK had attacked, but was obviously overcome with the power. And Princess Iron Fan hadn’t even lifted a finger to him or his friends here. What’s the point of hurting them further?

MK looks at the Monkey King. The way the water flows around him, MK could pretend that it is as if his mentor is moving. But he’s not. MK knows he’s not. He had stopped the fire. Isn’t that enough?

He hopes it is enough, because if it isn’t, he doesn’t know what he’d do. He just wants his friends to be safe. He just wants his mentor to wake up and keep teaching him. He shouldn’t have this much power right now. Not yet. He can’t handle it yet. He needs his teacher.

And like the weight of the ocean, the weight of his emotions come crashing down. A sob bubbles out of his throat and he bursts into tears. The wave of water he’s controlling suddenly breaks apart, expanding over the area and covering it in a torrential downpour of salty rain.

MK floats down to the ground and stands there listlessly as equally salty tears slide down his face. He wobbles and is caught by the sudden embrace of his best friend. Mei holds him close, and MK sinks into the hug. His legs give out underneath him, and she follows him gently to the ground, kneeling beside him. He buries his face just below her shoulder and cries heavily into her shirt. She holds him tightly as if helping to hold back the sobs that are racking his body. The rain pouring around them forms white noise in MK’s ears, and he is reminded of the comfort she gave him before. Despite this he can just barely hear her calming whispers reach him, and he holds on tighter still.

Much larger arms surround them both. It’s Sandy. MK can tell from the tint of blue at the corner of his vision and the scent of tea and baked goods that seem to surround the large man. Sandy picks them both up and holds them protectively. The love and comfort he feels from his friends is enough to help him quiet his crying. He tries to dry his tears, but with the rain drenching everything, the act is useless. Still he looks up at them with grateful, watery eyes, and says, “Thanks guys.”

“Of course, MK,” Mei says like she helped him beat a level in a video game and not like her support means the world to him.

“You did it, MK!” Sandy says jovially!

MK winces a bit at his booming voice, but gives a slight smile. It fades immediately at the thought of his mentor. “The Monkey King! Is he all right?!”

The two of them look over in that direction. Pigsy and Mr. Tang are on either side of the Monkey King. Mr. Tang looks like he is making jabbing motions with his fingers at the Monkey King while Pigsy is flailing his arms wildly and yelling.

“What do ya think you’re doing?!” MK can hear Pigsy yell as Sandy brings him and Mei closer.

“I’m trying to hit his chakra points to help him start breathing again!” Mr. Tang exclaims, all attempts at remaining calm completely lost.

“Can ya even do that?!” Pigsy says, trying to sound sarcastic, but the rising tone of his voice gives away his panic.

“I’m following the book’s instructions!”

“Well do it better!”

“I’m trying!”

“Listen ta me, Tang! That’s not even tha way to do it! Ta make someone breathe again, ya just gotta slap ‘em like this!” Pigsy exclaims winding up an arm.

Mr. Tang flails his own arms and says, “Pigsy, I don’t think you should act rashly and--”

But it’s no good as Pigsy lands a couple of harsh blows to the Monkey King’s back. Everyone else flinches slightly and lets out variations of yelps and “No’s”, but they’re all surprised when a wheezing cough comes out of the Monkey King’s mouth.

“Monkey King!” MK exclaims and scrambles out of Sandy and Mei’s grip to sit next to his mentor.

The Monkey King makes a few more dry coughs and pants heavily. With obvious effort, he opens his eyes and looks up at his student. A wobbly smile spreads on MK’s face and once again tears threaten to spill over. “You’re okay!”

The Monkey King smiles as well and takes a few more steadying breaths before attempting to speak. “Thanks to you, kid! Good hero work!”

MK’s smile wobbles back into a frown and he leans over and hugs the Monkey King, careful to avoid any overly singed fur. He buries his face in his fur and shudders with no help from the cold rain.

“I’m okay, kid. I’m okay!” the Monkey King reassures his shivering student. He doesn’t move, but the shallow, yet now steady, breathing and the whispers of reassurance let MK know that he was right, and everything would be okay.

After a moment of calm silence, Pigsy speaks up. “Well, we better get ‘im someplace where we can take care of his wounds. Let’s head back to the noodle shop, I got some first aid kits in there.”

“Do you even know how to take care of an immortal?” Mr. Tang says.

“Hey, I helped revive him, didn’t I? I'll figure it out when we get there! Sandy, your arm good enough to carry him? I can patch you up as well!”

“I should be good enough to get to the noodle shop,” Sandy says.

MK allows Sandy to pick up the Monkey King, who seems to be slipping in and out of consciousness now, but still breathing steadily.

MK allows himself one last look at the now empty battlefield.

“The DBK family is gone…” Mei says as if to echo his very thoughts.

“Maybe they got taken away by the water…?” Sandy says, looking out to the direction of the sea.

“Ah good riddance, is what I say!” says Pigsy with a wave of his hand. “C’mon, let’s get going.”

With one last look out to sea, MK turns around and hurries to keep pace with Sandy, and keeps an eye on the steady rise and fall of The Monkey King's chest the whole way home.

start || <– previous // next –>  

[this-haunting-hunger]

fic: don’t take this haunting home - IV

Wei Ying lives with many ghosts. It’s usually not a problem. He used to be one himself, after all. However, ghosts have one glaring fault, and it is this: they are, by definition, people who refuse to stay completely dead.

And as far as Wei Ying is concerned, some dead people should stay that way.

Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four

Content: angst, violence, ghosts

Pairing: Wangxian

Length: 7.2k

read on ao3

//

Waking up is no harder than being resurrected. Which is to say, it is very hard and kinda nauseating and absolutely disorienting and could he maybe go back to being unconscious? There’s a song drifting at the edge of his awareness, all strings and silver, a soft, cradling presence that makes it seem like staying awake might just be bearable. For several minutes, as the music wraps around him, he lets himself sink into it, into the warm embrace of something familiar but enigmatic. A story he used to know but whose ending he’s forgotten. Let me stay, he finds himself thinking, and doesn’t understand why. Please, let me stay.  

Consciousness is relentless. No matter how hard he tries to push it away, it just comes back, nudges him with ever firmer insistence. Like a mangy dog, burying its cold nose against his skin. A groan peels through his too-dry lips – the music stops – and it feels like his soul is separating from his body with the pitiful sound. Like if he breathes too hard, he’s going to end up losing whatever churned up mess is inside. And gods, that will not be pretty for anyone involved.

Anyone involved… Who is involved? With another low moan, he reaches up, prods tenderly at his forehead. It seems to be distinctly Wei Ying shaped, which is a weird enough discovery to pry his eyes open. He’s greeted by a very welcome face, and a much less welcome surge of pain and dizziness as the light stabs at him.

Since the face has been seared on the insides of his eyelids for years now and he doesn’t fear losing it in the next few minutes, Wei Ying shuts his eyes again. The blackness is a pleasant balm to the pain, though the dizziness seems to have lodged itself into his brain.

“Lan Zhan,” he rasps, only slightly more pathetically than he feels. “Ah, Lan Zhan, I swear I didn’t steal the Emperor’s Smile this time.”

There’s no verbal response, but a hand catches his wrist, fingers skimming gently along his skin until they find what they’re looking for and press more firmly against his meridian line. It would be soothing, that touch, if it didn’t almost feel like it was pushing against someone else’s flesh. The transfer of energy is more familiar, though, ticklish and light and refreshing, and Wei Ying’s eyes flutter before he forces them open again.

It would be altogether too selfish to let himself enjoy the elegant lines of Lan Zhan’s face for a few moments… but oh, it is tempting. Even when those lines are just a trifle too sharp, a little too slanted, his lips pressed a bit too hard together. Even angry, Lan Zhan’s beauty is a visceral thing, summoning a bloom of warmth in the pit of Wei Ying’s stomach, and honestly, he should have more near-death experiences just for the pleasure of waking up to that leaning over him.

Of course, near death or not, Lan Zhan is very often nearby when he wakes up. It’s just that the looming thing is kind of sexy.

But because he is not selfish – and because the anger has something guilty and anxious swarming up his throat – Wei Ying swallows hard and tries to sit up. Lan Zhan immediately puts his free hand on his chest and keeps him pinned, though the man isn’t meeting his gaze, eyes fixed elsewhere. Wei Ying thinks he has nice wrists, but probably not nice enough to warrant them being stared at for thirty or so seconds.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, trying to delicately pry the hand from his chest. It doesn’t move. Even when his other hand joins in the attempt, with Lan Zhan’s fingers still curled around his wrist, he can’t get the other man to shift. “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whines, mainly because the Chief Cultivator still isn’t really looking at him.

“Rest,” is his companion’s flat insistence. It’s not the good kind of flat, either, the kind that is steady and stable and extends forever. It’s the kind that makes Wei Ying feel like he’s going to fall, with absolutely nothing to stop the downward slide.

He wilts, dizziness still swimming across his vision. Head falling back onto the bed, Wei Ying keeps his hands clasped around Lan Zhan’s forearm as he murmurs, “I’m glad to see you.”

There’s a pause, a silence that’s too deep, too thick, too easy to suffocate in, and he almost has time to be really, truly afraid. Almost. But not quite. Because then Lan Zhan is replying, in a voice that nearly breaks, “As am I. Wei Ying, you…” Extra pressure from the hand still pressed against his chest, a tightness in the fingers wound around his wrist. They’re the only physical signs of the aggravation Wei Ying knows the other is feeling. It all comes to nothing. “How are you feeling?” his lover asks, as though that were really what he had been about to say.

It’s – almost frustrating. He almost wishes Lan Zhan would let loose the anger, set out accusations in neat little rows, if only so Wei Ying could knock them all asunder. How is he supposed to be chaotically endearing if there’s nothing to whirlwind his way through?

“I’m feeling well rested,” is his response, a trifle more than a trifle obnoxious, and also a lie. A line actually appears between Lan Zhan’s fine eyebrows, which means Wei Ying is really making some progress on the maddening front. Partly because he knows it will annoy the other man, but mainly because he’s genuinely puzzled, he changes the topic. “How did you get here? And where is here, anyways?”

The room they’re in is a generic one, at least from what Wei Ying can tell when he cranes his neck, still unable to sit up because of a certain stubborn someone. One window is letting in a good deal of light, and the place is clean but largely unadorned. A simple bed, a nondescript table with plain sitting cushions, unadorned sectioning screens, little in the way of decoration. It’s also ghost-free, which may or may not be a good thing, but it’s a thing his head is throbbing too much to think about. At least for the next few minutes.

He hasn’t received an answer, but nonetheless he knows. “An inn, right? Which one?”

“Tiantan.”  

The village at the foot of Suntouched Sanctuary. The one he’d passed through this morning. Or – actually, he has no idea how long it’s been since his feet took him up towards the temple. That’s a realization that has disorientation tumbling down his spine, counting out each vertebra like there might be a few too many jammed in there. He wiggles uncomfortably at the thought, and decides he’s probably let Lan Zhan steep in his protective anger for long enough.

Relinquishing his grip on the other man’s arm, he reaches up, trails his fingers over the exposed hollow of Lan Zhan’s throat, brushing back little strands of silky black hair to bare the skin better. His lover doesn’t pull away, and the quizzical half-tilt of his head, the swallow that Wei Ying can feel through the pads of his fingers, they have a helpless little sound stirring behind Wei Ying’s lips. Gods, how can anyone so beautiful be so charming, too? He resists his impulse to wax eloquent about Lan Zhan’s many virtues and says instead, “You know, if you’re so determined to keep me in bed, I can think of a few ways you might convince me to stay.”

It’s light enough in the room to see Lan Zhan’s pupils flare, dark and intent in the splash of sun spilling across his austere face. His throat convulses, another hard swallow, and for half a second, he leans in closer, unbound hair tickling Wei Ying’s face. It looks like he’s actually thinking about what he could do to keep Wei Ying obediently in place. Wei Ying’s body tenses, an automatic response to the smoldering expression, and it occurs to him that he really could think of a few things they could do on this bed. They’re so close right now, the least they could do was kiss…

Lan Zhan’s frustrated exhale puffs against his lips, and then the other man is straightening and backing away. Wei Ying doesn’t bother hiding his disappointed pout, which, given that his masterplan had been to get Lan Zhan to let him up, is a bit ridiculous. Whatever. No one has ever called the Yiling Patriarch a fount of Maturity and Constancy; he sees no reason to get them started now.

“You nearly died. You think I’d want to do… anything… after that?” Lan Zhan’s voice is so strangled with indignation that it’s somewhat funny, and Wei Ying has to stifle his rash impulse to point out that Lan Zhan certainly did want to do something, if only for a moment.

