#Its the same damn thin homesick did but even worse

[4esthetic-dissonance]

I am really REALLY trying to get back into the CW shows but the whole crisis thing has me. Very tired. Very very tired.

But! It did open up one interesting thingy! What if Clark has no fucking idea how to parent two teenage boys because his memories DIDNT settle in place? He's living a new life in a new world with two kids he's really only known for a year and without any certainty on whether Argo still exists! Wouldn't that be fun!

[masonscig]

antidote

pairing | mason x sofía

word count | 2.4k

warnings | mention of rook’s death and breaking her wrist when she was a kid, so you know. a little angst. some suggestive language towards the end!

author’s note | so this is my late entry for day one of warm in wayhaven, cooking – as usual when i’m writing these two i can’t shut up for the life of me

•─────────────────•

He wakes up from his first nap in a week to the smell of chicken.

There’s only one person in the entire warehouse that could be cooking at 2 in the morning without burning the place down.

He trods barefoot down the dark hallway, his sweatpants hung low off his hips.

Putting on pants was a formality, really. But he had roommates that’d have aneurysms over anything less, so he’s usually at least half clothed when he ventures outside of his room.

The smell gets a lot stronger, mixes with other scents the closer he gets.

Her heartbeat’s stronger in his ears, though, so he keeps going, despite the way his nose is crinkled and his fists are clenched.

When he makes his way to the kitchen, he stops at the doorway, perching his hip against the frame.

She’s pulled a chair up to the stove, chin balanced on her knees that are up against her chest.

Her eyes are glued to the big silver pot that sits there, steam leaking out from the ventilation tiny holes in the lid.

Her hair’s tossed up in a messy bun, and from the glimmer of light from the overhead light above the stove, he can see that a few strands are plastered to the back of her neck and forehead.

She reaches out to twist the knob all the way to the left, then struggles to pick the pot up.

Despite him not announcing himself, he’s next to her in a flash, moving the pot to the other burner in a flash.

“Oh, hey,” she murmurs distractedly. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Nah.”

She nods, barely even giving him a second glance, grabbing the lid and placing it on the counter.

The steam threatens to curl higher and higher, but with a quick flip of a switch, the stove’s fan is pulling it into its vents.

There’s something definitely wrong with her – she’ll bake cupcakes for an elementary school bake sale at 2 a.m., but never soup. Who the fuck makes soup in the dead of night?

“I’m not an expert on human food by any means,” he starts, grimacing at the way the scent wafts towards him when she swirls the wooden spoon through the broth. “But why the hell are you making soup when it’s hot as fuck outside?”

She shrugs, dipping the spoon flat against the surface of the hot broth, filling it to the brim. “I was hungry.”

She brings it to her mouth, lips pursed, and blows on it, thin tendrils of steam floating towards him.

He’s still trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with her when she sips it, a small tired smile blooming across her features.

The soft breathy hum that buzzes from her throat is low enough for both of them to hear, nearly matching the pitch of the whirring fan.

He doesn’t wanna press his luck with her, considering they're being civil.

It’d been a week since they were ambushed and she came face to face with her attempted kidnapper.

Things between Mason and Sofía were already… complicated, to say the least.

Different attitudes, different wants, different needs. He’d managed to fail in all three of those categories, disappointing her over and over without really trying to.

There was a certain level of avoidance from the both of them for the days following the ambushing. It’s not that he wanted to get her alone nor he did he care if she was avoiding him, but this was the first time he’d been alone with her all week, so he wasn’t going to actively try to fuck this up.

“That’s it?” he asked, keeping it simple.

She ignores him, instead flitting around the kitchen to grab a bowl and a spoon.

Well, she’d be amicable if she kept quiet – she wasn’t wrong with that one.

He watches as she fishes out sliced vegetables, an ear of corn, and chicken, then fills the bowl to the brim with broth.

Setting it on the table, she grabs a stained tortilla warmer from the microwave and scoots up to her bowl, digging in with one hand, a tortilla rolled in the other.

She’s still sweating under the heat, her chest glistening, the seams of her tattered tank damp underneath her armpits.

He sinks into the chair across from her, arms crossed. 

“You gonna keep ignoring me?”

“Maybe,” she says from behind her hand (and around a mouthful of veggies).

“Tell me to leave, then, and I’ll go. Just say the word, sweetheart.”

He knows she won’t.

She lifts her eyes from the bowl to meet his own lazy gaze. Without saying another word, she dunks her rolled tortilla in the broth and takes a bite.

“That’s what I thought. You gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

“You’re not that invested in my life outside of work, are you?” She challenges, mashing the back of her spoon against a vegetable until it’s smooth, scooping it up with a little broth and popping it into her mouth.

He shrugs. “I just know you’re lying, that’s all.”

“You lie all the time,” she counters immediately, pointing the tip of the spoon at him.

“When?” He knows she’s right, but she hasn’t brought it up since she stormed away from him outside of the warehouse, drenched and shivering.

“You lied at the bakery.”

Bingo.

He leans forward till his elbows are on the table, resting his chin on the back of his interlaced fingers.

“So that’s what you’re upset about.”

He’s a foot away from her, the temptation of closing the gap between them nearly tugging his shoulders forward.

Her face contorts into a grimace, bordering on disgust. “That’s not at the forefront of my mind, no.”

She swirls her spoon around the bowl, eyes following the movements of her wrist.

“I hate the summer. I always have.”

He stifles a wince as he leans back until his bare back presses against the cool plastic.

“Bad things always happen to me in the summer, you know? Dad died during the summer. Mom forgot to pick me up at science camp for a full twenty-four hours when I was 9, and I had to spend a whole day alone with no friends after everyone had gone home. That’s also the same summer she took her first month-long assignment.

“The next summer, they extended it from a month to a full summer. I broke my wrist on my neighbor’s trampoline, and she didn’t even visit me until my cast was getting sawed off.

“Bobby dumped me for the first time during the summer before he studied abroad so he could sleep with whoever he wanted.”

She shakes her head, dropping the spoon and tortilla.

“Sorry, I, uh, I’m just happier in the fall and winter,” she smiles apologetically.

“And that’s why you’re makin’ soup at 2 a.m.?” He asks, eyeing her warily.

“Yeah, kinda. It sounds stupid when you put it like that, really,” she giggles, scooting the bowl forward so she can rest her elbows there too, her chin in her hands.

A sigh escapes her, low and grim. “This dish is really special to me.”

He waits for her to continue, but she just sinks her teeth into her bottom lip instead, chewing nervously at the skin there.

He kicks his toe against her slipper clad foot, a gentle nudge to get her to speak.

He’s gotten pretty good at reassuring her without words, he thinks. Better than when they first met, that’s for damn sure.

“My favorite picture of my dad and I is one where I’m sitting at my high chair and I barely have two teeth in my mouth and my dad is feeding me mashed zucchini and yucca root. He’s laughing and smiling like he wouldn’t rather be doing anything else in the entire world than eating soup with his daughter.”

Mason stiffens at the mention of her father, and even worse so, feels remorse start to trickle into his bones.

It’s stupid to think he could’ve done anything. He pushes those thoughts to the side, recognizing the remaining scrappy morsels of humanity in him clawing its way to the surface. Impulse has always been the most human part of him – maybe she’s changing that.

He doesn’t really know who he was before this, but what he does know is any inkling of humanity he has surfaces when he’s with her.

Yeah, he can’t feel what it’s like to lose a parent, but watching Sofía tear up over bittersweet memories was enough on its own.

“Your dad cooked?”

“Yeah, from what I can remember, yeah. All of our old cookbooks are in his and my abuela’s handwriting.”

She looks like she wanted to say something more, so he leans back, arms across his chest, waiting.

“When I was in high school, I tried making it on my own and it was so shitty. I wanted to surprise Rebecca, because I knew she was getting back from a stressful work trip, and I couldn’t do it like he did. She didn’t even notice that I’d tried,” she sighs, picking up her spoon again to sip the broth.

She hums again, chews, swallows.

“I don’t know why I was so naive back then, you know? I thought I could chop a couple veggies and toss them into seasoned water and it’d turn out just like Dad made it.

“In reality, I didn’t even know what it tasted like. My mom described the taste to me once before, but she never cooked, so I just went off of what she told me. I romanticized the whole thing right down to making up the flavor in my own head.”

“That’s probably why I made the soup tonight. I miss when I was happy, but even then, what the fuck did that even look like to me? I’m just telling myself I was happy because I saw photos of me being happy, but I can’t recall that feeling by memory at all.”

She darts a hand under her eyes to rub it away before he notices, but he can see her eyes glistening.

“How am I homesick for a life that was never really great to begin with, you know?”

He leans forward, brows furrowed. “It doesn’t matter if you can’t remember. Fuck those old memories. Make new ones.”

He’s speaking from the heart now, compelled to say something before his mind can stop him.

Chuckling with a quick sniffle, she gets up to grab a drink from the fridge. “I know you mean well, but it’s hard when you’ve got an active bounty on your head.”

“Things will get better.” He’s not a beacon of positivity in the slightest, but she’s too good to be feeling this bad, so he has to say something.

“Things can get better.”

“What?”

“It’s not guaranteed. Not for me, at least. Probability’s never worked out in my favor,” she smiles weakly, unscrewing the cap to the water and sipping it politely.

“You’ve got a team making sure things will get better, sweetheart. No matter what.”

“You’re all here by force, though. After you leave, I’m still gonna be stuck here, and –”

She waves her free hand, the other one gripping the damp water bottle.

“I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I’ll be less of a mess in the morning.”

“Not all of us,” he says, delayed, but hoping she gets it.

“Not all of us what?”

“Are here by force.”

She grips the bottle harder, the plastic crackling. She knows what he means now.

“That’s… uh, good to know,” she murmurs, a smile tugging at her features. “Thanks.”

“Didn’t do anything to warrant a thanks.”

She rolls her eyes, sitting back down at the table. “You’re gonna have to get used to my manners, Mason.”

“Never,” he smirks, leaning over the table, over the soup, running his thumb over her bottom lip before standing.

“You don’t like it because you don’t have any.”

He snorts, a hearty laugh ripping out of his vocal cords and echoing off the tile flooring. “Damn right.”

She smiles, too, this time though with her whole body. It’s dim in the kitchen, but she’s shining nonetheless.

The smell’s grown on him a little bit. The shit honestly reeks, but he doesn’t mind it.

He follows her when she makes her way to the cabinets underneath the countertops, retrieving a big glass bowl.

When she bends down, he tentatively steps behind her, leaving a hair’s width space between them. He’s hesitating to touch her, even as she glances back at him reassuringly and closes the gap between his stomach and her back.

The hum that leaves her this time as he hooks a lazy arm around her waist sounds just like the one she let out when she tasted the soup.

She gently guides his hands to grip the edges of the bowl while she pulls the pot closer.

“So what’s this shit called?” He asks, crinkling his nose as she ladles it in, grimacing when some splashes his hand.

He knows he’s there for something, but he can’t quite remember what for when she licks the stray drops from his thumb.

“Caldo de pollo,” she smiles, snapping the plastic top until it’s airtight, guiding him to the fridge.

He knows “pollo” is Spanish from the times Felix watched kids shows to pick up on English. (He could never quite shake the looping sound byte of Felix’s southern drawl saying “poy-yo” when he discovered Dora the Explorer.)

“You gotta make it for Nate sometime,” he suggests, wrapping his other arm around her waist when she closes the fridge door.

She turns in his grasp, splaying her hands on his bare chest, dragging her thumbs over the tuft of hair in the middle of it.

“Thank you, really,” she whispers, eyes trained on her moving hands. “I mean it.”

He’s shit at accepting thanks with words, so instead he kisses her. He fights the urge to deepen it, to open his mouth to taste her.

She’s not ready to let him in like that just yet. He thinks it’s enough that she’s letting him touch her at least.

The lingering taste of chicken is disgusting, but he’s enduring it, because Sofía’s humming like he’s the best thing she’s tasted in years.

[babyybitchhhwrites]

Mugen x Reader 18+

Title: In the City

Rating:  Explicit/R-18+

Words: 8522

Warnings: cunnilingus, spit swapping, biting, creampie 

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25298812

♥♥♥♥

The rain came suddenly and with the sort of vengeful, punishing force that put an immediate stop to the hustle and bustle of nightlife in the city. It seemed even the floating world of Edo, for as lively and vibrant as it was, could not claim immunity to nature’s unpredictable wrath. 

You’d been lucky enough to secure a relatively dry spot for yourself under the safety of an izakaya’s roof awning. The notion of going inside to warm up with a bottle of sake flitted through your mind, very briefly, but then you remembered that your travel funds had already been greatly depleted on the journey here. You couldn’t afford the extra expense. At least not until you found a job, anyway.

You didn’t anticipate that being much of a problem in the capital though, and your heart gave a little thump when you peered out into the gloomy night. It was odd to see the once crowded streets now completely deserted. Empty, save the quickly flooding potholes in the road. The hazy outline of buildings loomed up out of the shadows all around you, faintly glowing lamps flickering here or there in the distance. You thought it strangely peaceful despite the rain violently hammering down on the earth. 

It was far from quiet though, at least not compared to the small farming village you’d come from. Even the slightest noise sounded like a thunderous clap when everything else was immersed in silence out in the country but here it seemed there was a continuous din coming from every which direction. You could just make out the reverberating notes of a plucked shamisen further down the road. There was a baby crying in one of the adjacent houses, its baleful wails almost poignantly ironic when it bled into the racket coming from the red light district just one street over. A dog was barking somewhere nearby. Behind you, raucous laughter drifted out of the izakaya and brushed your shoulder like a passing stranger stumbling home, only further emphasizing your isolation in a city of thousands.

A shudder raced down your spine and you shivered, feeling strangely alone. You’d expected some amount of homesickness, yes, but it seemed too soon for that just yet. 

There was no helping it when you were standing in the middle of an unfamiliar city full of nameless faces though. Knowing each of them had their own individual lives to lead that had nothing to do with you, a mere outsider, unavoidably made you ache for what you’d left behind. It was like being lost out at sea with no sign of land in sight. Disconcerting, to say the very least. But try as you might, you couldn’t seem to shake the impression of drowning within the expansive Edo landscape and you wordlessly shuffled aside when the door opened up behind you with a soft clack.  

“Man, it’s really coming down.”

You snuck a quick glance at the man who’d stepped out under the awning with you. He turned his head to look at you too. The quiet beat of consideration that passed between two strangers only seemed highlighted by the pounding rain and then you looked away. 

“Guess you don’t have an umbrella then.” He sighed as he moved to lean against the opposite wall. 

“I wouldn’t be standing here if I did.” You said, casually offhand. The disinterested tone of your voice had been purposely constructed so as to discourage further engagement on his part but he either didn’t pick up on it or he didn’t care.

“Well, that makes two of us. Damn. My luck couldn’t get any worse.”

You tried to ignore him, to no avail. He just kept talking, having a one sided conversation with himself no matter how pointedly you stared out at the rain.

“I don’t even have enough to buy another bottle of sake so there’s no point going back inside. I’m not in the mood to get drenched though. Same probably goes for you too, huh, sweetheart?”

Lifting your brows, you turned to regard him with nothing short of scandalized affront. Was this how all men in Edo talked to women? You weren’t convinced of that, particularly when you took a second look at him. His skin gave off the faint impression of copper, ruddy with a cool undertone that seemed to suggest he hailed from the south. There was a slight accent too. Noticeable but hard to place. The realization that he was also an outsider to the decadent world of the capital should have been of some comfort to you, inspiring a sense of solidarity if not camaraderie. Something about him put you on the defensive though and you couldn’t decide if it was the sword strapped to his back or the scruffy, unkempt appearance he was unapologetically touting. Shady. Exactly as you’d been told the people in the city would be.

You narrowed your eyes at him in warning. 

“Scary.” He murmured, clearly more amused than intimidated. “You got a name?”

“That’s none of your business.” 

“I’m Mugen.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Snorting, he dropped his gaze lower and his lopsided grin turned wry. “You a runaway or something? Looks like you got your whole life stuffed in there.”

You turned your attention to the furoshiki sitting at your feet. He wasn’t necessarily wrong in his estimation - you really had shoved as much as you could fit inside and it looked close to bursting - but you didn’t appreciate the insinuation that you were a child simply disobeying their parents. You hadn’t run away so much as you’d snuck out in the middle of the night to avoid a confrontation you knew you’d never win. The farmers in the country were distrustful of the city on principle alone, often citing the gambling houses and pleasure quarters as proof of Edo’s inherent corruption from within. You weren’t about to waste your time trying to explain that to him and risk being labeled a bumpkin though, so you merely offered a delicate sniff in response. 

“Snooty. I like that.”

Your mouth twisted in a scowl. “I am not snooty. You’re just a boorish brute and I’ve got nothing to say to you. That’s all.” 

The stranger who was no longer a stranger in your mind but, rather, a man called Mugen gave an overeffected shrug. “No skin off my nose. How old are you?” 

“What part of ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you’ don’t you understand?” You could feel your face starting to grow hot. 

Laughing in a strikingly boyish manner, he pushed off the wall and stepped closer. The hair on the nape of your neck promptly stood on end and an unseasonable chill raced through your body as he closed the distance on loose, confident strides that spoke volumes about the sort of life he’d led. A predator. That was all you could think to call him and you were apparently the weak, isolated prey animal he’d set his sights on. Something not unlike panic started to claw at your throat but you already knew running would be a futile effort. You were effectively cornered. Trapped. 

Your only option was to stand there, frozen to the spot with your heart pounding a frantic beat against your rib cage. The thought that this is how a hunted rabbit must feel when a half starved fox was closing in for the kill flashed through your mind and then camped there. You were just as helpless as the hare though and, craning your neck back, you met Mugen’s infuriatingly attractive half-mast gaze head on. 

