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ahkaahshi · 4 years

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appreciation [nanami kento x reader]

pairing: nanami kento x fem baker reader

genre: fluff

warning(s): swearing, brief violence, mentions of injuries and a curse

word count: 3.7k (yeah I went off a bit lol)

overview: you know how you feel about nanami and how nanami feels about your bakery, but on a rainy day, you finally learn how he feels about you

As you watch rain pour down outside, forming patterns along the windows of the shop and collecting in murky puddles disturbed by the rushed footsteps of people trying to find shelter from the storm, your eyelids threaten to close once more. The elbow propping your chin up on the counter wobbles slightly, the gentle rhythm of the store’s soft instrumental music melting together with the gentle patter of raindrops to form a lullaby that, combined with your exhaustion, sends you to sleep.

The sound of growling and a pair of familiar, red eyes appearing in the darkness, however, quickly wakes you up with a start, and your gaze darts around the shop. With an exasperated sigh and shake of the head, you stand up straight on shaky legs and task yourself with making a fresh cup of coffee to give you a bit of much-needed energy. As long as you stayed awake, you wouldn’t have to be haunted by this image an unsettling experience earlier this week had created.

While you prepare the caffeinated beverage, a glance up at the time finds the clock’s hands at a familiar hour—one that always marks the arrival of a regular customer. Once your drink starts dripping into the cup you’ve placed in the machine, you busy yourself instead with opening one of the display cases housing a vast array of different breads and baked goods.

The aroma that greets you fills you with warmth and brings a smile to your face, as does the thought of his impending arrival. Your hand knows the location on the shelves of his favorite loaf by heart, since you make it specially for him without a care in the world if anyone else wants to purchase it. Upon retrieving it from inside, you wrap it up carefully and set it down on the counter.

Contemplatively, you eye the other pastries waiting patiently behind the glass, wondering if it would be too obvious to get him something else to eat and some coffee as an invitation to stay a bit longer. Sometimes, he found half an hour in his busy day to seat himself at one of the booths along the wall and enjoy a treat you’d selected for him while he occupied himself talking to you if you weren’t busy or reading through one of his books if you were. But no matter how long he stayed, it never felt like long enough to you.

I hope the rain hasn’t driven him away today.

But you should know better than to think this way, since, through your conversations with him and his actions, you’ve learned he’s a man of routine. Regardless of what you should or shouldn’t be convincing yourself to believe, however, your attention snaps to the door when you hear the bells above it jingle. The sound of rain, cars honking, and passing conversations seep inside for a few moments as the man in question shakes water off his umbrella and places it securely into the holder by the entrance.

Against the bleak darkness of the cloudy sky outside, his sand-colored suit and blonde hair seem to glow in the warm lights hanging down from the ceiling, making him look almost ethereal—to the point where you wouldn’t have been surprised if white, feathery wings sprouted from his back. Maybe he was your guardian angel, since he’d just saved you from falling asleep on the job once again.

“Kento, welcome back!” you chirp, lips curling up into a grin you struggle to keep as professional-looking as possible.

Taking off his glasses and tucking them safely away in one of the pockets of his suit jacket, he turns to you and sends a hint of a smile your way that you know is rare given his serious demeanor. “Good evening, (f/n),” he greets you as he walks towards the counter, making your heart beat faster with every foot of distance closed between the two of you.

You ask, once he’s approached the counter and glanced at the loaf you’ve wrapped up for him, “So, can I convince you to dine in and take a little break with one of our fresh pastries, hmm?”

A hint of a chuckle sounds from him through a short breath out his nose, and he reaches into a pocket in his trousers to retrieve his wallet. “I don’t need much convincing on a day like this, but I’ll take a pastry as well, please. And a coffee, if you don’t mind.”

“You came in right as I was brewing my own, so you can just have it, instead, since I know we take ours the same way,” you mention, turning away from him to grab the steaming drink.

“Nonsense,” he utters, stopping you in your tracks, “If you made it for yourself, keep it for yourself. I can wait a few extra minutes for mine.”

Prickles of heat rise to your cheeks, but you nod and give him a small, appreciative smile. Once you’ve selected a treat of his choice for his visit, you enter the total cost into the register, which he prepares promptly and hands to you. His fingers brushing against yours sends tingles across your skin like stray sparks of electricity. “I’ll bring your coffee over once it’s ready,” you offer, speaking to distract yourself from your racing thoughts, “Go ahead and get comfortable; you’ve got the whole shop to yourself.”

He thanks you with a small dip of the head and picks up his food so he can head over to the same booth he selects each time he visits while you start making a fresh cup of coffee for him. As you take a sip of your own, you can’t help but pause a moment to admire his appearance now that his attention is focused elsewhere. He’s a striking man with sharp features and a straightforward, authoritative manner of speaking, but there’s a certain softness to his edges that you’ve seen within him over the time you’ve been acquainted.

You wonder if that tenderness to him is reserved for just for you. If you’re the only one who brings about the softness you can see behind his warm, brown gaze. If he would put his book down as quickly if someone else approached him. You like to think yourself the only witness to his subtle, gentle mannerisms, but you prevent yourself from getting too caught up in your thoughts by reminding yourself that he’s a customer. Someone who comes solely because your bakery’s the closest one that makes his favorite bread, rather than because he has any sort of attachment to you.

With a small sigh, you bring your cup of coffee to your lips for a long drink before taking the one you’d made for Nanami in your other hand and wandering over to his table. Judging by how the crowds outside are moving, everyone seems to be more concerned with getting home and out of the terrible weather than with picking up treats from your bakery. If you hadn’t had such a busy day, you’d be concerned by the lack of customers in at this hour. Now, however, as your aching feet move over to the empty seat across from the shop’s sole patron, you appreciate the quietude in the store that allows you peace in its final hour before closing.

Nanami slides a page marker towards the spine of the journal he’s writing in and closes it when you arrive with his freshly brewed drink, setting it down in front of him. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Mind if I sit?” you ask, even though your knees are already bending to guide you onto the padded seat across from him.

“As long as I won’t distract you from your work, please, go ahead,” he answers, then takes a long, appreciative sip of his coffee.

“I don’t think anyone here would be opposed to me taking a break, considering it’s just us,” is your response given with a smile. You’ve forgotten quite how long it’s been since you’ve had a moment off your feet, and you let out a long sigh as you sink into the booth. Weariness makes itself known in a yawn that suddenly escapes your mouth—a sign that all the fatigue you’ve been somehow avoiding is starting to catch up to you. “Excuse me.”

Blonde eyebrows furrowing slightly with concern, he wonders, “Long day?”

Shrugging, you gaze into the dark liquid filling the cup in your hands, watching it quiver with each minute movement of your body. “It’s been a bit of a long week, to be completely honest,” you sigh. A pair of red eyes appears in your coffee as your mind wanders momentarily. Taking a deep breath and curling your lips into a forced grin, you quickly gather yourself and add, “But, anyway, it’s alright. I’m sure you’re much more exhausted than I am given what you have to do on a daily basis.”

“The nature of our jobs may be different, but I’m sure you’ve been just as busy as I have.”

You chuckle softly at his words and add, “You fight curses and I make baked goods. I’m sure one’s a bit more taxing than the other. Or, at least, more life-threatening.”

“Both deserve appreciation,” he states in his usual, matter of fact tone that never fails to amuse you. Though he’s completely serious, you always find a bit of humor in his straightforward manner of speaking, especially when he argues the essential nature of your job. “I know that you make this specifically for me just to make my life that much easier—” he taps the wrapped loaf of bread with one of his long fingers—“so, I appreciate your work and what you do.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, making you lower your head bashfully while you take a long drink of coffee. It’s a surprise your voice doesn’t falter when you comment, “You’re too kind to me.”

“There’s no such thing in your case. I’m simply being honest.” There’s a short silence that ensues his compliment, during which you try to slow your racing heart by glancing out the window at the other shops, cars, and people all distorted by watery veins across the glass. Nanami’s gaze doesn’t leave yours, however, and he inquires, “Are you taking care of yourself?”

Somewhat dozily, you echo, “Taking care of myself?” as your eyes flutter shut so you can think for a moment. Almost immediately, they fly open once more at the sight of those red orbs piercing the darkness once more. “I just… haven’t been getting enough sleep, I don’t think.”

“Is something bothering you?”

The expression of concern on his face could easily be mistaken for frustration or disgust, given the way his lips are pursed, and brows angled downwards. But you know from experience that those emotions are reserved for conversations about his work, rather than those regarding you, and his level of interest warms your heart. “I… I saw something earlier this week, and… it was a bit unsettling, is all.”

You can’t help but notice how his full attention is on you when your eyes meet again. Neither his pastry nor his steaming cup of coffee is on his mind, since neither one is in his hands. Instead, his gaze searches yours for the answer that you’re not speaking. Before he can attempt to coax it out of you with another question, you quickly realize that the conversation has veered off in a direction you deem selfish given your desire to allow your most devoted customer a peaceful refuge from the world under the roof of your shop.

“Please, I really don’t want to worry you,” you speak quickly, your hands moving energetically for extra emphasis. Unfortunately, your fingers nudge the cup in front of you just hard enough to topple it over rather dramatically, and its contents flow across the table in a dark wave that has you uttering a curse word under your breath and reaching for the napkin dispenser. Your fingertips are met with plastic, bringing you to realization you’d forgotten to refill it after the morning rush. “I’m so sorry. I’m really out of it today, it seems. Give me a second while I run to the back, okay?”

Before he can respond, you’re up and making a beeline for the kitchen and storage room, cursing yourself on the way there for being so clumsy. A rush of unusually cold air along with the sound of rain pounding the ground greets you when you set foot in the kitchen, and your gaze moves across the room to where the back door is mysteriously ajar. You shudder, but not just because of the chill.

I just got the lock on that damn door fixed…

Your heart pounds against your ribcage, and your feet feel as if they’ve been replaced by sacks of bricks when you try to lift them. It’s as if every fiber in your body is resisting any and all movement toward the door even though you know you can’t leave it open. The horrible sense of dread welling up inside of you almost makes you want to call for Nanami but telling yourself you’re just being dramatic allows you to walk to the other end of the room, but it feels like miles separate you and the far wall.

With a deep breath, you shut the door once more, returning the air within the kitchen to its original stillness, but the weight of the silence that follows feels crushing. And that’s when you hear it. The low, distorted rumbling that you’d heard nearly every night this week from outside your bedroom window. You almost don’t want to look, but when you finally muster enough courage to follow the direction of the ominous sound, you’re met with that same, red gaze that had burned through the gap between your shutters at night.

A few feet away, in a corner that seems much darker than usual, a disfigured but humanoid hand splays across the tiled flooring as the curse who’d been making house calls pulls itself out of the shadowy depths it’s created. Your breath hitches in your throat as fear takes hold, its cold grip freezing your body in place so all you can do is watch as the creature rises up from the floor and stares at you hungrily from where it stands on all fours.

Before you can even understand what’s happening, it lunges at you with a shriek. Thankfully, one of the loudest screams you can muster leaves your mouth, and your survival instincts break you free of the paralysis your emotions had trapped you in. You’re barely able to evade the curse’s grip as you run around the corner of a counter and grab the closest thing to you in the moment, which happens to be a broom. Furiously, and without thinking, you whack the creature as hard as you can while you try to run back towards the shop.

“Kento!” you shout, words accompanied by a loud hiss as you slip, falling against the cold tiles with a thud. The arm you use to brace yourself courses with pain, but that doesn’t stop you from using your free arm to continue throttling the curse with your barely effective weapon of choice.

Just as you see a shadowy hand reach out towards you to grab you, your vision is suddenly obscured by the familiar, sandy brown of Nanami’s suit. In an instant, he’s swinging his cleaver in front of him with his cursed technique that downs the beast in one fell swoop. Once the threat has been eliminated, your knight in business attire places his weapon in its holster on his back and bends down to check on you.

Any questions he asks you are lost in a hum of shock that rings in your ears for a moment, and you find yourself unable to do anything but stare at where your otherworldly assailant had been looming over you mere seconds ago. However, a sudden moment of clarity brings you back to reality, and you finally meet Nanami’s gaze, feel his hands on your arms, and hear his voice.

“It was waiting for me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The curse,” you clarify before repeating, “Bastard was waiting for me.”

As he helps you up to your feet and gets you settled back down at the booth you’d previously occupied—and that he’d cleaned, you notice—you explain to him the story of the unsettling visitor whose loitering had robbed you of your sleep the entire week. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you could see curses?” he wonders, taking off his suit jacket and draping it around your shoulders when he notices you shivering. Whether you’re doing so out of shock or your body’s need to maintain its natural temperature, you’re unsure, but the warmth of the garment he sheds soon puts an end to it.

“I don’t know,” you answer slowly, eyes steadily making their way up to his face where it hovers above your arm so he can carefully place a bag of ice he’d wrapped in a towel on the steadily swelling lump adorning your forearm. “I think it’s because I wish I couldn’t see them and saying that I can would really make me think about all the horrible things I’ve seen.”

“Do you have any other injuries?” His touch is gentle in an unexpected way, given the level of his strength and the ease with which he’d disposed of your attacker, and you can’t help but watch his fingers rearrange the bag of ice to cover your injury after you shake your head in response. “Give me a moment,” he states, retrieving his phone from his pocket, “I’m calling a coworker to take us back to Jujutsu High’s campus so you can have a proper examination.”

“I’m okay! I promise!” you splutter quickly, but the pain in your side that suddenly makes itself known when you try to stand causes you to grimace and further solidifies his suspicions. “I don’t want you to work more than you have to.”

He ignores you and delivers a very to the point message to his colleague with information about your whereabouts anyway. After he hangs up, a feeling of appreciation spurs you to open the palm of your opposite hand as you extend it towards him and rest it on the table. He returns your gesture by placing his unoccupied hand in yours so your fingers can wrap around it tenderly. But even once you’ve given it a gentle squeeze, he doesn’t make any attempts to retreat from your grip.

Quietly, you ask, as your heart flutters in your chest, “Why are you doing this for me?”

With a gentle sigh, his eyes reflecting a glimmer of amusement meet yours. “Do you remember the first day we met?” You nod and a small smile forms across your lips at the pleasant memory coming back to you, pushing away all the worries and doubts that had been previously swirling around your head.

“I came in here, asking if you sold my favorite type of bread. You told me you didn’t—much to my dismay. However, you looked at me for a long moment and I don’t know what it was you saw in me, but whatever it was spurred you to say, come back again tomorrow, and I’ll have some made for you.”

The short pause he takes while his gaze shifts to the bread you’d given him earlier is filled with the soft music playing throughout the shop. “I’ve thought about how you could’ve just said no and been done with me. We didn’t have any obligations to one another. We were just strangers. Yet, you chose to go out of your way for me.”

“You were exhausted.”

He watches you expectantly, so you explain, “That’s what I saw in you. That you were just so, so tired, Kento; and I wanted to do anything I could to give you some peace of mind. That’s why I make it, just for you.” A giddy grin spreads across your lips at being reminded of how your coworkers had always asked if you were making the special loaf whenever you’d been working on your own in the kitchen after your first meeting with Nanami.

“Plus,” you continue, “you’re a jujutsu sorcerer. You’re constantly putting your own life on the line for the rest of us, so you should be able to enjoy a simple pleasure like being able to eat your favorite bread.”

When he smiles, the pain throbbing deep beneath your skin subsides for just a second. It’s such a rarity to see that tough and somewhat aloof demeanor of his break and give way to what you’re witnessing now that you wish you could stop time and hold onto this moment forever. But what he says next makes you glad that it continues without a care in the world about what you desire.

“You asked why I’m doing this for you. From the first day I met you, you’ve made it clear that you care about me. Please, let me show you that the feeling is mutual.”

Maybe it’s a combination of the week you’ve had or the fact that you’d just narrowly avoided death thanks to the man sitting in front of you, but his words nearly bring tears to your eyes; and your heart swells with affection at every effort he makes to do right by his promise. He helps you gather your belongings, even going so far as to sling your bag over his shoulder, places an arm around you to support you and keep you under the cover of his umbrella while the two of you walk out to his colleague’s car, and allows you access to his hand to hold during the car ride to campus.

“Kento.” His attention shifts over to you from where it had been directed towards the window, watching the city pass by outside. Placing your other palm atop the back of his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, you say, “Thank you so much. I really appreciate you.”