Quickly discarding his disappointment in favour of a smug grin, he sits up before Lan Zhan can change his mind. He only regrets it by about ninety percent when his stomach immediately lurches, nausea and dizzy pain warring for supremacy. The dizziness wins – thankfully – and, swallowing the urge to retch, he swings his legs over the side of the bed. He even (almost) manages to persuade himself that there hadn’t been a moment, half a second or less, when he’d thought his legs might not respond, given that they still don’t feel entirely like his legs. Nothing about this body feels entirely his, right now. A familiar sensation, but one aggravated by his use of Empathy.   

“Wei Ying…”

Ignoring that, he straightens, rolls his shoulders, mainly to convince himself that he has the ability to do so. Giving the room a more careful scan, he notes Lan Zhan’s guqin settled on the low table. The sight of the beautiful instrument has his throat closing, and it takes him a moment to realize why. The music that had been playing – the cursive, melodic trail he had followed out of the wrenching blackness of Wen Zhuliu’s despair – belonged to those strings. And those strings belong to Lan Zhan. Of course he feels like crying.

Of course he doesn’t cry. “Have you seen a spirit recently?” he asks instead, because really, that should take priority over his ripped up insides. “About this tall,” Lan Zhan’s eyes follow his vague hand gesture, “and really grim? You might recognize him, though it’s been a few –”

“Wen Zhuliu,” the other man says. “Yes. He was near when I found you. After you came back from Empathy...” There’s a pause, stagnant with more words that his beloved won’t say, and Wei Ying shifts restlessly, trying not to picture what pitiful state Lan Zhan had probably found him in. Trying not to remember the gut wrenching desperation in the voice that had called him back. “He disappeared when the connection broke. I’ve had the disciples preparing wards to ensure he cannot attack here.”

That distracts him. “The disciples? The – you brought some of the Lans? Who?”

An impassive expression. “Lan Jingyi, Lan Sizhui, Lan Feiyan, Lan Keung. Clan Leader Jin, who was visiting on Sect business, also demanded to come.”

“The kids? You brought the kids!?”

“Wei Ying.” For the first time since Wei Ying has woken up, Lan Zhan’s stone faced glower softens into something awfully close to amusement. “They are not children, despite your insistence on calling them as such.”

His hands flap dismissively. Semantics! “They’re younger than me,” he says by way of explanation, conveniently ignoring the fact that in some ways, he’s not truly much older than they are. “They’re also innocents! Defenseless idiots! How could you bring them into something like this?” If he had been on the sharp side of panic at the thought of Lan Zhan confronting Wen Zhuliu, that’s nothing compared to the gristly fear currently grinding up his insides at the prospect of the juniors being thrown into the mix. 

“It will be a learning experience,” Lan Zhan replies placidly. “Besides, I am here. Does Wei Ying think the Chief Cultivator is incapable of confronting this spirit? Of defending those he’s sworn to protect?” By the end of that, his voice has sharpened, and the very fact that he’s referring to himself by his title shows how upset he is.

“Of course not,” Wei Ying replies instantly. “If I had to choose anyone to be at my side, anyone at all, it would be you. It’s always you.” He leans forward as he says it, the truth of what he’s insisting stark in his eyes, and his lover doesn’t look away.

“Yet you chose to face this alone. You used Empathy alone, despite knowing how dangerous it is.”

Resisting the urge to wince, thankful that Lan Zhan is willing to speak about what’s hurting him and not bottle it up, Wei Ying smiles ruefully. “And that decision worked out so well. I’m… I might have made a mistake. A small one.”

“That almost got you killed.”

“But lucky for me, I have a handsome cultivator ready to swoop in to save me from demons and ghouls and such.” There’s no budge in his companion’s flat expression – not yet – and Wei Ying curbs his levity. “Ah, Lan Zhan, it’s not that I didn’t want you by me. It’s not that I didn’t think you could protect me from Wen Zhuliu. It’s just…” Lan Zhan is still watching him quietly, and he can’t help but reach out a hand, hopeful and yet a little breathless with apprehension, even after all this time.  

The other man doesn’t hesitate to entwine their fingers, and a second later he joins Wei Ying on the bed. Lan Zhan pulls their clasped hands into his lap, a seemingly unconscious gesture, as unconscious as the way he traces gentle lines across Wei Ying’s knuckles. “It’s just…” he prompts patiently, and gods, what did Wei Ying do to deserve such a man by his side? Perhaps he’d been a Saviour of the People in a previous life.

Not in this one, though. Shame creeps along his shoulders, making them hunch, and the raw vulnerability he feels, drawn out by Lan Zhan’s touch, is no less humiliating. Share his fear? Share his pain? Put yet another burden on the Chief Cultivator, as though Wei Ying deserves to be relieved of this weight? The urge to joke – to lie – wavers uneasily on his tongue.

But this, at least, is a habit Wei Ying has learned to restrain. For Lan Zhan, at least. “It’s just…” His free hand gropes along his sternum, like it could sink through his skin and cradle the pit of energy within. “I saw Jiang Cheng without his core, and I saw what it did to him. And when I gave my core to him...” He laughs, but the sound is hollow, and the smile he affixes to his lips is a reflex more than anything. “Lan Zhan, I know people called me a mad dog back then, but truly, sometimes, when I felt the emptiness inside me, well, they were not as wrong as they usually tended to be. I suppose even fools must be right once in a decade, hmm?” He laughs again and the sound rattles through the room before dying.

Lan Zhan is very, very still. He is not moving at all, except for his thumb, still stroking Wei Ying’s fingers. It is a stress response in reaction to grief and guilt for a tragedy long passed. It’s not a judgement. Wei Ying knows this, yet he still feels restless, restive, waiting for his lover to chide him for his thoughts and weakness. Deliberately careless retorts stack on his tongue, ready to topple off and dismiss what he just said, to reassure with a chuckle that the gouges in his soul are nothing.

Yet the man next to him does not offer a reproach. After a long moment, he just shifts, leans his shoulder lightly into Wei Ying. “You were afraid,” he observes quietly, and Wei Ying stiffens at the implication. Before he can argue, though, Lan Zhan shakes his head, a miniscule movement. “For me,” is his clarification.

Wei Ying is quick to agree to that as he relaxes. In his own way. This is swiftly becoming cloying, and he’s eager to move on. Not because he doesn’t want Lan Zhan to know he cares – that’s a battle he’s glad he lost more than a decade ago – but because there is pain in the tightness of his partner’s lips, and Wei Ying is so tired of this phantom ache that neither of them have healed. So… jokes.  

"What would we do if Wen Zhuliu took your core, and you couldn't cast the Silence Spell? I don’t know if our bond could survive the stress."

Lan Zhan does not laugh, or even smile. His intense stare might have been unsettling for someone else, and it had been unnerving for Wei Ying in a different time and place. Now, however, he basks in the attention, in the fierce devotion that inspires such a focus. "Wei Ying," Lan Zhan says, "I understand."  

As ever, he cuts straight to the heart of the matter, accepts without the need or desire to dwell on it. Before Wei Ying can be appropriately grateful for that forgiveness, the other man adds, "Next time, tell me. Whatever it is."

"Ah, Lan Zhan, I don't think we'll have the misfortune to meet two Wen Zhuliu ghosts in this lifetime."

A light furrow appears on his lover's forehead, and his posture, already immaculate, somehow becomes even straighter. "Wei Ying, promise me. Whatever it is next time, you'll tell me."

So the stare, as it turns out, can still be a bit unsettling for Wei Ying. He looks away, squirms in his seat and then makes to get up. Lan Zhan still has his hand, however, and the man's grasp is an anchor, forcing him to stay in place. "Wei Ying," he repeats, as close to an anxious entreaty as Lan Zhan ever gets.

Despite being a bit of an escape artist extraordinaire, the Yiling Patriarch is helpless to evade the sincerity of that plea. Huffing, he slouches back on to the bed and pouts. "Aish, fine. Next time I'll drag you with me to hell or wherever I end up."

It is a little bit ridiculous, how pleased the Chief Cultivator looks to be told such a thing. Wei Ying senses a shift in the room, a subtle loosening that means, once again, he’s been believed. Lan Zhan is not a simpleton, nor even particularly naïve, but he does have a tendency to think promises are not, in fact, made to be broken, and a habit of believing everyone else must think the same.       

Lan Zhan hums, whether in pleasure or conciliation, it's hard to say. Either way, the sharp lines of his face have softened, and the tension in his fingers has faded away. With a light snort, Wei Ying returns the pressure with his shoulder, the contact grounding him, letting the fear and guilt die down to a low flicker.

He still feels horrible, but at least it's only his body this time around.

"Speaking of our bond... I don't think it's quite strong enough to let you track me down. How'd you end up finding me?"

The smile is finally there, and Wei Ying had long ago learned to love the subtleties of that barely perceptible quirk, the slight tempering that so many people are likely to overlook.

Although he appreciates it slightly less when it’s at his expense.

“Lan Jingyi was to receive punishment for his actions during the Summer Recital of Values,” Lan Zhan explains calmly, as if that cleared up everything. Wei Ying truly doesn’t know how the young man had gathered so many butterflies, not to mention kept them concealed and unharmed until the moment he’d set them loose throughout the Chamber of Orchids, but he suspects there were accomplices. He also doesn’t know what the lecture-halting prank has to do with the Chief Cultivator finding him.

Seeing his befuddled pout, Lan Zhan’s smile grows by at least a millimeter. It’s dangerously close to being a smirk, now. Bastard. “Wei Ying encourages flexible punishments. I gave Lan Jingyi the choice between writing out the Values four hundred times, or keeping me appraised of your whereabouts and actions. He chose very quickly.”

Clutching dramatically at his chest, Wei Ying gasps, “You got him to spy on me? Isn’t that against the Lan Clan rules? What was the one… ‘Do not take part in dishonest practices.’”

“Be loyal,” Lan Zhan replies without hesitation. “Perform acts of chivalry. Believe sincerely.”

Wei Ying shakes his head. “Ah, Lan Zhan, I have been a bad influence. Lan Qiren would beat us both to hear you degrading the Values by actually thinking about their contradictions.”

The other man’s face loses some of its amusement, eyebrows furrowing in solemn contemplation, and Wei Ying has a moment to regret what was supposed to be a joke. However, Lan Zhan doesn’t seem upset. More softly than before, but more firmly too, the Chief Cultivator quotes, “Do not fail to carry out your promise.”

Their eyes meet, then, and Wei Ying thinks about a sky filled with floating lanterns, about hands clasped under his chin in fervent, naïve prayer. Of Lan Zhan, by his side even then. No regrets. "One of the Jades of Lan could not possibly fail at anything, let alone their promises," he jokes, but means it all the same. Lan Zhan might think differently, but the man has never failed him. Not on a mountain, or anywhere else.

That is not a path he wants to go down, however, so he draws himself up with officious huffiness. “Never mind. That brat has been tailing me? How could I not have noticed?”

“Lan Jingyi is very wily when motivated. Besides, I believe he has mostly followed your tracks, not your presence.”

Head cocking, finger going up to rub at his nose, Wei Ying stares narrowly at the Chief Cultivator. Lan Zhan gives nothing away, ghost of a smile still playing across his lips as he waits for Wei Ying to figure out what he means. Very smug. Very bastardly. And all in such an upright way, it’s impossible to challenge him on it.

Besides, Wei Ying’s attention is caught by the quandary. It takes a long moment, sorting through his mind what he’s done in the last month or so that could possibly count as tracks, but eventually it dawns on him. “The library. He asked Lan Kuan what scrolls I requested!”

A shallow nod is all the confirmation he needs, and he throws up his hands in disgust, ignoring the way it makes his head pulse with pain. He had spent weeks in the library, trying to determine where Wen Zhuliu’s former home was located, and, after he thought he'd figured it out, the best route to get there. He'd also familiarized himself with cases of non-aggressive hauntings, and situations where a cultivator's power continued even after death. It hadn’t occurred to him while researching that the old man who helped him wade through Cloud Recesses’ mountains of scrolls might tip off where he was going. “Aish! Lan Kuan, that doddering meddler!”

“Elder Lan Kuan is your senior, and a respected member of Gusu Lan Clan,” Lan Zhan says disapprovingly. He’s about to say more, no doubt a thrilling if stilted lecture about propriety and appropriate deference to the elderly, when they both hear something. A soft rustle at the screen doors, followed by a sharp inhale, more discrete rustling, and then silence.

Pointing at the door, Wei Ying grins. Anyone else would miss the way his lover inclines his head by just a little, but it’s all the benediction Wei Ying needs. Still smiling, maybe a trifle too evilly, he declares abruptly, “At any rate, Jingyi will pay! I’ll have spirits moan outside his bedroom for a month, at least!”