He seemed to like that and hummed in quiet approval. “You’re awfully talkative for someone who claims they’ve got nothing to say. I think we just haven’t found the right topic yet, sweetheart.”

“How arrogant.” It was a real struggle to keep your tone neutral now. “Why do you think I owe you any of my time?” 

Ignoring the question, Mugen reached out and you instinctively flinched. He only grasped your sleeve between lax fingers and listlessly tugged on it though, not at all unlike a child. “This is your nicest kimono, isn’t it?” He asked instead. “It’s well made but old. Even I can see that and you think I give a damn about clothes?” 

He inelegantly snorted and you took that as your cue to jerk out of his hold. “What is your point?” 

Another flippant shrug of his thin shoulders. “Just making an observation. Is that a crime?” You pursed your lips together and he pressed on, satisfied with that. “I bet if I took a look in your bag, the rest of your shit is even more beat up than what you’ve got on now. Not a fancy silk kimono in the bunch.”

“And?” You said archly. “Is that really so condemning?” 

Comfortably slouching, Mugen slipped his hands into the pockets of his pants with a testy sigh. “And it’s obvious you’re not from around here. Not the city, at least. You’re a country girl, aren’t you?” 

The breath caught in your throat. You suddenly couldn’t speak; all of your witty, sharp tongued remarks failing you when you needed them most, but your silence seemed to be answer enough for him. He smirked. 

“Thought so.” Piercing gaze roving down your ramrod stiff body, Mugen regarded the furoshiki at your feet again. “Considering how full you’ve got that bag, it’s not hard to figure out your angle. A sweet little girl from the country who ran away to Edo for something more than a life of farming. I’m right, aren’t I?” 

A tense beat of quiet passed over the spot under the Izakaya awning. 

“I’m not a little girl.” You stammered. It was the only thing you could think to say. 

“Coulda’ fooled me.” 

Hunching his shoulders, Mugen turned on his heel and unhesitatingly stepped out into the late summer downpour. You watched him go, reeling and knocked off course. Buoying in the tumultuous sea of doubts suddenly assaulting your mindscape in a torrential flood that made the rain storm seem a mere drop in the bucket by comparison. He’d come to you like a tsunami, abrupt and without mercy, ravaging your resolve in one fell swoop before receding just as quickly. 

He was a force to be reckoned with, of that you were sure, and he hadn’t even acted in a way that was outwardly aggressive. Mugen simply was what he was. A beast. Perhaps even the most dangerous of them all, because his retreating back sparked a feeling deep inside your gut that could only be described as longing. He was a threat to your person, your entire being. But there was no denying his magnetic pull and you didn’t stop long enough to consider the possible consequences of further engaging him. He hadn't really left you with any other choice. 

You moved to step after him only to trip, stumbling over your bag. 

Swooping down, you hauled the considerable weight of your past life up over your shoulders and stepped out into the rain. It was cold on your flushed skin but a welcome reprieve. Your hair was plastered to your skull in a matter of moments, though you hardly even noticed it as you scampered after him like a naive, hopeful stray.

If asked, you wouldn’t have been able to explain why you did it. You weren’t even entirely sure yourself. Maybe Mugen was simply the closest thing to an acquaintance you could lay claim to here in Edo or, perhaps more likely, he represented a much needed harbor of safety in this floating realm of hedonistic duress. You weren’t sure where to go from here or what to do with your new found freedom. But if he could ground you, even if only for one night, you felt certain you’d be able to face the unfamiliar city in the light of day. That’s what you tried to tell yourself, at least. 

But he didn’t ask. 

*

“Put your stuff wherever.”

Clutching the furoshiki in a death grip, you glanced around at Mugen’s room. It was small, though not exactly cramped. Humble would likely be a good word for it. 

The simple, unadorned inn was surprisingly quaint. It almost reminded you of back home but there was no mistaking the sheer difference in its construction. This was not the simple, economical structure of a farming village but rather the distinct product of an extravagant city that was forever evolving in more and more decadent ways. It only looked modest and unassuming because it had been designed that way. You could see the signs all around you, from the meticulously polished wood to the immaculate state of the tatami mats that were without a fray in sight despite the no doubt heavy foot traffic they were burdened with. It left you feeling decidedly out of place and you awkwardly stood standing by the doorway.

“I don’t want to intrude …”

Mugen scoffed and shot you a flat look over his shoulder. “Little late for that wouldn’t you say?” 

Your cheeks warmed but if he noticed, he paid it no mind. 

Moving further into the room, Mugen pulled the sword strap over his head and somewhat carelessly dropped the weapon onto the floor. His drenched happi came off next, tossed aside without a second thought. The white shirt underneath quickly followed and you squeaked in surprise - not because you were fool enough to have expected anything less staying with a man you’d only just met but because he was skin and bones. Gaunt didn’t even come close to describing it.

You could make out almost every single knob and divot in his spine. The hard lines of his shoulder blades jutted out, stretching the thin layer of skin across his back like brittle rice paper until it seemed as if the bone might rip through it if he wasn’t careful. The grooves of his rib cage were clear as day even from behind and you gulped, swallowing your nerves so forcefully that it left you momentarily lightheaded. You’d never seen someone so skinny before. The apparent fragility of his body was misleading but, even though you would have otherwise assumed him weak and frail, you still recognized that he was actually quite strong. Maybe even stronger than the boys back home who spent their days plowing fields and chopping wood who were twice his size. 

The impression of sharing a space with some mangy, feral dog only grew stronger while you watched him step up to the window facing out over the street and slide it open. You were able to see every muscle in his arm as it flexed with the motion, slight as it was but so densely packed that it appeared to violently bulge under ruddy skin. You quickly realized your initial assumption had been off by some margin. Mugen was all skin and bones and hard muscle, and you were starting to suspect that he was one of the most dangerous men in Edo. 

You abruptly felt some concern about following him here, back to his room at the inn, but then he turned to regard you with an expectant lift of his brows and you relaxed. For the time being, at least, you were safe with him. He was just a mutt looking for some company on a rainy night and he had no reason to harm you. It was fitting, given that you, too, had no place to call your own or anyone to share it with. Birds of a feather and all that.

“Is here fine?” You asked, moving to deposit your overflowing bag in the corner. 

“I don’t give a damn.” 

Mugen lifted his arms over his head in an exaggerated stretch that left his skin pulled so taut it was a miracle it didn’t split open right before your very eyes. The gaps between his ribs made your stomach clench and you quickly looked away, untying the furoshiki with trembling fingers. Everything inside was soaked. Not that it really mattered. His earlier estimation had been absolutely correct and all the clothes you’d brought with you were as good as trash. A glaring sign of your roots up in the mountains, far away from civilization and talented seamstresses. 

Sighing dejectedly, you tied the cloth back up so you wouldn’t have to look at its contents anymore. 

“Something wrong?” 

“Not at all.” Straightening, you turned and walked over to stand next to him in front of the window. It was still pouring outside and the mismatched pitter patter of raindrops on the clay shingle roof provided the room a strangely calming ambiance. It was peaceful here despite the ever present noise of city life. 

Curiously, Mugen peered over at you for a prolonged moment. “Aren’t you cold?” He said at last.

Now it was your turn to shrug. “I don’t have anything dry to change into.”

He clicked his tongue, closing the distance between the two of you in a single step. 

You froze, heart pounding in your ears when his narrow frame brushed up against yours without a hint of pretense or deception. Mugen’s demeanor was honest to a fault as his hands found your hips and settled there, guiding you forward until you were pressed up against him and you could feel the faint warmth of his body bleeding through your wet kimono and into you. A shudder rippled down your back, as anticipatory as it was anxious. You weren’t sure what to do - did he expect submissive compliance or wanton hunger? - and you held your breath when he leaned close to put his mouth next to your ear.

“Neither do I but I know how we can warm each other up.”

You lifted your hands to halfheartedly grasp at his bony wrists. “Isn’t this happening a little fast?”

“Sorry. I don’t like to waste time if I can help it.”

Tilting your head, you warily glanced up at him and whatever he saw in your face made him laugh.

“Don’t look at me like that. We don’t have to if you don’t wanna’. Despite what you think, I’m not actually a brute.” Narrow eyes twinkling with mischief, Mugen used his hold on your hips to steer you around so that your back was facing the open window. “But I can promise you won’t regret it. I’m leagues above those country boys you used to fool around with.” 

“How modest.”

That was all you managed to get out when he abruptly tightened his hold and hefted you up into the air. You yelped, surprised, and he plopped you back down almost immediately. Realizing he’d set you on the window sill, you fixed him with a disgruntled scowl as you huffily attempted to right yourself. The ease with which he’d plucked you off the ground had affected you more than you were willing to let on though, your insides vibrating at the casual display of strength while you struggled to find your orientation again. 

“A warning would have -”

Mugen silenced you with his mouth.

You jolted, fuzzy surprise washing over you at the sensation of coarse lips working against yours. He wasn’t gentle or slow. The exact opposite of every other kiss you’d ever been on the receiving end of. His ministrations were conversely demanding and rough, bordering on sloppy as he forcibly pried your mouth open so he could taste you. 

Gut clenching, you acquiesced with a muted groan. Mugen swallowed the sound and tilted his head so your lips were slotted more firmly together and he could delve the wet, sticky heat of his tongue past your teeth. It brushed yours in a slow, languid lick towards the back of your throat, making you swallow on reflex. He smirked into the kiss and you shuddered. This was as foreign to you as the city. Brash and formidable where you’d only ever experienced tentative, coaxing pecks before. It had you burning up in a matter of moments, your chilled nipples pebbling against the innermost layer of your kimono until you had no choice but to squirm at the heady sensation. 

It was like being lit on fire, you were sure of it, and you gratefully tipped your face towards the ceiling when he leaned back to regard your dazed expression. Smug and confident. Pleased. 

“It’s been a long time since I was last with a girl as honest as you.” He husked, the sly note in his voice not escaping your notice. 

“I am not honest.” You fixed him with a frazzled look of warning. Mugen didn’t seem to buy it though, continuing to hover over you with his hands bracketing your thighs against the window sill, and you irritably huffed. “What would make you say that, anyway?”

“The better question is what wouldn’t.” Reaching up, he grazed the rough pad of his thumb over your bottom lip which parted for him as if on command. “You’re not a virgin, are you, sweetheart?” 

You hesitated, thoroughly caught off guard by that question. “No.” You said at last. It wasn’t a lie. You’d just never been with someone like him before.

The corner of his mouth twitched higher. “Good. I won’t have to hold back then.” 

Mugen dipped his thumb into your mouth before you could draw a breath of protest, effectively silencing you again. Noising a weak complaint around the intrusion, you shot him a plaintive look but he remained as undeterred as ever. The pad of his finger pressed down on your tongue, making it writhe under the pressure in a tantalizing dance that had him drawing a slow breath of excitement. His other hand lifted and cupped your breast through the soaked cotton, giving it an experimental squeeze. Static zapped through you at the indelicate friction and you sat up a little straighter, pushing your chest further into his palm. He was still focused entirely on your mouth though, leaving you with no choice but to seal your lips around the base of the digit and obediently suckle.  

He offered you a quiet sound of approval. It wasn’t hard to figure out what he wanted, but you found it difficult to shake the feeling that your childish trysts with the village boys down by the creek had not properly prepared you for what Mugen had to offer. He was an entirely different breed. His own animal, as dangerous as he was gangly. The little voice in the back of your mind tried to insist that you weren’t ready for this - whatever this was - but your body seemed to have a mind of its own. When he slipped his hand inside the folds of your kimono, you readily arched into the touch. When his fingers found your stiff nipple you writhed and when he unceremoniously tweaked it, you gasped. You’d never felt so desperate from such simple, tactless attention before but you couldn’t deny what it was doing to you even if you’d tried.

Had it been anyone else pinching your nipple hard enough to draw a groaning whine from the back of your throat, you would have smacked them across the face. He was far too rough with you, insensitive and unnecessarily crude in the way he handled your body. You were ashamed to realize just how much you actually liked it though and when your pussy fluttered eagerly at the rough treatment, you subconsciously squirmed again. 

Mugen released a soft moan at the sight of you falling apart right before him, pushing down with his thumb and manually prying your jaw open until he could look straight down your throat. “Shit …” He paused to lick his lips, and you tracked the motion with your eyes. “You ever had a cock in your mouth, sweetheart?”

You jolted, molten heat flooding your guts when the mental image of what that must be like overwhelmed your thoughts. The notion had never crossed your mind before. The boys back home hadn’t been presumptuous enough to ask. You would have called such an act dirty if they had, adamantly refusing to put your mouth on the eager pricks they just as happily rutted into you with. They weren’t deserving of such dutiful submission. But it was different with Mugen. Not only did you want to do it but you could all too easily see yourself taking him as far as you could, right to the limit of your gag reflex, and it was enough to have you subtly grinding on the window sill underneath you. 

The dizzying magnitude of your arousal brought tears to your eyes as you shook your head, numb and quietly keening for him.

“Can’t say I’m surprised.” He murmured, pulling on your lower jaw when you tried to close your mouth. “I don’t think it’s very popular outside of the brothels. Guess you’ve probably never had anyone go down on you either, huh?”

Your eyes widened when you realized what he was suggesting. “Thash dirhi!” 

Lazily smirking, Mugen curled his fingers under your chin and tugged you up straighter with his hold on your mouth. “Hey, don’t knock it til’ you try it. You probably won’t get this chance very often so you should be happy. Stick your tongue out, baby.”

Hesitantly, you obeyed. Your tongue slowly unfurled and tentatively slipped over his thumb even though your instincts were going haywire, screaming in protest to this degrading humiliation. The curious arousal searing your veins was all but palpable though and you watched, mesmerized, as he leaned close to hover over your face. Those thin, coarse lips parted, oozing a bubbling wad of saliva that dripped down towards your outstretched tongue at a tauntingly staggered speed. You whined, realizing too late what he was doing but not having the presence of mind to try and fight it. All you could do was observe its gradual descent and when the cooling spit touched its mark, you shook.

The glistening string that connected the two of you broke apart when he straightened to admire his handiwork, an expression of deep satisfaction flashing across his narrow face. “Now swallow it. Tell me how that tastes.”

His thumb retreated from your mouth, allowing you to do just that. The distinct flavor of his mouth clung to your taste buds as you choked down Mugen’s spit but it was, surprisingly, not half as repulsive as you would have guessed it to be. 

Dazedly, you swayed on top of the window sill and croaked out “It wasn’t terrible …” 

“Putting your mouth on someone's cock isn’t much different. Not dirty at all.” Looking quite smug, Mugen withdrew entirely and sunk down on his knees. You watched him with your heart in your throat, weakly trembling when he palmed your thighs so he could spread them wide. “Pussy, on the other hand, can get a bit messy. If you know what I mean.”

“I d - don’t know what you mean …”

He hummed as if he’d expected as much. Anticipated that response. Your mind was running a mile a minute as you followed the motion of his hand when he reached for the lower half of your kimono, hardly daring to breathe. It was almost impossible to wrap your mind around what was happening and even harder to grasp the fact that you were letting him do whatever he wanted with you. There was some kind of disconnect here. 

But you couldn’t find it in yourself to complain as he parted the cotton and shoved it aside so that it bunched around the obi circling your middle. You were suddenly exposed from the waist down and you shuddered so hard that your eyes seemed to vibrate in their sockets. Mugen was attentively inspecting your bare cunt, his nose a little too close to the curling tuft of hair for your liking, and you instinctively tensed when he reached up to touch you. 

“Calm down.” He huffed. “If you really don’t like it, I’ll stop. I don’t think that’ll be a problem though.”

“But it's so - ah!” 

His fingers found your slit, spreading the puffy little lips open without pause, and you rocked back against the edge of the window. Your face felt like it was on fire as you gaped down at him, the unmistakable sensation of beading sweat on your brow only adding to the damp quality of your skin after walking through the rain. No one had ever looked at you with such plain hunger before - at least not down there, when your core was inches from their face and they could see all of you and smell your cloying arousal in the air.

Whimpering, you twisted on the sill and tried to close your legs. The high strung embarrassment making your pulse pound was too much. You couldn’t stand to have Mugen, this stranger, unobstructedly staring at the core of your body like this but he was positioned in such a way that you couldn’t shut him out. Your knees merely knocked against his arms, the attempt seeming to spur him on rather than dissuade him. 

He grunted and shouldered his way further between your thighs so he could dip his face close. You drew a sharp breath to object but the sound puffed out of you in a frazzled squeal when his tongue darted out to trace the length of your labia from bottom to top. Wolf-like gray eyes roved up the length of your body to fix on your slack face. He looked like something wild and untameable. Something savage, particularly with his open mouth hovering over your cunt. You could just make out the glint of flat, blocky teeth in the sparse light that was stretching from the burning paper lamp off to the side. It made him appear almost inhuman and for the first time since stepping into this room, you felt the tickle of genuine fear at the back of your mind. 

Mugen was going to eat you, both figuratively and literally. God, why did that excite you so much? 

“Please …” You blubbered, not knowing what else to say. 

Dark lashes fluttered as he turned his focus to your defenseless pussy again. “It’s a little too early to start begging for it, sweetheart.” He muttered, chuckling darkly when the puff of hot breath on your exposed clit made you twitch. “I haven’t even started yet and you already look like you’re gonna’ cry.” 