“As I do you.”

fun fact that didn’t make it in the fic: nanami didn’t say it, but he thinks you’re ruthless for going after a curse with a broom. and maybe a bit insane. but he’s certainly not put off by it.

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #x reader #reader insert #tw violence #tw injury #fran writes jjk!!

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raggydraws · 4 years

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Hey guys! I've had a lot of ideas I wanna share with you that we're inspired by our lovely Battle Medic Breezepelt anon, @lesbiandicegoblin, and another lovely asker (who I tried to look for but could find) who made a gender neutral term for permanent nursery residents called Royalty! I made,,,,a bunch of other jobs/professions for warriors and medicine cats! Plus some unique jobs/subclasses for all the canon clans. Here they are, there's a lot!

Different roles in the clans!

Besides Leader, deputy, medcat, warriors, queens and elders! All cats old enough to serve their clan are considered warriors. Cats can also just simply be a warrior or a medicine cat with no subclass, or they can double up in professions if they so choose. However some subclasses cannot be doubled up (Seer) or are restricted to certain cats (Older cats cannot be Mediators, warriors cannot becomes Seers, Seers cannot become Royalty, etc)

Warrior subclasses found commonly in all clans are: Scouts, Hunters, Wardens, Builders, Lore keepers, Royalty and Mediators!

Scout: Cats who are very fast, usually the first cats out and about in the mornings to scout out hunting spots. Usually the cats who patrol the most and are often in back of battles in case they need to run to camp for reinforcements.

Hunter: Cats who specialize in the art of hunting, doesn't always mean hunting prey. Typically the cats who hunt the most and often work alongside Scouts when leaf-bare rolls around.

Warden: Camp defenders, often referred to as Stone Wardens in riverclan, these cats are typically large and powerful to defend their clanmates in the event of an invasion. Clans will usually have 2 to 4 Wardens, 2 for the camp entrance, 1 for the nursery and 1 for the elders.

Builders: Cats who are very clever and work with plant fibers and other building materials to keep up the dens of their camps. Often also the cats who end up cleaning the camp the most often, typically a job for older cats but many apprentices will also help and use the skills learned in creative ways.

Lorekeeper: The storytellers and historians of the clans. Often considered an elders job, cats of all ages will agree a good story is great for morale. Apart from telling stories these cats are also the keepers of their own personal clan history alongside general history of the clans. These cats are also in charge of teaching the young cats the basic clan history they need.

Royalty: Permanent Queens, Kings and the in betweens of the nursery, these cats are the parents of all the clan's inhabitants. Often another form of retirement for some warriors, the cats who choose to become Royalty over any other professional are revered and respected as the backbone of all clans. Royalty are in charge of the care and raising of any kits and their parents who reside in the nursery. They are also often retired or still active Wardens or Court Medics as well. (Made by Royalty anon, please let me know if you want proper credit I couldn't find you i apologize!)

Mediator: The peace keepers of the clans, these cats are the opposite of canon medicine cats. Picked from an early age as to prevent any biases from forming, Mediators are considered to be from all the clans. Mediators spend their apprenticeship bounced between all professions and all the clans so they have information and experience in all things. These cats are also the least bound by the warrior code, as they are loyal to the clans as a whole. These cats also tend to form half clan relationships and usually are half-clan themselves. Clans typically have 2 mediators at a time, the senior mediator and the apprentice, and the only time when there might be more than 2 is the overlap between a retired mediator and a newly appointed one.

Medicines cat subclasses commonly found in all clans are: Seer, Gardener, Battle Medic and Court Medic.

Seer: The medicine cat who has the strongest connection to StarClan, typically the senior medicine cat but not always. These cats are trained closest to the medicine cat code and usually trained away from camp and their clanmates to sever any familial bonds to stay completely unbiased. These cats have training for omen sightings and medical knowledge, but no training in fighting or hunting in order to stay 'pure' in the eyes of Starclan. Considered to be the only 'true' medicine cat and only subclass that can't be doubled up with other subclasses. (In reference to the GreenRose Au, these are the cats who receive the gift of the 'Spark' from Starclan.)

Gardener: either a regular warrior acting as an assistant or a medicine cat who tends to the art of herb gardening/gathering and the foraging of herbs! These cats can be anyone who takes to the art, or a medicine cat who simply enjoys it more so than their other options. Cats who help out a lot but don't participate in the art of gardening are called Helpful Paws or Healpaws depending on the clan.

Battle Medic: Medicine cats (or assistants) who serve the front lines of battles, often directly participating in the fight healing any injured clanmates or dragging away those who are too injured to continue fighting. These cats are trained in fighting and are only allowed to use this training self defense, of either themselves or their patients. Battle Medics are not allowed to attack other medics or any cat too obviously injured to be fighting. These cats are also called 'Grave Walkers' as they will usually prepare the passing rites of any cat who has fallen in battle, so their spirit can move on peacefully. Warriors who change their profession to medicine cat will usually become a Battle medic. (Idea made/inspired by battle medic!Breezepelt anon @lesbiandicegoblin)

Court Medic: Medicine cats (or assistants) who serve the cats in the nursery. Cats who are expecting or nursing kits will typically have one Royalty and one Court Medic looking after them and their children. These cats treat any of the nursery inhabitants, be it a parent, a kit or Royalty, and excel at the profession, often being as kind and nurturing as a parent themselves. Most cats who are Royalty are usually trained to also be a Court Medic, but may be referred to as either. If a court medic is also a warrior, they are only allowed to perform their Court Medic duties if they have finished their warrior duties for the day or if no other Court Medic is available.

Clan variants and unique subclasses by clan:

Thunderclan:

Brute: Cats who reveal in the art of battle, not as popular a profession as it once was. Slowly being reintroduced to Thunderclan but many cats tend to avoid it as they believed it to be cursed. The Thunderclan equivalent to Windclan's 'Strategist'.

Storm Chasers: A recently introduced job, these cats are trained in the tale tell signs of storms and are to warn their clanmates of potential flooding. Somewhat introduced by Stormfur of Riverclan during his brief stay in Thunderclan, hence the name, it was really only picked up after the first large flood after the battle with the Dark Forest. One of Thunderclan's first Storm Chasers was Briarlight, as she could feel the oncoming storms in her old injuries.

Windclan:

Strategist: Cats who excel in planning, whether it be battle, patrols or life in general. These cats are intelligent and quick thinking, often leading battle patrols from the back to bark out orders to the fighters. Common choices for deputies. The Windclan equivalent of Thunderclan's 'Brute'.

Tunnelers: An old Windclan profession brought back after the discovery of the tunnels underneath Windclan and Thunderclan territory. Mostly used for hunting and travel in harsh weather, Leaders and Mediators agree the tunnels couldn't be used for combat due unstable conditions and for most part that treaty has been upheld by Windclan. New tunnels are slow in the making due to having lost the profession for several seasons but cats are learning and discovering new ways to safely make more tunnels.

Shadowclan:

Moonlight Warrior/Night Stalkers: the Shadowclan equivalent to Skyclan's 'Daylight Warriors'. These are nearly nocturnal cats who serve their clan best at night, sometimes being rogues or kittypets who wish to be a part of the clan but not leave their housefolk behind. These cats have excellent night vision and simply feel all the more comfortable in the chill of night, often performing tasks that warriors or medicine cats couldn't accomplish during the day. Some of these cats will usually opt out of clan gatherings but it's not uncommon for those cats to guard camp while everyone else is away.

Spy/Ambusher: A Shadowclan subclass of scout, these cats are known for their stealth and trickery. They are the deadliest of Shadowclan's warriors and know how to keep a secret, there's no way of telling when a Shadowclan spy is telling the truth or not and thus they tend to be mistreated by cats both inside and outside their clan by sheer paranoia. Most are unbuffered but spies always confined in their leaders about what information and resources they've discovered.

Riverclan:

Bard/Poet: The Riverclan equivalent of Lorekeepers. Singers and songwriters, cats who can string together words that are as smooth as the lake at dawn. These cats are charming and love to spice up the history of the clans with a bit of song, most warriors of Riverclan are also bards or poets but the ones who excel at the profession are known across the clans.

Lake Watchers: Cats who keep an eye on the fish levels in the lake. These cats work alongside side warriors, hunting patrols and deputies to make sure the fish population in the lake never gets too low as to starve the clan. They also keep an eye on the Lake when it storms, they could be considered a Riverclan variation of Thunderclan's 'Storm Chasers'.

Skyclan:

Daylight Warrior/Dawn Walkers: The OG, the bringer of the Daylight Warriors. Typically a kittypet or rogue who wants to join the clan but not leave their housefolk behind. Also warriors who are more active during the day and less active at night. These warriors are unbuffered by the heat and blinding light of the day and are the most useful warriors during the hot summer months, and when they are the kittypet variety of this class they also have the advantage of another source of food as to not worry about any food storages.

Climbers: Cats who specialize in the climbing of trees and other vertical objects. These cats can leap great heights and distances with their powerful back legs, and it is the most common profession in skyclan. While most apprentices are taught the basics of climbing trees, these cats dedicate their lives to honing the craft. You can often spot these cats in trees keeping watch over the clan and their territory and hunting, they also use this method to ambush any intruders.

If you have a any question or are curious about any of them feel free to ask! I had fun coming up with these and I hope you all like them. They're free to use so if want to all you have to do is credit!

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ahsbitch · 4 years

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The Grey-Outpost!Michael Langdon x Reader

Word Count: 5143

Summary: So I got this message for my prompts and it was supposed to just be a blurb like the others but it was already getting way too long and then I realized it would fit really well with a oneshot idea I had a month or two ago sooo here we are

Warnings: so many, nsfw, smut, virginity loss, first time, first orgasm, actually first three lmao, fingering, choking, Mean!Michael, slapping, overstimulation, emotional manipulation, brief blowjob, unprotected sex, breeding kink, a little bit of corset kink, some cockwarming bc it’s me, very Sub!Reader, also overly nice reader which probably doesn’t need a warning but I’m putting it anyway, , mentions of violence, some waxing poetic bc again that’s just me, floor licking, some?underwear stuff? Idk man, did I mention swearing bc that’s here too, idk, that’s all I can think of but my brain is not entirely focused so if I missed something I’m sorry

A/N: I’m sorry I’m like this but I hope it’s okay. Comments are always appreciated! Even just in the tags of a reblog! Or a message! Or anything! Hearing your reactions makes me feel so good!

Mini Tag List: @wroteclassicaly @michaellangdonstanaccount @guiltyfiend

@angelicmichael

(i actually don’t remember if all of you asked to be tagged in stuff or not so if you didn’t i’m really sorry i just thought i’d put a few people, if you want me to...Not tag you in stuff that’s totally cool and i totally get it just let me know, if you do want me to tag you in stuff also let me know on that front)

You confused Michael Langdon.

It wasn’t intentional, he was sure, but he was not used to being confused by the behavior of humans.

You also annoyed him, although that was less surprising.

Most people annoyed him.

But you annoyed him for the same reason that you confused him, and that just made him all the more confused and annoyed and annoyed and confused.

How the hell were you so nice?

You treated everyone who crossed your path with such kindness, even though most of them treated you like you were dog shit on the bottom of their shoe. And you simply...smiled? Nodded? Did as they said, if they gave an order, or ignored them if it was just words.

He had never even seen you complain about your servant status, never seen you look at the drab grey of your dress with even an ounce of disdain.

He’d taken to reading your thoughts, even more than he did with the others, trying to find the cruelty hidden inside you.

Once, one of the Purples whose name Michael hadn’t bothered to learn had walked into a ladder that you were standing on for some job or another, and you had fallen to the ground, landing hard on your back. The Purple had cursed at you for getting in his way, and you apologized instantly.

What an asshole, You had thought, and Michael had started to get excited, but a moment later you had shaken your head at yourself, and your thoughts continued, No, Y/N, don’t be unfair. They live a different type of life here. It’s not his fault that he sees me like this at this point, he’s practically been indoctrinated.

What utter bullshit that was, and yet you’d seemed completely contented with that thought, climbing back onto the ladder to finish your task.

Another time he had walked in on you being beaten while Venable watching, smirking. He had simply stared for a while, watching the way you took your blows.

“What’s going on?” Michael had asked, blood boiling at Venable’s smug expression.

“A reminder. She’s been a bit slow in her work lately. Distracted, I think, with your proposal of paradise. She needed to remember her place.”

He had nodded, turning back to observe you, listening for your reaction to those words.

I haven’t been slower, though. She’s just been angrier. Poor Ms. Venable, she must be scared. I wish she wouldn’t take it out on me, Your stream of thought had paused as you let out a cry of pain, But I hope that she’ll find some type of peace.

In interviews, Michael had started to ask about you.

“She’s nice,” Gallant had said rather dismissively, “That’s about it. Not memorable. I don’t think anyone would miss her.”

“She helps everyone finish their work, even though she has her own,” Another Grey had said, tilting his head to the side in thought, “I saw her take a beating in Mallory’s place once for a broken lamp. I don’t think that’s the only time she’s done that, either. She’s a little too sweet, almost. It can’t be real, can it?”

That was Michael’s thought too, but you were that sweet, or so it seemed.

He’d begun instructing everyone during their interviews to either completely ignore you or be cruel to you, to treat you with extra disdain, to not bother with respect. He’d told Purples and Greys alike, had watched out to see them following his orders. They were doing it, and you were slowly becoming more and more alone,and yet you never so much as thought anything cruel in return. From time to time, a nasty thought would pop into your head, but you always brushed it away almost instantly, scolding yourself into something overly forgiving of their behavior. Still, you were lonelier than ever, and that meant that it would be all the easier to draw you to him.

Your interview was the last one that was scheduled, and with every moment that led up to it he found himself getting more and more ready to break you down, and every time he thought of that he found his cock getting harder and harder.

He was going to ruin you, in more ways than one.

And then the interview had started, you sitting in your chair with your hands folded neatly in your lap, steadfastly avoiding eye contact with him, a polite smile on your face, and something had snapped deep inside him.

He wasn’t sure what did it. Maybe it was your answer to why you should be taken to the Sanctuary.

“I don’t know that I should,” You’d said simply, your damned respectful smile never wavering, “I mean, it would be nice. But I’m not particularly special, right? And if the Sanctuary is meant to be people carrying on the human race, shouldn’t it be the people who are going to make the biggest difference? I know you said that what I thought i was weakness could be my saving, and I get that, I just don’t know if I have any particular weaknesses or any particular saving graces. If you need someone to wash floors or cook in the Sanctuary, then yeah, I’m pretty good at those things. You might want me. But I don’t know that I have any particular talents or powers that would make me more useful than anyone else.”

Maybe it was what you had said when he’d asked about your anger, about whether or not you would get revenge on any of the others for the way they’d treated you, if you got the chance.

You shrugged, taking a few moments to think about your answer before you spoke, “No. I don’t blame them for it, not really. The world ended. The fact that any of us are alive is strange enough as it is. Them being cruel is probably more of a defense mechanism than anything else. I wish they wouldn’t use me for their anger, or their disdain, or their sadness, I kinda wish they’d just leave me alone sometimes, but I wouldn’t want to get revenge even if I got the chance. I don’t think they deserve to be treated badly, even if they’ve treated me badly.”

But most likely, it had been your answer when he’d asked what exactly you were thinking about right in that moment.

“The end of the world, Mr. Langdon, sir,” Your smile finally dropped for just a moment, your embarrassment evident, “And your eyes. They’re very beautiful. I was thinking that heaven probably isn’t real, but if it is, it probably looks something like your eyes. But of course it’s much more likely that hell is real, based on recent events, in which case it probably looks something like the world we live in right now.”

Michael had stood, instructing you to do the same, and within moments his lips were on yours.

Yes, he was going to ruin you in every way possible.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was so totally not how you had planned for your interview to go.

Was it how Langdon had planned for it to go? Maybe. You wondered vacantly if this had happened with all of his other interviews, if all of them had found themselves lying on the floor, pinned underneath him, feeling him hungrily devouring their mouths in perhaps the best kiss that anyone had ever experienced.

He trailed kisses down to your throat, hot, open mouthed, that you felt even though they were over the high collar of your dress, and he bit down hard, sucking harshly through the fabric.

“Fuck!” You groaned out, feeling your skin go hot with embarrassment over the noises you were making.