There’s a pause as Lan Zhan decides whether he actually wants to participate, and then the Chief Cultivator blandly comments, “That would be disruptive to the other disciples.”

“Then I’ll make him eat congee for weeks! Let’s see him spy on me when there’s a hole through his tongue!”  

It’s impossible to say if his learning-to-be-lenient lover would have continued the prank, because there’s a yelp from behind the door, followed by someone else’s wordless protest.

“You lunatic! Don’t you dare!” The exclamation comes as the screen is violently slid open, and three people are revealed, two latched on to the other’s white robes and trying to drag him away. Jingyi won’t be held back, however, and he points accusingly at Wei Ying. "Eating your cooking is a worse punishment than copying the Values ten thousand times!"

While Wei Ying gasps in affront like such a comment could actually wound him, Jingyi spins around. "Hanguang Jun," he says in desperate appeal, "I was just doing what you asked. Don't let this lunatic get me!"

Meanwhile, the two people who had tried to stop him from entering the room have relinquished their grip on his robe and now stand in sheepish silence. Lan Sizhui looks properly remorseful for the spying and interruption – and probably feels that way, too – while Jin Ling is just embarrassed and, to judge from his expression, getting sullen about it.

The Hanguang Jun in question hardly looks at the trio, just rises from the bed and puts his arm behind his back with elegant grace. He says nothing and, with the light from the window shining on his perfect form, accentuating the pale blue designs on his white inner robe, he looks like a god removed from them all. Stern, implacable, and hugely unimpressed with the shenanigans of mortals.

Of course, from where he's standing, Wei Ying can just make out a quirk of oh-so-pretty lips, and he rather suspects the reason Hanguang Jun isn't looking at the kids is to avoid any of them noticing his amusement.

"Hanguang Jun, we are sorry. We were coming to report that we've finished our preparations, and we heard you talking and didn't want to interrupt, so..." Sizhui's voice isn't meek or cringing; it's the steady cadence of a man admitting to his wrong.

Or Wei Ying is just a bit biased when it comes to the disciple.

Jin Ling lifts his chin. "Does Gusu Lan Sect own this inn, huh? Why shouldn't we go where we choose?"

"Be polite," Sizhui mutters, which just goes to show that Jin Ling's elevation to Clan Leader didn't destroy the bonds between them; the ever-polite Lan disciple wouldn't have chided a leader otherwise.

With a scowl, Jin Ling is about to reply with something no doubt unflattering, but Wei Ying cuts in. "You mean you choose to lurk in hallways, Jin Ling? Very strange."

The younger man flushes, but it's Lan Zhan's turn to interrupt. "Sizhui. Everything is prepared?"

"Ah, yes, Hanguang Jun. We've assembled the wards and created a watch schedule. The others are downstairs, making final preparations." So, in Wei Ying’s experience, they’re taking the opportunity to goof off away from Lan Zhan’s somber eyes. As much as Lan Clan disciples ever goof off.  

"I still don't see why we're bothering to ward against some random spirit," Jingyi mumbles, probably not purposefully loudly enough for them all to hear. Jin Ling bobs his head in agreement.

Lan Zhan is unmoved, and starting to get serious. "Wei Ying was harmed by it. That is reason enough." Still, his lover's eyes flicker over to Wei Ying, and for Lan Zhan that might as well be a scream of curiosity. Of course, the Chief Cultivator had been too disciplined – and kind – to jump all over him with questions when Wei Ying first woke up, but it's obvious the questions haven't been far from the front of his mind.

Given that his plan to keep them all safe and in the dark has failed so spectacularly, he has no reason to withhold this information now. “That ‘random spirit’ is Wen Zhuliu,” Wei Ying begins. He expects to have to explain further, about who Wen Zhuliu is and why it matters, and is rather taken aback when all three young disciples jump at his name, exchanging looks of trepidation.

“The Wen Zhuliu?” Jin Ling demands, while Jingyi yelps, “Core Melting Hand?”

Is he ever going to stop being surprised that the things so long gone – the things he lived through – are all but revered as legends now? Including the villains?

Especially the villains, he tells himself playfully. You know better than most how much people like a devil.

Waving a hand, dismissing their concerns, Wei Ying replies, “The very same. I assume Lan Zhan told you I was attempting Empathy before my… uh, nap?” Their blank expressions reassure him that the Chief Cultivator had told them no such thing. He resists the urge to roll his eyes, knowing well enough that the more anxious Lan Zhan was, the more he tended to close up, to communicate only what was directly and immediately relevant. It had probably genuinely not occurred to him to let the disciples know what was going on beyond direct orders.

“Well, I was. Wen Zhuliu was skulking around Cloud Recesses for several weeks, and I couldn’t get him to talk to me. So…” His haphazard gesture is meant to indicate everything that’s happened since then.

Apparently it’s not quite enough for any of them. “For weeks!?” Jingyi looks like he’s picturing rounding a corner in Cloud Recesses and running straight into the imposing spirit. “Why was he there!?”

“And why are you here now?” Jin Ling asks.

More tactful but still confused, Sizhui adds, “And forgive me, Master Wei, but why didn’t you say anything?”

Under the onslaught of questions, he can feel his headache surging, but Wei Ying pushes it back and grins. He struggles with some things, but performing under pressure is not one of them. “So demanding! Well, let’s see…” He’s about to start twirling Chenqing when he realizes the flute isn’t tucked into his belt. Now discomfort does writhe in his chest, and he fumbles at his robes like the instrument might be hidden there. Had it been left at Suntouched Sanctuary? Before he can become more alarmed, Lan Zhan moves forward. Chenqing is in his hand.

Wordlessly, the other man hands it over. With a grateful smile, Wei Ying takes it, the wood comforting under his agitated fingers. He doesn’t know why, but this item – this flute, out of everything he’s ever owned – connects him most to… who he is. Reminds him, when it feels like he’s forgetting.

And he forgets so often.

Whirling Chenqing, perhaps too wildly, Wei Ying resets himself. “As I was saying. He was there to find me. He couldn’t contact me, because…” That still wasn’t entirely clear. Slowly, tasting the words to see how they sound, his gaze drifting over to Lan Zhan to include the cultivator in the speculation, he continues. “There are powerful wards up in Cloud Recesses to dampen ghostly presences. Maybe they stopped him.” Which wouldn’t explain why he hadn’t reached out when Wei Ying had left the wards at the beginning of his trip.

“Resentment, too,” Lan Zhan offers, understanding the gap in the explanation.

Wei Ying considers that, then nods. It made sense.

“What do you mean?” Jingyi asks, bold despite the Chief Cultivator’s presence, and the other disciples crowd closer, too, eager to hear the response.

“What are ghosts made of?” Wei Ying replies, grinning at the mingled exasperation and resignation on the faces of his pupils. They well know his preferred teaching style, and how unlikely he is to give them a straight answer.

Sizhui is the first to respond. “Energy.”

“What kind?”

“Resentful!” That from Jin Ling. The Clan Leader announces it like he’s challenging Wei Ying to call him wrong, and it’s almost painfully reminiscent of Jiang Cheng’s belligerent forcefulness. Still, even now, Wei Ying has to wonder if Jin Ling realizes just how much he takes after his uncle – and how much of a blessing that really is.

Mostly a blessing.

“Often resentful, yes. Good!” Beginning to pace around the room, Wei Ying notes his nephew’s quickly stifled pride with inward amusement. “Not always, but often. Particularly when a person is murdered. And what does the culmination of resentful energy cause?”

Jin Ling is blank, which is understandable. Neither the Jiang nor Jin Sects specialize in suppressing ghosts. Sizhui, on the other hand, is quick to reply. “Distorted personalities, mindless rage, and increased aggression.”

“Precisely! So, Wen Zhuliu did not immediately reach out to me after I left Cloud Recesses because…”

This time there is a pause, but it feels more awkward than uncertain. Jinyi is the one to break the silence. “Because Wen Zhuliu hates you for your part in his murder, and that conflicted with whatever he desired to contact you about. So he didn’t attack you, but he couldn’t connect, either. The resentful energy was too strong.”

Wei Ying positively beams, ignoring the awkwardness. Technically speaking, Wen Zhuliu was murdered, so he doesn’t find it an inept description, despite the children being reluctant to describe it as such. “Ah, Lan Zhan, aren’t these students too bright? Who could have taught them so well?”

When he looks meaningfully at the Chief Cultivator, Lan Zhan lets the silence grow before he answers. “I don’t know.” For him, almost a joke. At Wei Ying’s expense.

With an affronted gasp, Wei Ying points Chenqing at his partner. “You lie! Who but a cultivator of renown, of talent, of brilliance, could have taught them so much? A handsome cultivator with a keen mind, a sense of righteousness, a bottomless fount of knowledge, a desirable face and–”

“Wei Ying.”

Though Lan Zhan says it as an interruption, Wei Ying chooses to interpret it differently. “Ah! Lan Zhan, you flatter me. Such kindness from the Chief Cultivator! But of course, I wasn’t referring to myself.” He winks outrageously, and the barest hint of a flush creeps up Lan Zhan’s cheeks, though he doesn’t reply.

Flipping Chenqing with a flamboyant flourish, satisfied as ever to catch his lover a little off guard, Wei Ying snags the flute out of the air and turns his attention back to the disciples.

Who are currently struggling to contain their amusement at seeing the Chief Cultivator teased. For all that Lan Zhan has, in his own way, relaxed as the years have gone on, that has assuredly not included encouraging others to badger him. Wei Ying tells himself it’s good for the stately cultivator, and it’s definitely good for Wei Ying himself, so…

“So, you well trained trio, why did I go to Suntouched Sanctuary?” A slightly unfair question, if Lan Zhan hasn’t given them all the information, but he isn’t destined to be disappointed today.

“You were researching Wen descendants and the subsidiary Clans at the library!” Jingyi pipes up, only to snap his mouth shut as Wei Ying side-eyes him at the reminder of just who had been spying on him.

Probably to save his friend, Sizhui rushes to fill the gap. “So you found Wen Zhuliu belonged to the Clan who called Suntouched Sanctuary home?”

Relenting his glare, Wei Ying nods. “Mhm. The Zhao Yu Clan lived in Suntouched Sanctuary before the Sunshot Campaign. Empathy with Wen Zhuliu confirmed it; I saw him with… some others from the Clan.” When he says it, his voice changes. Becomes quieter, and Wei Ying is powerless to stop the sorrow that seeps into the words.

He doesn’t want it. Wants to reject the emotion with a vehemence that’s just short of acidic. He’s been avoiding thinking of what Empathy showed ever since he woke up; filled the space in his head with Lan Zhan and the disciples and questions so much easier to answer than the state of his own soul. What does he owe those dead people he never met, strolling through their garden on that sunny day? What does he owe Wen Zhuliu’s Jiaying, with her firm shoulders and growing belly, with her supportive words and eyes so afraid of losing love?

What can he owe her, when she is dead and gone like so many others?

Lan Zhan heard the change and he’s now at Wei Ying’s side, eyes drifting to the floor but senses acutely trained on his partner. Wei Ying knows, can feel, how intently Lan Zhan is focused on him, ready to offer assistance at the slightest word or gesture. Falling into that quiet support, letting it take the weight of his decades-long fatigue, if only for a moment, is a relief he can’t begin to put words to. Not in a way that would do it justice, anyways.

“Is there any alcohol?” he asks, and of course there is, because Lan Zhan foresaw that particular need.  

Though he could order the disciples to do it, the Chief Cultivator strides over to the side table, swipes up two of the jars resting there. Then he is back at Wei Ying’s side, offering the liquid like he’s offering something else. Because, of course, he is.

Wei Ying accepts the drink gratefully, swallows deep and long. Not as good as the Emperor’s Smile, but it does the trick nonetheless, the mild burn tracing down his throat and soothing the pain of far more caustic emotions. By the time he pulls the empty jar from his lips, it’s taken the sting of haunted defensiveness from his thoughts. Not the alcohol itself – after all, Wei Ying is a first class drinker, and one glass is not anywhere near enough to get him drunk – but the familiarity of the motion, of the taste. It brings him memories, and he grounds himself in the sensation of the tart liquor slipping over his tongue.

The disciples are waiting patiently and without surprise. They know his drinking habits well enough – and more than his drinking habits, he is ashamed to admit. Unstopping the second jar but holding off from drinking more just yet, Wei Ying gathers himself. Another reset. He’s no longer in the mood for the question and answer game, as much joy as it usually gives him.