Pausing, he pressed the rough texture of his lips against the gummy meat of your petal soft inner folds and mouthed at you. A strange choking sound erupted from your throat, prompting him to press into you tighter until you could feel the rough scratch of chin stubble teasing your cunt. The room began to swim as you rocked against the window, throwing your head back with a half stifled wail. You caught the sound of him swallowing the taste of you, his jaw opening wide to encompass your tingling clit in hot, wet warmth and then suckling. Spine snapping ramrod stiff, you lurched under him and blindly kicked out, your lips parting on a silent scream. 

The intensity of the sensation was too much. It was difficult just to draw breath when your cunt was lighting up in brilliant, overwhelming sparks of pleasure you’d never so much as fathomed before. You realized, in a far off, dreamy sort of way, that you’d been correct in your earlier estimation. Mugen was nothing at all like the boys from the village who only knew how to fumble and stab at you with their pricks. This was something else altogether. Heady and intoxicating, and your toes curled in delight when he lapped at you with his tongue. Another lick passed over the thrumming pleasure button nestled between your folds and then another. He abruptly pulled off you with a rough suck that made your soul feel like it was slipping out of your body, the accompanying masculine grunt of satisfaction he issued rushing straight to your loins. You could hardly stomach the sheer magnitude of arousal you were all but suffocating under because of him. 

“Mugen …!” You gasped, fumbling to grab hold of him. His fingers, his wrist, the haphazard shock of hair atop of his head. It didn’t matter. You just needed to feel him under your hands. 

“I knew you’d like it.” He rasped, self-satisfied and confident as he grinned up at you from his spot between your legs. “Aren’t you glad you trusted me?”

You managed to snag a fistful of his brown hair and you arched, presenting your slick cunt to him. “Trusting you might have been the worst mistake of my life.” You hissed. “Please don’t stop …”

Softly groaning when you tugged on the strands between your fingers to encourage him back into action, Mugen shot a smolderingly fierce look up the length of your body. “Awfully demanding for someone who didn’t even want me to do this, aren’t you?”

“I'm sorry.” It sounded like a plaintive sob. 

Noising a pleased hum, he relented at last and lowered his mouth to your cunt again. The fingers on your labia spread, pulling you further open for him, and you seethed when he tauntingly flicked at your clit with just the tip of his tongue. Thighs twitching, you pulled on his hair again but he refused to budge. He seemed content just to roll the meaty little nub back and forth, side to side, occasionally crisscross to keep you on alert. Never too much pressure though, nothing too direct and satisfying enough to send you over the edge. It was maddening and you keened, not caring who might hear when you were half hanging out the window. The only thing you could focus on was how all the sensation in your body seemed to have funneled down into a fine, pulsating pinprick of static electricity and he was relentlessly toying with that vibrating cluster of nerves like he was getting paid to do it. You’d never felt such dizzying desperation in all your life.

“Mugen! Please! Stop teasing me! I can’t ta - aaake it!”

He was watching you writhe from under the hooded fall of his lashes, sallow cheeks hollowing out when he deigned to suck at you again. You almost came up off the sill, that’s how hard you arched when the tension in your loins doubled and then tripled. Delirious, you jutted your pelvis up and humped his mouth in a lewd display of carnal distress that would surely embarrass you later when you remembered this moment. But for the time being at least, all sense of dignity had been thrown to the wayside. Thoroughly useless to you when he was making you feel so good. You just wanted release and you wanted it now. But, much to your groaning disappointment, he pulled back when it became apparent that you were getting close, leaving you to sob brokenly at the loss of his tongue. 

“I’ve got one rule.” He intoned, his voice thick and guttural. “I’ll go down on you as much as you want but you’ll always cum on my cock. No exceptions.” 

Feeling hysterical, you sat up straight and fixed him with a wild eyed look. “Then do it!” 

Mugen snorted. “Bossy now that you’ve got a taste of it, huh?”

You wanted to reach out and choke the life right out of him. You suspected he’d probably like that though, hesitating when you saw him reach for his pants. A new wave of anxiety washed over you, uncertain and nervous. He was so different than any other man you’d ever known that you couldn’t help wondering if this would be very different too. You’d only seen a handful in your short life, after all, but the breath still caught in your throat when he shoved the baggy material down his legs and his cock sprung up into the air. Ruddy, like the rest of him, but a shade or two darker. The mess of curly dark hair at the base looked more fluffy than coarse and you suddenly realized that the hair on his head was the same way. It had felt like an impossibly thick mass of silk between your fingers and you wondered if the strands crowning his dick were just as smooth to the touch.

Your mouth started to water and you swallowed hard, wondering if he’d let you return the favor later. He probably would.

“C’mere, sweetheart.” 

Starting, you jerked your attention up from his crotch. Mugen was already reaching out to grab you around the waist and when he pulled, you let him drag you down onto the floor with him. You trembled with jittery anticipation as he sat back on his haunches and guided you into his lap. Hands finding his bony, narrow shoulders, you squirmed over top of him while he took a moment to glide his finger through the mess he’d made between your legs. Each brief, fleeting touch to your throbbing clit made you jump but he was apparently serious about wanting you to cum with his prick wedged inside you. He was purposely avoiding the sensitive pearl, focusing most of his attention on your slick entrance. You sincerely hoped you’d be able to find release like this.

“You’re soaked.” He laughed, the humor in his voice anything but innocent. 

“Because of you.” You snipped back halfheartedly.

“That’s right. Because of me.” Drawing a slow inhale, Mugen used his hand on your hip to push you down while the other guided himself to your dripping hole. “And don’t you ever forget that.”

A gasp caught in your throat when you felt the glans touch your sticky labia and you jolted, rising up on your knees a fraction of an inch. He merely squeezed your doughy soft flesh all the harder, forcing you down until the tip of him was pressing into you. Forcibly spreading the meaty lips apart in daunting slow motion. Breaching your body at such a staggered pace that you had no choice but to comprehend every individual blinding wave of pleasure that washed over you, one right after another. 

You keened, digging your nails into Mugen’s flesh as you gradually sunk down onto his hard length. Reflexive tears sprung up in your eyes while you reveled in the sensation of being stretched out around him, seemingly right to the absolute limit. It was overwhelming and somehow not enough at the same time. You could hardly think straight anymore, your once frantic mind now grinding to a complete standstill. Every ridge, every vein, the slight curve of him. You felt it all. Such acute hyper awareness was foreign to you but you basked in it, groaning deep in your chest when you finally settled on top of his thighs a small eternity later. 

The stuffed full sear of penetration was exquisite. 

“Gods, you’re tight.” 

Grunting, Mugen wrapped his long arms around you and shoved his face into your neck. You inhaled a sharp, faltering breath as you curled your arms around his shoulders. With a weak, experimental bounce, you rocked into him. He groaned, squeezing you so tightly that there were sure to be blooming purple splotches in the shape of his fingers come morning. You didn’t care though. The promise of absolution spurred you on and you repeated the motion, dazedly moaning when his cock exerted a delightful amount of pressure on your upper wall. 

“Little minx.” He all but growled, taking a playful nip at your pulse. 

Mugen leaned forward then, using his iron like hold around your middle to keep you seated on his lap so he could lazily thrust up into you. The tension in your guts increased and you wailed. His pubic hair tickled your clit, sending tingling shockwaves spider webbing all throughout your cunt and making you clench down around him. That seemed to punch the air out of his lungs and he wheezed. The slight but powerful muscles in his arms trembled slightly with the effort of holding himself back as he flexed up into you, working your contracting passage loose with a steady patience you hadn’t exactly expected from him. 

It was driving you mad, the exact opposite of what you’d wanted. Seething through your teeth, you clutched at him all the harder as you struggled to get one of your legs out from underneath you. A triumphant spark lit up inside your chest when you managed to brace your foot on the tatami, the angle all wrong and sure to leave you sore the next few days, but you didn’t care. All you could bring yourself to care about was chasing that promise of release with him and you used your newfound leverage to bounce in time with his thrusts. The steady clap of skin on skin gradually rose in the air, blending almost seamlessly into the ever present patter of pouring rain. You could just make out the sticky wet squelch coming from between your thighs every time your pussy sucked him in deep on every downward thrust and that, too, would likely embarrass you later. 

In the heat of the moment it was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard though and you gasped in delight as you clawed at his back. The worryingly pronounced ridges of his spine that had alarmed you not all that long ago now only added to the appeal of his lithe frame driving into you, over and over again with increasingly powerful thrusts. It didn’t take long at all for his tempo to pick up as your squeezing walls relaxed around him, driving into you hard enough to knock the air right out of your lungs. 

You couldn’t seem to catch your breath any longer, the heaving grunts and groans bursting out of your mouth only making it all the harder to pull in oxygen. He was panting too, though not as labored despite the physical exertion he was putting his body through. It was in many ways astounding that someone who looked so horribly malnourished could keep up this kind of effort for so long and his stamina was far greater than you’d been prepared for. All of your previous encounters with the opposite sex had ended within minutes after starting but this was much more intense. Prolonged and drawn out. Mugen showed no signs of stopping any time soon and your leg quickly grew tired in this awkward position, aching almost as badly as your pussy. 

With a frustrated wail, you went limp in his arms and let him ragdoll you for an extended beat. You caught the sound of him chuckling breathlessly against your neck but you were no match for him. That much had been obvious right from the start though, and you didn’t care. The driving force of his smoothly gliding thrusts was satisfying enough now that he’d picked up the pace and you chose to focus on that instead. Cumming like this did not seem like such an impossibility any more.

“Muh - Mugen …! You feel so - oooh good!”

“Yeah? You like that, baby?” 

You jerkily nodded and buried your hand in his hair, gripping tight at the scalp. A faltering groan rose up out of him, rewarding for your trouble, and you choked when he changed the angle of his thrusts. He seemed to be hitting deeper and reaching further into your body than before. The head of his cock tickled your cervix and you jerked on top of him when the jolts of pleasure made starbursts erupt across your rapidly blurring vision. It lit every nerve ending in your body on fire, swallowing you in a rush of carnal bliss. 

Mouth hanging wide open, you flung your head back. Mugen tightened his arms around you, threatening to suffocate you right on the spot if you weren’t careful, and tipped forward on his knees. Your back hit the wall just under the window sill with a solid thump, causing you to cry out with renewed desperation. His unruly hair was sticking to his face as he bent over your trembling body and slammed into your squelching cunt at the perfect angle to attack the dense, thrumming cluster of nerves just on the other side of your inner wall. Your trembling leg flew up into the air and curled around his narrow waist, squeezing him as tight as the tired muscle would allow. You were so close you could practically taste it on your tongue and he seemed to recognize the distant, doped out look pinching your expression for exactly what it was.

“You gonna’ cum for me, baby?” He said, struggling to get the words out.

Your response bordered on hysterical and the words came out so scrambled that even you had no idea what you were trying to say anymore. 

Mugen didn’t seem to mind though and, baring his teeth in a leering smirk, he shoved you further up against the wall until your neck started to scream in protest. “Yeah, I got you all figured out now. That sweet spot is mine. This pussy is mine.” Ducking his head, he latched his mouth onto the swell of your breast where the kimono had slid open and bit down. Hard.

You shrieked, the pain meshing so suddenly with the pleasure that you forgot how to breathe for a split second. Your cunt spasmed and squeezed, but he remained undeterred as he continued to fuck into you while he animalistically marked you as his. Every muscle in your body instantly locked up in dizzying tension and, with a strangled groan, the coil snapped. 

Coming up off your breast with a triumphant groan, Mugen watched you spasm and writhe throughout your hard won orgasm. It was intense - easily the most intense sensation you’d ever experienced - and you felt like something wild as you shook on his cock. You couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear. Only feel, and it threatened to bowl you right over the longer it wracked your body from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. His thrusts never faltered though, continuing to drive into your creamy cunt until you were sure you couldn’t stand much more. Sensitized and raw, you were like freshly wrought clay in his arms while he chased his own release, looking like some heaving, half starved beast above you. 

“Fuck, you feel so good!” He practically snarled. “Keep squeezing me like that! I’m getting close!” 

A high pitched, overstimulated whine clawed its way up your throat as you clung to him all the more fervently. Mugen’s hard, bony shoulders started to tremble under your palms, the only outward sign that he was telling the truth, and your helpless bleating quickly took on a more dire tinge when his hips began slamming into you even harder. Faster. His pace was quickly losing its rhythmic push and pull, becoming increasingly more frantic with each passing second. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head from the sheer force of his thrusts, an unseemly dribble of saliva creeping from the corner of your mouth. You couldn’t have been less concerned about it though. All of your limited brain power was focused on one thing and one thing only. 

Mugen was going to cum inside of you. 

“Shit,” He sounded winded. Like he’d been sucker punched. “Did you just get even tighter?”

You wordlessly groaned, unable to form a coherent sentence even if you’d wanted to. 

The coarse sound of pleasure that rumbled inside his chest had your pussy lighting up all over again and you subconsciously clamped down around him. Mugen lurched over top of you, slamming into your aching pussy with all his might once, twice and then a third time. A full bodied shudder rippled down the length of his spine, you could feel the power behind it as the roiling wave systematically worked its way down to his groin. Hips stuttering, he let loose a seething howl that made your toes curl in response and then you felt the hot, sticky mess of seed flooding your cervix in the next heartbeat. You gasped when it kept coming, one spurt after another, all of it settling in heavy clumps against your palpitating inner walls. 

Stunned, you didn’t dare move while he tried to catch his breath. The thick, viscous discharge seemed to bubble inside of you, quickly adjusting to your body’s temperature as if to blend in, but it was still painfully noticeable. You’d have to remember to buy some contraceptive herbs first thing in the morning. 

Hissing, Mugen slowly detached you from his cock and lowered you down onto the floor just a brief moment later. His arms were shaking, apparently tired in the aftermath. “Damn.”

You shifted so that your neck wasn’t all bent up, keenly aware of the sloppy mess oozing out of your well fucked hole without him there to stopper it. This wasn’t the time to complain about that just yet though and instead you settled on “You curse a lot.” 

He grunted a humorless laugh and looked up at you from under the fringe of hair that had fallen over his brow. “You gonna’ wash my mouth out or something?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Scoffing, Mugen reached out to grab the meat of your arm. You tensed, the inexplicable thought that he was going to kick you out of his room now that he’d gotten what he wanted flitting through your mind. A tinge of disappointment sparked to life in your chest, unbidden, but he merely pulled you against him and flopped down onto the floor. The resulting thump seemed to rattle the walls, though neither of you paid it any mind. You were far more concerned with figuring out what he was doing, eying the man suspiciously, whereas he appeared intent on catching a nap. His eyes were closed and the labored canter of his breath slowly evened out while you watched him, studying the subtle signs of relaxation on his face. He was quite handsome when you looked at him like this. 

It was too good to last though and his brows furrowed after a quiet beat. “Are you planning to watch me or sleep?”

You cocked a brow at that. “The beds over there.”

Clicking his tongue, Mugen rolled over and half sprawled himself out on top of you. His topmost leg thrown over yours, arm stretching across your middle, yours and his clothes still all askew. You couldn’t help thinking it was the most unfriendly bear hug you’d ever received. A mangy stray right down to the letter, it seemed. 

“The floor will do just as fine. Trust me.” He yawned. “I’ve slept on much worse.”

“But the bed -” You futilely tried to reason.

“Sleep now. I’ll fuck you nice and slow in the morning. Promise. Just be quiet.”

You huffed. “At least let me take off my kimono then. It’s soaked!”

Mugen lifted his head and cracked an eye open so he could peer over the length of your body, the interest in his half asleep face undeniable. “Alright, deal.”

[carefulvenom]

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Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: Natasha had pushed you away recently and she just can’t seem to leave your mind, and neither can the question of what you did wrong.

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: Angsty and emotional. Cigarettes (?) There’s some bad language words in here as well. 

A/N: y’all...i’m sorry i suck, but i wrote something. it’s terrible. welcome to hell. also there may or may not be a happy ending!

-

The air is thin and cold tonight.

It’s dark and the day is over. Sure, work is good and it tends to boost my mood. People like me. I make good money and it's a distraction. But now that it’s Friday, I can’t help but think about how quickly my mood changes with the night. Walking out of the office doors remind me that there’s a whole other world of thoughts and feelings outside of the work I take pride in. Maybe I never did feel good. Maybe I just got good at pretending.

As I walk outside in the darkness with my cold hands clenched inside my coat pockets, I think of her. The one who I never expected to share my feelings with. She's the one who I never expected to have such a beauty that the smell of her lingers in my nose and I have to stop myself from going insane. Think I might not be doing a very good job at that, since being apart from someone so alluring like that is like being homesick. She's that someone, the one everyone never expects to sweep them off their feet - as cheesy as it is. It's her.

Natasha.

Her fiery red hair that makes me wanna sing, “Come on baby, light my fire.”

The cute smile and laughs she gives when she stops the cold deadpan every once and awhile. I always wonder if she only brightens up because of me. Was I such a strong connection that I helped her forget about all the weight of the world she carries on her shoulder?

There’s a possibility that I think too much.  

 Maybe after our talks in my apartment, cuddled up on that L shape couch staring at the stars out the window, she knew I was one she could trust. That even though our experience is nothing similar, the pain is. Maybe that's why she got soft on me. I notice a big smile creep on my lips. I wish she was here to stand on her tippie toes to squeeze my cheeks and peck my lips with a giggle, like she always did.

“Your smile is just too cute, I have to kiss it.” She'd say, with that soft, sultry voice. I'd stare down at her in adoration. She'd probably say she could see the love in my eyes.

But why'd she pull away? Why'd she stop? Why did she obviously want me to leave?

I shake my head violently to get rid of the thought. I don't wanna think about that anymore. Maybe I should try to stop thinking about her entirely if she didn't even try to talk to me.