“Don’t hold back, pet,” He moved his mouth to your ear, kissing the spot just behind your earlobe as he murmured, “You make the most delightful little noises.”

This served only to embarrass you more, and you chewed on the inside of your cheek to try and hide the moans that threatened to spill from you.

Langdon’s hand made its way to your neck, squeezing at it as he pulled your head up closer to his, and you let out a pained whine at the pressure his palm put onto the sore spot he had just left on your throat, “Did you not hear me? Don’t hold back. I expect you to follow my orders. I’d think you’d be used to that by now.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” You let out a strangled cry, and with a sharp smile he finally released you, letting your head drop back against the floor.

“Next time you don’t listen to me, you will be,” He chuckled at your terrified expression, but after a moment he froze, raising a curious eyebrow at you, “What are you thinking about right now?”

You weren’t naive enough to think that he actually cared about how you were feeling, but you answered anyway, scared of what may happen if you didn’t, “Honestly? I’m trying to decide if I’m more likely to be murdered by you or by Ms. Venable.”

Langdon laughed again, moving off of you and leaning against the wall. He looked oddly comfortable like that, although you wouldn’t be surprised if his outfit cost more than the entire Outpost, and with a wolfish grin he patted his lap gently.

You frowned, unsure of what that meant, but Langdon simply rolled his eyes and wrapped a hand around your wrist, tugging you into his lap.

This was… odd.

After a moment, he gripped both of your wrists, raising your arms up and placing them on his shoulders, and you locked your fingers around the back of his neck, staring dumbly at him as you did so.

His legs extended straight out, but he held you steady in his lap, arm wrapped your hips, your own legs perpendicular to his.

This was very odd.

“Now tell me,” It was interesting, the way Langdon’s words sounded more like a purr, “Why do you think that I would kill you?”

Shyly you dropped your gaze, but then his hand was under your chin, lifting until you looked him in the eye, and you shrugged, “I mean… you said you would. It was like the first thing you told me when I came in. That if I lied or hedged or anything like that you’d...y’know...obliterate me.”

“And have you lied to me?” His voice was sharp now, his eyes dangerous, although something playful still danced around the edges of his lips.

“No!” You flinched, prepared for him to hit you even though he made no movement to do so, and after a minute, after you’d realized that no strike was coming, you blinked at him, “I, uh, no, sir. But you’re, well, forgive me for saying so, Mr. Langdon, but you’re very intimidating.”

He was frowning now, just a little, and you probably wouldn’t have even noticed if you hadn’t been so fascinated by his mouth, “I’m glad you find me intimidating. I’d be a bit concerned for your sanity if you didn’t. But I have no plans at the moment to kill you, and as long as you keep telling me the truth like this, I doubt it’ll arise. Now, why would Venable kill you?”

“She’s strict about her rules,” You felt your face heating up again, “No sexual contact of any kind. And we, y’know, we kissed. If she finds out, well, she’d even kill a Purple for breaking the rules so explicitly like that. She’d kill a Grey for a lot less.”

“And we’ll be doing a lot more,” Langdon’s smooth voice echoed in your ears, and you shivered slightly at the insinuation, “Venable will not touch you.”

“Why not?” Your curiosity got the better of you, and you asked before you could think about the fact that it was probably a bad idea.

Luckily, Langdon did nothing more than chuckle at you again, shifting slightly underneath you, “Because if anyone here is going to harm you, pet, it’s going to be me.”

For some reason, his words made you clench your thighs, and you swallowed to avoid letting out a whine.

“Yes sir,” You said softly, and then, when he’d started pressing kisses along your jaw, “There’s one more thing.”

“And what would that be?”

Clearing your throat, you fought to keep holding eye contact with him, “I don’t, I mean, I don’t want to be one of those people who fucks someone to get something. I don’t want to sleep with you just in hopes of going to the Sanctuary, especially because you could easily say you’re going to take me until after we’re done and then tell me you’ve changed your mind or something. I don’t want that. I’d rather you just... tell me the truth now.”

“Alright,” Sighing, Langdon straightened up a little, shifting beneath you again so that you suddenly became aware of his erection pressing into you, “You’re not going to the Sanctuary, Y/N. Not even if we fuck. And we are going to fuck, you understand that, right?”

“Yes sir,” You felt your gaze drop to his lips once more, “I understand. The Sanctuary thing and the fucking thing. May I please kiss you again?”

“Not only may you do so, but I insist that you do,” His voice was cold now, but one look into his eyes showed you that he was pleased about this, and you frantically brought your mouth to his.

Langdon slammed you back to the ground, and your head cracked loudly against the marble floor, making you feel a bit dizzy, and then his fingers found their way between the buttons of your dress and he pulled sharply, ripping it in half, and that made you feel even dizzier.

Holy fuck, how strong was he?

“Lovely,” He murmured, his mouth running over your collarbones and up the curves of your neck, sucking dark bruises onto your skin as he went, “Don’t forget what I told you. I want to hear every single one of your sounds, understood?”

“Yes sir,” Your hands made their way to his hair almost of their own accord as he continued on, mouth drifting down to swirl over your covered nipples.

“Turn around,” Langdon commanded, and he hummed his approval when you followed his instructions in merely a moment, kneeling before him but facing the wall.

His long fingers made their way to the ties of your corset, beginning to work on the knot, and he frowned, “This is tied very tightly, pet. Doesn’t it hurt?”

“I had Mallory tie it extra tightly for me, so I would have something to focus on other than my nerves for the interview,” You let out a hiss of relief as the corset came untied, “It wouldn’t hurt much, but you’re supposed to wear something under a corset, and Ms. Venable doesn’t give the Greys anything to wear under our corsets because she says our comfort isn’t a priority. So it kinda digs into my-ow, fuck, my skin.”

Your cry of distress had come when Langdon’s hands had pressed hard into the red marks that marred your back from your corset.

“It really has done a number on you,” He helped you unclasp the front of your corset and slip it off, before bringing his hands to your hips, “Get on all fours.”

You did as he said, unsure of why exactly he was asking you to do so, but you understood a moment later when the wet warmth of his tongue began to stroke along your spine. He licked along each mark that had been left behind, leaving a trail of coolness to follow, and although it stung with each moment of contact, it left some relief as he went. You mewled at the feeling, back arching towards him, desperate for more.

“Feel better?” He purred, now drawing his nose around your spine.

“Yes,” You sighed pleasantly, “Thank-fuck!”

Langdon had shifted his arms so that one ran under your stomach, holding you in place, and with the other he brought his palm down on your back with all his strength.

Tears were starting to spill from your eyes, leaving a puddle on the floor as he struck you four more times in quick, painful succession.

“Aw, does it hurt, pet?” He was cooing at you, voice light and mocking, “Look at you. You’ve made a mess on my floor. Clean that up for me, yes?”

Unsure of what that meant, you tried to look back at him to ask, but Langdon wrapped his hand around your neck and forced your head to the floor, his entire body pressed against yours, “Clean it up.”

Hesitantly, you reached your tongue out to the floor, scooping the salty moisture up carefully. The pressure on your throat lightened up so that you could breathe more easily, but he didn’t remove his hand, and you frantically licked the rest of your tears off of the floor.

Letting you sit up, he smirked at your shy smile, examining the floor carefully before praising you, “Wonderful job, pet. But it appears that the mess on the floor isn’t your only one. You seem to have made quite a mess down here as well.”

With that his hand cupped your pussy over your panties, which had become thoroughly soaked through. He pulled them down slowly, a rumble rolling past his lips at the sound the fabric made as it tried to cling to your damp flesh. He gave a tug and ripped them off of your thighs, bringing the shredded remains up to his face to examine it closely. Staring into your eyes, he poked his tongue out of his mouth and brought it to the fabric, laving slowly over the wetness that coated it. You moaned loudly at the sight, squeezing your thighs together.

When Langdon was satisfied that he had gotten every drop of your essence off of the scraps of your underwear he tossed them carelessly in the direction of his desk, and then his tongue was on you once again, this time drawing painfully slow stripes from your knee up your inner thigh, ending just at your hip bone.

“Did you like watching me?” There was amusement in his voice, a kind of mirth that could almost be mistaken for warmth, as he licked closer and closer to where you wanted him most, never deigning to touch you there, “Did it make you even more wet for me? Do you want me to eat your pretty little pussy until you can’t walk? Want me to let you drench my face?”

“Please, yes, please!” You keened towards him and Langdon clamped his hands onto your thighs to hold you in place, bringing his thumbs down to spread your pussy lips open. There was something so intimately dirty about it that you let out another long moan, his breath fanning hot air against your folds, “Langdon, please, I’ll do anything you ask.”

He scoffed, nuzzling his nose over your entrance, “You’d do anything I asked anyway. But I will say, you have just about the sweetest pussy I’ve ever seen. And you smell divine, pet.”

Whimpering, you tried to rut up to his mouth, wanting so badly to feel him against you, “Please, sir, Langdon, please, what do I have to do for you to touch me?”

At those words, Langdon moved away from you completely, now not even letting his fingers drift over your skin, “Was I not touching you before? You’re incredibly ungrateful for someone who I could kill with less than the blink of an eye.”

“I’m sorry,” You scrabbled to your knees, legs shaking, “I’m sorry, Mr. Langdon, I didn’t mean to be ungrateful. I’m so grateful to you, I am, I’m sorry.”

“As you should be,” He sneered, but the bulge in his pants looked even larger than it had before, and the corners of his lips twitched up, “You do look very good on your knees for me. I think this is the position you’re meant to be in, the reason you were put on this earth. Why else would you look so lovely like this, look like such a pretty little slut? Open your mouth for me, pet.”

This is happening. This is actually happening.

Eagerly, you complied, wrenching your mouth as wide open as you could, desperate to please him. Langdon unzipped his dress pants, reaching into his boxers and stroking himself, letting out a deep and rumbly groan as he finally pulled himself out.

His cock was... beautiful? You hadn’t expected to find it so beautiful. The few dicks you had seen you had mostly found odd, fine enough but not particularly nice to look at, but Langdon’s looked like it had been carved by Michelangelo himself.

It was also huge, as thick as your wrist and at least as long as your forearm, the tip a throbbing angry crimson. It was veiny, and you would’ve expected that to be strange but it just made it even prettier, an extra long and thick vein running up the side that oddly made your mouth water.

A fresh wave of desire pulsed through you, but that didn’t stop your worry as he approached you, speaking your anxiety out loud, “Is that... I mean, is that going to fit?”

Chuckling, Langdon pushed himself into your mouth with no warning, holding the back of your head with one hand as he began an intense, bruising pace, “What’s the matter, little whore? Never been with someone this big?”

That’s one way to put it.

He froze suddenly, buried down your throat, his pelvic bone pressed against your nose, and slowly he looked down at you with a raised eyebrow, “Wait, you’re a virgin?”

You nodded slowly, and Langdon hissed at the movement, slowly pulling himself away from you, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask,” You shrugged, bringing a hand up to massage your jaw, “I didn’t think it would matter, I’m sorry. Does it change things?”

Langdon gripped your hair, and he pulled you to your feet and into a bruising kiss all in one swift movement. Then his hands were all over you, stroking your skin fervently as he led you to his chair, sitting down and pulling you into his lap once more. The feeling of his dress pants against your bare skin was sinfully lovely, and you were suddenly aware of how exposed you were, when you could see almost nothing of him.

After what felt like hours, he pulled away from you, his eyes dancing with something deeply dangerous, a brilliant smile on his face, “Of course it matters, pet I wouldn’t have even considered wasting any of my cum in your mouth if I knew your perfect cunt was untouched, waiting for me.”

You let out a cry as he grabbed onto your hips tightly, beginning to draw you up and down over his length. His cock pressed into your folds, rubbing your clit, and every time he approached your entrance you gasped, “Holy, oh my, fuck, that feels good, Langdon I-”

“Michael,” He interrupted, moving you faster.

“What?” You blinked up at him in confusion, and he felt his cock twitch at the sight.

“My name is Michael Langdon,” He pressed a kiss to your neck, beginning to suck a new line of hickeys, “You can call me Michael.”

“Michael,” You sighed, clenching around nothing as a strange sensation started to boil in your stomach, something so pleasureful that you didn’t know what was happening, “Oh, fuck, Michael, you feel so good, please, can’t you just fuck me?”

“Oh believe me, I’m going to,” His cock was twitching even more now, your name so perfect from his mouth, “But you have to be ready for it first. Come on, pet, come for me, just like this.”

You mewled, your fingers digging into his shoulders as the boiling in your stomach became more, became overwhelming, and you squeezed your eyes shut as you let out a desperate shriek.

“I didn’t, oh fuck, oh god, I didn’t know it would feel that good,” You panted, and Michael raised an eyebrow at you yet again as you buried your face in his shoulder.

“Have you... have you never had an orgasm before?”

You shook your head against him, letting out another gasp as one of his fingers started to toy around your entrance, “No, I haven’t. I mean, I thought I might have once, but it was nothing like that.”

“Have you ever had any fingers inside you?” He asked, even as he was already easing a finger into you, giving your walls a single stroke before he pushed two more in.

“No!” You shrieked, the foreign sensation making you buck your hips wildly, “I, I mean, no, I haven’t.”

Cock throbbing harder than ever before, Michael began to scissor his fingers around, stretching you out, “Fascinating. My little whore is so inexperienced.”

Moaning at his words, you lurched when his middle finger hit a spot deep inside you that made you see stars, “M-m-Michael, please!”

“M-m-Michael! M-m-Michael!” He mocked you, scooping the hand that wasn’t busy working you open under your ass, shifting out of the seat and lowering you to the ground, his mouth finding its way to your tits, “Wait, pet. Be a patient slut for me and you’ll be rewarded.”

You nodded as he bit your nipple, toying with it roughly before kissing over to the other side, “Sorry, sorry, oh holy fuck that feels good.”

Another orgasm was forming deep within you, more mewls leaving your throat as you desperately started to claw at his back, “Michael, fuck, Michael, I’m going to-”

“Good girl,” He purred, pulling his fingers out of you just as you started to cum, and then he slammed his cock into you with no warning, delighting in the bloodcurdling scream that you let out, letting out a guttural moan, “You’re so good for me, aren’t you? Desperate little slut, you were so ready for me to stretch you out, huh?”

“Wait, Michael,” You let out a sob, your cunt pulsing with overstimulation, “Michael, it’s too much, it hurts, please.”

He was completely bottomed out in you, not moving yet, but he brought both hands up to wrap around your throat, cutting off all of your air, “Now now, pet, that’s no way to thank me for being so kind to you. You’ve cum twice now, haven’t you? And have I gotten to cum even once? No. Now, are you going to be good for me?”

You nodded fervently, and he released you, leaving you gasping, “Sorry, sorry, Michael. I’m sorry.”

“Good,” Michael started to pull out of you ever so slowly, moving at a glacial pace until just his tip was inside of you before thrusting in again, filling you up once more, “Oh, you feel good. Your pussy is fluttering all around me. But I should tell you, Y/N, I lied to you.”

You let out another shaky sob as he hooked his hands under your knees and stretched your legs up, throwing them over his shoulders, continuing his pace of slow drags out followed by impossibly fast thrusts in, your hands scrambling for purchase on the smooth silk that covered his back, “Wh-what? What do you mean?”

“I told you I wasn’t going to take you to the Sanctuary,” He grunted, his pace getting somehow even slower, in and out both, your slapping skin making loud, lewd noises, “I lied. I am. I’m going to pump you full of my cum, pet, until you’re overflowing with me. I’m going to breed you like the whore you are, and then we’re going to rule over the new world, together.”

“I don’t understand,” Shrieking again, a whine bubbling out of your throat, you gasped as his hands moved to your tits once more, “Please, Michael, please can you go faster?”

It still hurt, but it was getting better, the pain being overrun with the pleasure.

Michael complied, slamming into you, setting such a brutal, bruising pace that you were sure you could feel him all the way up in your stomach, “That’s my good little pet. Look at this, your pussy is devouring me. I’m going to wreck you, gonna mold your pussy around my dick so that you know that no one else will ever be able to make you feel good. Your perfect little pussy was made for me, and me alone. You were made for me. Your pussy, your ass, your mouth, these perfect tits,” He gave your breasts a harsh squeeze, running his thumbs over your nipples as you let out another scream, “They’re gonna be full of milk before you know it, filled up for our baby. Do you want to have my baby, pet? Do you want me to breed you? Fill you up? Ruin you for anyone else with my cock?”