“At a place with strong emotional resonance such as Suntouched Sanctuary, Wen Zhuliu was able to break through the resentment, to reach out to me.” He doesn’t feel like mentioning the way he’d made his target’s resentment surge first. Doesn’t want to talk about the spirit Wen Zhuliu had ripped apart, doesn’t feel like speculating about who they were, who they had been to Core Melting Hand to shatter his fury like they had. Doesn’t want to admit to yet another murder, for all that he hadn’t held the cutting – melting – weapon.

He’ll tell Lan Zhan. Some night, when the candles are out and their bodies speak truths their throats find hard to say, he’ll tell him. But not today.

Tight-lipped, Wei Ying forces a smile. “However, the barriers were not completely gone,” specifically, his barriers, “so I decided to use Empathy to try to understand him more.”

“By yourself,” Sizhui says, and it’s such an echo of Lan Zhan’s disapproval that he has to laugh.

“By myself. It turned out fine.”

Jin Ling snorts. “You tell us all the time that it’s horribly dangerous to do Empathy alone, and then go ahead and do it by yourself anyways.”

With a light shrug, Wei Ying takes a swig out of the jar. “Do as I say, not as I do.” Smacking his lips to drown out Jinyi and Jin Ling’s protests, he waves off their affront. “At any rate, I learned much.” Much more than he’d wanted to, in fact. “Namely, how to get Wen Zhuliu to stop skulking around. He’s looking for someone.”

“To kill them?” Jinyi asks. He and Ouyang Zizhen both have a penchant for the melodramatic.

“No. They were… taken from him. He wants to find them.”

“Who are they?” Trust Lan Zhan to speak and ask the only question that matters. Well, one of two questions that matter.

There’s a tightness in his shoulders that no amount of drink will ease. Why can’t he get the warm feeling out of his chest, the one that Wen Zhuliu had clutched at so desperately when he was searching for her? It’s not his feeling, he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want anything to do with it.

He forces his mouth not to caress the name. “Mingxia. His daughter.”

The juniors react to that with the expected level of shock. Amid the yelps and rush of speculation, though, Wei Ying doesn’t look at the youngsters. His gaze searches out Lan Zhan’s eyes, and when he finds those dark expanses, he can tell the Chief Cultivator is disturbed. There’s a furrow across his brow, and he’s leaning forward just slightly. Is he thinking about that night, when he’d allowed Jiang Cheng’s Zidian to take one life, and had permitted the brothers to take another life after a great deal of pain and screaming? Or is he remembering the many Wens and Wen supporters he’s killed, cultivators all and none defenseless, but belonging to a family nonetheless?

Or is that just Wei Ying, inserting his own guilt into the honorable man?

Jiaying is probably dead. How else could Mingxia have ended up alone, and in such desperate straits? But how had she died? What had happened from the time Wen Zhuliu left the garden, certain he would see his wife again, to this very day?

What had happened, besides Wen Zhuliu being murdered, along with the man he’d sworn to protect?

Wei Ying thinks, if it had just been the two of them, Lan Zhan would have reached out by now. He would have gladly accepted his lover’s touch, gratefully pressed his face against his strong shoulder and hidden from the world. If only for a moment.  

Alas. They’ve an audience.

Interrupting the excited flurry of words between the disciples, Wei Ying says, “If we recover her, Wen Zhuli will probably stop bothering me.” Or at least his ghost will. The memories… well, some things are better at haunting than even ghosts.

“But who took her? Did you see through Empathy?” That from Sizhui, and is it any surprise he asked the second important question?

Wei Ying spreads his hands in a hapless gesture (after finishing chugging the second jar). “I didn’t see enough to be sure. But I think I know who’ll have an idea where to start.”

Jin Ling frowns, exchanging confused glances with his friends, but Lan Zhan’s mouth has thinned. He suspects he knows who Wei Ying is talking about, and he’s not sure if he’s pleased about it. Wei Ying sympathizes.

He smiles anyways. At least the man is interesting. “What do you say?” he asks the Chief Cultivator playfully. “How do you feel about visiting our old friend Huaisang?”  

[quixlebug]

People were crying about that last drabble I did, so I wrote a continuation. It kinda got away from me a little bit, whoops, but I hope y'all enjoy

There's no use anymore. They both know it by now, but Cross keeps going, ignoring Nightmare's weak protests. Everything is dying and there's nowhere left except where they've already been, but even though he *knows* there's no way out he refuses to quit.

"Cross," Nightmare rasps, "that's enough." 

"No, I can-"

"Cross."

He stops. Nightmare can feel the distress rolling off him in waves and he soaks it in, hating himself for it even as his trembling limbs grow stronger. It's not enough to do him any real good, yet he's desperate enough to take the smallest scrap of comfort. 

Cross sinks to what's left of the ground with Nightmare in his arms. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I thought I could get us both out. I… I thought..."

Nightmare isn't good at comfort, although he's better than he used to be. "Cross-" 

The air splits with a static screech, red and yellow fingers clawing their way through the very fabric of the world. The breaking of reality is a horrible sound, but in that moment there's nothing more beautiful. 

"Alright fuckers," Error growls, standing over them with an expression of utter disdain. "Get your sorry asses over here before I decide you aren't worth it after all."

Cross scrambles to his feet and Nightmare, unprepared the sudden movement, latches on to him tighter. Error pretends not to notice, but Nightmare can feel the pulse of concern from both of them. He would be more upset if he wasn't so relieved.

They're alone when Cross stumbles through the portal. Error doesn't follow, preferring to keep to himself when he's not needed. Nightmare doesn't know what summoned him today, how he knew to find them, but whatever it was he's grateful for it. 

Nightmare feels it coming and braces himself the best he can as Cross's legs buckle and he collapses on the cold stone. Even as he falls he's still trying to curl around Nightmare and shield him the best he can, and it's all Nightmare can do to wrap his tendrils around them both in an attempt to cushion the fall. 

Both of them are aching with dozens of wounds, but Nightmare is quick to draw Cross's pain into himself. It doesn't sustain him like the guard's grief and fear did, but here in his home, the magic he's cultivated for centuries is slowly bleeding back into his tired bones. It's a slow process though, and it will likely be hours before he's able to stand on his own. 

Cross laughs weakly, and it turns into a sob he's quick to cut off. Nightmare can feel him pressing down his emotions, tucking them into a nice neat little ball to save for later when he's alone. 

Except he won't be alone, if Nightmare has any say in the matter. He can barely move, burdened as he is with both their pain, but he squirms closer, suddenly desperate to keep Cross here with him for as long as possible. 

Cross laughs again, a helplessly relieved sort of sound, and he slowly sits up and gathers Nightmare into his lap- was he always this small, or does he just seem that way now? 

"We made it," Cross breathes. Nightmare chuckles weakly and lets his head fall to rest on the guard's shoulder. 

"We did," he agrees. No thanks to either of them. If Error hadn't showed up they would be dead by now. He needs to thank him, although words alone won't do. A gift, maybe chocolate. Lots of chocolate. 

Cross sighs, exhausted, and manages a wry smile. "Do you still hate me?" he asks. 

Nightmare huffs out a laugh. "Yes. Very much, in fact." 

"You sure about that?" Cross asks, and a cyan blush bursts to life at the warmth and affection suddenly radiating from the man. The moment he sees the blush there's a flash of smug, self-satisfied pride as well, and Nightmare groans as he hides his burning face in the other's coat. 

"Yes," he mumbles, and if he had the energy he would swat away the hand that comes to rest on his back and gently massage the base of his tendrils. Really he would, but in his current state it's all he can do to stay mostly upright in Cross's lap. 

A mouth presses against the side of his skull in a gentle skeleton kiss, and Nightmare should be throwing Cross across the room for his cheek. Instead he finds himself relaxing further, the last of his tension and even some of the pain melting away as though by magic. 

"I told you we'd get out," Cross murmurs, and there's another flicker of that infuriating smugness, but somehow? Nightmare simply can't find it within himself to be annoyed.

[harryandmolly]

Change of Pace - 3 (Summer 2019)

cowritten by @achinglyshawn

summary: Shawn and Maya meet again 10 years after life got in the way of love

warnings: language

wc: 7.2k

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

Geoff drags him out Sunday night, reminds him that he promised to play guitar for karaoke at the SandTrap for at least an hour until their regular guy can get there. 

“Besides,” Geoff rasps as he pulls Shawn into local-filled pub on the beach, “you need to have some fucking fun, dude. Stop wallowing over Maya.” 

“I’m not wallowing,” he insists, but he sounds a little too defensive even to his own ears. He re-adjusts his grip on his guitar case, following Geoff towards the stage. “Just, you know, processing. It’s a lot to process, dude.” 

Geoff takes Shawn’s guitar and sets it down next to his bass on the stage. He gives Shawn a look, amused but sympathetic, then jerks his head towards the bar. “C’mon,” he says, clapping Shawn on the back, “Let’s grab a beer before they need us on stage.” 

Shawn doesn’t argue, just lets Geoff push him forward. He takes the first empty seat at the end of the bar and nods at Meghan, the new bartender who started a few weeks ago. She smiles and he thinks maybe she blushes. He wonders if she’d flirt with him, if he tried. Probably. It could be fun, if it sounded at all remotely like something he wanted to do. 

Instead, he orders two beers and listens to Geoff talk about the woman at work he’s trying impress until they’re summoned to the stage. 

Maya scans herself in the reflection of a too-shiny BMW in the SandTrap lot. She hasn’t seen herself in these shorts since she was in her mid 20s, probably. She found them in the bottom of a box as she unpacked from her storage unit that was shipped over from Manhattan. 

She tried them on as a joke initially. But… they looked great. Especially a couple wine glasses in.

She’s heading for the SandTrap tonight because it’s just… time. Truthfully, she hasn’t left the house really since her run-in with Shawn at the farmer’s market last weekend. She’s been in and out to surf but has otherwise gone full hermit. When she realized this morning by looking at a paper that it was Sunday, she felt a sting of shame. 

So the SandTrap. 

It’s a dive on the beach. Their food is terrible, their service isn’t great, but the music is consistently awesome and Avila is so tiny that the nightlife is limited at best.

Just a drink or two, just to feel like she’s been out. It’ll be fine. Sure, she opened a bottle of shiraz to give herself the courage to get out the door, but this is an adjustment period. She shouldn’t judge herself. And she’s been trying to get him off her mind all week. She needs this.

But the shorts may have been a choice too far. I mean yes, she looks hot. CorePower Yoga and regular pilates were her vices while she was working. She’s in excellent shape. But the little cutoffs with her platform sandals and the drapey tank top? She’s too old for this.

But it’s too late. So she chews on her lip, tasting chapstick and wine, and walks inside.

It’s not the busiest night, and Shawn prefers it that way. The crowd is mostly locals chatting, exchanging a laugh or catching up about their weeks. No one’s too drunk, so the singing on stage hasn’t been awful. Besides, he’s likes watching his friends make idiots of themselves, and he likes listening to the ones who actually manage to carry a tune. 

He’s reminded of what fun is, for a little while. 

He can’t help but laugh at one of the locals’ rendition of Never Gonna Give You Up, and Geoff catches his eye from across the stage, an approving smile spread across his lips. 

It’s not like Shawn needs anyone to take care of him, but it’s nice having Geoff around. He’s never had an older brother, but he thinks Geoff fills the role well. 

Cheri claims the last song of the hour before the band goes on break and Shawn passes guitar duty back to Beckett, the kid who regularly plays the gig. The barista picks Careless Whisper as her anthem, and Shawn loves her for it. 

He loves this song. This song makes him want to pick up the saxophone, but he’s not sure he has the lung capacity for it. Either way, he finds himself melting into the chords, into Cheri’s pretty voice that soothes him even with the saddest lyrics. 

He’s caught up enough not to notice the woman who broke his heart standing in the back of the bar.  

Oh, come the fuck on.

She’s able to actually chuckle to herself because of course he’s here. Of course he’s on stage in those tight black jeans bobbing his head as he looks around the dimly lit dive bar. His fingers move deftly against the neck of the guitar she’s known almost as long as she’s known him. She wonders if he remembers the nights he spent holding her between his legs, kissing her neck and shoulders while she tried to learn to play. She hasn’t thought about that in a long time. She got really good at not thinking about that.

Maybe she should take this as a sign and just leave. Maybe she’s done enough just by getting out of her yoga pants to come tonight. Maybe she can count this as a brisk walk by the beach… a little tipsy and in platforms. That’s fine, right?

But then he’s getting off the stage and settling into a stool by the bar and he clearly hasn’t seen her so maybe she’s safe? She recognizes the song the band plays next and it’s giving her a conflicting sign. She has to stay through the end of it, at least. The woman singing has a nice voice.