The harsh coldness of the air seems to crack in my lungs when I inhale, and the steady exhale of my breath steams the air. I look up to the stars as my right hand pulls out my smokes from my pocket and the left takes one out and places it in between my lips. I light my cigarette as I start walking to the train. As soon as I get home I know I'll pour myself some wine and look out the floor-to-ceiling window. That window. Yeah, like something out of a movie. Picturesque with a sense of longing. If I look at the situation like a cinematic masterpiece maybe it won't hurt as much. Separate myself from the real.

 Natasha and I, we'd never called it official, but it was. We’d known each other for a while, I met her when I came into her office on a sales call. It started off soft, but strong. Little glances and wary touches, grazing of finger tips. There was undeniable attraction there. I’d finally came back into her job two days later, and asked her out. That took balls, and it was way out of character for me, but I knew that red headed woman with the alluring voice and plump lips was worth it. Rest was history.

5 weeks together was all it took to feel this strong. We were just us, and we felt comfortable in each other's grips. We laughed, and cried. We both felt that anxious warmth in our belly as we became more acquainted, and the feeling got worse as we were apart. Sometimes when she left the apartment I'd sit on the floor and lean my head up against the door. It all happened so fast, and maybe that's just because of the same-sex hormones in the air, but it was so god damned real. It still is.

  Until 2 weeks ago, she pulled away. She didn't call, she didn't answer my texts. I'd pace around the nearly empty apartment and stare the vacant space on the couch next to me. Looking at our messages was painful since I looked a fool, with my questions and lingering. I gave up after a few times. As my last hope, I waited for her to come with her choice of take out and a movie on Friday night - tradition - but she never showed. And that L shaped couch got even bigger and lonelier.

I arrive at the station and put my cigarette out in the smoker's post. I fix my hat over my hair, take a deep breath, and check my phone. It's 6:39 and the train arrives at 6:45.

“Nice,” I mutter to myself. “Home.” I sigh, and pull my hat over my eyes as I sit down on the nearest bench. It's nowhere near comfortable, but it's familiar. Finding solace in a routine is a smart idea if you feel string out and lost in the universe. That's why I like to clean the apartment in a certain way, start with paperwork first at the office, and wake up at the same time every day. That's why it was a bad idea to have a movie night with Nat every Friday. Should've known.

A loud grinding and screeching from a bit away seems to snap me out of my thoughts. My hand finds its way to the top of my hat, pulling it up so my eye can peek cautiously out. Got a habit of being either too careful or too careless. Standing up, I fix my hat and check my pockets for everything, and wait until the train comes to a stop to get on to the top level.

Train rides are the best part of my day, when I'm out. The scenery isn't the best, but it's still nice to look at as it speeds by and I rest my head back into the seat, legs stretched out in front me. I take my year pass out of my pocket and place it on the small table in front of me, available for the workers to check it while I put my hat back over my eyes and try to rest.

---

My internal clock, or rather, my comfort in routine, wakes me up just in time before I hear my stop being called. I mistakenly pull my hat off my eyes too quickly, forgetting that the brightness of the lights will burn my eyes. I wipe them quick, stretch my neck, and grab my pass. Almost home.

The steps down from the upper level of the train and then on to the platform seem to speed past me. Before I know it, I’m on the pavement walking quickly away, cold air blasting my face. My place is close to this station, so I don’t need to call a cab. My steps are quick, they always have been. I walk with a purpose, always needing to go fast so I don’t wait around. Nat always joked that it looked like I was making a “death strut” and I was “ready to kill.” I’d reply with some dirty joke about killing that ass. Shaking my head, I can’t help but chuckle to myself. I probably look like a fool, but I sure make myself laugh.

The door to my apartment complex is always tricky, but I get it unlocked moderately fast with my shivering hands. I make my way down the main hall and press the up button on the elevator. Taking off my hat and smoothing down my hair, I wait eagerly for the creaky old elevator to come. It’s funny, really, my apartment is modern and polished but this damn elevator is an old thing that brings screeching with every movement. It’ll probably crash sometime soon. Suppose it gives the building character.

The elevator slowly, and loudly, brings me to the 8th floor. One floor away from having a loft, I suppose. I make it out of the elevator alive and make a beeline for apartment 8C, keys jangling in my hand. Turning it slowly, I finally get inside the apartment. I kick my shoes off and throw my keys and hat on the foyer table to my left. Letting out a much needed exasperated sigh, I run my hands through my hair and stare straight in front of me. That big window, and that goddamned couch. It sure is a pretty view, seeing the stars twinkle and the building light in the dark with an occasional plane fly by. There’s a silence in the air and my mind, surprisingly, and I shake my head. Wine time.

My sock covered feet feel good on the hardwood floor as I stretch my arms above my head and start my walk to the kitchen. I pull out my phone and open it, wanting to put on some soft but still upbeat music to set the mood for getting weekend wine drunk. I reach the kitchen with my eyes still staring at my phone, grazing my Spotify library for something perfect. Wanna set the mood nice enough, wanna feel b-

I hear a throat being cleared.

“Hey, stranger.” I hear a familiar voice break the silence. I nearly jumped out of my skin and dropped my phone, with a gasp and a hand up to my mouth.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” Natasha nearly whispers, with a somber expression.

I freeze up. What do I do? What do I do? My mind is screaming at me, begging me to make a move or for fucks sake, say something.

“What are you doing here?” I finally squeeze out, swallowing the lump in my throat. I examine her, the piercing eyes and full lips. She looks beautiful, of course, but I know I don’t. My heart seems to squeeze yet beat a mile a minute. That warm anxiousness in my stomach is back again. What the hell is she doing here?

“I came to see you,” she fixes her lips and smiles. “It’s Friday.”

I look at her, confused. She lifts up her arms and reveals two plastic bags full of styrofoam boxes. Take out. I know it’s movie Friday, but she missed two of them. Why is she here now? I thought she wanted space. I thought she didn’t want to be with me anymore.

I figured instead of stand still and thinking of what I want to say, I’ll sit across from her at the kitchen island, and say it. “Nat, I thought you wanted space. You withdrew from me. You didn’t answer me, you didn’t call, you didn-” my voice starts to crack.

“I know.” She cuts me off. “I’m so sorry, I can’t even begin to explain what happened.” She seems eager to talk to me but scared, and her voice speaks volumes but it’s somehow...small.

She clears her throat again. I can tell she’s about to tear up. “I had gotten terrified. I realized that the way you held me and kissed me, and the way you understood me...the way you touched me,” she gulps, and looks up at me with those stunningly sad eyes, “I loved you. I love you. And I got scared. I’ve said it before to others but I never really meant it. Which is scary, because it’s been so fast with us, but I know it’s real.” She finishes, shaky and sad. A tear falls down her cheek and she quickly wipes it away.

I grab the hand that wiped the tear, bring it down to the counter and intertwine my fingers with hers. She stares down at our hands, seemingly surprised, and moves her head up to look me in the eyes.

“Baby, I love you.” I smile brightly. The pain dissipated. “You’re amazing. I mean, I can’t really put all that,” I gesture to her body, “in words.” She giggles.

“Let alone how you make me feel,” I breathe out and shake my head in joy. “Every single thing about you, Nat. I swear.”

I wanted to continue, but she leans over the counter to kiss me. Our lips crash and I taste all the beauty and love I felt once again. I put my hands on her face, cupping her cheeks and kissing her deeply. I pull away, and stare into her eyes as I swipe my thumb across her cheek. So fucking beautiful.

She gets up and puts her hand out in front of me, asking me to take it. Intrigued, I put my hand in hers and stand up, as she walks me to the couch. I look down at her, being slightly taller than her, and I take in the beautiful red hair and her scent --gardenias. She gestures for me to sit down with her hands excitedly. She always acts like she owns this place, stealing my clothes and making all the calls. She gets it though, since she knows I have all the power in the bedroom. I chuckle to myself yet again. She plops herself in my lap, and kisses my cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, the solemn, longing expression making an appearance again. “I wanna be with you. Us, together, no space.”

I tuck her hair behind her ear, and kiss it. “Space is the last thing I want from you.” I whisper, and grab her face to kiss her again. I’ve been waiting for this. I needed this. I needed her.

As she pulls away and looks at me, biting her lip, a question arises in my mind. “How did you get in here? The door was locked.”

“Fire escape. Bedroom window.” she snickers, and licks her lips. “Beautiful as ever, babe.” she whispers and gently starts kissing my neck. I gasp and throw my head back, and as I open my eyes, I see the view out of the window.

----

tags: @obrreogneon, @rogmobile

[sabraeal]

Desert & Reward: Chapter 6

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

Obiyuki Week, Day 1: Pragma Practical love, founded on reason or duty

Obi is buzzing when he steps back into that darkened room, every nerve prickling under his skin like the air before lightning strikes. Not even velvet and down can muffle the feeling; it’s worse when he feels it settle against it his back, when he stares up at the ceiling and his body remembers a night just like this, a conversation so different from this one --

He worried then, how he would bear it. How he’d live with a heart in his chest. Ha. Ha.

In three days time, he’ll be married. To Miss. Unimaginable to that boy in a bed three sizes too large for him, to that boy in the biggest bed he’d ever had.

Until he became a lord. His head aches. How did he even let himself get here, how did he get himself tied in so tight with all these princes and titles and intrigues?

He rolls to his side, letting his eyes drift shut. In three days time, he’ll be married --

But he’ll never be a husband.

Against all expectation, Obi sleeps.

Sleeps. Not a fitful doze, woken up every hour by some noise, a lump in his lump-less mattress, or an intrusive thought but -- an actual full night of rest, the sun sitting high outside his window when he finally wakes to the soft sounds of drawers and doors opening and closing, of cloth being pulled out and then hurriedly put away.

Obi blinks, lets out a four-letter groan, and mutters, “Is it after ten?”

“We’re at court,” Yori tells him in his entirely unnecessary way. He putters about, industriously picking out something for him to disagree with before breakfast. “Mr Morel said I was to have you keep city hours, though he begs that you do not get used to it.”

The idea of “getting used” to regular sleep would have him on the ground, if this bed wasn’t so damn comfortable. Instead, he rolls himself upright, feet dangling over the carpet. The pattern marks it as Watese; just as out of place here as he is. “Morel would rather keel over from an aneurysm than beg anything from me.”

Yori clucks, affecting the sort of shock that reminds him of a softer, more lined face. That he's homesick for any part of the south surprises him, but that fact that it’s Mrs Carre at least takes the sting out of it. “You are his lord. Mr Morel is ready to accommodate your every whim.”

Hilarious. Amazing that the kid could say it with a straight face. “Like you?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Well, in that case...” He plucks the cravat laid so neatly on the bed, and tosses it. It flutters, like a bird with a broken wing, before crumpling on the floor. “I won’t be wearing that.”

Yori stares at it as if one of the barn cats has brought in a less-than-lively gift. “Well,” he says, so mild, “I can’t allow my lord to embarrass himself either.”

He can’t help the way his lips spread, the way his teeth bare, the way even muscle of him coils like he’s spoiling for a fight.

“Which is it, Yori?” he presses, waggling his eyebrows in challenge. “You can’t have both.”

“--And that is all they were able to come up with.” His Majesty settles back in his chair, head tilted back, long fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose. “A list of encryption that it cannot be.”

Obi pulls at his cravat, tied punishingly tight. He should know better than to antagonize domestics -- they always win. “Well, knowing where not to look is almost as good as knowing where to look.”

“Almost,” His Majesty agrees. “But not quite.”

The king has always seemed young to Obi, especially when he’s always next to lords and councilors that could have been his father, but the way his shoulders round in as he sits, the way small lines crinkle at the edge of his eyes --

He looks his age. Older maybe.

It’s almost too intimate seeing him like this, seeing him frustrated, and Obi drags his gaze down, staring at the list in his lap. Nearly two dozen clerks working for months, and all that they’ve made is a list of things they don’t know.

“I am sorry though.”

He blinks up from the list, head tilted. “Sorry?”

From beneath lidded eyes, midnight blue stares back at him, fixed. “Of course. I hate to be wasting your time when you have such a happy occasion to prepare for.”

Only His Majesty could make it sound like an accusation, a challenge. Obi shifts in his seat, glad that he wore the stupid cravat -- now, at least, the king wouldn’t see the guilty flush working its way up his neck. “No trouble at all, Elder Highness. I’ve been told it’s all well in hand, so --”

“But surely you have some preparations of you own to make.” His Majesty slides a pointed gaze over his jacket, his trousers. “Fittings for your new clothes, at least.”

Obi stares. “My what?”

A smile curls dangerously on his mouth. “Oh my. It seems there’s some work to do yet, Lord Obi.”

The thing is: he has clothes. Nice ones, trunks full of them, all made from fabrics he can hardly pronounce and animals he’s only vaguely aware of. Damask. Jacquard. Ermine. Vulcana. There can’t be a need for more.

“It’s not about having clothes, my lord.” Yori speaks with the sort of impatient patience that implies that sainthood is certain from this conversation alone. “It’s about having the right clothes.”

He has more clothes in those trunks than he’s had the whole rest of his life put together, even as Master’s aide. “I have a dozen types of pants.”

“Trousers,” Yori corrects, weary. “And none of these are meant for a wedding, let alone your own.”

Life was easier when any fancy party just required him to wear dress blacks. “Then what are they for?”

“Oh I don’t know,” his valet drawls, flicking pointedly through endless black. “Perhaps a funeral?”

Obi pulls his mouth thin, trying to stretch his spine, to gain a few imperious inches. Yori remains unimpressed. “I doubt His Majesty has to put up with this from his valet.”

“His Majesty owns a pair of pantaloons,” Yori claps back flatly. “And knows about colors outside of a monochromatic scale. Yesterday, I saw his pocket square was scarlet.”

Obi refuses to believe that he might have a point.

“Black,” he starts, “is always in fashion --”

“Fine,” Yori concedes with a sigh, eyeing the mess of finery littered across the room. Every flat surface has been press-ganged into service, waistcoats and jackets and all conceivable level of pants and hosiery have been strewn over them, a gallery of unworn clothes his new life has acquired without his knowing.

Any of his old clothes -- his black pants, the filmy black shirts, his good boots -- are suspiciously absent. Obi doubts it’s an accident.

“I’ll grant you the black suit.” Yori’s tone implies it would be easier to give up his first child than this. “But only if you will have a colored waistcoat.”

Obi lets a sharp smile pull at his lips. “If you insist --”

“Not including the brown wool,” he amends quickly, casting a dubious look at the thing. “No wool at all. And a real color. Watered silk or finer.”

Victory has never tasted so sweet. “Then I think we’ve come to a harmonious --”

The door knocks so hard it rattles.

Yori’s eyes dart to his, ask him a question he doesn’t know how to answer. No, he doesn’t know who this is; yes, it could very well bee a majesty or a highness or a your grace.

Somehow, when he hadn’t been watching, that became his life.

Reluctant, Yori turns toward the door, moving jerky, slow, like broken clockwork. “I...suppose I’ll get that, my lord.”

Obi bites down, caging the no, please behind his teeth. It wouldn’t do him any good; he’s served Wistal for far too long to think he can avoid what’s on the other side of that door by keeping it shut.

It opens, revealing dark hair, a casual lean, and a rugged scar right across an equally rough nose. He knew he should have kept that door closed.

“Good, you’re already halfway to naked,” Shidnote drawls smugly, sauntering into the room like he owns it, casting an appreciative eye over the tornado of finery that litters the room. “Saves us some time.”

Yori casts an anxious look between them. “Should I--? Are you --?”

“It’s Sir Shidnote.” His Majesty’s me. Obi bites back a grimace. “His Majesty’s aide.”

The looks shifts from anxious to accusatory; his valet far too well trained to blurt it out now, but Obi can see that he had perhaps -- perhaps -- been remiss in relaying his exact position at court.

“Well, we can’t all parley our connections to a title,” Shidnote notes, as if he isn’t a count of somewhere, like his use of sir isn’t just considered an eccentric affectation of some country noble at this point. “In any case, are you coming, Sir Obi?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Just where am I supposed to be going?”

“His Majesty said you needed new clothes, didn’t he?” His mouth twitches at the corners, ominously. “Well, in his infinite generosity, he asked a personal favor of his most favorite tailor, and now you have an appointment to be prodded with the same pins that touch his royal ass.”

Shidnote is enjoying this far too much.

He gives a mocking bob, holding out a hand toward the door, his grin so wide it crinkles his scar. “Now, I’m sure you’d just love to come this way, my lord.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Obi hems, giving the man’s hands a wide berth. “The wedding -- it’s hardly two days away, and --”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, Sir Obi,” Shidnote drawls, arm hooking around his shoulders like a vice. “His Majesty’s got is so everything will be ready in a real hurry. Practically shutting down the shop to dress you.”

Obi just manages a, “How…thoughtful.”

“Oh yeah,” Shidnote says, in something just more subdued than a crow. “Izana’s got a whole lot of those.

He expects Yori to be there – after all, he is Obi’s valet, and he gives him a token amount of control over his sartorial choices, even if he tends to nix three-quarters of them. What he does not expect, not at all, is –

“Well,” Kiki hums, steam curling off her tea, legs crossed, “I don’t think even the maestro will be able to fit you with all those clothes on.”

He spins on his heel, the door barely a meter away but Zakura catches him, using those few extra inches to keep him firmly planted on the carpet.

“Come on now, Sir Obi,” he grunts, the both of them struggling at the door. “Take your fittings like a man.”

“You get undressed with a peanut gallery,” Obi growls back, straining against their deadlock. “I’m sure I have something frilly enough in a trunk somewhere.”

“You don’t,” Kiki deadpans, “unless you want to make a wedding suit entirely out of shoulder capes, so I’m told.”