“Yes!” You sobbed, although you were barely conscious of what you were saying, barely even conscious of what he was saying, another orgasm fast approaching, “Michael, please! Fill me up! I need you!”

“Then cum for me,” Growling, he brought his nose down to touch yours, “Squeeze my cock with that tight pussy of yours, finish for me, and accept my seed knowing that you belong to me now, understood?”

“Yes, yes, yes! Michael, I’m yours, I belong to you, yes!” Your screams were echoing around the room now, but you couldn’t hold back, not when he felt so good, and this time rather than a boiling in your stomach your orgasm felt like an awakening, like you were being reborn.

You came harder than you knew was possible and Michael quickly followed suit, pumping you full of his thick, hot ropes of cum, more than he had ever cum before, filling you all the way up.

Whimpering, you sat up, and rather than letting you move away Michael pulled you to his lap and dragged himself to the wall to lean against once again, hushing your mewls with a kiss, “Good girl. That’s my good little pet. I’m gonna stay inside you, okay? Gotta make sure you don’t lose a single drop.”

Nodding, you felt your eyelids start to flutter, your head dropping to his chest, “Yes, Michael. I’m...I’m so tired.”

“I know you are, little one, I know you are. Get some rest now. No one will interrupt us. Rest, my sweet, and have dreams of the future we will build together,” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, pulling you impossibly closer to his chest, and letting out a happy hum as he felt you already drifting off, and before he did the same he whispered in your ear, “I’m proud of you.”

#Michael Langdon smut #outpost!michael Langdon smut #outpost!michael #outpost!michael Langdon #outpost!michael smut #outpost!michael Langdon x reader #outpost!michael Langdon x reader smut #Michael Langdon x reader #Michael Langdon x reader smut #ahs fic #ahs fics #ahs smut #oof #yeah

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kenmascat · 3 years

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|| tear in my heart || wangxian threadfic ||

out of all the things lan wangji thought he'd end up doing at 4 in the morning, picking up wei ying from a party that nie huaisang threw on a weekday is not one of them. wei ying called him up at 3:33 am, clearly drunk and asked his dear roomate to pick him up from the said party, because nie huaisang is mad drunk passed out on the floor with jiang cheng on top because, there no because two drunk people wanted to have a wrestling match which they were too intoxicated to go with in the first place and ended up sleeping halfway through the slow, lazy, joke of a 'wrestling match' and therefore none of his friends are in a state to drive him home. lan wangji did not need to know any of this information to agree to pick wei ying, but drunk wei ying talks a lot.

so that is why he is now driving him and wei ying back to their shared apartment.

"lan zhan", wei ying's voice muffled by the oversized jacket lan wangji made sure to bring along to wrap wei ying like a burrito.

"Mnm"

"im sorry I ruined your sleep schedule", he hears

a soft voice that sounds it is drifting off to sleep slowly. lan wangji looks at the passenger seat to find wei ying's eyes shut, head leaning on the seat and face turner towards lan wangji who is driving. he looked soft, beautiful, almost surreal even with his hair a mess, scent of alcohol surrounding him, and his red eyeliner smudged at the creak of his eyes. this image makes lan wangji's stomach twist and turn, his body would often feel this weird sensation regardless of wei ying's state.

" if it's for wei ying, I'd ruin anything"

lan wangji says, with his eyes softer, and a warm almost of smile forming on his lips. he wished he could be this bold when wei ying's sober enough. lan wangji is a skilled driver and people assume he's one of the calm one's, which he usually is, but not when the love of his love is trying to sleep and there are holes on the road that are trying to mess with that. he curses internally for these holes on the road and the government for not using some tax money to fix them all. you see, lan wangji doesn't usually cuss, but being in love with wei wuxian has its consequences, you start to hate anything that may make wei ying sad, upset, annoyed, angry, cry. lan wangji has even had the urge previously to punch wei ying's brother in the face for yelling at him and making his wei ying cry once.

lan wangji avoids all road holes and drives gently over them so that wei ying's sleep is not disturbed, which is one of the reasons they finally reach their apartment by 4:30, double the time it usually takes, but he doesn't mind.

he pauses after parking the car in its spot, to figure out how to do the next task without waking wei ying up. lan wangji feels his heart starting to race a bit, at the knowledge that he'd have to carry wei ying in his arms, probably bridal style, no way in hell he's doing it any other way. Lan wangji slides his one arm around wei ying's shoulders and one under his knees. this is not hard for lan wangji, and he's not carrying wei Ying for the first time either, wei ying has been carried countless times on his request, "lan Zhan!" he'd say with a dramatic tone and pout on his face and arms wide, asking to be carried when he doesn't wish to walk large distances like from the kitchen counter to his room, couch to his room, sometimes even his desk which is five feet away from his bed. lan wangji would obey all his requests in fear of seeing wei ying's sad face, he cannot stand wei ying sad even if it's fake.

"you'd make a great boyfriend lan zhan!" wei ying would say with a cheeky smile and teasing eyes, to which lan wangji would turn away and do the walk of shame to his room with his red ears

clenching fists, his teeth grinding against each other, annoyed at wei ying, the audacity he had to consider lan wangji would make a a great boyfriend?? no! a great husband, wei ying, I can be your great husband as well! If only you'd understand.

so no, lan wangji is not unfamiliar with how wei ying's body feels like to be carried, so he gracefully carries him up to their apartment, kicks the door open with his foot, as his hands are currently pre-occupied and rests the sleeping boy in his arms on his bed.

lan wangji pulls out wei ying's shoes off and puts covers up to his chest. he then takes a glance at the condition of wei ying's room, desk scattered with papers and books, a chair drowning in a heap of clothes, and a wall covered in anime posters, nothing unusual. although

a familiar object is hanging from the wall, a creme coloured bunny beanie that lan wangji had gifted wei ying last Christmas, omitting the information that he had knitted it for wei ying with his own hands making it according to his comfort. he vividly remembers wei ying's surprised expression at receiving the gift, he had jumped into lan zhan's arms, and hugged him so tight as if he's clinging onto dear life to avoid falling down a cliff at the moment. Ian wangji doesn't like being touched much, but wei ying had always been an exception so he had also bent down and rested his chin on top of wei ying's head, avoiding the urge to lean and kiss him right there. now he watches the very kissable face sleeping peacefully in front of him. he tucks away the strands of wei ying's long hair behind his ear, and leans to place a kiss on his forehead. If this is all he can get right now, then this is all he will take happily. Lan wangji goes to sleep after placing a pain killer and glass of water on wei ying's night stand in case he suffers a hangover in the morning.

maybe someday he will get the opportunity to finally have wei wuxian in his bed, in his arms, forever where he belongs. someday

-end-

#what am i doing at 5am #mo xiang tong xiu #mdzs #wei wuxian #wei ying #lan wangji #lan zhan #mxtx #the untamed #wangxian #mo dao zu shi #wangxian au #wangxian hc

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blossom-hwa · 3 years

Text

To Find Solace in Your Arms - JANGJUN

Well uh. Here it is. Guard jangjun written in five days :D I’ll accept some blame but refer to casey @thepixelelf if you want someone to beat up for introducing the assassin thing because she suggested it not me I swear! Anyway, this universe is still dedicated to casey because without her it wouldn’t have happened <3

(Reading To Bloom in the Night/Weaver (linked below) is not necessarily required to understand this story; however, it may offer explanations for certain events!)

Pairing: Jangjun x gender neutral!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, fantasy, guard!au, assassin!au

Triggers: cursing, implications of death, semi-graphic depictions of blood (reader is an assassin)

Word Count: 16.5k

Broken and lost, you find your last chance at redemption in a cursed prince’s loyal guard.

To Spin a Yarn | Golden Child Masterlist

Once upon a time, in a kingdom of song and music, there lived a prince who ran away. Cursed with death, he had found the only person whose life could prevail under his voice, a gardener with the sweetest song, and there was nothing he would not do to keep them close – even giving up his crown. When the gardener was arrested for accidentally learning the secret they willingly pledged to keep, the prince and his guard broke them away and fled into the night, whispering goodbyes to the loved ones they left behind.

The king and queen labeled it a kidnapping, led a manhunt for months, espoused heartbreak and sorrow for their son lost to his disloyal guard and a scheming gardener. Few believed the words of two cold-hearted monarchs, but enough did not care – bounty hunters and assassins pledged their services to the crown’s gold, resolved to kill the alleged kidnappers and return the prince alive (or dead, apparently – the palace, for all its shiny words of heartbreak, was not keen to have him back). However, one by one, they failed, either bled to death in the woods or forced to give up when all leads vanished.

One contractor was left, the most ruthless of all. Few had the coin to pay for the service of any one of his employees, but those who did were never left disappointed. With all else failed and their son still eluding capture, the palace paid for one assassin, asked for the best their money could buy. The contractor gave his due and tasked the job with his favorite employee who had recently fallen out of favor with a mission gone awry – they would have one last chance to redeem themselves.

When the guard sensed a follower, he only sighed and readied himself. The prince and his gardener had gone on further as he had forced them to – after all, he was the odd one out, the one who wasn’t truly needed. His purpose was always to protect even at the cost of his own life. He could keep an assassin off their trail for at least enough time to get away, and all of the others whom the palace had sent had failed eventually. He was the one who was still alive.

But desperation turns claws stronger, knives sharper, pain deeper.

And the guard never expected to come face to face with a ghost.

Neither guard nor assassin left the fight uninjured, both in body and in mind. Memories of ages gone, long pushed away but never forgotten, would plague them as the months passed with fight after bloody fight, knives clanging and words bantering and eyes flashing with emotions suppressed but finally brought to light –

Yet they did not stop. They had their loyalties and they had their duties, and even if they somehow felt at home with their snipping words and clanging blades, none of it mattered. None of it mattered. None of it mattered, not when the assassin learned the truth of the guard’s role in his prince’s kidnapping, not even when the guard looked deep into bladed eyes and saw into the human inside.

Until a secret came to light, and for the first time, a loyalty deeper than that of duty forced the assassin to drop their knife and lead the guard to a home he had despaired as lost forever.

And yet home was not home, even in the warm arms of a second ghost come to life, not when the curved knife of a teasing smile had disappeared in the forest, glittering eyes lost to the night. He prayed to the moon, to the watching stars, that the assassin would someday find their way home to arms that would welcome them as warmly as the ghost’s who had welcomed him.

His arms.

This is the story of a guard charged to protect and an assassin bound to kill, paths fated to intertwine once more after they first diverged, who found solace in knife-bladed smiles and laughing eyes the night they first met under the moon.

. . . . .

“Y/N.”

You turn around from the clothing stall, eyebrows furrowed. What’s Minho doing here, interrupting probably your last moments with your only friend before your employer decides to cut you off? “What are you doing here?”

His eyes remain impassive. “He wants to see you.”

So it’s time.

You sigh, turning back to your friend and her piles of clothing. “Sorry, work calls.” An easy smile falls onto your lips, masking the anxiety that races your heart. She doesn’t know that you might be six feet under within a day, and you don’t intend to tell her. “Anyway, I left a little something at your house. Make sure to take it in.”

“Oh my – Y/N, seriously?”

But you’ve already turned away, fluttering your fingers in the air as you throw a last smile in her direction. It’s the least you could do – your little gifts will probably end after today, and with her business, she needs any bit of money she can get.

Quickly, you match your steps to Minho’s, ignoring her fondly exasperated shouts as you follow him through the crowded market. “Did he say anything?”

“No.” Minho shrugs, though a glint remains in his eyes. You mentally take stock of every knife concealed on your person. “But you can imagine.”

It takes a lot of restraint to not plunge the blade you’re twirling in your hand into his side. He’s probably expecting it, anyway – you’ve been at each other’s throats ever since you first punched him in the nose, all those years ago. “Yeah, I can.” You keep your eyes perfectly blank, even though fear of death pounds your heart as the two of you pass into the richer community, where your employer lives when he’s in the country. “Bet it’s something fun for you to think about.”

You don’t need to look to see the smile curving Minho’s lips. He’d like you dead, wouldn’t he? Of course he doesn’t say anything, but there’s a reason you remain aware of the knives hidden in your sleeve. Plus the one in your hand.

Finally, you reach the door. A servant pokes his head out. “Name?”

He knows your name. You hate having to say it anyway. “Y/N,” you reply curtly.

The door opens fully. You take a deep breath and sheathe the knife.

“Good luck,” Minho says cheerfully. Your neck crawls where his breath puffs against your skin.

The servant closes the door, leaving you alone with him in a large, open room full of light. The sun’s warmth streams through the windows, burning your skin. But even with that burn, the sunlight turning your skin to ash, you’d rather stay there than follow the servant to the back of the home, the darker rooms where your employer likes to conduct business.

But you follow, step by step, even as your fingers begin to shake and you have to clench the handle of one of your knives to keep them from trembling. You’ll fight. You’ll fight, if he orders your death – it’s all you know, fighting, and you’ll go down the way you lived – it doesn’t matter if he’s your employer, it doesn’t matter if he’ll have someone in there to take care of you when you inevitably fight back – if you’re going to die and have lived as a fighter no one can expect you to just give up –

The servant stops suddenly. You just manage to avoid bumping into him. He knocks on the door, oblivious to you. “They’re here, sir.”

“Enter.”

His voice turns your blood not to ice, but to sludge – slow, barely-moving, clogging your veins until you begin to choke, silently, barely able to move your legs to walk inside the now-open door –

Only one person is inside. You fight to keep the surprise off your face. Why is there no one here? Does he actually think you’ll go down without a fight? Or that he can take care of you himself?

“Sir.” You dip your head sharply.

“Look up.”

You do.

He sits in an upholstered chair, eyes piercing. The chair and the eyes have stayed the same, even as skin has sagged, hair has grayed, and some decorations have been moved out while others have come in. His gaze pins you down and like you’re a teen again, seeing him for the first time after all the horror stories you were told, you shrink under his attention, even with all the knives hidden in your clothes.

(Those horror stories were all true. More than once, when you were still new and hadn’t made your mark just yet, you were one of those called in to clean blood off the floor.)

Your blood is going to be wrung out of the carpets, soon. And it’ll be a lot of blood if you have anything to do with it.

He stays silent, still pinning you with his eyes. You clench your fists beneath the table. Breathe in, out.

“You disappointed me last time.”

Your stomach curdles. You only bow your head in response.

“You know what happens to those who disappoint.”

Blood seeping into carpets, staining the wood floor beneath. Small, shaking hands scrubbing dry red and black with buckets of soap and water.

Maybe you won’t try to leave behind so much blood, after all. You have a little sympathy left after so many years of fingers and backs aching from rubbing rough cloths against the ground. Spite is powerful, but sometimes sympathy weighs more.

“If you were any of the others, you would be dead by now.”

True. Your last few days of freedom, you assumed, were just because you happened to be a favorite. A sort of last meal served before a prisoner’s execution.

Silence stretches. You keep your head low, shoulders tensed, nails biting into your palms, ready to lunge. You’ll fight. You’ll fight. You can picture it now – a blade aiming for your heart. You’ll dodge, knock the knife away, slide the weapons from your sleeves and throw, hoping they pierce dark eyes before someone rushes in and throws you to the floor, carves open your body until your blood soaks into the ornate carpet –

One hand appears in your line of lowered vision, a piece of thick, creamy paper sliding onto the table. “This is your next mission.”

Your head snaps up. Next mission?

“The prince has disappeared, and the palace now pays a large sum for the capture of his kidnappers within one year.” The paper slides closer. “A gardener and a royal guard. And the prince does not have to be brought back alive – if he was maimed by his kidnappers or caught in the crossfire…”

Somewhere deep in your mind, you understand the subtext. The royal family doesn’t care so much for the prince as it does about maintaining its reputation. But the forefront of your brain is still trying to comprehend the fact that the crown paid your employer to carry out this murder, and despite your last failure, he still chose you.

“You have one year to complete this mission. Shouldn’t be too difficult, no?” your employer says, finally forcing you to look up. He looks faintly amused, almost sadistically so – he has to have known how you expected to be dead already. “The royal guard may give you some trouble, but not more than you can handle.”