A woman he doesn’t recognize gets on stage after Cheri, and Shawn’s glad he’s not accompanying anymore, because he kind of hates the song she picks. It’s Ashlee Simpson, an artist he hasn’t heard since college, when Maya would blast her music in her car as they sped through Toronto in search of a hot club or some chicken nuggets. Whichever they’d run into first. 

The song makes his heart beat faster. Too much reminds him of Maya these days, including the woman herself. She’s somewhere in this town, breathing the same salty beach air he breathes, watching the same sun rises he watches. Buying the same Starbucks, listening to the same radio stations. 

He takes a sip of beer. Forces himself to stop thinking about it. About her. He used to be so good at not thinking about her at all. 

Ok, new plan. She’s going to sneak up to the bar behind him and get herself a drink then retreat to where she can stay out of sight. One or two cocktails and she’s out the door, no problem.

Problem: the floorboards are warped by decades of sea salt air and bad weather. She catches an edge and rolls her ankle, crashing into the man standing in front of her with a wince. She apologizes quietly but knows she’s made a scene.

He’s caught up in his effort to push her from his thoughts when he hears a bit of a commotion at the other end of the bar. A barstool screeches, a beer bottle topples onto its side. 

When he looks over, he’s not even surprised. She’s always popping up when he’s trying to forget her. 

Maya slumps into a stool in defeat, now very sure Shawn’s seen her. She can’t bear to look though. She needs a fuckin’ drink.

Maya’s face looks red as she slips around the man to settle at an empty barstool. Shawn feels his own face turn a similar shade of crimson. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know when she got here or if she’s seen him, but for a moment, he’s stuck. 

It’s like a video game, where you’ve got two choices, and one choice moves the story along while the other sends you down a dead end, or over the edge of a cliff. Shawn doesn’t know which decision is which. None of his options now feel right. Staying in his seat and ordering another beer feels like a dead end. Getting up and saying hi feels like flirting with the cliff. 

He decides dead ends are boring. 

He plucks his wallet from his pocket and tosses a couple bills on the bar before moving down to the other end. He approaches Maya from behind, makes sure she can’t spot him before he’s leaning his forearms on the bar next to her and getting Tom’s attention. He’s the kind of bartender that responds to familiar faces, so Shawn’s pretty sure Maya isn’t making much headway. 

The bartender is busy and Maya is impatient. She’s staring at him and leaning most of her weight into her elbows that are propped on the bar but he’s definitely ignoring her in favor of chatting with some patrons she assumes are regulars. She’s about to go full New York Woman and start clearing her throat loudly when she feels a wall of warmth settle in behind her.

She doesn’t have to look. She knows what he feels like even when he’s not touching her.

The hair on the back of her neck stands up under where the rest is clipped up at the back of her head. He’s not so close that she can feel his breath. It’s probably a blessing. 

“Shawn, buddy!” Tom exclaims when he makes it back to the end of the bar. “You looking for a whiskey sour?” 

“Hey man,” he says with a smile, “Yeah, please. Whiskey sour and a scotch, neat.” 

Tom nods, turns away, and Shawn finally risks a look down at Maya. 

“That’s still your drink, I hope,” he murmurs with a smile, forgoing any sort of formal greeting. 

She turns and lowers back into her stool. His curls are frizzy from the humid air. His eyes are warm and soft. She swallows.

“Yeah. I still drink like an old man,” she confesses, “I think working on Wall Street made it worse.”

She remembers what he tastes like when he drinks whiskey sours. Her mouth waters completely against her will. She squeezes her fingers into the lacquered bar top and drops her eyes to his chest.

She doesn’t even look surprised to see him, which makes him think that she showed up when he was still on stage. And that she knew he was gonna approach her. He hates how predictable he is, but he couldn’t stay away. He’s drawn to her, whether he wants to admit it or not. 

She makes him laugh. She always has. And her drinking like an old man joke is one of the oldest they share. His heart flips. He feels inexplicably comfortable and out of control, all at once. 

He laughs. Her skin sizzles with the sound. She licks her lips and lifts her eyes to face him.

“Wall Street, eh?” He didn’t know that. “So does that mean you’re rich? Are you the wolf?” 

He’s flirting with her. He can’t fucking help it. He’s never not flirted with her. It also gives him something to do besides stare at her, like he wants to. He wants to sit her down and take a proper look, find all the things that have changed in twelve years and commit them to memory, so that he can know her just as well as he used to. 

He keeps his gaze on her fingers, instead, watches her nails dig into the bar because it’s the safest place to look. Anywhere else, and he’ll be lost. 

Maybe he should’ve picked the dead end.

He’s laughing, he’s joking. She can see the hesitancy in his eyes -- it seems he really doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing either. It’s strange. They used to say whatever came flying into their heads without thinking. 

She looks sheepish. “I never even saw that movie,” she confesses, “But I did meet a couple of the guys represented in it.”

She’s so lame.

“I do okay, though. Financially.”

A gross understatement. Maya has more money than she’ll ever know what to do with. Part of stepping away from the office was brought on by realizing in a sweeping wave of guilt how relatively little she’s given to charity in the last decade and change, too caught up in her own life. Another thing to work on.

She sounds like she does whenever she’s trying to be modest, like she totally is rich but it makes her uncomfortable to admit it. He feels stupid for asking the question in the first place. You’re not supposed to ask people about how much money they make, and here he is, hasn’t seen the woman in twelve years, and he’s asking if she’s fucking rich. What’s wrong with him?

She makes him crazy. He decides to blame her, even though it’s totally unfair. 

“I shouldn’t have asked,” he murmurs as he drops his gaze to the drinks that appear on the bar in front of them. His fingers curl around his whiskey and he swirls the glass in smooth circles. 

Maya wants to scramble all over the place to make him feel comfortable -- it’s an instinct. Her working environment has largely dulled it over the years. She couldn’t get anywhere in New York finance if she was always tripping over herself to make the men around her comfortable. But Shawn brings it out of her easily like it was just at the surface.

“It’s okay,” she laughs, and it feels as light as her head does, “You’re not exactly a stranger, Shawn.”

Not exactly a stranger. Understatement of the year. He feels like he knows her better than he knows himself. But he thinks of all the things he doesn’t know anymore, and the feeling goes. He’s not exactly a stranger, no, but he might as well be. 

“What are you doing for work these days?”

He’s watching the ice spin in a vortex, when her question breaks him from his trance. He smiles to himself, then gives her a sideways look. 

“I’m, ah, I refurbish and make guitars. And basses and other strings too. And I just started working on my first piano, actually.” 

He feels sick, telling her what he does like she’s an acquaintance from the street. He hates that she doesn’t already know. He hates that there’s any time in between them at all, when looking at her makes him feel like he was hers just yesterday. 

He remembers the last time he kissed her so clearly. It doesn’t feel like it was years ago. It feels like minutes. Seconds, even. He’s dying to kiss her again, but he knows he can’t. He shouldn’t. 

He sips his drink instead. 

Maya’s nose twitches as she tamps down a goofy smile. Of course he’d find a way to get even closer to the music. She used to joke that if he could climb inside a guitar and live in there, he would. It seems he found a way.

She watches his adams apple bob as he swallows. She finds herself swallowing around nothing and turns the glass between her hands.

“Of course you are,” she murmurs. It’s a little gentler and warmer than she intends it to sound. It feels like a brush of a hand against someone you’ve loved since you were a kid.

“That’s… that’s amazing, Shawn.” She finds she keeps saying his name. She hasn’t said it in so long. It feels nice.

The way Maya says his name makes his head spin. He tries to find solace in his whiskey. He takes a sip, then another, attempting to ignore how his skin buzzes pleasantly at the sound of her voice. 

She uses his name and ‘amazing’ in the same sentence and he feels like a freshman in university again, eager and hopeful and dying to be as impressive to her and she is to him. He’s always preened in the light of any compliment she’s been gracious enough to give him. Seems like that’s still the case, all these years later. 

He finishes his drink and slides it away from him, the alcohol pulling him down onto the barstool next to hers so he can order another. 

“I’m not the wolf of Wall Street, but it suits me,” he says as he turns on the stool to face her, one forearm pressed along the edge of the bar so his fist is curled near her elbow. If he wanted, he could stretch his fingers and touch her, feel her skin beneath his fingertips once more. 

He doesn’t. He doesn’t do a lot of things his body tells him to, lately. 

As Shawn drinks, Maya drinks. She slings back gulp after gulp of scotch until her glass is empty. She shouldn’t have another, probably. She never drinks this much anymore. She doesn’t know what she’d be like drunk now, especially around him. There’s no telling what she’ll do or say.

Fuck it. She orders another scotch.

She admires his hulking frame as he sits beside her. He continued to fill out and bulk up a bit in their time apart. Every curve of muscle suits him beautifully. She thinks about what it would be like to draw him again like she used to. The thought has her back in her fresh glass of booze.

They’re quiet for a moment, both sipping drinks like they’re thankful for something to do with their hands.

And then—

“I could show you around the shop, some time. If you wanted.” 

He says it without thinking, without considering what having her in his personal space might do to his heart. But he can’t stop being reckless now that he’s confronted her and they’re actually talking again and she’s not walking away from him like he used to think she might. Now that she’s looking at him almost like she used to.

He wants to close himself off to her, but he’s like a hungry flower in the sunlight. He blossoms and blooms and basks in her warmth because it’s the only way he’s ever known to be around her. 

She perks up when he offers to show her the shop. He wants to see her again. He’s not just being his unfailingly polite self. He wants to be around her, he wants to show her something that’s important to him. It makes her breath catch in her chest. She’s nodding before he even finishes his sentence.

“Yeah. Definitely. Yes. I want to see your shop.”

It’s not subtle, but it’s very honest. She blinks up at him with a big grin.

She doesn’t hesitate. He feels his cheeks flush. She wants to see his shop. His life. He has a feeling she knows how important work like this is to him. It makes him all that more nervous to show her, but no less eager. 

It feels too good to be true and for a moment, he waits for this to be another dream. He’d ask to buy her another drink, reach to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and she’d nod, part her lips to speak, then nothing. He’d be awake. 

He takes a sip of his drink to make sure everything is real, though he’d much prefer to pinch himself. He swallows and smiles at her, setting his glass down on the bar. He can’t stop smiling, and each smile is easier than the last, especially with the whiskey. 

“Don’t get too excited,” he laughs gently, “It’s not, you know, Gibson, or anything.” 

He’s giggling and smiling and drinking and Maya’s halfway to lifting herself into his lap, so she should probably put her glass down and let the world right itself. But she might be as drunk on him as she is on the booze.

“Fuck Gibson. I bet you’re better,” she says easily. It’s very honest. Her tongue is loose. At least she’s still keeping her hands to herself. For now.

If she’s been working on Wall Street, she probably knows all sorts of impressive business moguls and financiers. He doesn’t think he’s much compared to the people she’s got waiting back at home for her. He doesn’t know who it is she’s got in New York, a boyfriend or what, but he’s just a beach bum with a bunch of guitars. He won’t pretend to even compare, no matter how badly his gut tells him to peacock for her. It’s not who he is anymore. 

“We could go now, if you want,” he hears himself saying, to his honest fucking horror. He must be drunk. He’s only halfway through the second whiskey, though, so it’s not the alcohol that’s so intoxicating. 

He finishes his drink, then wets his lips and quirks a brow at her. Fuck it. 

At his suggestion, her glazed eyes brighten. “Yes! Let’s go now!”

She’s definitely loaded. There’s no getting around that now. But she thinks maybe some fresh air might help.

Who the hell is she kidding? She just wants to be alone with him where she can hear herself think over the bad karaoke. Not that she’s really thinking at all now. This all feels too good to think about it. 

She stands and bites her lip at him.

She’s tipsy. He knows the signs. The laugh in her voice, the flush in her cheeks, the glossy gleam in her eye. His heart warms. He missed this. He missed her. 

It doesn’t scare him the way it did only an hour ago. He guesses he can thank alcohol for that. 

She stands before him and he checks her out, openly, blatantly. He hasn’t let himself before now, but the alcohol has control of some of his baser judgements at the moment.

Or maybe that’s just a convenient excuse. 

Either way, she looks good. Just as gorgeous as she was in college. More so, actually. Elegant, even buzzed on scotch, in a way she wasn’t in her early twenties. She’s a woman now, when they were both just kids before. 

She feels his eyes all over her and tries not to squeeze her thighs together desperately, but finds it a challenge to keep them apart. Her mind wanders absently to which box her Hitachi magic wand might still be packed in. She… will probably need it tonight.

Finally, he sucks in a breath and drags his gaze from her beautifully round thighs to her face. He grins, unfolds himself from under the bar and stands to face her. As he drops a $50 on the bar, Shawn holds his hand out and gestures towards the door. 