Obi glares at his traitorous valet, but Yori remains unrepentant – even if he does angle Miss Kiki and her seat between them. “They’re dashing.”

“Is that what Shirayuki says?” Kiki inquires mildly, eyebrows twitching above her teacup. “Come on, it’s bad enough it’s last minute, and there’s so much to do.”

Obi relents, stalking over to where the dais lurks, unassuming. He knows better; people with pins and opinions use these things. “It’s just a wedding suit.”

Three pairs of eyes settle on him, a mix of pity and incredulity.

“Oh no,” Kiki says, setting down her cup. “You don’t just need a wedding suit.”

“But I have clothes,” Obi insists as the racks are wheeled out, endless trousers and waistcoats and cravats surrounding him. “Even things for parties –“

“You need new ones,” Kiki tells him, firm. “Ones that aren’t entirely black.”

“I have waistcoats –“

“Of watered silk in solid colors,” she finished, unenthused. “I’ve heard. Not enough.”

Obi huffs, shoulders rounding. “I just don’t see why I need one for lunch and for the wedding and for breakfast –“

“Oh, that’s just to start,” Kiki says, “wait until you hear about your honeymoon wardrobe.”

“My --?” He turns, fixing Shidnote with a glare. “Just what are you doing?”

The man’s dropped his hulking form down into a chair, looking for all the world like he’s just stumbled into a dramatic, personal duel. “Oh, just taking in the show. Don’t mind me.”

“I don’t --”

“Don’t worry, Sir Zakura,” Kiki drawls, corner of her lips twitching, “I’m used to ignoring useless commentary.”

He’s given a reprieve around the time that food should be coming into the picture – which of course is another thing people want to discuss with him, though that at least sounds pleasant. Being plied with a hundred hors d’oeuvres while the maestro and his team frantically stitch together the first of his clothes sounds like the sort of break he can get behind, even if he is under strict instructions not to gain weight – not a single pound, sir, the Maestro had impressed up him, it might ruin the lay of your trousers.

A great pity, Miss Kiki sympathizes, entirely too amused.

Obi picks at his shoulder, certain there’s still pins trapped there, feeling them prick wherever his shirt brushes against his skin.

“Must you be so dramatic?” Kiki sighs as they take the corner, scowling as his shoulder twitch, trying to dislodge any wayward pins.

“I can feel them,” he insists. “They’re right --”

And that, of course, is when Her Majesty turns the corner, her gaggle of young maids bobbing behind her like ducklings trailing their mother. He tenses, taking in the pleased curl of her smile, the way her eyes light when she makes him at the other end of the hall, and he can’t understand why, not until –

Not until her ladies part, just so, and he catches red flash between their finery, and those wide, familiar eyes --

“Obi!” A small hand darts out, grasping at his arm, just below the elbow – “Ow!”

“Oh, Miss! I --” He watches her pluck one of those wicked pins from his sleeve. “From the fittings. I think they’re all over. I’m a very handsome trap, I know.”

She giggles, ducking her head. “Me too. I think --”

“Lady Shirayuki, it’s about time --”

“Obi, we’re on a schedule --”

He meets her eyes with a grin. He leans in, muttering, “I heard the groom wasn’t supposed to see the bride before the wedding, but this is ridiculous.”

She flushes red, but smiles back, leaning in –

Her Majesty comes up behind her, guiding her forward with a firm hand about her waist, only moments before Kiki does the same, just – less gentle.

“You’ll have plenty of time to see each other,” the queen promises with an arch smile. “…On your wedding night.”

He stumbles at that, and by the time he’s recovered, Miss has been firmly swept away, only close enough to meet his gaze before they turn the next corner.

“Come on,” Kiki grunts, shoving him. “We don’t have time for this.”

“I should be about to see my fiancée alone,” he grouses, “let alone with a half dozen chaperones in a hallway.”

“Nope.” Kiki pushes him along, towards the delicious aromas wafting down the hall. “You’re a disaster.”

“What, afraid we’d find some way to cancel it?” he taunts, pulling himself to his full height so he can properly loom. “Two of us alone together, there’s nothing we can’t –“

“No,” she sighs, rolling her eyes. “If we leave you alone, Shirayuki will find some way to get you to elope.”

“I think the fit is wrong on the trousers,” Kiki drawls, holding out her cup for one of the assistants to fill. “Do you have a cut that’s tighter?”

“Tighter?” Obi yelps. “What, do you want them to paint them on?”

“If they must,” she informs him mildly. “Anyway, maestro – tighter?”

“Of course, my lady,” the man says, scurrying off.

“You’re indecent,” Obi accuses, only half joking.

She lifts her brows, pointed. “I’m fashionable. And if you have the thighs to pull it off, I’m not quite sure why you’re complaining.”

His mouth pulls thin. “I have a valet, you know. I can dress myself.”

“I was under the distinct impression having a valet meant you didn’t dress yourself.” She sets down her cup. “Besides, he’s paid to agree with you.”

Funny, how that has never come up in his time with his. “Yori, what do you think?”

Yori looks like he might faint from the attention. “Whatever pleases you, my lord, I’m sure will be --”

“You don’t need to impress me with obedience, sir,” Kiki informs him. “I’ve already seen him dress himself for four years.”

“Hey –“

“Oh, in that case.” Yori’s eyes narrow, taking in the roominess of the trouser. “Tighter, definitely.”

The luncheon is billed as an informal affair, but Obi’s been in Wistal long enough to know what that means: look as fancy as you can, but don’t look like you’re trying. He’d tried to pitch his normal trousers, loose and comfort, but he’d hardly gotten a word in before Kiki had said, buckskins, and now here he is, in a pair that was cut to please everyone but him.

Miss’s hand burns even through his coat, and when she squeezes it, reassuring, he’s sure his knees wobble, just the slightest bit.

“You look very nice,” she murmurs, body swaying into his as they take their seat at the head table, just the two of them. He’d worried that she wouldn’t be able to do this, play the pleased, loving fiancee, but in the palest pink silk and lace, her eyes gazing up at him so wide and earnest --

He almost forgets that this is all just an -- an arrangement.

“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” he teases, sliding in her chair. “It’s my job to tell you how pretty you look first.”

She flushes, ducking her head to hide it. “I thought it might be nice for you to hear it for once.”

His hands clench on his thighs, slick. “Miss is too kind. I’ll get spoiled if you keep up like this.”

Her hand tangles with his beneath the linens. “Good.”

“Shirayuki!”

They startle apart, glancing up to see who calls out --

“Garrack.” Miss goggles, cheeks flushed. “I didn’t know you were invited.”

Garrack is hardly dressed much different than normal, save the lack of a white coat. True to form, she took the invitation at face value, and is wearing the sort of smug expression that says she knows exactly how much it’s annoying the glittering crowd behind her.

“I may be lacking the heap of titles that usually is a prerequisite to these things, but I have one that matters.” She grins, all teeth. “It seems these nobles are a superstitious lot. They treat Chief Pharmacist like it means Head Evil Fairy and invite me to everything, just in case. I usually do them the courtesy of declining, but --” her eyes run knowingly over the both of them -- “how could I miss the luncheon of my favorite student?”

Miss demures, flushing all the way to the tips of her ears, and Obi can’t help himself -- “Higata will be heartbroken.”

“Oh, he knows where he stands,” Garrack says, nonchalant. “I hope you don’t mind, Shirayuki, but I know you won’t have much time the next few days, so if we could...?”

“Oh!” Miss gives him an apologetic look. “Do you mind? I didn’t have time to send a report before I left Wilant.”

His chest tightens, thinking about the hurry she had left in to make it here before him, how she must have left the lab in complete disarray -- “Don’t worry,” he manages with a warm smile. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

He watches her go, swaying through the crowd as Garrack leads her onto the balcony, the only place where it’s possible for them to have privacy.

“I suppose I’m obliged to congratulate you on your happy nuptials.”

He drags his gaze away, letting them fix on black hair and bird-blue eyes. Kihal looks as comfortable in her dress as he does in his trousers. “Though I hope you know, Shirayuki’s a saint to take you.”

“You know, I’m a bit vague on the whole…peerage bit. But marquis does outrank countess doesn’t it?” His widens his eyes, so innocent. “Why, am I your liege lord?”

“Thankfully not,” she bites out, “gods forbid. And to think, you’ll kiss Shirayuki with that mouth.”

He won’t, but there’s no need for her to know that. “Jealous?”

“You wish.” Her smile turns sly as she gives the balcony a pointed perusal. “Or maybe not.”

He doesn’t deign to give an answer, not when they both know it so well.

“I suspect you must recognize the room,” Kihal begins, in a completely different tone.

“Not even slightly,” he admits. “This was all arranged by your soon-to-be beloved brother. I could put names to faces if I tried, but...”

“Is that so?” He voice is deceptively light. “It seems like half the south is here. Not the Forenzos, of course, they never come to anything, but everyone else...”

Obi looks out over the room -- Count Luigis there, half the coast over there --

“They must be quite pleased,” she remarks, “after all, a margravine? From Tanbarun? What opportunities that will open up.”

“There you are.” Master steps up beside her, hand solicitously at her back. Kihal leans back into it, just slightly; it’s not a conscious move, but one that shows their ease with one another. Obi cannot help but wonder just what Master has been doing with these years in Wistal. “I see you’ve rushed to give Obi your congratulations.”

Kihal’s mouth twitches, fighting the urge to scowl. “Something like that.”

“I’ve been trying to make my way over for the past quarter of an hour,” Zen admits, “but my brother keeps throwing people at me.”

“Funny,” Obi drawls, gaze fixed on him. “Been a lot of that, lately. Must run in the family.”

Zen stares at him, cheeks flushed. “Obi--”

“You boys can talk later,” Kihal sighs, tugging at Zen. “Let’s go give our congratulations to Shirayuki now.”

“I want to see the green again,” Kiki says, head balanced on two fingers. “And maybe that gold. And the scarlet, there on that rack, with the white.”

“My lady,” Yori interjects nervously. “My lord prefers darker –“

“Your lord’s entire wardrobe is black,” she drawls, flipping through the rack that been rolled over to her. “His opinion is invalid.”

“He’s still standing here,” Obi reminds her.

“And he’s going to try on the scarlet damask with the white suit.” Her eyebrows tilt in challenge. “Isn’t he?”

Obi deflates. “Yes.”

Yori stares at Kiki like she’s revealed herself to be superhuman, and angel in human guise. “I think the gold, my lady.”

Kiki considers the suggestion. “And definitely the gold as well.”

It’s only meal service that brings Miss back to his side; once she leaves her impromptu meeting with Garrack, she barely makes it more than five steps total, completely overrun with well-wishers and old acquaintances. Obi makes more than one attempt to reach her -- after all, if they’re going to sell this whole happy couple thing, they might try being within arm’s reach -- but he’s ambushed by his own parade of speculative mamas and young bucks eager for tonight.

“My, my.” It takes everything not to jump at the words, spoke too close. His Majesty emerges from behind him, champagne bubbling in his flute and smile curling one edge of his lips. “You’ve been quite busy, haven’t you?”

“From what I’ve been hearing, I’ll be busier tonight.” Obi takes a moment to sip at his own drink. “Is there some wedding tradition I’m missing?”

“Why, I thought you of all people would know.” His Majesty looks uncomfortably close to gleeful. “Isn’t it considered common for young grooms to go out before their wedding night, drink unlikely amounts of alcohol --?”

“A stag night?” he yelps. “This is -- they’re talking about my stag night?”

And eyebrow lifts, challenging. “Surely you didn’t think my brother would be remiss in his duties.”

“No...” He’d just thought it would be a think only commoners did, something Master only knew about from slumming with the guardsmen, not --

Not some grand soiree, inviting every nobleman old enough to hold his liquor and young enough to enjoy it. He’d expected Master and Mister and maybe even Miss Kiki, but this --

“Why, even I have to admit I’m eager to see what he’s come up with,” His Majesty drawls.

Obi stares. “You...you’re....to...?”

“Of course.” He steps closer, expression shuttering to something far more serious. “Though we’ll have some far more pressing business to take care of before then.”

“What else could there be?”

His mouth pulls flat, expression guarded. “Why, the marriage contract, of course.” His Majesty fixes him with a meaningful look. “Tanbarun will be....eager to see it, when all this comes out.”

[dryad-of-the-dogwood]

Alright guys, sorry for the delay! Chapter 24 of A Thread of Fate is now live on AO3, and this time it comes with some sparks of the good kind! ;)

Chapter 24: Revelation

When someone tries to shake me awake, I hum something vague and try to wave them away. Whoever it is then goes so far as to touch my face, and I’m frowning and preparing a rebuke when a voice that’s unmistakably Nalissa’s says my name.

My eyes fly open instantly, my left hand darting to capture hers on my cheek. She smiles at me and the worry that had twisted my chest into knots for days starts to melt. “You’re awake! I’m not dreaming, am I?”

At that, she laughs quietly and teases, “Dream about me a lot, do you?”

This time I’m careful to avoid her waist, just in case. I draw her in by her hand in mine and Maker’s breath, it’s a relief to kiss her again and feel her smile against my lips. My thumb brushes the left side of her face, where a thin white scar now breaks the dark line of her eyebrow, and only then do I answer.

“After you went and scared me like that? Every time I closed my eyes. But please don’t do it again.”

Nalissa gives a soft, breathy sort of laugh that makes my insides feel like jelly. Jelly in distress, but very happy for its predicament.

“I suppose I could try to minimize near-death experiences. For you.”

“Before I accept that blindly, what do you consider ‘minimized?’ Just one a month, or…?”

Nalissa cuts me off with a chuckle and a squeeze of my hand. “We can negotiate later. Wynne has promised me there’s food somewhere in this place, and I think I haven’t eaten in three days or so. Have I mentioned I turn into a bear on an empty stomach?”

“Literally or figuratively?” I ask as I rise. “Because I once knew someone that actually transformed into a bear and roared at me for taking the last bit of chicken. Very unpleasant experience. Bears have very bad breath, did you know that?”

I ramble the entire way down to the dining hall, because I’m suddenly too nervous in Nalissa’s presence again. And she laughs at my terrible jokes, because presumably she thinks I’ve gone insane from lack of sleep. But it feels like much more than that.

I can’t quite explain what’s changed in the way I think of her, but something has. Wynne refused to admit how bad Nalissa was, what might have happened if we hadn’t made it to Amaranthine in time, but I had watched her worsen. By the time Wynne began her healing, Nalissa had passed the unintelligible rambling and gone still and quiet. And the thought that a small delay could have been the difference, that I could have lost her, pierces like a spear through a weak spot in armor.

Wynne raises her eyebrows when we join her at her table, and for a moment I have the irrational thought that she somehow knows exactly what I’m thinking and means to tease me for it. But when she speaks, it’s to Nalissa.

“I thought you were going to let him sleep?”

Nalissa shakes her head and rests her chin on one palm to look at me. “I didn’t want to chance him waking up and not being able to find me,” she says, and this time I think I can read the intent in her eyes. I think she was afraid I would assume she had broken her promise.

The softness in her eyes fades to mischief as she looks back to Wynne though. “You know, I kept picturing him realizing I was gone and ripping the keep apart until he found me. Not that I would lament the loss of this place, but it doesn’t seem the proper image for a king.”

I don’t know what she means, at first. It seems an odd thing for her to despise a Grey Warden fortress until I remember who it belonged to before Amaranthine was ceded to the order. At once, the dark glances she keeps giving to the head table take on a different meaning. She probably remembers when Howe sat in the Warden-Commander’s seat.

As for me, it’s distracting after so long to be in the company of other Wardens again. The prickling at the edges of my awareness, the strange extra sense for darkspawn and those blighted by their corruption, seems louder and more distracting than I remember it. It reminds me of the time just after my Joining, when everything seemed too bright and too sharp in proximity to the horde.

That in turn reminds me I still haven’t told Nalissa what being a Grey Warden means, and my nagging guilt returns. But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t tell her here, I reason. The Wardens would never stand for the secrets of the Joining being known outside our number; they might conscript her or worse. No, that must wait for another time.

Someone shouts my name, and I look up in surprise to see a familiar bright red beard. It’s natural that the beard is the first thing I see, because it belongs to a dwarf who stands about as tall as I am sitting. He’s grinning in a way that warns me his next words will be at my expense before he adds, “Lookit you, boy! Is that what humans consider a beard? Guess that’s why you were never so keen on trying to grow a proper one. I’ve seen nugs with more hair on their chins, but right on you for trying.”

“Oghren!” I greet him with a clap on the shoulder. “Still just as much ale dribbled into your beard as always, I see.”

Naturally, the dwarf laughs. “S’pose there is, at that. What’re you doing here? Weren’t you supposed to be living it up in the palace, lording over the dusters, leaving the darkspawn and the saving the world to the dwarves with axes, huh?”

“Er, something like that,” I begin, but before I’ve begun to think of a way to explain what I’m doing in Vigil’s Keep, Oghren has cut me off anyway.

“Heard about that ‘Mother’ business and came to see, aye? Well, good luck getting any of it out of the boss. Even drink don’t loosen him up, it’s sodding unnatural. Makes me miss the princess, and she never talked ’til she damn well pleased either, but least she looked better telling me to shove my questions.”

“‘The boss’ being this Warden-Commander Caron that still hasn’t seen fit to answer any of my letters?” I wonder, frowning toward the still-empty seat at the head table.

“That’s the one,” Oghren agrees, taking a seat across from me and only then seeming to notice Nalissa. “Well, shave my back and call me an elf! You finally took my advice and found yourself a girl!”

As I contemplate deeply whether it’s possible to be so mortified you actually die, Nalissa mutters simply, “Charming.”