You almost question him – why are you receiving this mission and not some other assassin who may not be as efficient as you but still has a cleaner record, zero percent failure versus whatever percent that last mission cost you? But your employer hates being questioned, and more likely than not, he’d take the contract away with a cheerful, “Perhaps I did choose wrongly,” and then where would you be?

“No, sir.” You swallow hard, finally letting go of your fists. Crescents burn in your palms where nails bit into the skin.

“I suppose you are wondering why I chose you for this mission rather than one of those who have not disappointed me yet.”

You don’t dare to nod.

He leans forward. “I considered others. But you have always been the best assassin.” A smile splits his face, like a slit throat. “You remember what I have told you from the start. The best killers are not the bloodiest. They are the most efficient. You do not have to enjoy blood to become a killer.”

That’s true. You’ve always hated the feeling of sticky red liquid soaking your skin. Yet here you are, an assassin.

“Others forget. You have not.” He leans back again. “So I am giving you a second chance.” The smile disappears. “Do not disappoint me this time.”

You’re not going to die. You’re not going to die. You’re going to live to see another day, you won’t have to fight for your existence, you’ll be able to keep your friend safe and support her longer – you even have a mission. A second chance.

Tears of relief prick at your eyes and you bow, fighting the lump in your throat. “Thank you, sir.”

He’s smiling when you rise again, eyes narrowed to slits. “Do not disappoint me,” he repeats.

You swear you won’t.

. . . . .

Jangjun is once again being followed.

Internally, he groans. Seriously, after all those assassins and bounty hunters he and Joochan left dead or in the dust, he would’ve thought the palace had given up by now. Can’t they just let them all live in peace after making their lives hell for so long?

But the king and queen don’t care about any of that, and Bomin probably has only a little influence, if he even knows about the assassins in the first place. Jangjun sighs. At least he sent the other two up ahead first – Jangjun’s just the guard, the odd man out of the trio. His duty is to protect, and he’ll do that to the last. The others are more important. They need time to be happy.

He keeps walking, even as the sky grows darker and the moon begins to rise. The follower stays on his path, but by all the gods, they’re good. Jangjun can’t tell where they are, can only feel something stalking him.

Then there’s a shift in the air. Jangjun stops.

And ducks just in time for a knife to whiz past where his head was less than a second ago.

Before he even hears the blade thunk into a nearby tree trunk, a figure leaps from the foliage – almost on top of Jangjun if he hadn’t whirled away at the last second. Metal rings against the sheath of his sword and he swings it just in time to catch the long knife slashing towards his face.

You’re good. Too good. Way better than any of the others sent to kill him or the gardener, to bring Joochan back to the palace. Metal crashes and leaves fall as you dance away from his single blade, twin knives glinting like lethal stars from the sky – there’s a natural grace to your movements that almost remind him of Donghyun’s sister and the way she moved so fluidly through the air, only your grace slices deadly and sharp while hers flowed supple and soft.

But that isn’t the only familiar thing he sees.

Sharp eyes meet his, glinting dangerously in the rising moonlight. It almost distracts him into thinking – where has he seen that sort of glint before? He knows he’s seen it before, but on who, where, and when – but then a second blade slices towards his side and he remembers he can’t think, he can’t think, thinking is what gets you killed in the middle of a fight –

Animals burst out of hiding as you and Jangjun trample the forest floor. He nicks your arm and you hiss, retaliating with a two-bladed strike against his single sword that makes his teeth chatter with the reverb – and all the while he’s fighting, there’s that nagging thought in the back of his mind that he refuses to entertain, the thought that screams he’s seen those eyes or at least that glint on someone he says he’s forgotten but hasn’t really, has only pushed the memories back after so many years because they never mattered. He would never see them again, not the sharp-eyed pickpocket he fell in love with –

Them –

Oh, gods, them –

Jangjun trips over a tree root. He regains his balance quickly, but it’s more than enough time for you to duck under one flailing arm and slam him against the trunk, wrenching his sword out of his hands and knocking the air of his lungs. One knife rests against his side while the other lodges under his chin, blade pressing into his throat.

He closes his eyes. If this is how he dies, then so be it. Joochan and his partner have gone up ahead and he told them not to come back, to wait until morning and if he didn’t meet with them by then, to continue on their own. If he dies now at the hands of an assassin, he’s performed his duty as a loyal guard to one of the few good people left in this world.

“Where are they?” a voice rasps, raw with panting exertion and pain.

Jangjun opens his eyes. Racks his mind for something witty to say, something that’ll anger you and maybe throw that glint into your eye again, that glint he thought he’d never see until he died. It would be a nice sight to take with him even as he goes, even if it isn’t on the same person who’d disappeared from the orphanage so many years back –

His eyes widen. Your mask fell off at some point during the fight and now your face is bare, visible under the moonlight.

You –

You are the same person –

Jangjun tries to reconcile the images, one of a smirking teenager pickpocketing some rich man on the streets, another of the sharp-eyed assassin holding a knife to his throat. There’s no way – you have to be different – but with your mask torn away, revealing the rest of your face, all Jangjun can see are the growing similarities between the teenaged orphan who disappeared and left him alone at the orphanage all those years ago.

“Where are they?” you hiss again, pressing the knife further into his neck.

Breathing shallowly – he can feel tiny drops of blood beginning to trickle down his skin – he stretches his lips into a trembling smirk. “You don’t remember me anymore, Y/N?”

Your eyes remain blank for a second longer. Then they widen and your grip goes slack with realization –

Jangjun has barely left your hold when you shove him back against the trunk with even more force than the first time. His head hits the bark and he sighs, trying to ignore the aching pain. “Oh, come on, Y/N. You know how I feel about tree bits in my hair.”

“By all the gods –” You groan. “Of course the prince’s guard would turn out to be the most insufferable asshole in the orphanage.”

“And of course the assassin would turn out to be the slickest pickpocket with the worst mouth in the same orphanage,” Jangjun replies. The smile comes easier, now that you’re not actively pressing the knife into his skin. He missed your eyes. “I’m offended you didn’t recognize me at first.”

You snort. “You seriously expect me to remember your face after all these years?”

“I remembered yours.” Jangjun blinks innocently. Of course he did – he couldn’t forget it, no matter how much he tried to tell himself you were probably dead in the weeks after you disappeared –

“You’ve changed,” you snap, though he can see the beginnings of a smile lifting your lips. Curved, knife-like, but familiar in its snark.

Beautiful.

He smirks. “Did I become more handsome?”

“How did you become a royal guard with a mouth as stupid as this?”

“My pretty face and sparkling personality.” Jangjun grins. “Mind taking the knife off my neck? It’s a little hard to breathe.”

In response, you press it in harder, eyes growing dark. Oops, wrong thing to say. “Tell me where they are,” you reply conversationally, “and maybe, in the spirit of old friendship, I’ll kill you quickly.”

Jangjun fights for breath as more blood drips down his neck. The blade in his side is digging deeper, too. Damn, you’re good. “How about in the spirit of old friendship – ow, that hurts – how about you just let me go?”

All traces of a smile leave your lips. The glint in your eye disappears fully, leaving behind only a wild, desperate darkness that Jangjun hasn’t seen before.

That’s different.

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid,” you say. “Now, if you don’t tell me right now –”

“Behind you,” Jangjun warns.

You scoff. Damn it. “You seem to think I’m the same idiot from when we were back in the orphanage. That’s almost offensive.”

“Well, it was worth a try.” He shrugs as best he can with your blades in his skin and back pressed against the trunk. “And I’m sure you aren’t all that offended. Are you going to get on with it, now?”

Your eyes narrow. You shift your stance. The knife tightens against his side, but in that one second of shifting, the other lifts just slightly off his throat –

Jangjun hooks his leg around your knee and you buckle, blade dropping from his neck just long enough for him to escape your hold and dart away, scooping up his fallen sword. You snarl, already following, but Jangjun isn’t interested in fighting. He’s only running away.

And, just as he hoped, he’s a little faster.

“See you soon, Y/N!” he yells, sprinting into the darkened forest. Moonlight barely shines through the dark foliage – somehow, he’s certain, you won’t take the risk of following. You’ll hang back, wait until day, track him, and strike when he seems most vulnerable.

He almost misses your words in reply.

“Count on it.”

They send shivers up his spine.

. . . . .

By the time of your next encounter with Jangjun, you have allowed several things to settle in your mind that you didn’t have the time to process during your last fight. You mull them over, one by one, as you walk around the marketplace, picking up the things you need.

First, and most importantly, Jangjun’s good. Too good. Not to say you couldn’t take him – if it weren’t night, you feel reasonably confident that you could’ve followed and taken him down – but you did not realize royal guards were trained to this caliber.

Not your fault. Missions rarely force you to tangle with royalty or their guards – this is a special case. But even then, to have a guard at the same level as some weaker assassins, possibly even on par with you…

“Shouldn’t be too difficult, no?” Your employer’s words echo through your mind. “The royal guard may give you some trouble, but not more than you can handle.”

Your fingers tighten around the handle of your bag. You underestimated him last time. You thought he was still the same boy you left back at the orphanage. You won’t make the same mistake again.

Second, bar his fighting skills, Jangjun is still the same snarky asshole from the orphanage when you two were teens. His brand of humor is unique – it stuck with you through your early days working up through the ranks, even when you went through your grueling training – and it proves that the guard you fought with is the boy you were forced to leave, even more than the smiling eyes that still mark his “pretty face.”

Well, he does have a pretty face. You won’t deny that. That face has been pretty since you met him at the orphanage, pretty enough for your teenage heart to fall a little in love with, and it makes sense that it’s stayed pretty since then. But that same face will be six feet under by the time you’re finished with him, pretty or no, so you don’t dwell on it. You’ve been given a second chance to live, courtesy of your notoriously ruthless employer. No, in the face of such an opportunity, nothing matters, not old friends or even something more.

Your heart twists. Seriously, didn’t you lock those feelings away all those years ago? When you were certain you’d never see Jangjun again after too many failed escapes? It’s just a twist, though, not much more – hopefully the feelings have faded, even if they still exist.

You swallow. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Nothing matters anymore but you and your best friend – she’s all you have and you’re all she has. If she dies because you weren’t there to support her, because you let some old feelings get in the way, you… You don’t even know. All you do know is that you can’t waste this opportunity, not when two livelihoods depend on it, not just one.

The back of your neck prickles. You go back to examining threads, pushing thoughts of assassination away. This isn’t the time for murder, so which of these colors would your weaving friend enjoy?

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Speak of the devil.

Calmly, you pore through a few spools of thread in varying shades of blue, trying not to tense visibly. Of course you would meet Jangjun when you’re not actively following him at the moment – yes, you technically followed him here, tracking his traces along with two others to the town, but you didn’t come here with the expectation of completing your job immediately. It’s a respectable place, not the slums where anyone will look the other way should a murder come to pass, and besides, you’d like the trio to lower their guard a little before you strike next. You’re here to watch and observe, maybe catch a glimpse of the prince and see if you can haul him out before taking care of the other two. However indifferent the palace might be, you don’t enjoy killing more than necessary. Two murders is always better than three, unless in exceptional circumstances.

If Minho was the life in limbo, for example, you might choose to make that third murder after all.

The presence doesn’t leave, even as you pick out a few spools of thread in varying shades of blue. You remember your friend saying she was running out of the color, so this should suffice for another few months. Thanking the shopkeeper, you turn around, ignoring the boy who has now begun following you through the crowd.

He catches up quickly. “You know, it’s rude to ignore people when they speak to you.”

With a sigh, you turn around. “You know, it’s weird to come up and talk to an assassin who’s been hired to kill you. Usually, people stay away.”

“You won’t kill me here.” Jangjun’s eyes glitter with a certainty that almost unnerves you – how can he be so sure of what you will or won’t do after so many years apart? “Too crowded. Too many people. Too respectable. And besides, I have information.” His lips curl. “I’m valuable.”

“Oh really?” Your free hand slips up one of your sleeves just barely, letting a small knife slip between your fingers. Jangjun’s eyes widen a fraction when you press the tip to his side. “Keep walking. Keep smiling.”

He does.

“If I pushed this knife into you right now, you’d bleed out within seconds,” you whisper, nodding your head to a few people who pass. You place a hand on his shoulder in a fashion that might look intimate to passersby, but when your thumb reaches around to press a point on his neck, Jangjun stiffens. “If I pressed here just a little harder, you’d be dizzy enough that I’d have to carry you somewhere else, maybe, oh, because of heatstroke or a migraine, and what would happen to you then?”

Jangjun doesn’t say a word.

“Let’s not mention all the other pressure points I know that you might not, all the perfect places to stab someone so that they die with minimal blood flow, all the ways I could slam you down and knock you out if I was that pressed.” You remove the knife, twirling it once between your fingers in a flash of bright metal before tucking it back into your sleeve. “Don’t get too cocky, Jangjun. You seem to have forgotten I’ve been trained in ways to kill for years.” Your eyes narrow, the genial smile sliding off your face. “I’m not exactly the same teenager from the orphanage all those years ago.”

He looks at you. Scrutinizes your face, stares into your eyes. For some reason, even though you were the one holding a knife against him just seconds ago, it now feels like he has the upper hand.

“Eh,” he finally says, a pinch of color returned to his cheeks. “Maybe in that, you’re different, but don’t worry.” He winks. “Tragically, I think you’re still affected by this pretty face. Careful – it might just distract you into letting me go one day.”

You open your mouth to say something, then only scoff. It’s getting harder and harder not to let a smile spread your lips. You might not agree with Jangjun that you haven’t changed, but he definitely hasn’t. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with this keen a death wish. Why are you even talking to me?”

“I think that if you really wanted to kill me, you would’ve done it by now.” He looks at you out of the corner of his eye – less certain, now, but still decently sure. You’ll take it. “Why waste all this time talking?” His eyelids flutter obnoxiously. “Unless you really enjoy listening to the sound of my voice.”

“As if.” You snort. “But you’re right, this time.” A glint of metal purposely flashes from the inside of your sleeve. “I’m not planning to kill you just yet, not when it’s such a nice day, there are so many people, and most importantly, I just want to get some shopping done. So.” You look at him. “Why are you talking to me while I’m running errands?”

He looks at the bag in your other hand. “What are the threads for?”

“Threads?” You look down. “Oh, you noticed?”

Jangjun scoffs. “I was standing right behind you, it would’ve been a little difficult not to notice.”

“I have a friend who likes needlework,” you say. “She doesn’t always have the money to experiment, though, so I take her things when I can.” You smirk. “Even assassins have a little bit of a life, you know.”

Something unreadable – longing, wistful, more emotions than you have the time to decipher – flashes through Jangjun’s eyes. It’s gone almost as quickly as it comes, though, and you chalk it up to some old memory he never shared with you. “Well, it can’t just be murder all the time.”

“You’re right. Maybe you should’ve become an assassin instead of a royal guard,” you say. “Gotten snatched off the street and all instead of me.”

Jangjun’s face crumples. It’s fast, so fast you barely see it – even faster than that wistful longing present just seconds ago – but even though he’s mostly back to normal by the time you blink, there’s enough of a haunted look in his eyes for you to frown. “Jangjun?”

“What?” He looks at you, easy as ever.

Both of you have stopped in a sea of moving market-goers, you narrowing your gaze at him, Jangjun narrowing his eyes right back. The stare-down lasts several seconds, but when he doesn’t let up, you mentally shake your head. There’s no point in asking if he wants to hide it. Besides, you shouldn’t even care – he’s nothing but a target that you can’t kill just yet because he has information. The banter is fun, but in the end, one of you will be alive and the other dead.

You don’t plan to be the latter.

“Nothing,” you finally say. “Now go away. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, yes?” A smirk curls your lips. “I’ve got things to do, so watch that pretty face of yours before I decide to put it into the ground.” With that, you begin moving through the crowd.

“You think I’m pretty?” Jangjun calls.

You roll your eyes.

. . . . .

Freedom doesn’t last more than a few days.

Jangjun really had hoped for longer – hell, he spent a whole morning talking to you, making sure you weren’t out stalking his friends while they went on to the next town. The conversation stretched even longer than he thought it would – carried away by you threatening to publicly kill him, a thought that still makes his blood run a little cold, even if it warms with the reminder of your smile.