He lifts himself to stand and puts a bill down on the bar, which is good because she forgot all about that. She flushes pink and smiles at him as a thank you. She follows his hand, turning toward the door.

“After you, Lulu.” 

She stops short at the nickname. No one’s called her that since he did 12 years ago. She doesn’t have the presence of mind to play it off. She blinks and spends a moment reveling in it.

“Oh,” she breathes, looking over her shoulder at him, “That’s an old one.”

He’s just as caught off guard as she is. The name slipped out before he could stop it, but the way she’s looking at him makes him glad he didn’t. 

He tries to play it cool. 

“Oldie but goodie,” he says with a quirk of his lips and a gentle shrug. 

Maybe he doesn’t take the nickname as seriously as she does. Maybe that won’t keep him up at night the way it will her. Maybe he assumes other people have picked it up and used it in his absence, though they haven’t.

She tucks the moment away into her big, drunk brain for later use.

He takes a step towards her, his hand moving to the small of her back of its own accord. He doesn’t realize what he’s done until it’s too late, his palm is firm against her back. 

Fuck it. 

He guides her forward, through the door and away from the parking lot. Geoff’s got the keys to the Jeep, and it’s just a short walk down the beach anyway. 

And then his hand rests on the thin silky fabric covering her back and she freezes again with her hand on the door. She recovers faster this time and hopes he can’t feel her shuddering breath through his touch.

His hand is so warm.

“This way,” he murmurs as he steers her towards the stairs that lead to the boardwalk. His hand is steady on her back with each step they climb. He doesn’t drop away from her until they reach the top. 

She’s grateful they’re not driving. The fresh air should help her sober up a little. She watches her toes as she walks with him and finds she can’t concentrate on anything other than feeling all five of his perfect fingers that are so close they may as well be on her bare skin. He hasn’t dropped his hand yet. She shouldn’t consider why.

“It’s just like, five minutes down the boardwalk, if that’s cool,” he says with a sideways glance at her as they walk, his hands sliding into his pockets.

“That’s fine,” she answers breezily, blinking quickly when his hand leaves the small of her back. She fights against the desire to curl into him and suck up all his body heat. She laces her fingers together in front of her and tugs at them to keep herself busy. 

“Do you live close by?” 

He watches her concentrate on her feet, then feels like he’s been caught once she finally looks up. He presses his lips together and nods, then looks away from her, trying to play it off like he wasn’t staring. 

She’s a little startled to look up and see he’s watching her. Maybe she shouldn’t be, because she’s been doing the same thing to him all night. She’s curious about him. Maybe he’s just curious too.

“My house is back the other way, though. Lease it with Geoff,” he looks back at her, brow quirked, “Do you remember Geoff? He was the year below yours.” 

He doesn’t know why he’s asking about G. He doesn’t know why he even mentioned him at all. He’s also starting to feel embarrassed by admitting to being a dude in his thirties who still lives with one of his bros from college. 

She’s probably used to far more sophisticated company than he can provide, but he tries not to dwell on it. 

She smiles. “I remember Geoff. Nice guy.” 

He lives with his best friend from college. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s single, but it at least means he’s not too serious with anyone.

NOT THAT IT MATTERS!

She berates herself and shakes her head a little to rid herself of the train of thought.

“And how long have you had the instrument shop?”

“Almost as long as I’ve been in Avila,” he answers, “It was a shit little property I had to fix up but I got it only like, three months after moving here.”

He feels like he’s being interviewed, but he really doesn’t mind. The idea that she’s curious about him, interested in what his life’s been like, makes his heart stutter against his ribs. 

Yet, bitterness and resentment nag the back of his mind. 

If you’re so curious, why didn’t you call?

He never changed his number. She did. 

He blinks. Takes a breath. He doesn’t want to be angry. He forgave her a long time ago. But forgiving her in his head when she’s not in his life hasn’t helped him control his emotions now that she’s showed up again. 

Maya gave up any right to be proud of Shawn a long time ago. But she feels it still, that swell of delight in her chest when he mentions fixing up his shop to make it his own. She knows in some universe somewhere there’s a version of her that was with him the whole time, that helped him choose paint colors, that massaged his shoulders when he came home from spending long hours hunched over a fussy guitar. 

This version of her remains quiet and tucks her hair behind her ears, fighting a shiver from the cool sea breeze. 

They reach his shop’s block, and he guides her down the stairs and to the sidewalk. He moves past her as they approach the small house that holds his creations.

He glances back at her with a soft smile before pulling his key from his pocket and slipping it into the lock. The door swings open and he reaches inside to flick on the light. He turns back to Maya, steps aside. 

“Well, um. Welcome,” he says with a grin. 

He guides her into his domain. It smells like wood and lacquer and power tools. She cracks a smile and giggles.

“Wow. Look at this. This is like your fuckin’ Candy Land,” she jokes, shaking her head.

“Show me your favorite one.”

She sounds genuinely impressed, and he can’t help but preen. He’s proud of himself, of this little world he’s built. Even on the worst days, where it feels like nothing goes right, he still loves it. Part of him aches with the need for her to love it, too.

“Oh, uh—“ he’s taken aback, stuck for a moment because his favorite one is the one he used to write songs for her on. Not that he has to tell her that, but still. He’ll know. 

“She— it’s in the back,” he says, a flush spreading across his cheeks. “Hold on, just— I’ll be right back.”

Maya chuckles at his stumbling over calling the guitar “she.”

“What an odd male tradition,” she blabs, knowing she gets philosophical and feminist sometimes when she’s drunk, “To name manmade objects after women. Like ships and cars and, I guess, guitars. It’s so bizarre to me. I don’t know whether to be offended on behalf of women or be charmed by the boyishness of it.”

She snaps her lips shut and makes a face at herself for her meaningless chatter. She’s running curious fingers along a vibrantly purple electric bass when she hears him reenter the main studio area.

She goes off on a tangent he’s heard from her before, just not about guitars specifically. It makes his heart twist. She makes it so easy to remember all the reasons he fell in love with her. 

(Not that he ever forgot.)

He slips past her into his office. Lulu is tucked away in her stand in his closet and he decides maybe he should stop calling a guitar he named after his ex a ‘she.’  

He holds the guitar up, spins it around to examine the shiny black lacquer-coated body before heading back into the main room, where Maya is admiring some of the electric basses that line the wall. 

“This is the first perfect guitar I ever made. I don’t think I’ll ever sell it.” 

She turns and stares at the work of art in his hands. She doesn’t really know much about guitars, anything she does know was picked up from snippets of conversations with him many years ago, but it certainly looks perfect to her.

“Wow,” she says again dumbly, “She’s beautiful. I’m-- wow. Can I hold her?”

She looks at the guitar like it’s as beautiful as he thinks it is, and that settles something deep in the pit of his stomach. All he’s ever wanted is for her to see him. He swears there’s no better feeling in the world than when she does. 

Like now, when she asks to hold his guitar like it’s his fucking kid or something. He laughs, bright and loud, head falling back for a moment. 

“Yeah,” he takes a breath, laughter subsiding as he looks down at her, “Yeah, you can hold her. She’s tough.” 

He holds Lulu by the body and offers her neck first to Maya. He wonders if she remembers any of the chords he taught her. 

Shawn’s laughing at her in a way that makes her feel more alive than she has in so long. It’s not judgmental or teasing, it’s… delighted. She delights him.

Or she used to. Maybe he’s just drunk.

Either way, he willingly hands off his pride and joy like he’s not worried at all that she’ll harm it. Maya takes the guitar and slings the strap over her shoulder, cradling it under her arm.

It feels good.

She hums, running her fingertips along its dips and curves, admiring his work. It really is stunning. She’s so stupid proud. And she can’t say it out loud.

Her fingers shift into place to pluck out a couple chords he taught her. She doesn’t remember the names of them. She looks up at him to see if maybe he looks just a little proud of her too.

She touches his guitar like it’s something precious and his breath catches in his throat. He watches her take such care with such an important piece of his life and he feels like he’s falling, stumbling into his love for her. 

He’s never managed to let go of it, but he got pretty good at pretending it wasn’t there. He was an expert at convincing himself it didn’t fill his heart too much for anyone else to fit, that it was a scar, a slowly fading reminder of what it means to be cared for, a tip for the future. 

It’s not so easy pretending now, watching Maya’s fingers glide across the sleek body of a guitar he’s known longer than he ever actually knew her. 

Finally, her fingers find the strings, and she answers his silent curiosity. Her fingers flick A, A, D, E minor, A. 

Those were always the easiest chords for her to remember. Her fingers know them well. It’s so, incredibly sexy. 

Shawn sucks in a breath, then realizes she’s looking at him, like maybe she’s expecting him to say something. He wets his lip, takes a step towards her.

“You remember,” he says, voice a deep rasp. He’s not sure he’s talking about the chords. It’s everything. She remembers everything. She has to, because he does. It burns so fucking brightly in his memory he can’t stand to be in the same room with himself sometimes. 

He looks down at the guitar between them, thumbs digging into his palms to stop himself from pulling it off of her. It’s the only barrier between him and an incredibly stupid decision. 

The way he inhales sharply makes her feel like there’s finite oxygen between them. His intake of breath is sucking the air from her lungs. She doesn’t mind. She’s glad to be rid of it if it becomes his instead.

Her head is all fuzzy. His voice is low and scratchy and it reminds her of when she would wake up in his arms in the middle of the night and without her even moving, even speaking, he would notice and whisper to her until she fell asleep again. 

As he steps closer, her awareness heightens. She clings to the guitar like a shield. As badly as she wants him, a piece of her knows better than to let herself have him again, even when he’s looking at her like this. Even when every word out of his mouth feels like his feelings haven’t changed, not even after so long. Not even after she left him for a life she has recently decided she doesn’t even want. 

His hands stay still, but he looks back at her. “Do you remember that song you wrote?” 

He does. It was three chords. Three chords and lasted about an eight count before he pulled the guitar from her lap and made her come on his tongue and needy fingers. 

She swallows and closes her eyes because looking at him is too fucking much right now. She exhales shakily and nods. “I… I remember.”

She definitely remembers. She doesn’t even make a conscious decision to start playing it, it just happens, sort of like everything else between them right now. It’s instinctive with them.

Her fingers pinch and curl and pluck while her lips quiver. She remembers. She remembers the way she cried out his name while her back arched off the bed, but he didn’t let up. She remembers panting, chanting ‘I love you’ over and over until he crawled up her body and planted his lips against hers with a smile to shut her up.

“I remember,” she whispers again.

Her eyes flutter shut. He’s closer to her than he’s been in years and he can see every freckle, every line, every curve of her face. He studies every one, sketched a new portrait of her for his memory, just in case he’s not lucky enough to get this close again. 

He knows she’s thinking about it now, about the way he used to love her so thoroughly. He’s not sure what possessed him to remind her, other than his addiction to her. Or more like his need not to be the only addict. 

He lifts one hand carefully to hers, stilling her fingers against the neck of his guitar. His heart stops; the delicate press of his skin against hers is overwhelming, yet so slight. Somehow, curling his fingers around hers is far more intimate than the press of his palm to her back. 

Maya gasps in a breath at the touch of his fingers to hers. It almost puts tears in her eyes but she holds on. His touch is so full of every memory, good and bad. It’s like jumping right back into her past with him when he holds her hand like this. 

She doesn’t know what he wants now. She doesn’t even really know what she herself wants. But she lowers her shield, carefully and slowly swings the guitar around her back to hang behind them. Her fingers remain entwined with his.

“Maya,” he breathes, hoping she’ll open her eyes and look at him. He needs to see her eyes. He needs to know if he can read them as well as he used to. 

The hush of his voice has her by the throat. She opens her eyes to see him there, the closest he’s been since they were kids. And now, seeing him here with her, when he’s looking at her like this, she knows what he wants.

She wets her lips like she knows what’s coming. Her voice nearly fails her when she speaks again.

“Remember with me.”

“Lulu,” he chokes, nodding as he holds her gaze, “I do. You know I do.” 

He lifts their tangled fingers to her face, cups her cheek, and kisses her. A gentle press of his lips against hers. 

He steps into her, takes the guitar’s place against her and she shrinks beneath him. Their height difference is always the most overwhelming when they’re chest to chest like this. 

His other hand finds the nape of her neck, his fingertips scratching her scalp gently as he cradles her and sips slowly at her lips. 

He kisses her the way he never gets to in his dream. The way he always wants to, the way she wouldn’t let him the night before she left. 

It burns him from the inside out, and he wonders if she feels it in her bones the way he does. 

Maya falls. 

She falls just the same way she did. She falls the same way she did even just a few days ago when she heard his voice again. 

He’s gentle with her, the way he almost always was. She’s high on it. His lips slip against hers perfectly like they’ve never fallen out of step with each other. She sobs a gasp into his mouth, overwhelmed. 