“He grows on you, most unfortunately,” Wynne says with a longsuffering look. “Not unlike a particularly stubborn wart.”

Oghren waggles his eyebrows and moustache in what I’m sure he thinks is somehow an alluring manner. “Careful, or someone might think we’ve been tapping the midnight still.”

“I assure you, no one would think that.”

“Sure they would. You’re still lively for a lady your age. Maybe the elf had the right of it…”

“So help me, Oghren, if you mention my bosoms—”

Nalissa interrupts by dropping her fork onto her plate with a clatter. “And on that note I think I’m done eating, possibly forever.”

Oghren bursts into a fit of raucous laughter that includes banging his gauntleted fist on the table. It’s almost like being back in camp, sitting around the fire and listening to the chatter over whatever meal Leliana had managed to make materialize. It makes me feel oddly… homesick isn’t quite the right word for it, but something along those lines. I’ve missed having companions and friends in Denerim. The king doesn’t have many of either of those things.

And with Nalissa dressed in a tunic with a griffin emblazoned on the chest—no doubt provided by Wynne courtesy of the Wardens to replace her bloodied clothes—it’s easy enough to imagine her there too. I amuse myself for a moment imagining how different the Blight would have been if Nalissa had been Duncan’s Highever recruit instead of Jory. She and Sereda on the same mission would have been a force of nature. No army or archdemon would have stood before them.

Still, I think the Nalissa of before her family was lost is the most interesting part of that daydream. I have a hard time picturing her less guarded, but surely she must have been. Maybe she laughed easier, and told jokes that weren’t at her own expense. As much as she knows about Grey Warden history, I can picture her plying every Warden in camp for the order’s secrets from the moment she arrived. I bet she would have gotten some too, probably by winning some challenge she had been expected to fail like a duel or a drinking contest. She would have been a breath of fresh air to the tense atmosphere at Ostagar, I’m sure of it.

It’s all a fun little daydream until that voice in the back of my head I try to ignore points out that she also probably never would have looked twice at me. It was the very responsibilities the Wardens would have freed her of that brought her to me, after all.

The title of “little pike-twirler” catches my ears, and I turn my attention to Oghren with a groan. Why had I been feeling nostalgic for this, again?

Despite the dwarf’s best attempts, he can’t convince any of us to drink with him at noon and shakes his head as we leave him in the dining hall with a tankard of foul-smelling ale. Nalissa glances sideways at me as soon as we start up the stairs.

“So, these were your friends from the Blight?”

“More or less. Oghren’s full of even more innuendo than usual to make up for Zevran not being available, I suspect.”

“Suddenly it seems even more miraculous than before that the Blight ended so quickly.”

I laugh, consider the fact that she doesn’t even know about Sten or Shale, and add, “You have no idea. Did I mention Zevran was hired to kill us and Oghren only agreed to help to save his wife, who then tried to kill us too?”

“At least I can take comfort in knowing I’m not the only one everyone wants dead,” she says, and I frown at the dark tone.

“‘Everyone’ doesn't want you dead. I very much don’t want you to die.”

Nalissa pauses to turn and smile softly at me. Standing on the step above, she’s close to my height but the way she tilts her head down slightly to look at me through her lashes anyway makes her look almost… shy?

“So I heard. We were miles from anywhere when I went to sleep. Wynne said you carried me the whole way. You… you didn’t have to do that, Alistair.”

I probably look at her like I think she’s crazy, because that’s definitely what I’m thinking. “Of course I did! What else was I supposed to do, let you die?”

“You were hurt too,” she argues, her eyes flickering to my shoulder. “It must have been awful, walking so long carrying something with that arm.”

“What is it you usually say? I’ve had worse?” She scowls, but I smile and brush the frown lines away with my thumb. “For you, I would have walked it in armor made of bacon with hungry wolves nipping at my heels. Fortunately for me, none were available.”

Nalissa chuckles softly and shakes her head. “You know, for all your talk of how I don’t think my life is worth enough, you don’t seem to value yours overmuch either.”

“Of course I do. I just think about yours more.”

She lifts her chin a little to look at me more directly. I’m at a loss for how to read what I see there again, but I swear when she looks at me like that, I think she can see into my soul.

Then she kisses me, and this time, it’s different. Before when she’s been the one to kiss me first, they’ve been slow, gentle, little gestures of reassurance and affection. This kiss is sudden and fierce, so much so in fact that I think if she hadn’t hooked one arm behind my shoulder to pull me into it, I might have staggered back down the stairs.

My hands catch at her hips in surprise and then her other hand is in my hair, raking against the back of my head like she can’t manage to pull me close enough. My head goes fuzzy, maybe I forget to breathe, I can’t tell. I only know I’m tugging at her hair in search of an angle to kiss her more deeply, like that’s suddenly the only way I can think of to tell her how terrified I was she wouldn’t wake up, and just when I think my heart is beating so loudly I’ve gone deaf to all else, she makes a soft sound low in her throat that sends a shiver down my spine.

“Whoa—hello,” a strange voice says, and Nalissa nearly jumps out of her skin. Her right hand darts to her side, and then she freezes. Reaching for a dagger she isn’t carrying, no doubt.

I look over my shoulder to see one of the Wardens, a man at least a decade older than me with a rather intimidating moustache, breaking into a grin from the stairs behind me. “There are rooms just upstairs much better suited to that, you know,” he points out conversationally as he passes. “But don’t let me interrupt. Do carry on.”

Nalissa’s cheekbones are bright red, but I can’t tell if that’s from embarrassment or just from the kiss. She watches as the man passes before she looks back at me, and when she does, a quiet laugh chokes itself from my throat. I think it’s entirely leftover nerves, and mercifully, she gives a weak half-laugh too.

“Sorry,” she says quietly, tucking a lock of hair back behind her ear that I must have accidentally freed. “I… Thank you.”

It takes me longer than it should to remember what she could possibly be thanking me for. By the time I do, I find that I’m nervous under her gaze again.

“All I did was keep my promise. I told you, neither of us is dying out here. We’re going to fix all of this and go home and… and you’ll never have to be hurt like that again,” I finish lamely, because I can’t bring myself to say the things I want to. And when she kisses me again, this time short and gently like she always has before continuing up the stairs, I worry I might have said the wrong thing.

Vigil’s Keep is at least improved by its new Grey Warden occupation, I’ll grant it that, though personally I feel it could be improved further by being burned to the ground. Alistair on the other hand seems almost at ease here. He excitedly shows me around the keep and its grounds, pointing out monuments to prolific Wardens, including one incredibly serious-looking Sereda Aeducan. At dinner, a handful of Warden recruits with wide eyes accost him for stories of the Blight and with a dose of good humor, he obliges. He’s a pretty good storyteller, even though the now rather drunk dwarf from earlier keeps interrupting with a collection of forced double entendres.

How it devolves from there, I can’t quite say. One moment, a young Warden that had apparently also fought at Ostagar is saying how he wishes he’d had a chance to do something so important instead of fleeing with his family, and Alistair is assuring him that protecting his elderly mother was a noble enough thing too. The next, Oghren is insisting a drink will keep them all from being so serious and much to my surprise and apparently also the dwarf’s, Alistair agrees. Of course, the recruits want to do whatever their new hero is up to, and in the end, I shrug and agree that after the week I’ve had, I could use a drink too.

“But none of that dwarven brew,” I specify immediately. “That swill tastes like it’s already been drank and recycled.”

Oghren gives a disapproving grunt. “Humans! You wouldn’t appreciate good ale if someone threw it in your face.”

“I wouldn’t appreciate a West Hill brandy thrown in my face either, but that one I would drink,” I counter, and he snorts a laugh.

Despite my warning, one of the recruits decides to sample the dwarven drink anyway. And then promptly spews it out of his mouth over the edge of the table.

“Sweet Maker, this does taste like piss!”

The group erupts into a roar of laughter, Oghren bangs his fist on the table in his mirth, and the rest of us begin a search for actual, palatable alcohol. The Wardens have a nice little collection of spirits stashed away, in fact. I try not to wonder if they inherited that from the keep’s former owner too.

Either way, they do in fact have West Hill brandy. The only woman of Alistair’s Warden-recruit admirers, a slight elven girl with striking blue-violet eyes, gives this a try and makes the mistake of gulping down an entire mouthful to start and nearly chokes. It doesn’t have so much kick as all that, but it doesn’t take much to guess she likely hasn’t had much experience with liquor. The others laugh but I pat her on the back and tell a story of how I once accidentally did the same with a Legacy White Shear, complete with exaggerated rendition of coughing it back into my brother’s face, and the girl gives me an appreciative look when they’re laughing at me instead.

I second guess my decision when the tipsy girl starts flirting with Alistair. Only a short while later, she’s leaning over the edge of the table toward him, her chin in her palm and her hair falling across one side of her face as she looks at him. I can’t entirely blame her—he is unfairly handsome in the flickering light of the sconces, and she is leaning toward drunk—but still it stirs something oddly possessive in me that I didn’t even know I had. It’s a much less pleasant sort of burn than the warmth of the alcohol.

For his part, Alistair seems completely oblivious, even when she goes so far as to put a hand over his forearm while she giggles at him. When her thumb starts to trace lightly over the back of his arm though, even he looks at her quizzically and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to threaten to remove her hand for her.

“Alright dove, that’s quite enough of all that,” I interrupt, taking a firm hold of her arm and dragging her to her feet. She blinks confusion at me with those glittering eyes, but I steer her insistently toward the doors without a mind for her sputtered objections. Halfway there, I find another woman, this one middle-aged and quite sober, and foist the tipsy elf onto her to get her back to her room.

I return to the table, then shake my head and drain the rest of my glass of brandy all at once before looking up. When I do, I swear Oghren is stifling a snicker into his tankard, one of the recruits has actually fallen asleep on his face, and Alistair is staring at me like I’ve just pledged fealty to Orlais. For a brief moment, no one moves. Then the recruits start to stand all at once, two of them lifting their friend between them, and disappear. Finally the dwarf waggles his eyebrows and says suggestively, “Shouldn’t the two of you be running off to bed too?”

Seeing as he’s been bursting with innuendo all day, I think nothing of it. On the way back to the room, the drink starts to go to my head and I catch onto Alistair’s arm for support on the stairs. Surprisingly, he’s steadier than I am, though maybe he just didn’t drink as much. He didn’t get to watch a girl with pretty lavender eyes fawning all over him, after all.

We pause on the first landing, and as I’m trying to figure out why since this isn’t even the right floor, Alistair pulls me by my arm in his into the hallway. It’s dimly lit by only a couple of flickering sconces, and as he stops looking around to check it’s empty, the firefight reflects back at me from his amber eyes. My stomach feels suddenly warm and tingly in a way that has nothing to do with brandy.

“What did you say?” Alistair asks, and I frown my confusion at him.

“Nothing?” I guess, because I’m pretty sure I didn’t, but he shakes his head at me in a way that suggests otherwise.

“At the table,” he clarifies, and I try to remember the threads of a conversation I’ve already forgotten until he adds, “You… did you mean to call me ‘love’?”

This time, I blink hard and shake my head a little, because I definitely heard that wrong. “Did I what now?”

“You called me ‘love,’” he repeats, and this time I can feel my face flushing. Hopefully it isn’t obvious in the shadows.

“I did not,” I object, finally putting the timing of his stunned look together and realizing what’s just happened. “I said ‘dove.’”

Alistair shakes his head solemnly, his eyes locked on mine, and the certainty in them makes me falter. I hadn’t, had I? Surely not. That definitely wasn’t what I meant to say. It isn’t even—

But I stop myself, mid-thought, midway through speaking, so all that comes out are three words: “I didn’t mean…”

Because, I realize with a sudden jolt, I can’t finish those thoughts truthfully. It was a slip of the tongue, surely, but not… not an incorrect one. I hadn’t stopped and examined it, hadn’t given myself time since setting out from Denerim, but I should have known the moment I knew I would give anything for him, including my own life.

I look into his eyes, eyes as kind as every word he’s ever spoken to me, as soft as his every touch, as patient as his every move, and finally I put the words to what it is he makes me feel. I love him. I can’t speak it, I’m not sure I even remember to breathe, because for a moment those words are all the thoughts my mind can form. Breathing is irrelevant in comparison. I love Alistair Theirin, and it’s at once the most comforting and most terrifying realization I’ve ever had.

Alistair hesitates, looking back and forth between my eyes, and then brushes his hand against my cheek and down my jaw. I try not to shudder, but the touch makes my skin feel like the air before a lightning strike. This time when he kisses me, it feels like I melt between him and the stone wall at my back. My knees turn weak, my fists clenched in the back of his shirt the only thing holding me upright as my heartbeat pounds the words I love you like some sort of desperate mantra.

When we separate, we’re both out of breath. But perhaps “separate” isn’t the right word because I’m still flush between him and the wall, my hands pinning him to me as much as holding him for support. One of his forearms is braced against the wall beside my head and his other hand is at the small of my back, pulling me to him just as I’ve pulled him to me. His eyes are alight from within, not just the reflection of the fire, and whatever it is I see in them makes it hard to catch my breath.

I love you, beats my heart, so loudly it’s surely some kind of wonder he can’t hear it. But my lips can’t remember how to speak the words, even if I was brave enough to voice them.

Alistair loosens his grip first and trails his fingers lightly through my hair as he pulls away. He kisses the back of my hand as he draws it down from behind his shoulder, then laces his fingers together with mine. His smile is faint, almost shy again, as he says, “We should get some sleep. You’re clearly delirious from exhaustion to say such a thing!”

I want to object, but I seem to have left my voice somewhere along with my nerve and my kneecaps. I’m grateful for Alistair’s hand in mine on the stairs, and then again that he doesn’t object this time to sleeping beside me.

I fall asleep on his forearm, his fingers still trailing soothingly through my hair. And I dream of his arms holding me a different way, with his freckled shoulders bare above me and my legs wrapped around his waist.

[rksungho]

It’s still early in the morning when you’re called into Katie Lee’s office at the Seocho facility. When you enter, you’re greeted by very serious looking men standing along the walls while the CEO stares at you from behind her desk. She gestures to the chair in front of her, and something in the way her eyebrow arches tells you that you shouldn’t make her wait. 

After you’re settled on your seat, the woman carefully studies your expression before beginning. “So,” she holds her gaze right at you. “I hear you’re displeased with your stay at my company.”

She lets her opening statement hang in the air a few seconds for the full effect. “Word around this facility is that you’ve been complaining behind our backs to other trainees. Some… Hwang Inho person has shared his knowledge with his own CEO, who has in turn passed it on to me.” Her lips purse into a thin line. “I suppose you don’t know this, but I really, really hate gossiping.”

“Now, I am a very busy woman and I’m already late for Mnet’s recording, so I will try to make this quick.” She moves an open manila folder across the table in your direction. “This is a mutual party settlement on the termination of your contract with KT Entertainment. If you sign this, your time with us will come to an end effective immediately, and these fine gentlemen will escort you outside.” She makes a brief pause, and her face softens a little. “I understand it’s not easy being a trainee. You may not always fit in; you get homesick; and you constantly second-guess all the choices you’ve made this far. Trust me, I know. I’ve been there myself, once upon many years ago. But I toughened up; I held my ground against all the difficulties because I believed in myself and in my dreams, and now… Well, now I can help make other dreams come true.”

A man politely interrupts the conversation to let Katie Lee know her car has arrived, and she stands up with a nod. “I believe in you, Sungho-ssi. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. I can make your dream come true, but for that I’ll need to trust you, and right now I feel betrayed instead. I’ll give you a second chance to reconsider your attitude to this company, and I promise you there won’t be a third.” With a sigh, she picks up a pen, signs her name on the dotted line and then hands it back to you. “If you’re ready to commit yourself to your goals, just let these men know and they’ll file this folder away. Otherwise…”, she glances at the pen one last time, then leaves.

“The choice is yours, Jin Sungho.”

[ Should Sungho decide to stay in the company, the lawyers present in the room will escort him back to practice and instruct all of his trainers to be particularly harsh on him for all of August as punishment for his behaviour. 

Should Sungho sign the agreement and leave KT Ent, he will be immediately removed from the trainee roster and returned to the status of ‘rookie’, and his decision will be filed along with his records in Samsung’s archives for future reference. 

There aren’t any points to be collected for answering this prompt. You have until Sunday, August 11th, midnight EST to post your reply, or Sungho’s choice will be defaulted to leaving KT. ]

the moment he’s called to the office he knows something’s wrong. he’s had these moments before, the second a coach drags him aside or when they were talking about the kt rookies announcement. each time sungho was convinced that this is it, this is the part where they cut me loose, tell me i’m not wanted here. i get it, i’ve been here before. each time his anxieties have been immediately quelled, something different than what he expected being the cause for singling him out if just for a moment.

but this is different. he hasn’t been to this office since he signed a contract. this is wrong.

men in suits confirm his suspicions. this is the end. what had been the final straw? a fight with taemin that had become too loud? had news of his scrap with that royal kid belatedly made it to his ceo’s ears? or was it worse; did jaehyun actually tell someone important what he had seen in the supposedly haunted bathroom over a month ago?

“So,” she holds her gaze right at you. “I hear you’re displeased with your stay at my company.”

she makes it sound like a bad hotel review. a bad stay at her company? sungho doesn’t dare speak yet, his jaw clenched so tightly that it aches already. but he thinks. he thinks of all the times he’s been ostracized by trainees ( how many times he’s fucked himself over with his unlikable personality ), how many times he’s been criticized by coaches and asked to leave the practice room ( how many times he’s worked until he’s felt sick, and then worked through that, through literal blood, sweat and tears ). the literal bones he’s broken since signing her contract. a bad stay? what an understatement.