Your smile. Jangjun needs to stop thinking of it. Even when your lips are curved in a smirk and not a genuine grin, it brings back so many old memories he thought he’d successfully suppressed – bladed, dangerous, mischievous, like a crescent moon glinting in the sky –

(The last time Jangjun caught himself thinking that way, Joochan asked why he suddenly looked so constipated. His partner had to remind them they were on the run for them to finally shut up.)

But you’re good. Too good. And even though that knife-like smile brings back good memories, it conjures more fear than Jangjun is used to. He should expect the worst from you – it’s all you’ve shown, after all.

Still, he doesn’t expect to wake up to a shadow standing in the corner of the room in which they’re staying, blade poised over a sleeping gardener’s chest.

Jangjun leaps off the futon, silent save for the rustling of blankets. You turn around – at some point you’d gotten yourself a new face mask – but he’s already tackling you to the floor before he can register it, trying to wrench the knife from your fingers –

It whistles past his ear with a flick of your hand before thudding into the wooden wall. Jangjun freezes for the briefest second, by the gods, that came way too close to taking him out –

You flip him around, slamming his head against the floor so hard Jangjun can see stars. He struggles against your hold but you’re clearly not interested in him as a target, more focused on the gardener who’s now sitting up on the floor, eyes wide in the moonlight.

Jangjun catches your foot and pulls just as you lunge toward them, another knife flashing. “RUN!” he yells as you crash to the floor with a sharp yell, blade stuck in the wooden floorboards.

The gardener looks at Joochan, whose eyes have just blinked open as you kick back, releasing Jangjun’s hold around your ankle – he groans as your foot connects with his face but he still locks eyes with the gardener and snaps, “I SAID RUN!”

“GO!” Joochan yells, now fully awake as he takes in the mess of the room – a knife in the wall, Jangjun on the floor, an assassin beginning to sit up, sharp metal already flashing between their fingers – where do you keep your infinite supply of blades because Jangjun seriously wants to know – and finally the gardener slams the door open and footsteps begin pounding down the hall.

A hiss sounds in the darkness. Jangjun turns back to the dark mass rising from the floor, eyes glittering dangerously in the moonlight. “Interesting. Why is the prince so intent on keeping his kidnappers safe?” A knife twirls between your fingers. “Is it because you’re dead either way, with your captors or at the palace?”

Jangjun blinks. Dead either way?

“I was never kidnapped,” Joochan snarls, sword drawn even though the long blade won’t be of much use in such a small room. “Trust me, my life is better on the run than it ever was back in the palace.”

For the first time since Jangjun revealed his identity in that first fight, you look confused. The fire in your eyes fades, replaced with narrowed curiosity. “You ran away,” you state, eyebrows raised. “Well, that’s something I wasn’t told.”

Hope burns in Jangjun’s chest. Maybe you’ll stop following them now that you know the truth, that whatever the palace told you wasn’t true – maybe you’ll have sympathy, knowing that Joochan is running away from something worse –

The fire returns. “Then would you rather be dead, Prince, instead of my returning you to the palace alive?”

“Let him go,” Jangjun snaps before Joochan can respond. Betrayal buries itself deep in his heart – betrayal at what, he doesn’t know, you never promised to keep him alive or anything once you heard the true story (if you had, he would’ve told you everything within a heartbeat), but the cold detachment in your voice rubs him the wrong way – and he stands, placing himself directly in front of the prince. “Y/N, can’t you just have sympathy –”

Jangjun barely blocks your twirling knife. Metal clangs and your eyes bore into his as you bear down on his too-long sword. “Assassins aren’t trained to have sympathy,” you say, cold, unrelenting. The blade presses harder, screeching against his. “And even if I was different, my life isn’t the only one resting on this mission.”

Somewhere in the background, Joochan scoffs. Jangjun shoots him a warning look, but the prince has already opened his mouth. “What kind of cold-blooded killer protects anyone but themselves?”

All of the weight leaves Jangjun’s blade and suddenly he’s pressing against nothing but air. He falls to the floor, arms trembling, as you whirl around to face Joochan.

Jangjun should feel relief. You’re not holding the knife in a dangerous position. He’s also free from your overwhelming strength. But your voice…

Your voice drips with pure ice.

“Don’t presume to know anything about me, Your Highness,” you snarl. Jangjun rises – he needs to get Joochan away, needs to get him out of your line of vision, why did he have to say anything at all – but a blade thunks into the wood next to his hand and he freezes. You barely even looked at him. “Don’t presume that all cold-blooded killers have absolutely zero capacity for any warmth.” You take a step closer. Jangjun can only get up slowly, silently, pray that you don’t do anything to Joochan before he’s fully risen. “After all, knowing you have someone to protect makes it so much easier to kill, doesn’t it?”

Jangjun stands up, just as shouts and footsteps begin to pound at the end of the hall. “Y/N –”

“Oh, we have company,” you cut him off, eyes glittering like ice shards in wintertime. You step back from Joochan, thankfully, and hoist yourself onto the open window – shit, that’s where you must have come from. “Sadly, even I can’t fight an army alone. Mull on my words, Your Highness. It seems you have some people you’d like to protect – maybe we’ll understand each other better next time.”

“Doubtful,” Joochan snarls. Jangjun flinches at the animosity in his tone. “I don’t kill. Not if I can help it.” His words, full of anguished certainty, grate at Jangjun’s ears – he knows his prince is speaking of the curse.

It doesn’t seem to affect you in the same way. “But you would’ve killed me just now, wouldn’t you?” You turn away, letting a small shower of coins fall from your hand to the floor. “Pay the innkeeper for the damage, yeah? I’ll take responsibility – if you’d like to mention I was an assassin, of course.” Your eyes glint in the moonlight, nothing like anything Jangjun remembers. “I’ll be seeing you again.”

. . .

In hindsight, Joochan was a little too quiet while his partner was off sorting out the mess with the innkeeper, but Jangjun still doesn’t expect him to drag him away at the first opportunity and immediately snap.

“You knew them,” he hisses. “You knew them, Jangjun – you said their name. How?”

His hackles rise. All Jangjun has done this entire time is try to protect him, and now he wants to make a fuss over a name? “I wasn’t always a royal guard,” he snaps. “I had a life before I joined, and it wasn’t a savory life, either.”

“So how did you know them?” Joochan demands again. “An assassin?”

“They weren’t an assassin when I knew them at the orphanage!” Jangjun crosses his arms. Might as well give the full truth. “They just disappeared one day and I thought they were dead, but then they turned back up as… this.”

“Gods above,” Joochan mutters, putting his head in his hands. “And after all the times you’d fought them, you just conveniently forgot to tell me?”

“What – it wasn’t relevant!” Jangjun snaps. “What was I supposed to say to you? Oh, hey, I know the assassin who was sent after you because it totally matters –”

“You might’ve said something about their skill –”

“I did! Didn’t I come back injured that one time –”

“– can’t believe you know an assassin – they almost killed –”

“They’re not completely inhuman, Joochan –”

The prince snaps his head up, eyes blazing. “Really? So you bought all that bullshit about ‘protecting’?”

Jangjun feels his lips curl in anger. You may be an assassin now, but the protective streak hasn’t gone away – the look in your eyes was the same when you talked about your needlework friend as when you spoke to him, all those years ago. “No, I didn’t buy that bullshit about ‘protecting’,” he snarls, leaning forward. “Because there was nothing to buy. You never knew them – I did, once.”

Joochan scoffs. “It’s almost like you know them too well.”

Too well.

Jangjun’s fists clench at his sides. He can’t hurt a prince, can’t punch him, can’t slap him – he’s sworn to protect –

“I’ve spent all these months fighting off assassins for you,” he says lowly. “I killed people because you wouldn’t use your voice and I respected that. I made you two go up ahead as much as I could so that I would be more likely to die than both of you. I even talked to this same assassin for a whole morning and stalled them so you could get away – and now you’re going to insinuate that I have been working against you this entire time?”

Joochan’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t back down. Jangjun itches to punch him, to knock him over and yell –

“Are things fine over here?”

The voice of Joochan’s partner brings both of them back to the present. They look between them unflinchingly, arms crossed. Jangjun almost feels chastised. “We need to move before the assassin comes back.”

Bit by bit, Jangjun forces himself to untense. They’re right. The moon is still high, the stars still bright, and they don’t have anywhere to stay anymore – they need to start moving. “Fine.,” he says roughly, spinning towards the forest. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t speak to Joochan before morning comes.

. . . . .

Meeting Jangjun the next time feels different.

He’s alone, this time. Prince and gardener have probably gone up alone like they usually do. You grind your teeth – Jangjun may not quite be your equal in fighting, but he has a knack for staying one step ahead that you really hate – but you spring out anyway, knocking him to the ground.

“Oh, fuck off,” Jangjun gasps, barely dodging your slash. He rolls over and kick – you avoid his leg, leaping out of the way as he lashes out with his own sword. “Now?”

“Would you have preferred next week?” you snap. A knife tip slides between your fingers and you hold it up, watching him closely. “This has been dragging on long enough – wouldn’t you like to get out of this limbo sooner rather than later?”

“I’d say yes if I didn’t want to stay alive, but I do.” Jangjun’s lips curve, though the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It makes you blink – did something happen to him? “So, sadly, I’ll take limbo a little longer over death.”

“Of course,” you mutter. “That would make my job too easy.”

He lunges towards you in reply. You dance out of the way only just in time, frozen for a second because –

Jangjun doesn’t do offense. He hasn’t been on the offense, hasn’t made the first move in all the times you’ve fought.

Which means he’s now trying to kill you just as much as you’re trying to kill him.

Ah. So that’s what was different.

You bare your teeth, dodging another strike as you swipe under his arm. He hisses as your blade rips through flesh, blood dripping from his side onto the ground. “You know, you’d have an easier time staying alive if you gave up your royal duties and just left the prince to his own devices,” you say, nimbly whirling around as his sword flashes.

Jangjun’s eyes darken. You barely avoid his next hit. “He’s one of only a few I trust to help make life better for people like me.”

Blades clash. Sparks fly. You spin away, eyebrows furrowed. “People like you?”

He doesn’t mean orphans. That’s too generic. He would’ve said “people like us,” then – you fall under that category too, and Jangjun hasn’t forgotten. People like me…

Another person flashes through your mind, a seamstress forced to put her skill into peasant shirts and clothes when her fingers should be flying through colorful threads and shimmering silks, weaving stories into cloth and tapestries.

“I wish you didn’t have to hide,” you say. “Your art is more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.”

A bitter smile, fingers deftly embroidering a small piece of silk even as she looks at you. “People like me will always have to hide.”

People like me…

A memory returns of Jangjun, looking at the threads in your bag like they were something precious.

Your eyes widen. Gods, how did you not put it together before? “You’re a weaver.”

Jangjun freezes halfway across the clearing you two have torn up in your fight, fingers clenched so hard around his sword that you can see his knuckles turn white. “What, just another reason to kill me?” He laughs, cold, desperate – it chills your spine even more than your employer’s deadly gaze. Jangjun never laughs – laughed – that way. “Collect an additional reward for the murder of a weaver?”

You school your features. “All are equal in the eyes of death,” you quote, readying your knives. “And what makes you think that prince of yours will do shit to help you? His own family killed yours.”

He doesn’t move, though his jaw tightens, the rest of his body tensed to spring. “I don’t,” he finally says, voice sharp but with the slightest wobble at the edge.

The old urge to hold him close itches in your fingers. You clench your knives harder. The urge doesn’t leave.

“I don’t,” he repeats, “but he’s the closest thing I’ve got to hope. And…” His eyes meet yours, cold, betrayed. Any trace of a smile on his face has gone. “He’s one of the few who never left me.”

One of the few who never left me.

Who never left me.

Never left me.

You almost take a step back as the words pierce your chest. “You – you think I meant to leave? You think it was my fucking fault I disappeared?”

Jangjun doesn’t flinch. “Do you know how much it fucking hurt when you left?” he snarls. “It might not have been your fault, but you still left – and you know that my sister disappeared too, how do you think I felt when I’d just convinced myself you were dead and then you came back like – like this?”

“You think it was all sunshine and rainbows for me?” you spit. “Seriously? You think I didn’t nearly get myself killed all four times I tried to escape? You think I didn’t try to convince myself that you were dead too just so I’d give up that stupid hope that you were still alive – and then I come back to see you as one of my targets, someone I’m supposed to kill – you think that was fine for me, too?”

He holds your gaze. “You honestly never seemed to have a problem with it.”

Shit. Gods, why did you say anything at all? Why didn’t you close your mouth – now he knows, now he fucking knows how much it initially hurt to realize just who you had to kill in order to keep someone else alive –

Too late. The words are already out of your mouth, Jangjun has interpreted them, and you don’t know what to say in response. “I do have a problem with it,” you finally say. “But I have a new life now.” You stare into eyes that once used to keep you alive. “And I’m not going to give it up for anything.”

Not for anything.

Not even for you.

Jangjun laughs, short, brief. “You’d die for this friend you have, wouldn’t you?”

This time, it’s your turn to hold his gaze. “In a heartbeat.”

Wind whistles through the trees. Then Jangjun breaks the silence, his voice low, fractured, almost broken. “There was a time when you would’ve died for me, I think.”

Your heart twists. Yes, there was a time, a time when you were younger and more naïve, just another orphan of many at the overcrowded orphanage, when you would’ve died for Jangjun. But such a time never came, not until now.

When it’s already too late.

“We’ve both changed, Jangjun.” You raise your knives. “We both have different people we want to protect.”

His gaze shatters for a moment before it turns flinty, cold. “For the record,” he says softly, “there was a time when I would’ve died for you, too.”

Blades meet in a crash of metal and sparks.

. . . . .

The gardener’s song isn’t as strong on wounds as it is with plants, but Jangjun welcomes any last bit of respite from the pain that he can get. At least the blood has stopped flowing, even if the cuts still sting.

His head hurts more than the wounds do, anyway.

Jangjun sits awake in the alley, staring at the sky of stars. He only barely got away from you, leading you out of the forest and into the town before ducking into the first open place he could find, some old tavern full of seedy people. No one gave him a second glance – people walk into bars injured and bloody all the time, apparently – and he’d waited with his heart in his throat, praying his instincts were right, that you wouldn’t be waiting for him outside and that you wouldn’t follow him to where Joochan has promised to meet him, an alley they’d found when the prince had had to come here to visit one time.

You didn’t follow, as far as Jangjun knows. You never popped out of the shadows to ram a blade through his chest, never dropped down from a roof to slit his throat. For all your bravado, you always seem to take the hard way of killing him – was it that foolish of him to believe you didn’t want to kill him?

But if you weren’t lying, knowing that you have him as a target hurts you, too. You just have other people you care about more.

Jangjun doesn’t think you were lying. That’s not the type of thing someone says as a lie in the middle of a fight. But now, as he’s beginning to realize just how different you are from the teenager he remembered at the orphanage, how can he trust what he thinks?

Gods. Jangjun buries his head in his stinging hands. One of the cuts has probably opened up again.

Why is it so hard to accept that you’ve changed?

Something shifts. Jangjun’s head whips up, ready to dodge a flash of silver in the dark –

It’s only Joochan, startling awake from some nightmare or another. His eyes blink open with a gasp, glittering in the moonlight, and then he winces, rubbing his neck. Jangjun hears a hiss of pain and meets Joochan’s eyes out of habit.

Discomfort crawls up his spine. They haven’t spoken much since that last night at the inn where his gardener nearly died (they would’ve died, definitely, if Jangjun hadn’t woken up at the sound of light footsteps), and neither of them has apologized. But Jangjun doesn’t look away and Joochan doesn’t either.

The prince speaks first. “I’m sorry, Jangjun.”

Jangjun blinks. “Come again?”

“I’m sorry,” he says louder.

A mocking grin curves Jangjun’s lips. “I know, I just wanted to hear you say it again.”

“You –” Joochan scoffs, exasperated, but Jangjun detects a little bit of fondness that lightens his heart. “Gods, you’re a nightmare.”

“And yet you keep me around.”

“For some reason, yes.” Joochan smiles slightly. “But really. I am sorry.” He swallows visibly, eyes still meeting Jangjun’s even if he can tell how hard it is. “It was out of line for me to say that you were anything but loyal. I was angry that they’d almost died, but… that doesn’t excuse it.”