She steps between his feet and presses into him so close that she can’t help but feel him everywhere. She wraps her arms around his expansive back and shoulders, curling against him with a low mewling noise. 

He tastes like whiskey sour and he smells like sea salt and soap. She feels the tears prick the corners of her eyes. She doesn’t force them back this time. 

He kisses her through the gentle sounds he was hoping she’d make. He kisses her deeper, wants more of her sounds, wants to feel her even closer. 

Her tears on his cheek burn him. He sucks in a startled breath and pulls back, lips and hands together. He blinks down at her, trying to focus his blurry vision. 

“I’m sorry, shit,” he murmurs, hands curling in to firsts. He sees the tears on her cheeks and he wants to cry, too, but he’s not sure why. 

He’s not sure of anything anymore. 

“Maya,” he breathes, urging her to look at him. “I’m—“ still in love with you— “I think I’m a little drunk.” 

Just as soon as she can feel him start to drag her under fully, just as she’s committing to drowning for him, with him, he starts away.

She pants desperately and swipes at her cheeks, flushing hot. 

“It’s… uhm, it’s ok. I am too. It’s just… this. Us. Here in Avila. Y’know, it’s like last time. Only… I guess… not.”

She used to be an incredibly articulate woman. Her words are clunky and meaningless. She can only hope he can guess what she means.

She stumbles over her words and he feels like shit. He’s such an idiot. Brings her to his shop, shows her her namesake guitar, kisses like she’s his to kiss. And she cries. He makes her cry. 

He hates himself for that, and for being so scared. Scared of all the things he wants to tell her. Of how easy it feels to be around her, still, like no time has passed at all. 

She presses her hands to her cheeks and shakes her head.

“Ok then. I think I should go.”

She wants to leave.

“No!” He doesn’t mean to shout, but he can’t let her go, not like this. “I mean— you don’t, Lu, you don’t have to. We can go back to the bar and get something to eat, or y’know, there’s that ice cream stand, with the soft serve and the sugar cones.”

He reaches for her carefully, curls his fingers around her wrists and pulls her hands from her slick, flushed cheeks. 

“Let me get you a cone. Swirl, rainbow sprinkles, right?” 

He wants to buy her ice cream.

He remembers what kind she likes. Of course he does.

Maya feels, all of a sudden, incredibly stupid. With one kiss, he made her completely sober, more sober than she’s been in her life. And lying there between them is their past that they have no answers for. Maya should’ve known better than to let him kiss her like this. She likes answers. She needs answers.

But not tonight.

Her breath catches in her throat. “No,” she rasps, “No, I can’t. I need to… I need to go home.”

With a lurch, she untangles herself from his beautiful guitar and shove it back into his hands. She heads for the door and lets it slam shut behind her, echoing with her clapping footsteps as she hurries down the boardwalk.

--------

Taglist: @smallerinfinities @the-claire-bitch-project @achinglyshawn @infiniteshawn @mendesoft @singanddreamanyway @alone-in-madness @abigfatmess @shawnitsmutual @awkwardfangirl2014 @september-lace @grittyisaho @sinplisticshawn @rollingxstone @yslsaint @randi-eve @fallmoreinlove @heyits-claire @itrocksmysocks @parkerspicedlatte @simpledomain @abeautiful-and-cloudy-day @desire-to-live @jillian-nd @shawnwyr

[ottostherapy]

How to not be an adult - Reunion

Severus Snape x OC

a/n: Still a Snape appreciation month story, cause Snape deserves some love. Excuse my language, not my mother tongue.

post-war au, where Snape survives and returns to teaching at Hogwarts. After disappearing for almost four month, he is to meet his new colleagues.

warnings: none

word count: 1358

Part 1

(gif’s not mine)

Soon the other teachers arrived, some of which Severus knew, some of which he couldn’t recall having met before. Filius Flitwick was late to the feast they had in the Great Hall, which was not to his surprise. The short wizard continuously had a hard time letting go of his wife, or the other way around, Severus didn’t know.

He, himself was sat next to Minerva and Horace Slughorn.

While his former potions professor had a lot to talk about, Severus kept to himself. He watched Septima Vector talking to a rather small, chubby witch, with puffy dark hair, standing to all directions, listened to a vivid conversation between Rolanda Hooch and Pomona Sprout about the effect of Fluxweed in brooms. Nearby sat Poppy Pomfrey, who had taken interest in a neatly dressed witch. All around the staff chattered, yet the air glimmered in a tense.

Minerva cleared her throat and stood up. “I want to welcome you all to this years’ Hogwarts staff!” The professors quickly silenced. “I hope you enjoyed our first meal together.”

Here and there Severus saw a nod. Rubeus Hagrid even managed to rasp an “Of course” between slugs out his massive cup.

“Since we are now a vast mixture of common and new members, I reckoned we get to know each other a bit better before the year starts.” A whisper went through the table of teachers.

Severus and his long-established colleagues vividly remembered the silly games Albus had made them play over and over again.

“I think a quick introduction, a few words about yourself will suffice for tonight.” Minerva paused. “Due to the recent events, I have permitted myself to take a few changes in structure and curriculum, so for the next year we are joined by mental-health experts.” She looked to the neat witch next to Poppy. “At Rolanda’s and Poppy’s request, I have also decided to include a teacher for the sportive students, who are less interested in performing Quidditch, whereas I do question their common sense.”

Severus smiled faintly at her words. Ever since he remembered the older witch, she had been overly-engaged in cheering for Gryffindor to win the Quidditch-Cup. Admittedly, he himself was competitive, ambitious, one could say and he was glad to have been able to smear the victory of his house into Minerva’s face for a few years. Of course, this had never felt as good as the year his friend Regulus Black, captain of the Slytherin team while Severus was still learning had beat the arrogant James Potter in Gryffindor team.

“I did include a little twist for our introductory round”, Minerva summoned a good amount of parchment snippets. “These are quotes I have collected from you throughout the years knowing you, for those whom I don’t know as long, I chose quotes that do not immediately give away they are taken from the interview.” She had the snippets fly to the staff, one for each of them. “Once you introduced yourself you read the quote and then it’s everyone’s turn to guess.”

Horace nudged Severus’ side. “Don’t give me away, Severus.” The elder wizard wiggled his eyebrows at his former student.

“I will be silent as the dead.”

Horace twitched. “Oh no, no. Please don’t say that, dear.” Severus felt his heart sting. For the past years, he had lived knowing he had to die, knowing he had to kill Albus, knowing there were few people who appreciated him. Not to mention his father or his bullies. He was aware Horace valued him as a wizard, he had not expected him to appreciate him as a human being.

“Can I go firs’, Minerva?”, Severus heard Hagrid holler in excitement, to which she nodded.

The giant Gamekeeper and Care of Magical Creatures-Professor nonchalantly stood up. “Erm, well. My name’s Rubeus Hagrid an’ I am proud to stand ‘ere as the schools Keeper of Keys an’ Grouns, all thanks to Albus Dumbledore. Err, an’ I am also teaching the kids the Care of Magical Creatures.” He raised a hand to scratch his chin underneath the feral beard.

“Thank you, Rubeus.” Minerva gave him an affirming smile. “The quote?”

“Oi!” Hagrid unfolded the paper. “It says: I was expec’ing to see more blood today.”

Severus could barely contain the sneer, that was crawling the muscles around his mouth. He glanced at the very red, laughing Poppy, remembering the remark she had given towards the Slytherin-Gryffindor match a few years ago.

Against his anticipation, the quote-guessing game was a rather fun occurrence.

He found out Filius had gotten an anonymous love-letter the year, that the annoying Lockard had been employed, Pomona regularly talked to random cats around the greenhouses, hoping them to be Minerva, Maia Reed, the witch right next to Poppy had specialised in psychology at a muggle university and even though she looked so strict was a huge nerd for karaoke. Upon the mention of her degree at the muggle university the new professor for Muggle Studies shot her an envious look.

He, Baldwin Sivit, reminded Severus of Arthur Weasley, except he was less red-headed and did probably not have numerous children, he did however, raise the same energy, being all-interested in Muggle artefacts and such. Severus already knew he was not going to deliberately make friends with this person.

“Look, this one even copied his name on the test, we are teaching a year of dunderheads.” Severus shifted. He took a large sip red-wine and tried to look as indifferent as possible. Of course, all of the common professors laughed, knowing exactly, there was only one person in the room to be making these kinds of remarks.

Much to his surprise the small witch with the puffy locks snorted, before she blushed furiously. She searched the other adults’ faces with a curious look. As she reached his dark eyes, Severus couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at her.

“Definitely him!”, she blurted out, pointing at Severus. Her voice was low, raspy, with a delicate accent, he could not match. And if he didn’t know better, he would say she had stuck his tongue out at him.

“Why would you insult a student like this?” Sivit glared at Severus.

Before Severus could speak – he had something along the lines of “It’s not an insult if it’s true” in mind – Minerva intervened. “Professor Snape slips sarcastic remarks every now and then.” She paused, inspecting both Sivit and Severus strictly.

What an understatement, he thought to himself, but Minerva quickly continued: “He however, beholds very high aspiration regarding his students, which usually results in very well-educated young adults.”

“Indeed, indeed. You have, to this day, excelled every student I taught. Besides, did I ever tell you? The students I took over, are without exception experts at basic-knowledge.” Horace nodded in excitement.

“Even Longbottom?”, Severus asked raising an eyebrow. He did not turn his head to face the Potions Master, but his eyes scanned the wizard to his side cautiously.

Horace didn’t answer, instead the witch, who outed him, started introducing herself. “My name is Lilou Frei, I am the new Transfiguration Professor, I have attended Hogwarts for my own education from 74 to 81, some of you might remember me”, she winked at Pomona Sprout, then searched Severus’ face for any emotion, but he kept a straight face. He did not remember Lilou, and he certainly was very displeased with her name. “After graduating, I spent my years in my mother’s hometown in Switzerland, studying the art of turning one thing into another and also turning myself into a duck, because honestly, who doesn’t like ducks, they are lovely!” She cupped her face with her hands, probably thinking of the ducks she was referring to. Severus could not recall having seen a lovely duck, ever. “Oh, and I have an undying love for bouncy castles.” She added straight-faced.

Severus couldn’t help but grin. Ducks, an undying love for bouncy-castles and that bubbly energy of hers. This year would be … interesting.

“My sentence says: You will not regret this; I can turn myself into a duck!” Lilou giggled. “Oh how very unfortunate. This is me!”

[thesinglesjukebox]

MARIAH CAREY - WITH YOU

[6.08]

I can let my hair down...

Alfred Soto: Pianos and polysyllabics -- after 28 years in the biz, Mariah Carey reduces her craft to its essence, with affectionate nods to Usher's Confessions and Bone Thugs-n-Harmony. The dialogic structure softens her startling rasp. Like most of Caution, "With You" catches me off guard. [8]

Pedro João Santos: Weeks come and go, and I keep spinning Caution. It's brief and straightforward, but there's a panoply of layers to be peeled off, from the musical intricacies and wordplay to its crux: Mariah's voice. It's in its deepest, most modulative configurations to date, and never attempts to overdo things (see also: The Emancipation of Mimi) or be ornamental (see also: Charmbracelet), and seldom does it soar beyond what appears to be humanly possible. The importance of Mariah's voice is most apparent when most of the production layers are removed, as on "With You". Amid an album of dense, exploratory grooves and sensuous ambiance, this is a consciously bare-bones track, piano and finger snaps giving a domestic fireplace vibe. Mariah's love-laden words, especially in the pre-chorus, are warm and made disarming by her airy head voice, which is then combined with a modest array of emoting Mariahs. The track slides smoothly, seemingly unwilling to transgress or bop too hard. But given proper time, it reveals itself as classic Mariah -- only with less schmaltz, the extra resonance allowed for by restraint, and a sense of honest intimacy. [8]

Thomas Inskeep: One of the most stripped-down ballads Mariah's done in years: Some simple piano chords, a click track, and that glorious voice all serve to spotlight a lovely little love lyric. I never would've thought this a DJ Mustard production, either, but he pulls this off nicely. This is grown-ass Mariah music, and I'm here for it. [7]

Edward Okulicz: A sweet and pretty good summary of what Mariah did supremely well in her second imperial phase, and lovingly sung and produced, but the song's too low-stakes. I'm bewildered by it as a single, really. [6]

Will Adams: Caution boasts a streamlined roster of lush, atmospheric R&B that's well suited to Mariah's late-career blend of unbothered diva and steely performer. Its biggest hit is a plain ballad with the requisite piano and ten-cent words. I don't understand how things work sometimes. [5]