She lets her opening statement hang in the air a few seconds for the full effect. “Word around this facility is that you’ve been complaining behind our backs to other trainees. Some… Hwang Inho person has shared his knowledge with his own CEO, who has in turn passed it on to me.” Her lips purse into a thin line. “I suppose you don’t know this, but I really, really hate gossiping.”

sungho’s blood runs cold and the tightness of his jaw is joined by a tight grip of both hands. fists curl, fingernails dig into the soft flesh of his palms as he tries to keep his cool. inho had said something. to his ceo. hwang inho marched up to tiger jk’s office and told him that sungho’s unhappy at kt entertainment. the worst part is sungho can’t even doubt it. he sees it so clearly in his mind, that annoying confident saunter and that self-important air as he tells secrets that sungho had whispered in strict confidence.

this is what he gets for trusting someone with too much. he should have known better than to give someone his dreams, even the foolish ones, alongside his heart. his thumb presses over a ring on his finger, a birthday gift he had treasured at the time of its giving, as he fights the urge to rip it off and shove it in a pocket right now.

he still can’t speak as she explains the contract in front of him. he’s seen it before. he knows this part. he can’t talk around the lump in his throat, the memories of a younger self, hardly more than a child, being told very seriously how he had no place in the company anymore. he feels the aches and pains from then all over again, the bruises from a fight where he had won a battle and lost much more than a war. in a moment he’s nineteen again and regretting every decision, every well-meaning action that had lead up to his ultimate demise. it’s his worst nightmare come back again as it has many times in dreams. but this time he can’t wake up.

“I understand it’s not easy being a trainee. You may not always fit in; you get homesick; and you constantly second-guess all the choices you’ve made this far. Trust me, I know. I’ve been there myself, once upon many years ago. But I toughened up; I held my ground against all the difficulties because I believed in myself and in my dreams, and now… Well, now I can help make other dreams come true.”

how could she understand? doesn’t she know what he’s been through once already? does she know the way he feels other trainees’ eyes on him, the snide remarks and the pointed way they don’t approach him? yeah, he’s a dick. he tried not to be so unlikable when he came here, he tried to be the perfect little puppet for the company to mold into an idol. nothing had worked. here he is, after a year and a little extra of trying, being told to get out again.

but hadn’t he wanted this?

hadn’t the intention always been to finish out his contract and reject another from kt should it be offered? hadn’t he wanted to get away from the pink and taemin and the children and everything else he can’t stand about this place? this is an escape as much as it is a punishment. he could be freed, but at what cost?

he doesn’t mean to but he thinks of taemin. he thinks of how every fucking time he’s snapped, he’s yelled, he’s threatened violence against someone or something he’s been there. he’s been god damn awful to taemin, but he’s never given up on him. he doesn’t know why he thinks of it. sungho will deny ever having the moment of consideration later.

“I believe in you, Sungho-ssi.”

“can i have time to think about it?” the words are out of his lips before he can stop them. perhaps not the wisest thing he could have said, but it’s there. one of the suits shakes his head, telling him he has ten minutes to reach a decision. sungho can feel the sweat on his palms, cold. no phoning a friend or anything here.

he doesn’t reach for the pen immediately. he doesn’t so much as move. she said she believed in him. despite it all. despite how he’s given her literally no reason to so much as like him. after all the problems he’s caused, all the displeasure he’s made evident. why? he doesn’t understand. his own mother hasn’t put this sort of faith in him.

the plastic of the pen is cold in his hand when he picks it up, just holds it without going anywhere near the line he’d have to sign. he skims the words. if he signs this he doesn’t owe them anything, right? no debt to pay back, just an offer of freedom.

katie lee would be disappointed if he signed this. oh well, she’s already disappointed in me. would the other trainees be happy to see him gone? maybe. maybe relieved.

sungho can feel the minutes ticking by as he deliberates. they’re long, and too fast at the same time. he needs more time. how is he supposed to make this decision on the spot? he glances at the clock. he has three minutes. for just a moment he lets himself wonder how this would play out.

if he signs the contract, he gathers his things and leaves immediately. he goes home to an empty apartment. what does he do then? start searching for a job? beg his boss for his old spot back? sit at home and do nothing while inho goes to and from trc every day? sungho doesn’t like that idea much. he lowers the pen away from the document.

if he doesn’t sign, he goes back into a practice room. rumors spread, inevitably. trainees always talk. but how is that any different from before? sungho has endured it this long.

he drops the pen.

“i’m not leaving.”

a minute to spare.

[taecupcalico-blog]

Quietus JK Prologue (Part 2)

Sam walked up to him and grabbed his shoulders and shook him rapidly, barking out, “Why do you let him do this to you? It’s like you’re a slave to his own damn words! Jeongukk, you’re too forgiving and nice.”

Dead silence filled the room, now heavy with tension with both of the boys looking at each other. Before Sam could speak once again, Mrs.Ryu finally came in with a pale brown cardboard box which most definitely looks very worn out and beaten up several times. She had the small box within her dainty hands with an uptight grin on her face. Jeongukk wonders if she can feel the tense atmosphere surrounding the room heavily.

“Sorry if it took a little while, I had a problem finding it.” She sheepishly said, putting a half grin on her face and cringed back a bit. Jeongukk only nodded and took the package from her hands and looked back at Sam.

Sam’s eyes were now a light pink from the once bloodshot tears from the sudden quarrel moments ago. Jeongukk backed a few steps, murmuring out, “I’m sorry...” he nodded, still looking into Sam’s russet brown eyes while the click clacking of Mrs.Ryu’s shoes died down in the background.

Parting ways, Jeongukk hopes the Devil got nothing on him, like how he had claimed the tragically broken Jinyoung. Let’s just say he truly prays for Sam’s sanity.

———————————

The old art room

9:41 A.M

Jeongguk’s day is finally back to normal. After the whole fighting debacle with a red angry Jinyoung and a crying Sam, he seems drained from the sudden event. The worn torn cardboard box from his family is still in his hands. He runs the palm of his right hand on top of the box to feel the texture of it. It’s hard, but some what flimsy with the texture of feeling of rough sand. Sand. Yes, sand reminds him of home. Back in Busan where he and his family would take day trips to the beach and enjoy themselves. It gives Jeongguk a nostalgic feeling to remember the memory. He wonders if they’re doing okay.

Ever since he left to go to University in Seoul, his anxiety had risen up a little bit because he can’t help but worry about his precious family.

He sighed, thinking about Busan made him homesick. Heck, even having the thought of his family members made him feel homesick.

He looked out of the old tall window, viewing the landscape of city buildings with people busying themselves on the sidewalks, some rushing while others aimlessly talking. He turned around while still inspecting the box in his hands. He wants to open it, but at the same time he thinks it’s not important as it seems to be. Placing the box and his phone on the table, he went back the awfully red with splattered painted stool where he once sat before he had to go to the attendance desk. Jeongguk gazed at the painting, a small pout forming on his face. He didn’t like the fact he was interrupted from his painting.

Jeongguk was about to paint until his phone buzzed on the wooden table. Picking up his phone, he got a text message from his childhood friend Yugyeom.

He looked at the message, feeling extremely confused with his friends behavior. Yugyeom did tend to get into some brawls with guys who weren’t on good terms with him, but usually he’d act calm and say something on the lines of, ‘Hey Kook, uhh so today I got into another fight and I think I might’ve broken my arm..’

This time, the message gave him an uneasy feeling.

[From Gyeomie 12:21 am]

Dude I’m fucking scared

[From Jeonggukie 12:21 am]

What?? Gyeomie are you okay??

[From Jeonggukie 12:22 am]

Lol you don’t naturally act this way 😂

[From Gyeomie 12:22 am]

Fucckkkajks dcuommmm@4

[From Jeonggukie 12:22 am]

??? Is something going on??

[From Gyeomie 12:23 am]

Asksna. Sngneikf nak md 18i in1,’

[From Jeonggukie 12:23 am]

Are you fighting again?? Do I need to come get you?

[From Gyeomie 12:23 am]

Get out Jeongguk! Just get ouabakan a

[From Jeonggukie 12:23 am]

Get out? Wtf do you mean get out? I’m at the art wing in room 120 if you’re so worried 😧

[From Gyeomie 12:24 am]

NO! I mean get out of the building AND FinD SAFETY! NOW KOOAna. Zxyiwb3 x 9/&

[From Gyeomie 12:24 am]

THE EPIDEMIC anb1!2 ITs HErE12!mewoqq

Jeongguk raised an eyebrow, looking over his shoulder to see if anything was out of place. The only thing off was there wasn’t much people, plus some were running until he found a man limping towards a woman.

He shook his head, eyes closing and breathed through his nose. His patience was wearing thin since Yugyeom won’t answer his questions fully. He began typing to him while leaning against the dusty windowsill.

[From Jeonggukie 12:25 am]

I just looked out the window... and so far everything looks fine to me 🤷🏻‍♂️

[From Jeonggukie 12:25 am]

Are you sure it’s just a gang coming at you??

Read 12:25 A.M.

Shit, he left him on read. He stood up and walked back from windowsill, just as he was about to look back at the view down below he was flown back against the wall from a sudden burst. As he crashed against the wall, he fell and his temple collided with the corner of the wooden table, making him wince in pain and have blood drip down the side of his face. His eyes felt heavy, his breathing became shallow, and he felt like his head was rammed into the ground at least several times.

Jeongukk hears crashes and high pitched screeches as he groans from the ache. Fatigue is now taking over his body as his vision blurs. The objects around him multiply into two and his world gets dizzy. He feels sick, oh so sick to point where he can heave up anything.

Shaking, he tries getting up by gripping onto the table and whimpering lowly. He clutches onto the edge and touches the wound on his head. The tips of his fingers are covered in blood, tears well up in his eyes and he wipes them away as soon as they appeared.

Still feeling dazed, he tries to take his wobbly legs over to the broken window. The glass of the window is now shattered, but surprisingly some parts are still in tact. Jeongukk grasped onto the sill and peered down, all over the streets were screams of terror. Blood, severed limbs and bodies lifeless on the ground. Gawking, his eyes grew wide with horror as he saw the disaster before him.

There were masses of bloody bodies either without limbs or torn through the skin, showing their muscles and intestines. Jeongukk wanted to throw up, he was appalled by the position that these people and himself were put into. Still studying the calamity, he sees men with BB’s and shot guns shooting at what looks like to be a crowd of different people limping and making strange noises. The aberrant noise sounds like a mixed gurgle with groaning and hissing.

Some buildings were already demolished by what it looks like to be a military tank. The tank was blasting off bombs to slaughter the mass of ‘people’ coming into the once busy, but yet peaceful city.

Jeongukk trembled as he held temple with his right hand. He was even more worried for Yugyeom now. What if he was hurt? What if he got trapped in one of the buildings and can’t get out? Even worse, what if he’s dead? Jeongukk dreaded to go outside, he felt his breath become erratic while clawing at his forearms. Dear lord, he was going to have an anxiety attack, why now jeongukk? Of all times, he scolded himself for being so weak and vulnerable in such a state.

He doesn’t even have a weapon to defend himself. Feeling distressed, he glanced over at the damn wooden table, the package wasn’t on it, but instead on the floor joined with the glass shards. The package is slightly ripped now, having left over splattered paint on it with a dusty look adding to it.

Hurriedly, he grabs the box and places it on top of the table. He flashes his eyes left and right around the art room to see if there’s anything sharp to open it up. There, on a little side corner table next to his knocked over paint set, was a long metal ruler. Speed walking across the room and grabbing it quickly, Jeongukk notices how the metal ruler is sharp. Too sharp to be exact.

Gripping the metal, wincing at the sharpness, on his right hand was a red indent. Shaking his hand from the pain, he takes the end of the ruler and slices the box open.

After he opens the box he throws the ruler aside, the pain on his throbbing hand still remaining, “Damn thing hurts...yikes.”

He tries his best not to pay attention to the pulsing pain and focuses on the object within in the package. A brown messenger bag was placed with the package with a note. Without hesitation jeongukk grasped the messenger bag and took the letter with him.

“What kind of fucked up shit am I experiencing right now?” He muttered to himself, the dizziness from the hard fall is quite painful on his forehead. The cries of people are evident, he can hear skin being torn apart, making his stomach churn and ache with disgust.

[pretty-rage-machine]

The Young Wolves in Springtime: director’s commentary

Good friend @transversely​ requested I do a commentary on my Blade of the Immortal fic “The Young Wolves in Springtime” a long time ago.  I’m FINALLY around to it!  You can read the original fic here.

Before all the fights. Before years so steeped in blood. Before all that killing, so many people. They were just skinny kids. Magatsu had the muscle, Kagehisa the grace. Magatsu's first night. He felt homesick. Anotsu had watched him with fish-flat eyes all night and barely said a word. Grandpa Anotsu slept the next room over. The thin door was pulled closed, with a little gap left open. Kagehisa still watched with the same deadpan stare, sitting up with his sleeping robe fallen open to show his shoulders. There was little light except for the silver fall of moonshine. Kagehisa's eyes bored flatly into Magatsu. “Well, let's see,” his voice hardly a breath coming in the still air.   “What?” “They think you're good. Let's see.” What a weirdo. Magatsu sat up. He didn't feel like getting pushed around for however long by this kid whose ass he could probably kick with one hand tied behind his back.

Who the fuck makes friends like this? Only Kagehisa, that’s who. Let’s all be honest: he’s kind of a hyper-focused weirdo (I say this with love) even as an adult; as an awkward tween, he would have been far worse. I also imagine that Grandpa Anotsu is so horrendous to live with himself, and so unconcerned about Kagehisa having friends his own age, that Kagehisa’s social skills are bottom-tier no matter how good at fighting he is.

Magatsu, on the other hand, had a relatively normal upbringing. He seems to have cared a lot for his sister, so I presume his family loved both of them. He probably has friends. Now the only person around in his age bracket is Kagehisa, who is a complete freak, but the only peer Magatsu has.

Yikes.

Magatsu pulled his robe open, his right arm out of its sleeve, held it in front of him. He clenched his hand into a fist, curled up his hand to tense. It wasn't bad, he thought – he'd won fights. His growing muscle stood up like a burl from a tree. His skin prickled in the cold of night air. Kagehisa looked right back into his eyes. Did the same with his robe, his sleeve, his hand cocked up the same. The same muscle stood up. He was leaner than Magatsu, built different. The muscle the same, not the same, distributed different. Magatsu had been chopping wood for a good part of his life. He had some of the bulk for it, not all of it yet. But this kid was supposed to be good. Magatsu glared at him. Kagehisa smiled a weird smile. It looked like it kind of had a hard time on his face. Magatsu would bet for sure that he'd never got beat on by the big-kid coalition in town, when his dad took him in to help keep an eye on what they were selling.  “Not bad.” Kagehisa put his arm back and Magatsu did too, glad of it. It felt like he'd had a long life. He wanted to snuggle under the covers and crash into sleep. But Kagehisa watched with a curious face like a cat's. That was why it was so unnerving. “Welcome to the Itto-ryu. You'll get to try.”

Kagehisa is sincerely trying to be friendly here, which I think makes it all the worse/much more awkward/much funnier.

I’m a huge sucker for characters who don’t really understand how to be nice trying very hard to be nice, and kind of missing the mark.

“What the hell,” Magatsu said. This kid was his sempai now. What the hell. “I'm supposed to lead it.” Kagehisa didn't sound too sure at all. “Congratulations. You'll be part of an effort to revolutionize the country.” “What the hell.” No one Magatsu had met talked like that, ever. “We're going to reawaken the true spirit of swordsmanship in Nippon. It's fallen into decadent worship of techniques that are practically speaking useless.” The kid watched him. The words were fervent, the tone went over them sort of by rote. Still, Kagehisa head was tilted, keen and curious. “If they didn't tell you that, why are you here?”

Imagine, if you will, that this is said in a perfect robot voice. You’ll-be-part-of-an-effort-to-revolutionize-the-country-bleep-bloop-I-am-a-human.

“I just really hate samurai.” It came out in a quiet rush. Magatsu didn't know what he expected, but Kagehisa's face went still with thought. “Oh,” the kid said after a moment, without judgment in his tone. “I hate them too.”

They are off to an awkward start, but here’s the first moment of actual connection and having something in common. Kagehisa’s miserable life is sort of a byproduct of the system that makes and breaks samurai, so he doesn’t have quite the direct experience with samurai Magatsu has - Magatsu has lost someone he loved to samurai - but it doesn’t matter so much when the end results are the same.

Scene change!

There wasn't much money around the place, which Magatsu was used to. There were a lot of creepy guys that stayed around and about, which he wasn't. “Allies,” Grandpa Anotsu said, when asked. “Aren't you supposed to be chopping wood, you little brat?” There was no mellowness to his tone nor gentleness to his hands to soften the words.

I think it was probably healthy for Kagehisa to have Magatsu around. I feel like Anotsu probably never knew what it was like to have a warm and loving family who thought of him as if he were a child in need of protection. He was expected to perform like an adult from a very early age. Magatsu can’t change their living situation, but he is like a breath of normalcy who at least gives Kagehisa some hints that all is not well with his home life.

Kagehisa joined Magatsu as acting woodcutter. It was apparently not a chore he'd had before. He was intense, the kind of kid who's chop til his hands bled and then chop a little more. Lucky he already had plenty of calluses. Magatsu got the clear idea without ever being told that Kagehisa didn't spend a lot of time with kids. But they talked, between beating up on each other and the old codger beating up on Kagehisa.