“It doesn’t,” Jangjun agrees. “But I get it. And I’m sorry, too.” The grin falls off his lips as memories of a bladed smile, sharp eyes glinting in the moonlight flash through his mind. “It obviously doesn’t look good that I know an assassin, of all types of people, especially the one who’s after us.”

“You don’t need to apologize for knowing someone.”

Maybe I do, because I cared about them.

Cared.

Jangjun swallows the bitter taste in his throat. He still cares about you. It’s just…

What would he do if it was a choice between you dead, or Joochan?

The answer comes immediately. Joochan. For all the reasons he told you and more – Joochan is good, a truly good person. Even though he technically holds no royal status anymore, he has hope that the prince will be able to bring about some change for weavers, or at least provide a safe haven for him and any others he might find. He deserves Jangjun’s loyalty and more. Jangjun knows he would die for him.

His heart thumps, painfully. There was a time when he would’ve died for you. But…

“You’d die for this friend you have, wouldn’t you?”

“In a heartbeat.”

Maybe he’s changed more than he thought, too.

“Even then, they’re still out to kill us.” He looks up at the cold crescent moon, previously a comfort, now a reminder of your smile. “And you have to know that my loyalty is to you, not to them.”

Regardless of how much I care for them.

Joochan looks like he wants to say something, but he stops himself. His eyes rove over Jangjun’s face, leaving him feeling too open, too vulnerable – what if Joochan sees his struggle? What if he sees that even though Jangjun speaks the truth, his heart screams that it’s a lie?

But nothing comes of it. The prince just dips his head slightly in acknowledgement. “Thank you.”

On any other day, Jangjun would just flippantly say no problem. He doesn’t like to deal with sensitivity and emotions the way Joochan does, after all. But there is a problem. A lot of them, actually. So he just half-smiles and says, “You’re welcome.”

There will come a time when you two will fight again. Jangjun has never wanted to kill you before. He still doesn’t now.

But if he has to, he will. He will.

Because he has other people he needs to protect, too.

. . . . .

You’re back home.

Or almost. You weren’t born here, if the orphanage owners were telling the truth (they had no reason to lie, you’re pretty sure). But since the day you were snatched off the street, this has been where you spent the majority of your time. You don’t know why the prince and his little posse have come out here to hide, but at least it gives you a chance to see your friend before you have to move on again.

“What happened to you?” is the first thing she says when you swing by her stall. Her nose wrinkles in mock disgust, but you can see the concern in her face when you drop your bag of things on her counter, wincing when the strap digs slightly into one of your cut fingers.

“Nice to see you too,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “Is that the kind of greeting you give a friend who’s brought you all this nice stuff?”

“Y/N, honestly,” she says, eyeing the bag. “You don’t need to spend all this on me, it’s really fine –”

“Just take it,” you say, half-smiling. “You know I’m not going to stop giving you stuff no matter what you say.”

Because it’s an apology. An apology for keeping so many truths from her – what you do, who you really are – and for putting her indirectly in danger. Most assassins know to stay far, far away from here or you’ll rip them limb from limb (literally – Minho once tried to mess around with you and that was the only time you’ve ever seen him scared of you), but there’s always a chance that someone whom you’ve wronged will come back for revenge. And what then?

But you haven’t told her. You can’t – all the breath disappears from your throat the second you even think about it. Because what if you lose her, too, the only constant you’ve had since Jangjun, all those years ago?

Your lips twist. Don’t think about him.

“Y/N?”

Too late, you realize you’ve been staring into the distance for a while. “Sorry.” A smile plasters itself back onto your face, only slightly forced. “Zoned out. Thinking about work.”

The concern comes back in full force. Even if she doesn’t know exactly what you do, she knows it isn’t exactly legal – the stuff you buy her, the money you leave at her doorstep doesn’t speak of perfectly lawful causes, after all. She knows it’s dangerous, knows it’s not easy work, but you can handle her concern as long as you don’t have to explain the truth.

“Hey, it’s not bad.” You smile wider, crinkling your eyes to make it genuine. “Just a little rough, recently.” That’s putting it lightly. “How have you been?”

“I mean, I’m not bankrupt yet.” Her lips curl sardonically. “Thanks to you, really. But I’m staying afloat.” She looks around cautiously, then down at the several spools of thread and lengths of cloth sitting at the bottom of the bag. “Weaving… it keeps me sane.”

The gratitude shining in her eyes makes everything worth it, the lies, the pain. She deserves to be this happy and so much more. “Always glad to be of service,” you say, breathing a sigh of relief when your voice doesn’t crack at the end. “Do you have time to take a short walk?”

She looks up and down the small marketplace, whose activity has begun to wind down with the approaching end of the day. “Probably? Give me a moment, let me pack up a little.”

You weave through the thinning crowds together, talking as the sun sets further. Words come and go in waves, natural, and for the first time in days, you feel yourself relaxing as you finally put your mind to things other than murder and boys you knew at orphanages in years past.

But then her eyes fix on a spot in the distance and she stops talking mid-sentence. You furrow your eyebrows, following her gaze – she never stops talking about her latest miniature tapestries or clothing designs –

Your eyes comes to rest on a familiar head of black hair as it rushes through the throng.

All of a sudden, the thoughts of murder and boys come back, pounding every corner of your skull. But that’s normal, and you can deal with it – you can’t not expect to see the people that you’re stalking in the same town, after all.

What isn’t normal is how your best friend looks like she’s seen a ghost.

You call her name once, twice, three times before she finally shakes her head and responds. “Sorry,” she says, voice thin. “I saw… I thought I saw someone I knew.”

You look back, pretending like you didn’t see the exact same person. “Who?”

“Never mind, it doesn’t matter.” She shakes her head again, like she’s trying to convince herself. “I just…” A short laugh falls from her lips, bitter, broken. “I thought I saw my brother. Well, a grown-up version of him.”

Brother. She has a brother – you already knew that – but she never described him, never told you his name. All you know is that he was a weaver too and that they weren’t blood-related, her family took him in when his was killed and after her parents were executed, they somehow got separated and she never saw him again. Your heart broke for her the first and only time she ever told you the story – it breaks again, even now, to know that she thought she saw her brother in Jangjun’s face.

Unless –

Your eyes widen.

Jangjun had a sister. He had a sister who disappeared when he was young, after his parents were killed – he never saw her again –

No. You try to breathe. No, it’s not possible, it can’t fucking be possible – there is no way Jangjun is your best friend’s long lost brother, the brother she thought was dead all of these years –

He’s a weaver. He’s a weaver. It’s half the reason he’s stuck by the prince for so long even when he decided he’d had enough to do with royal life – Jangjun is a weaver and your best friend’s long lost brother was a weaver too.

“What – what was your brother’s name?” you ask softly, trying to keep the shake out of your tone. You pray for a name that isn’t the one pounding through your head, the name that gave you the courage to attempt four escapes before you convinced yourself the owner was dead, the name that’s haunted you for the past few months as you try to kill its owner and the two others he’s trying so hard to protect –

“Jangjun,” she says softly, eyes sparkling in the last glow of afternoon sunlight. “His name was Jangjun.”

Your heart drops like a stone.

. . .

You’re not exactly sure when you start breathing again, but luckily, it’s before your friend has the chance to see that there’s something wrong with you, too. She’s preoccupied with her own thoughts, which gives you a bit of time to compose yourself. “Hey, are you all right?” you ask, hoping your voice doesn’t tremble. “Maybe we should go back.”

“I – yeah. Sorry.” She looks down, shoulders sagging. “I was just rattled. Sorry that this got cut short.”

“Hey, shut up.” You nudge her slightly, curving the corners of your lips slightly even as your heart drags down, down, down. “If you’re not feeling well, it’s completely fine. I’ll hopefully be back in a couple of months, anyway – we can talk more then.”

You help her pack up the stall, walk everything back to her small house. At the door you bid her goodbye, and after tossing a pouch of coins inside, you run off into the forest, laughing as she yells fond obscenities behind you.

The laughter dies away the second you know you’re far enough away that she can’t hear you.

Jangjun is your best friend’s brother. Your best friend is Jangjun’s sister. They’re long lost siblings, siblings who loved each other, who miss each other like the earth misses the sky, who both believe the other is dead…

Your back hits a tree and you slide down against the bark. You don’t know. You don’t fucking know. You could be wrong. All of this is speculation, none of it might be true, she could have spoken of a different Jangjun with black hair, someone who isn’t your Jangjun, loyal guard to the prince, one of the targets you’ve been assigned to kill because you kill to keep yourself and your best friend alive –

Your head snaps up. She needs to stay alive. She has to. She’s all you have, no one else – there’s no one else you have, no one since they took you away from Jangjun and made you into this –

You have to kill him. You have to, or else you’ll be dead and there’ll be no one to support or protect your friend. Her business will fail and she’ll be forced to go into the dirty lines of work you dabble in, or worse, people who hated you might go after her. This is your fault – you cared about her so much that you couldn’t leave and now people know she’s precious to you, so you have to stay alive just to protect her from dangers she doesn’t even know, like assassins –

The thought of Minho getting anywhere near her makes you shudder.

You have to kill Lee Jangjun, her brother, in order to keep her alive.

A dry, strangled sob escapes your lips. Who’s more important? Sister or brother? Both mean things to you, one a lifeline when you were a teenager, the other a lifeline now, one whom you loved as in a romance, the other whom you love as a dearest friend – who do you choose? How can you choose?

Your fists clench, nails digging into your palms. You’ve come so far, fought Jangjun so many times – even though you slipped up once, you’ve made it clear you will kill him for this best friend whom he doesn’t know is his sister. He’s tried to kill you, too – his loyalty to the former prince outweighs whatever he might or might not have felt for you.

You’re on even ground. Even ground, you tell yourself, even as the crescents in your skin begin to burn with blood. One of you will kill the other, no matter what – so all you need to do is keep this secret to yourself.

Another secret. It burns on your tongue. Another secret you’ll have to keep from your best friend, besides your job and how much danger it puts her in.

You swallow, staring up at the sky. It doesn’t matter. Once Jangjun is dead, it’ll only make true the false certainty she has in her mind. Jangjun doesn’t even have a clue his sister is alive – he’ll never know. Only you will know, and even if the secret eats you alive, you’ll keep it until the day you die. That way, it only hurts you. No one else.

The crescent moon hears your silent vow.

I’ll kill him. I swear I will, or I’ll die trying.

I have to.

. . . . .

Everything hurts. Everything either aches with a sore muscle or stings and burns with a bloody slice but instinct drives Jangjun to block your two knives as they arc down towards his chest, glinting coldly in the moonlight –

His teeth rattle in his jaw at the impact, the sound of metal against metal screeching in his ears. It takes all of his strength to keep his stance, to push back against you bearing your blades down even harder. Your eyes glint as they stare into his, wild, feral – he’s never seen you look like this before, not even when Joochan insulted you so many months ago at the inn.

Has it only been months? To Jangjun, it feels like you’ve been back for years, chasing him with your two twin knives, smaller blades flying from your fingers and ripping apart his skin –

You whip your blades away and Jangjun collapses from the sudden lack of weight. One stabs down, down and he rolls away, barely avoiding it as it plunges into the ground. Dirt stings one of his open wounds but Jangjun grits his teeth, rises on one knee to stand up again – he can do it, he has to do it, he has to because Joochan barely got a head start and if Jangjun doesn’t keep you occupied, you’re going to catch up and kill him –

His head slams against a tree trunk so hard he sees stars. Pain blooms from the back of his skull and he groans involuntarily, eyes closing as his sword slips out of limp fingers, falling to the ground.

Cold, sharp metal rests under his chin. Panting breaths puff against his face. “Tell me where they are,” you hiss, “and I’ll make it quick.”

Jangjun almost laughs. This is like déjà vu from the first time you fought, the first time he saw you since they took you away from the streets all those years ago. Only this time, there’s no banter.

He could change that.

“Oh, come on, Y/N,” he whispers, the corners of his lips rising briefly in a smirk. “Don’t you know how much I hate tree bits in my hair?”

Your eyes look shiny. Jangjun would almost believe they were teary if he didn’t know for certain you would kill him in a heartbeat, even if it hurt. You might cry later, but not now. Not now.

But does he know even that? Both of you have changed – all of his intuition could be wrong.

He’s right, this time. If those are tears in your eyes, they don’t fall. “Don’t worry.” Your voice doesn’t even shake – if you hadn’t said it yourself, Jangjun would have no problem believing you truly didn’t care that you had to kill him, your childhood best friend. “I’ll pick them out of your scalp when you’re dead, just so you look nice at the funeral.”

“Would you cry then?” Jangjun asks, voice barely a whisper. The knife is too close. “Would you?”

Your gaze shutters. Maybe you’re about to cry. Maybe you’re holding back tears. But you don’t cry, don’t sob, don’t even say anything, so Jangjun doesn’t know, and he’ll never know, anyway, because that knife is going to be stained all over with his blood in seconds. “Tell me where they are,” you repeat. “I’ll find them, anyway – you might as well give yourself a quick and easy death.”

The pain in Jangjun’s head is making it increasingly hard to think. “No.”

That wild, feral look comes back into your eyes, splintering your pupils in the pale moonlight. The blade presses in deeper and your lips thin, no longer stretched in the knife-like curve Jangjun fell in love with – is still in love with –

Deeper. Deeper. Jangjun fights for breath. “Why won’t you just get it over with? Is this your idea of making me suffer?”

Deeper. Deeper. “Seriously –” he gasps – “come on, Y/N.”

Deeper. Deeper. He’s surprised you haven’t broken skin. “I’m not going to say shit –”

With a sound that’s more animal than human, a sob mixed with a guttural cry, the knife begins to drag and Jangjun gasps, ready for the searing pain of skin ripping beneath metal –

The blade drops to the ground and Jangjun follows its path, sinking down without your weight to hold him up anymore. You stumble away, not even flinching when the knife falls dangerously close to your foot, eyes squeezed tightly shut as you take another step back, and then another. Your eyes glitter in the moonlight, the wild, feral look replaced by something even scarier.

Broken, bloody glass. Shards of something completely beyond repair.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” he asks, words wheezing, half air.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “You’re too valuable. You have information.”

Both reasons he gave so many months ago in a crowded marketplace under the sun, just before you pressed your knife into his side to show him just how much you’d changed. He didn’t want to believe it then – didn’t allow himself to believe it then – but now he does. You’ve changed.

But you bought thread – blue thread, he remembers – for your needlework friend. Spoke of her with a familiar smile. Something’s stayed the same, that protective streak. That giving streak.

His lips curve into the trembling semblance of a smirk. “You sure those are the only reasons?”

You snatch up your knife with a grace that belies your broken gaze, positioning the blade between your fingers. But you don’t throw.

“Go.”

Jangjun blinks. “What –”

“Go.” The word rips itself from your throat, grates in Jangjun’s ears – it roars and shrieks all at once, some unimaginable pain flaying his bloody skin. “Before I change my fucking mind.”

He scrambles up, pressing a hand to the wound in his side. You don’t move as he picks up his sword, sheathes it – not a muscle twitches even as he stumbles away between the trees, fleeing the unknown pain in your voice.

Your shattered eyes follow him into the dark.

. . . . .

There are only two knives up your sleeves today, another two sheathed in plain sight at your waist. You lean against the trunk of a tree, fingers clenching a folded, crumpled sheet of paper. Your tired eyes slip shut as the sun begins its descent into the sky.

You couldn’t kill him. You thought you could. Swore you would.

But three months ago, in the forest bordering this very town, you proved yourself wrong.

Your eyes squeeze even more tightly closed. Even though only paper rests in your hand, you can feel the handle of a blade against your palm, pressing it into his neck as blood began to bead on the skin. Moonlight glinted off the metal, off the red streaks painted on his skin – wounds that you had wrought with your own hands. You’d already caused so much pain. Why couldn’t you just end it right there?

“You’re too valuable. You have information.”

Bullshit, even to your own ears. But you didn’t want to say the truth, didn’t want to reveal anything more than you already had by admitting that one time that it hurt you to know he was your target.

“You sure those are the only reasons?”

You take a long, shuddering breath. It’s been three months and those words still haunt you.

How differently could that conversation have gone?

No, maybe you’d say. No, they’re not. There are too many more.

And then, bloodied and exhausted, Jangjun might still give you that tongue-in-the-cheek smirk as best he could and say, like my pretty face?

Or maybe not. You swallow. Maybe you’d have hurt him too much for him to joke like that.