Andy Hutchins: At the risk of heresy: To me, Mariah's balladry has always been her least interesting work. Its quality varies wildly depending on the melodies and the lyrics involved no matter how well Mimi is singing, and I'd rather hear her hit those highs in service of the joy of "Emotion" unless the song itself is as letter-perfect as "We Belong Together." "With You" is not a particularly memorable lyric, outside of the reminder that a similarly slow Mariah song was helpfully leavened by the Thuggish Ruggish Bone and the hint of a better, more colorful song in the "damn, I fucks with you" admission. The singing sounds strongly like it's been heavily Auto-Tuned in the descending bits of the first verse. And Mariah making this staid stuff, at the precise moment Ariana Grande is finally getting around to some of the most fun (read: take-no-shit) elements of the career she's been doing an inferior impression of for a decade, is depressing. Break up with DJ Mustard -- I'm bored. [4]

Katherine St Asaph: I know "Boo'd Up" exists, but that doesn't make it any less holy-hell bizarre to hear "Mustard on the beat" slamming into a "Hero"-esque Mariah Carey piano ballad. If anyone's going to make a "Hero"-esque piano ballad, it might as well be Mariah; the arrangement is absent but her vocal mannerisms are very much present, well-preserved and welcome, from the feathery-and-low octave harmonies to the ad-libs and coos. But the fact remains: "Boo'd Up" exists, and it has instrumentation. [5]

Tobi Tella: The intro of signature Mariah cooing followed by the DJ Mustard tag is a perfect encapsulation of this song: classic with a modern twist, updating with the times but never losing her signature sound. There's no way most artists 30 years into their career could release something this fresh -- thank god for Mimi! [8]

Jonathan Bradley: Mustard provides Mariah with -- for him, not her -- uncharacteristically trad production that suits well the nostalgia of her lyric. Nods to Bone Thugs and Usher cast "With You" as a gentler version of "We Belong Together"'s sketch of a relationship drawn between the twin poles of Bobby Womack and The Deele; here the denouement is cozier, and Carey's tones warm accordingly, reaching for the high lonesome wistfulness of "H.A.T.E.U." and the bedroom glow of "#Beautiful." That small scale doesn't play as restraint though; she sings neat little phrases like "there in front of the whole damn nation" and "damn, I fucks with you" knowing that they should appear in boldface. I was surprised to hear her create anything this emotionally and technically poised this far into her career, but perhaps Carey knows how unexpected it is to hear her in such form. The signature trill she throws in during the closing moments seems like it had been summoned as a warning not to write her off. [8]

Stephen Eisermann: Only Mariah is capable of making a song like this that is so specifically hers and nostalgic, without feeling tired or overly familiar. Like a modern "We Belong Together," Mariah gives us her best, most romantic vocal over a lovely, slow R&B beat. It's perfect for the upcoming Valentine's Day. [7]

Iris Xie: Mariah Carey, I want to believe that you understand love and can express its incredible decadence and all its intimacies, but I really don't feel it. The ornamentation that is her whistle notes is paired with a hollowness at the core, and the spare piano provides a blank backdrop for...what? I just don't know. This isn't like any love I knew, unless she is singing mimicries. [3]

David Moore: Probably just the title evoking soars and swoops of her past, but this one feels like it's stuck on the tarmac. [5]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: Rhyming "trepidation" with "whole damn nation," the awkward "damn I fucks with you," a cheap reference to the infinitely superior "Breakdown" -- "With You" is mostly fluff, tricking you into thinking it's meaningful via familiar vocal tricks. But even recognizing this, I'm still moved by the beginning of the chorus. There's a sudden intimacy in the image of "shots of Remy" and "bodies blending"; Mariah's lower vocal register makes this the serious, down-to-earth confessional that it wants to be, but only for the briefest of moments. I suppose sustained love is similar: a whole lot of coasting together -- surviving together -- punctuated by moments of the casually sublime. [5]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[dear-mrs-otome]

Trick or treat! with Saizo~

Heyo Nonny - funny story, I meant to write you a drabble.

Oops.

The keys clutched in your hand jangled softly, much like your nerves. You’d woven them to stick out between your fingers, the way you’d seen on a TV show or the internet once, as if they’d afford you some sort of protection - but a part of you knew it was more talisman than anything else. This cramped alley stank of scummy water and sour deeds, and if things in the dark here wanted to hurt you badly enough there was no way a few bits of flimsy metal were going to stop them.

This was a stupid idea. Every last shred of self-preservation, every instinct that had clung stubbornly to your brainstem as humanity crawled out of the sea, was screaming as much at the top of its lungs. This was the worst part of town, at the worst hour of the night. The only sounds besides your own unsteady breathing and the slow drip of a leaky pipe was the muffled pulse of music from a nearby strip club and the distant wail of sirens, never ending. Like banshees portending doom. There was a snowdrift of used condoms piled up against the rusted-out dumpster huddled in the shadows, and you shivered and drew your coat tighter.

You weren’t going to chicken out now. The image of the mayor’s leering face straightened your drooping shoulders, lifted your head. This was where the mysterious message, the reply to your desperate plea sent out into the wilds of the dark web, had told you to be. This was where you were going to stop being a victim.

That bravado lasted all of three seconds.

A piece of the gloom seemed to just break off, and you couldn’t stifle your yelp of fear as it drew closer. A man, tall and lithe and swathed head to toe in gray that had blended with the murkiness around you. He had the hood of his jacket drawn up, and the only thing you could make out in the deep shadow it cast on his face was a vague sense of eyes, fixed on you.

“Stay back,” you warned in an unsteady voice, your jingling fist tightening at your side. He didn’t so much as slow his approach - clearly unimpressed, if the faint chuckle was any indication.

“Iga!” The strange codeword that had been sent along with your instructions leapt to mind, and upon hearing it the man came to a halt, his head tilting curiously. Idly. Like a snake testing the air, your brain supplied unhelpfully. He drew a few steps closer, and you could finally trace his features. Eyes flashed oddly as they flickered over you - copper, like pennies one moment. Rust, like dried blood the next. They lingered on your face uncomfortably, until you squirmed beneath his stare.

“Are you…him?” You rallied the courage to ask, finally. “I’m -”

He cut you off with one upraised hand, his gaze narrowing to knifeblades. “No names. Those are the rules.” He studied you a moment longer. “Besides, I already know who you are,” he added, sounding almost bemused.

Shrugging away his enigmatic comment, you press on. “Then you know why I’m here. What I want.”

Despite being closer, he was somehow still hard to see. The rasp of gravel on pavement beneath his heel was the only indication you had that he was moving at first, and even that was intermittent. He took to circling you slowly, hands clasped behind his back, and you found yourself turning to try and keep him in sight. “I know,” he allowed at last. “They all want the same thing.” Abruptly he stopped, and by the time you had blinked in surprise he was simply in front of you, so close you could see the oddly pale eyelashes that fringed his eerie gaze. “But you don’t.”

You fought the urge to quail as his quiet murmur washed over your cheek. “Yes, I do. I want him gone, I want him…taken care of. I want him to never bother my family or our business ever again.”

“You want me to kill the mayor. Or at least you think you do.” It wasn’t a question. Merely a pair of statements, delivered as plainly as an observation on the weather. Nice day. Might rain tomorrow. Want me to murder a man? “And I want you to say it.”

Opening your mouth, you tried to force the words out, but they faltered on your tongue as if they were leaden. He leaned even closer, until his eyes filled your vision with red. Red like viscera. Red like roses.

“You can’t, can you?” He drew back and smiled, and it was a ghastly thing. Fine-boned yet hollow, a mask atop a mask atop a mask. You wondered just how many layers this man went down. “Death is easy, little lady. Living with it is harder.” The laugh that accompanied his words chimed, cold and hard and grimly musical, like a rain of spent bullet casings.

“What does it matter what I say? I have money. I have a problem. You have answers, right?” you bluffed.

He hummed, putting his hand on his chin, playfully macabre. The adder’s grin still lingering about the corners of his mouth. “Maybe not the ones you want to hear. But maybe they’re the ones you need to.” Reaching out he plucked the dog-eared envelope from your pocket and thumbed through the stack of bills inside before stuffing them back and shoving the entire bundle in your direction. “Doesn’t matter though. It’s not enough.”

Crestfallen, you refused to take it back. There were weeks, months, years of scraping in that envelope. Taking every last bit you could spare from the tip jar on your counter, skimming every hint of profit off your monthly true-up. You’d eaten leftover dango until you were sick of it, so that your little brother would never have to look over his shoulder again. “Please. It’s…that’s all…” You were embarrassed by how pathetic your voice sounded, and you swallowed the rest of your sentence.

For long moments neither of you moved, until he pushed his hood back with a sharp, angry motion. The puddles of light from the nearest streetlamp were too far away to do you any real good in this sliver of space between buildings, not as far away as he stood now, but something about him now struck you as familiar. The pale abstract of his unruly hair perhaps, or the quiet assurance of his posture. You felt more than saw his hard stare, weighing you down like a hand on your shoulder, before he crammed your envelope inside his jacket and heaved a sigh.

Then he was simply there again, your hand in his, no chance of reaction. He pulled the keys from between your nerveless fingers, oddly gentle, and held them up in his own fist the way you had, where you could see. “This won’t do you a bit of good, little lady. You can only punch, and even if you land a hit you’re going to tear up your own hand this way.” Still moving with that unsettling softness he opened your hand, placing the keys carefully in it again so that they stuck out the top and bottom of your fist as he closed your fingers around them, his own hot where they lingered against your skin. As if giving you a gift. “Stick to this, and slash.”

And before you could respond he was gone, taking your money and your hopes and a good portion of the very air along with him.

“Stay tuned for our special segment as we take a closer look at the sweeping sting at City Hall that lead to arrests of the mayor and multiple aides, now indicted on a litany of charges. This and more coming up after our break!”

The news announcer’s cheery voice, coming from the small TV mounted on the far wall of the cafe, just carried over the clatter of pans and dishes and your own cheerful singing. It had been one week since the mayor had been taken into custody. One week since you’d been able to breathe properly again. One week since you’d been able to let Yahiko out of your sight.

It had been, by far, the single greatest week of your life.

“Yo, Sis!” Yahiko called over his shoulder, summoning you to the front of the cafe. Most of the lights had been turned down for the night but a few still shone down on where he worked, counting the till. A trick of the sallow shadows shaved baby fat off his face, making him seem far older than his young teenage years. “I could use a hand.”

You dried your dish-wrinkled hands off on a nearby towel and made your way to his side, frowning down at the neat piles of money he’d lined up on the counter. “What’s wrong?”

He sighed, pushing a hand through his already-tousled hair. “There’s too much money here.” His expression thinned out, and he turned wide eyes on you. “Like..a lotta too much.”

You laughed, but even you could hear the edge of discomfort in your voice. “Maybe you just counted wrong.”

He waved an angry hand at the day’s take, clearly insulted by your insinuation. “Alright, you try then Miss Smartypants. I’m not stupid.”

“I never meant…” But all you had to speak to was his sullen back as he walked away, and you sighed, making a note to apologize later.

The cash even looked wrong, stacks reaching far too high for the slow Tuesday evening you’d had. A strange, lopsided feeling settled slowly in your stomach as you counted them out as well - once, twice. Three times. The numbers never changing their outrageous tune, no matter how careful you were about writing them down on a piece of paper as you went, just to be sure.

A figure, made up of loops and whorls and too many extra zeroes, staring you boldly in the face. A sum you were all too familiar with.

Your fingers shook as you turned on the small monitor connected to the handful of cheap cameras set up around the cafe, knowing before the screen sparked to life exactly what you’d see. Snow, static, and blackness. The entire days recording somehow lost. And before you could talk yourself out of it you’d fumbled for the bottle of brandy you sometimes used in the tiramisu and had splashed a healthy measure into a nearby measuring glass, knocking it back straight.

Through watering eyes you gathered the day’s money and receipts into a deposit bag, shoving it into the safe. As if not seeing it would make it go away, make the scrambled sensible again. Since when had red become blue, up become down? Hitmen become heroes?

Putting the scattered parts of the till drawer back together, your hand caught on a small white square stuffed into the tray beneath it. A business card, and when you flipped it over the white flash of it reflecting in the sidewalk window seemed almost, for a moment, like a pale shock of hair slipping past.

The DojoMartial Arts and Self-Defense

Kirigakure-kyoshi - Proprietor

The ‘self-defense’ had been underlined along with the address, and when you turned the card over there were five simple words written on the back, in jagged script, that put the first hint of a smile on your face. Had your fingers flexing around the memory of cool keys and a warm touch, and the feeling of an unbalanced world slowly leveling back out.

This will be my payment.