I recall Manji (or maybe Shira?) telling Rin that one way to build practical muscle (which you obviously need for sword work) was by chopping wood, and in general doing hard labor like that. Grandpa Anotsu is apparently a follower of the same philosophy. I imagine Kagehisa and Magatsu do plenty of other drills and exercises, but a lot of their spare time is spent doing backbreaking chores for the cause and FOR THE MUSCLE.

One day they'd just got done splitting wood. It was early fall, and they'd chopped a lot of kindling. Enough Magatsu felt like they were sitting pretty for an entire winter, just like he'd felt when they chopped every other day. “We're selling it, of course,” Kagehisa said when he asked. The ax dropped to the ground. The handle was stained dark from the oils of their hands and Kagehisa's old blood. He'd had calluses but the handle of an ax was different than the handle of a sword. The pressures different. “I figured. Man, it's shit that we get landed with the whole damn job.” “Don't let grandfather hear you saying that.” Kagehisa turned his way with the same smile as usual, glib and dry as a lizard. “Let's let him know we're done.” “Let's not,” Magatsu suggested, on impulse. Then went on with haste when Kagehisa stared at him. “He's had us at this shit all day. He's just gonna give us another job. Let's do something else?” “What stunning diversion would you suggest?” Kagehisa said, by which Magatsu knew he had him. “Let's walk. Hey, let's explore. We can take our swords. We'll tell him we decided to practice together.” “That's hardly a diversion at all. I expected better from you.” “Yeah, well,” Magatsu said, deadpan back, “I'll work with what I've got.”

Another incidence of Magatsu being the breath of normalcy in the situation. By himself, Kagehisa wouldn’t rebel against his grandfather even in this small way. I’m sure he kind of hated Grandpa Anotsu, but he wouldn’t have risked getting beaten up or otherwise abused just to skive off work for a couple hours.

Magatsu puts them both at risk, but he also opens Kagehisa’s eyes to a different way of doing things, also occasionally doing things “just for fun” and not to serve some ultimate purpose.

Again, it’s Magatsu’s ‘normal’ background showing up again. He did plenty of work with his peasant family but also had time to relax, play, and enjoy himself. Kagehisa might not take the lead with such things and its influence might be hard to see, but it’s good for him to have someone so different from his grandfather and his minions.

They got their swords. It wasn't that hard. It wasn't hard to sneak off either, gramps off somewhere, probably ruminating bitterly about all he'd lost and how he could make their lives harder to make up for it or something. Besides his being a good swordsman Magatsu was not impressed with him as a sensei.

Ok I know Kagehisa is a revolutionary who wants to burn the system to the ground BUT I think especially as a kid he would buy into authority and be inclined to follow the rules, and if he broke rules he’d probably try to rules lawyer his way out of trouble. Magatsu, on the other hand, has a healthy distrust of anyone who aspires to be in charge of him. If I were writing a high school au he totally would have been a baby anarchist.

“I've explored everything already,” Kagehisa told him, once they were out of earshot of their little house. “There's not a whole lot around here, anyway. We might as well fight and then go back.” “Dude, I've never been. Don't make me sorry I invited you.” “Sorry to put a damper on your little outing.” Kagehisa shrugged, his sword resting on his shoulder bobbing with the motion. They were climbing up a gentle hill now, precursor to a larger mountain. Magatsu didn't feel like a hike, so he led them left and Kagehisa at least didn't complain about that part, just went on: “There's nothing exciting or dangerous to do. Tell me, do you even like being a swordsman?” “I like it but this training is shitty. No bandits or dogs or anything?” “Well, there were dogs.” Kagehisa's face still like the surface of a morning pond. “But not anymore.”

/IMPLIED MAKIE

I really love fics that are not just… about a duo. I like fics where characters have more than their ship partner or just one friend, even if it’s just implied. Makie does not appear in this story, but she’s very much on Kagehisa’s mind, just as she will be 10 years later.

Also again, Magatsu, the earnest anarchist, who just wants to explore and maybe chill a little and possibly have a normal friend moment or two with his weird lizard of a peer. Magatsu tries so hard.

Kagehisa and Magatsu aren’t naturally friends in this fic. If they weren’t sorta forced together by circumstance, they probably wouldn’t have become close. As it is, they don’t really have a choice.

It could have been a pretty walk. What leaves were left colored in red and yellow, branches scratched like ink strokes against the blue sky. The chill in the air even enlivened his skin like the scrape of a blade but Magatsu felt more aware of a hard winter to come and shivered with premonition. Besides that he kept an eye on Kagehisa. A furtive one. The kid walked with this weird look of still remove. He was always coming across glazed over, or several hundred ri away; a little slow sometimes, maybe. Except with a sword, where he was guaranteed on the ball. “I guess you know around here, huh?” Magatsu said it out a weird impulse to break the silence. “When did the dogs get lost?” “You talk so much,” Kagehisa said. Then, at a glimpse of Magatsu's offended place. “Not like that. Calm yourself.” “I do not,” Magatsu said, and sealed his lips up in preparation to maintain a manly silence for the rest of their jaunt. Kagehisa sighed. “Be an adult. If you have a question, why don't you ask it?” “I am an adult, and you are a real asshole.”

THEY’RE TWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENS

I’m still proud of this little exchange at the end, and Magatsu’s determination to keep his ‘manly silence.’ I imagine before his sister died, he was a sweet, chatty, affectionate kid; I can’t see him as a comedian type (he’d love to do silly things but get flustered when people actually laughed. I have had students like this and I know the type) but he probably would have been quite open and pure in a way.

Unfortunately, circumstances nipped a lot of that inherent sweetness in the bud. It’s similar to what happened to Rin, who had to become a harder, more calculating person over the course of the series, just so she’d survive. Still, Magatsu has empathy for others, some sweetness, and an inherent interest in people, and it peeks out now and again, even when the audience is Kagehisa.

“Speaking as an adult,” Kagehisa said with a smirk, “A kindly demeanor doesn't get you far in the real world.” “Shut up.” “Why are you angry?” Kagehisa's tone tended steadily more clipped. “When you're fighting seriously a temper is a liability.” Magatsu knew that. The assumption that he didn't stung. He uncinched his lips to mutter. “We're not fighting seriously.” “You're taking it seriously.” Kagehisa shrugged and glanced away. Magatsu thought he'd get ignored until Kagehisa spoke again. “The dogs got killed years ago.” “Some kinda training rite from the old man?” “Well, he tried.” Magatsu could always recognize now when Kagehisa's smiles weren't real ones. “It didn't go so well.” They walked over hill upon hill. Zigzag branches diced up the sky. Up close, black bark shone rich brown or gleamed with blue highlights in the autumn sun. “It's nearby,” Kagehisa said eventually, “If you want to see the place.” It was a plateau that opened out into a clearing. “The dogs scavenged from town and came here to bed down at night,” Kagehisa said. “But they never found enough. They were always hungry. Sometimes they tried to steal from us. Grandfather finally got tired of it.” “So he helped you fight him.” Already, Magatsu could guess that wasn't how it had gone. “No, he sent me...” There was one tree in the middle of the clearing. Kagehisa went to it and touched it. The touch of an old man, Magatsu thought, or someone blind, reaching to understand... “There was a girl,” Kagehisa said. “Oh.” “Not like that, would you stop,” but Kagehisa's smile lost some of its lines of unfortunate strain there.

Tbh it’s a travesty we never saw Makie and Magatsu interact more in the series itself. I like to imagine they’re friends; they’re very different people, but have a lot of interests in common. I think they’d have compassion for each other. Someday maybe I’ll try and write a friendship fic with them.

Also, Kagehisa and Anotsu are definitely at the age where they’d notice girls, if there were girls around to notice.

A moment came. A precipice. Teetered on, and then fallen past. Two old men fought and then only one of them had his blood decorating the ground. That was how it was, that was how it had to be. Magatsu went to help Abayama. It seemed to have taken it out of the guy, killing Grandpa Anotsu. Magatsu helped him sit. Abayama didn't let go of his sword. Anotsu was still looking at the wreckage of his grandfather with his back to them both. His black ponytail fell limply over his tightly squared shoulders. Magatsu wondered if Abayama would have to kill him next.  Kagehisa turned and his face was wet, white and staring. Tight and confused, horrible with its tears. He stared at both Magatsu and Abayama as if surprised to find them there looking back at him. “I hated him,” Kagehisa said. “Take it easy, now,” Abayama said. “Family's family.” Men got crazy over less, Magatsu thought. Kagehisa stepped towards them. His eyes were still raw and staring, never having quite let out their tears. That was the moment that turned them both out into a new life.

Abayama definitely gave Kagehisa a hug after this scene change, Magatsu probably did too even though he was super embarrassed.

This series is haunted by Grandpa Anotsu’s ghost. He’s the one who was thrown out of the Asano dojo, and in a big way he’s responsible for setting Anotsu on his path. And he was a horrendously abusive guardian. Kagehisa is justified in hating him.

From that day they came a long way. It seemed like they were charmed with an easy work, or it was pleasant, as smooth as anyone could have wished. School after school, budding kenshi who’d never have blossomed anyway stamped out, the potentates gathered up. It became a blood-steeped story with more exposed entrails in it than Magatsu really thought there would be. The dead never went away. Not the new crowd, not his old tail. His sister was always at his heels, the flutter of her pink robes grabbing his eye from time to time. He could go a while without thinking of her and then circle back around and contemplate her existence for hours. Back around to her and Kagehisa and O-ren. Winter nights with their horrendous bite, summer nights slowing the world to a trickle, lulled in deep heat. Or the bitch-slap wind of spring. It came to a spring night with a nervous feel to it like a young horse taming to the saddle. A night at another brothel, one more upon an immeasurable number of flophouses and cheap inns. And nicer places. But the one night in particular: a brothel with a muddy yard, with a budding plum tree at the corner. A little sake for both of them. Half a bowl each. Magatsu had seen Kagehisa imbibe but they were past things like that. At least now was not the opportune moment for an alcoholic blowout. He who holds earth can conquer heaven but he who is too drunk to stand can’t even aim his dick to piss right. Magatsu would hesitate to say life was good, but it wasn’t horrible. And Kagehisa was filled with nervous, fever-bright energy.

I wish we’d learned Magatsu’s sister’s name in canon.

I like the imagery in these first paragraphs! Balancing dialogue, action and imagery is still a challenge for me. I can navel gaze with poetic images for paragraph upon paragraph, and it bothers me in my old work, but I don’t think I overdid it here.

Anyway, something that always bothers me in fiction is when characters so easily forget their dead. Magatsu is not perpetually sad about his sister, but I wanted to indicate that he never forgot her either, and always felt a bit haunted by her. He wants justice for her, not something that’s easy to find in the world of BotI.

He’s also not exactly a soft guy, but he is kind of sensitive to the awful things the Itto-ryu is doing.

It was hard to tell with him but they’d known each other for a long time. Kagehisa could always be controlled but his excitement gleamed in his eyes, the movement of his fingers on the ax-handle, his fixed smile. A warm spring night wouldn’t sway him. They drank together squatting in the yard. “Man, would you cool it?” Magatsu asked him finally. “You’re wigging me out.” “You talk so much.” “Yeah, well, try it sometime, maybe you’d scare off fewer women.” That made Kagehisa laugh. He could’ve pounded his hand bloody on a pulpit somewhere if he’d been raised to talk. Magatsu knew that much. Kagehisa had just been raised for something else. That was their high-water mark if Magatsu only knew it at the time. Kagehisa gazing up over the wall as the first stars wiped off their faces, Magatsu checking the Turk over, making sure it all fit quick, smooth and easy. They were on a trajectory towards greatness. They had so much to lose but it felt like anything lost would mean nothing. Would only be a move or two away from being won back. It wasn’t the first time Magatsu had heard the name Asano but it was the first time it stuck.

I imagine that Magatsu is one of the few Itto-ryu who’ll ever zing Anotsu, and probably one of the only ones (minus Makie) who could be called Kagehisa’s friend. They were kids together. Magatsu is one of the few people who remembers Kagehisa ever being vulnerable.

“They’re not a remarkable school,” Kagehisa told him, blasé and easy as always. “You know, it’s the one that threw grandfather out. The master has expressed some disrespect towards us now and, well…” His smile ironic: “You could say I’m putting grandfather’s soul to rest at last.” “Don’t go there, man. He was fucked in the head in the first place.” “Take care how you talk about the dead,” Kagehisa said with remarkable mildness, “They always might hear you. The master has a lovely wife and a young daughter, I believe. Almost fourteen. Somewhere thereabouts.” Magatsu thinks about that and then doesn’t. Almost fourteen, not much like his own sister at all. She’d be old enough to be wed by now, even. Maybe. Maybe with a child. “That shit’s not important. If they stand in front of us, roll ‘em over. But don’t do it because of your old man’s old man.” “I’ll do it for the Itto-ryu and the future of the country, not for him.” Kagehisa could do a cool snap withdrawal when it suited him. Like now. Magatsu looked sideways at him and Kagehisa looked back, steady. Family was always family. And, well – it was Magatsu’s ugly story too, there. But not all his. Magatsu likes little girls. In the healthy way, thanks, and he’s got the wherewithal to slice anyone who intimated anything nasty about his liking for them in half. He doesn’t show it much. It doesn’t have much place in the business. Just, he likes little girls, and bigger ones, watching them in the dusty streets, watching them shout at their brothers imperiously. Even the big girls. What his sister could’ve been. “That family must be put down,” Kagehisa says. He has a good capacity for casual cruelty. More than Magatsu’s got, enough like a leader needs. “Dude, kill who you want. I’m not attached.”

Of course this is a prelude to the incident with Rin. I would say the first cracks in Magatsu’s allegiance to the Itto-ryu showed there.

Gramps is dead, but Anotsu is still damaged by him. Honestly I don’t think he ever got over that damage. BotI was not a series that went easy on its characters, and frankly the Anotsu family line was not wrong that there was plenty wrong with the world they were living in. Magatsu is right to be uncomfortable with this though. Even as a kid he was always the more objective one regarding Grandpa Anotsu and his dream. Anotsu is going to do some terrible things in the name of avenging his grandfather and Magatsu can feel it even if he doesn’t know the exact details.

Abayama killed Grandpa when it became necessary but as they say you can’t kill an idea. Anotsu has carried the idea forward himself.

“We could spare the girl, if you like.” Kagehisa watches him. The offer sounds like it’s given without a care. His eyes have got no shine in them sometimes. He’s not paranoid but he’s always watching, and sometimes – Magatsu hasn’t got a hard-on for him. But sometimes it’s a look that’s vulnerable. “It doesn’t matter,” Magatsu returns, keeping the eye contact up, breaking it casually to turn back to the Turk. He would follow Kagehisa anyway. It was still the high-water mark. Before he watched his comrades rape a woman and walked away from it. Still there was no telling the future. What came ahead could be as important as anything that came behind. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Kagehisa says.  If Magatsu knew what was all to come. If Magatsu knew his life, and the tempestuous years ahead. The whole business, when he stopped doing it to mend sandals or work fields he remembered why he hated it, and then remembered again why he didn’t have a taste for the simple life. There was no place for a good man to rest easy.  Thinking like that he’d been on the run for all the part of his life that mattered. On the run, and putting his feet in Kagehisa’s footsteps. As terrible as the things they did were, as awkward and bizarre as Kagehisa was, it was just so familiar to be at his back. Magatsu felt sometimes at parting the squeeze of a bitter, fire-forged affection that would never rest easy between them. It had been more fair than he liked to say it didn’t matter what Kagehisa chose to do to the woman, to the girl. What Kagehisa chose to let others do to those women. Magatsu’d come much too far with him to cut it off easy right there, or not to go on with him for longer. They were brothers-in-arms by now.

I made myself emotional with my own fic, help

Anyway. The feeling at the end should definitely be that it’s maybe not a GOOD thing that these two are as close as they are. I would say Magatsu loves Kagehisa, I don’t make any distinction tbh if it’s friendship or a romantic ship; Kagehisa in all his weirdness and intensity is simply the most important person in Magatsu’s life at this time. And yet, he won’t be able to follow Kagehisa everywhere; he doesn’t always agree with Kagehisa.

The thing about Magatsu that makes him interesting is he basically is… too sensitive to comfortably live in the world of BotI as it is (which is why his ending of happily working in the fields was pretty terrible).

Kagehisa was never WRONG that the system he lived within was massively unjust and kind of broken and in need of huge restructuring. But the things he did to achieve that were absolutely wrong, and terrible. I believe he grew a lot over the course of the series (imagine end-series Anotsu redoing the scene with Rin’s parents; I think he might still have killed her dad, but things with her mom would NOT have gone the same way)... but no matter how much he grew I think he couldn’t do what would have been necessary to “escape” the system.  At least, by the time he wanted to escape the system in that way, so much had happened and so many bridges were burned that it was impossible.

Honestly, as I say that, I’m not even sure what “escaping” the system would have looked like, other than leaving for China, which in the canon’s case was not an escape but a sign of just how broken and defeated Kagehisa was in those moments.

Anyway, I think the fact that Kagehisa had genuine desires to create a better system, but he didn’t think through what worst-case scenario consequences would be for people like Rin. And Magatsu, in the meantime, couldn’t escape what worst-case scenario consequences would be for people like Rin. He was too empathetic to ignore those things, and too sensitive to injustice to be as ruthless as Kagehisa when it came to changing things.

What it meant was that even though Magatsu loved Kagehisa, their friendship would eventually break apart, as it does on and off in canon until the very end where Magatsu doesn’t meet up with Anotsu to go to China. And I think even when they’re not friends, they still love each other; that’s what’s tragic about them. They’ll always be unique people to each other, and irreplaceable. But… the cost of one of them following the other would always be too high.