But if he did, you’d shake your head and say no. Not his pretty face – or at least, not just his pretty face. The person who lies beneath that pretty face means more to you than the eyes, the nose, the lips all by themselves.

Then why?

Because…

Because you hurt him. You hurt her. In the process of trying not to hurt one, you hurt them both and even yourself, because all you know how to do is cause pain. All you know how to do is hurt. You slice skin and plunge knives into throats and watch blood drip from cold bodies because that’s all you know, even if you hate it. That’s how you live. It’s all you know.

No, it isn’t, some little part of you tries to argue. Maybe that’s the part that wants you to be the same as that teenager at the orphanage, the teenager Jangjun wanted you to be. You know how to care.

Your first instinct is to deny it. No, you don’t know how to care – if you did, you wouldn’t hurt people so much, would you? But you do. You even told the prince you did. You do know how to care – it’s just that the way you care brings pain to those you love. Always. Without fail.

You care. You fucking care. You cared about your friend so much that you couldn’t stay away even if it would keep her safe. You cared about her so much that you tried to make up for your inabilities with gifts of thread and silk and money. You cared about her to the point that you resolved to kill her brother so you would stay alive to keep protecting her from the danger you keep putting her in.

But you cared about her brother, too. You cared about Jangjun enough that you couldn’t kill him even for her, couldn’t kill him to keep you alive, couldn’t kill him to keep her safe. Somehow, you still cared for that stupid royal guard even years after you first separated, enough that you couldn’t do what you’d been trained to do at all costs. Murder.

You bury your head in your hands. Gods, life would be so much easier if you didn’t fucking care.

But you do. You care. Deeply. Just in all the wrong ways.

And the only way to distance yourself from that is to remove yourself entirely from the equation. No matter whether you live or die – and it’s more likely that you’ll die – you need to be gone.

Or you’ll only hurt them more.

You open your eyes, glancing up through the trees. The orange of the afternoon has finally dipped below the horizon, the first stars begun to twinkle in the sky. Hm. Maybe he isn’t coming. Not that you can blame him, thought – after all you put him through, no wonder he doesn’t trust you.

Then leaves rustle under soft footsteps, and Jangjun appears in a halo of hazy orange-gold.

You stare at him, eyebrows furrowed, lips drawn, shoulders tense. Even if he’s here, he definitely doesn’t trust you. It hurts, a little bit, but you suppose it’s what you had coming. After all, you were the one who was trying to convince him this whole time that you were dangerous. That you could kill him.

“I got your note,” he says flatly. His eyes glance over your figure, take in the two knives belted at your sides. “Almost thought you’d given up, honestly.”

The dryness in your throat makes it hard to swallow. You almost want to say something like I’m not here to commit murder, but even in your head, the words fall flat. After all you’ve done, you wouldn’t even trust yourself.

But if he thought you were going to do that anyway, why show up in the first place?

Doesn’t matter. You open your mouth to ask the rehearsed question. What was your sister’s name? The words sit on the tip of your tongue, ready to spill into the evening air –

“Do you think you could have killed me?”

Jangjun blinks. His eyebrows wrinkle further, though not with mistrust – just confusion. Then something else. But he doesn’t say anything.

You curse internally. “Never mind,” you mutter, turning away. “That’s not what I wanted to ask.” Even if I wanted to know the answer. You swallow. “What was your sister’s name?”

“Why?”

“Humor me.” You dare to glance back. “Just the first name.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then a familiar name falls from his lips, edged with pain.

You close your eyes. Confirmed. “She’s alive.”

A sharp intake of breath. More silence. “You’re lying.” Two words composed of disbelief, anger, betrayal…

Hope.

The corners of your lips lift, just barely. Jangjun deserves a bit of hope. “No, I’m not.”

“Is this your idea of a game?” he snaps. “Because, Y/N, this hurts more than anything you’ve ever done to me already.”

Ouch. But deserved.

You open your eyes. “I’m not lying,” you repeat. “And I didn’t know she was your sister until several months ago.” Before I broke down and tried to kill you for the last time.

“Fine. Let’s say you aren’t lying.” Jangjun crosses his arms. The betrayal in his face cuts deeper than any knife you’ve ever handled. “Why are you telling me? What kind of leverage do you want?”

“I’ll take you to her.” You pause, watching his eyes widen. “On one condition.”

His gaze immediately narrows. “I’m not saying shit.”

“You don’t have to.” You lift up the folded piece of paper that’s been slowly crumpling itself under your sweaty fingers this whole time, tearstained, messy, but truthful. You’ve only written the truth in its lines. No lies.

Your fingers shake the longer you look at the letter. She’ll hate you after reading it. She’ll hate you for everything you’ve done, even if it was for her, and the thought of your best friend hating you so much makes you want to rip the paper to pieces –

No. It doesn’t matter if she hates you. You’ll be gone by the time she’s thought of anything to say to you – if she wants to say anything at all.

You hold out the letter. “Give this to her. Don’t read it unless she allows you.” You force yourself to hold Jangjun’s gaze. “And when she’s done, take her somewhere far from here. As far away as possible.”

His eyes narrow. “You didn’t hurt –”

“Never.” At least, not in the way you think.

Jangjun takes the folded paper between two pinched fingers and slides it into a pocket. “Where is she?”

“Are you going to do what I said?” you ask.

A moment passes. Then he nods. “Yes.”

You turn around and step out of the trees, into the town. “Follow me.”

Evening dims to night as you walk through empty alleys and streets, Jangjun several paces behind. Not once do you turn around to make sure he’s following – you can hear his footsteps, and somehow, instinctively, you’re sure he won’t lose this tentative, temporary trust in you, not now.

Or so you hope.

You weave through the final buildings, emerging on a dusty street lined with dry, wild grass. The street ends not far ahead, but you push through the overgrown grass until you stand in front of a small house, windows boarded shut in a way that makes it look abandoned, but the faintest glow of warm light peeks through cracks in the wooden slats.

You stop. “She lives here.”

Jangjun pauses beside you. Enough moonlight shines from the sky that you can see the painful hope in his eyes. “How do you know?”

What will he think if you tell him the truth?

You clench your fists, hard. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t fucking matter what he thinks. He’s not going to see you again after this. “She was my friend.”

He’s looking at you. You know he is. His gaze bores into you like one of your knives digging into skin – he wants you to look back at him.

You don’t. “Go.”

One foot steps forward. Then another. Slowly, step by step, he walks up to the front of the house, as though in a trance, until he stands in front of the door.

And doesn’t do anything.

By all the gods. “Maybe you should knock,” you hiss in a carrying whisper. “You know, the thing where you hit the door with your hand.”

He looks back. It’s too dark to see his full expression, but it doesn’t look hateful, like you expected. Instead, he just lifts his hand and knocks.

Warm light spills onto the ground, darkened only by a figure in the doorway. She freezes – so does Jangjun –

Then she pulls him into one of her tight hugs that you’ve been on the receiving end of several times. You watch as Jangjun’s arms wrap around her too, slowly but with no less strength, and two figures twist into one with a love and care that you know you can only dream of.

Bittersweet coats your tongue. Yes, you can only dream of giving such care, much less receiving it. But at least you’ve done a little to alleviate all the pain you’ve caused, whether it be intentional or not, and there’s nothing more for you to do. Except stay out of their bubble of happiness.

You pull your hood over your head, turning away. This isn’t your happiness to partake in. Neither of them will notice you leaving, anyway, not even Jangjun – they’re still in their own world.

A little smile spreads your lips as you walk forward into the night.

By the time either of them looks back, you plan to have disappeared.

. . . . .

For the first few weeks, Jangjun tries to find you. You can’t have gone far, at least not in several days – he scours the town for you, then when they move, he searches the next town again and again until his sister sits down and makes him see reason, that if you don’t want to be found, you won’t be found. Besides, if you were still hiding out here, he would’ve at least glimpsed you already.

So he gives up his search. His sister is right – whatever happens, until you want someone to find you, no one will. Instead, he spends the days, weeks, months learning and relearning his sister, watching and accommodating and teaching himself how to be an older brother once more. Jangjun tries not to make the same mistakes he did with you – they’ve both changed, of course, even more so than you considering his sister was a child when they were separated, not even a teenager – but he still messes up, inevitably. So does she. Still, though, they learn. Together.

It’s more than anything Jangjun ever could have wanted.

But there’s still an emptiness in his chest, an emptiness he tries to fill with teasing his sister and laughing as she snaps back at him, learning new weaving patterns at the loom by her side. Joochan tells him he looks happier several months later, and Jangjun feels happier, too. There’s no denying that. But something eats at him as time passes. He knows what it is. He just doesn’t want to say it.

He’s waiting for you.

Jangjun doesn’t get it, not at first. He doesn’t understand what drives him out into the town to search for you from dawn to dusk, until someone finds him and drags him back. You tried to kill him – got close several times, too close – and you knew about his sister for three months before saying anything. You’re not the same teenager Jangjun fell for back at the orphanage, you’re someone different. More dangerous.

Yet he still wakes up from dreams of your curved, knife-like smile, and is disappointed when only a cold crescent moon meets his eyes instead.

When his sister finally lets him read your last letter, though, he understands. Through the tearstains and blurred words that mark the paper, he understands your motives, your actions, your apologies. He understands why you did what you did, he understands why you hurt people for the sake of helping others, he understands your overwhelming urge to protect those who’ve shown you kindness because that’s what he does, too, just in a less destructive way – a way that you could learn, if you ever came back.

“They meant a lot to you,” his sister says when his eyes finally lift from the letter. “Didn’t they?”

Jangjun can barely choke out the words to say you still mean a lot to him. Because even now, with all the parts that have changed, Jangjun still loves you, every part of you.

He doesn’t look for you, though, only waits. You don’t want to be found – your last apologies make that clear. You don’t even say goodbye in the end. It’s obvious you don’t expect any of them to want you back.

Jangjun does. He wants to take your scarred hands between his, lace his fingers with your own, tell you that he forgave you a long time ago and that he loved you, still loves you, with everything he has. So he waits, hoping you’ll return – because if the gods forced your paths to meet once after they diverged, there has to be a chance they’ll let it happen once more.

Then, one day, you return.

He almost misses it. It’s the middle of the night, only a waxing moon spilling pale light through the window, and if Jangjun hadn’t woken up to get some water, he wouldn’t have heard the soft thump of something hitting the ground just outside the house.

Frowning, he pokes his head outside. No one else is awake, so it couldn’t be any of them –

A familiar figure freezes in front of a small package placed by the door.

Jangjun’s eyes widen. It’s you but it can’t be you, you didn’t have that scar under your eye and you weren’t as thin as this –

“Y/N?”

You spin around and sprint away.

Jangjun stays still for a moment, blinking – you came back, you came back –

And now you’re running away.

He sprints into the trees, crashing through fallen leaves and branches that seem to materialize out of nowhere. You’re up ahead – he can hear your footsteps thudding over the fallen grass, see your faint outline in the moonlight – and he’s calling your name but you don’t reply with anything but panting gasps and – are you crying?

It’s almost comical how easily he catches up. Just months ago, you probably could’ve beaten him in a sprint, but now he grabs your arm before you’re even that deep into the trees, spinning you around so he can look at you, just look at you, look at a face he’s been waiting to see for almost a year –

You fight. You struggle in his grip, sobbing now, hitting him with your free hand until he takes that one too, wraps his fingers around yours to stop your fight. “Y/N, please,” he begs, trying to calm you. “I’m not going to hurt you, just –”

“I know that!” you yell, twisting in his grip. “I’m the one –”

A knife slips out of your sleeve, probably loose from your struggle. Its tip digs into Jangjun’s wrist before it drops to the ground.

Beads of blood well up on his skin, glistening in the moonlight. Jangjun stares at the tiny cut, at the thin river of red beginning to trickle down his skin.

You wrench yourself away from his slackened grip, tears blooming in your eyes. Jangjun reaches out again, tries to take your hand – “Y/N, it doesn’t even hurt, it’s fine –”

“It doesn’t matter!” you yell. “It doesn’t fucking matter! All I ever do – you were never going to hurt me.” Your breath gasps, heavy and uneven. “I’m the one who’s only ever going to hurt you.”

Jangjun’s heart cracks at your broken voice. “Y/N, stop.” He takes a step closer and tries not to feel hurt when you take a step back. “Please, just – are you okay?”

“Why do you care?” you snap. “I tried to kill you for over six months!”

“But you didn’t kill me,” he says, holding your gaze even as you try to look away. “You didn’t.”

“So what? I still tried –”

“I did too,” Jangjun interrupts. “I tried to kill you too.”

“But I’m worse,” you snap, words almost a sob. “I’m worse – I’ve killed so many people and some of them I don’t even regret, I try to care but when I do I only hurt the people I’m trying to care for –”

“That last time, you asked me if I would’ve killed you.” Jangjun reaches out. You flinch, but you don’t fight him this time when he takes your hands. “At one point, I swore I would’ve. But now I know I couldn’t.”

Something like a laugh rips itself from your throat, but it sounds more like a wheeze and a gasp and grates at Jangjun’s ears. “Are you stupid? Why wouldn’t you?”

“The same reason you couldn’t kill me.” He squeezes your limp, scarred hands. “Am I stupid for being in love with you?”

“Yes!” You try to tear yourself away again, but he keeps his grip. “Yes, you are, Lee Jangjun – I’m a murderer, a killer for hire, gods, I shouldn’t even have come back, this was such a fucking mistake –”

“Why did you come back?”

You bite your lip hard, as though debating whether or not to say something. Then steel flashes across your expression as you stare into his eyes. “I tried to find you,” you reply, voice tight, “because of that package I left by your door. Thread. Money. Gods, I don’t even remember what I put in there – I didn’t want any of it.”

Jangjun blinks. “Then what were you going to do?”

“I was going to just… leave. I’m a loose cannon.” You laugh, a cutting, brief sound. “I had a year to kill you. Then I didn’t. I’d failed my last assignment – it was either succeed with this one or die.”

His blood freezes. No wonder you were so set on your mission. “Y/N –”

“They’re dead.” Your voice is bleak. “I killed my employer. And several other assassins. Or they would’ve gone after you. And me. Again.”

Jangjun just stares. By all the gods, just how much did you go through in this past year?

“Now you know.” You try to tug your hands away again. “Why aren’t you letting go of me?”

That brings Jangjun back to the present. “Why would I?”

“You really are stupid,” you mutter. “Why do you want someone with all this blood on their hands to be anywhere near you?”

“You seem to think, that just because you’ve killed people and hurt others while trying to protect them, you’re evil,” Jangjun says slowly.

You snort. “Bingo!”

“You hurt yourself more.”

That takes you aback. “So what? I still hurt other people – I hurt you –”

“You’re not evil.” Jangjun forces you to look at him. “You’re just lost.”

“Broken,” you correct.

“Maybe,” he concedes. “But not unfixable.”

You fall silent.

“You’re not evil,” he repeats. “Not even unforgivable. I forgave you a long time ago. So did my sister. She misses you, you know.”

“Why –”

“You were there for her when no one else was,” Jangjun interrupts. “Not even me. You only ever tried to protect her, even if you didn’t always tell the whole truth.”

“Your prince probably doesn’t want to see me ever again,” you retort. “Doesn’t he mean something to you, too? He was there for you when I wasn’t.”

“He read the letter.” Jangjun runs a thumb over a thin line of scar tissue on your hand. The movement seems to soothe you. “And he said something that made me realize how lucky I really was.”

“Lucky?”

“I had people to care for and who cared for me,” he says. “Joochan, the second prince, several servants and other guards around the palace. You didn’t have anyone, did you? Except my sister, and even that was sporadic.”

A beat passes. You shake your head.

“He’s trying to understand,” Jangjun continues. “You know your struggle better than me, so you know better, but I think he’s at least on the way. His partner, the gardener – they already forgave you, too. Joochan’s just harder to crack, sometimes.”

Both of you fall silent, then, you probably trying to work through your thoughts, Jangjun trying to figure out what you’re thinking. Finally, you open your mouth. “What if I hurt you again?”

Jangjun’s heart crumbles at the waver in your voice. “You might,” he says. “But I might hurt you, too. We’re both learning, you know.” The corners of his mouth lift, slightly. “I’m still trying to transition from being a royal guard.”

“What are you now?” you ask.

He purses his lips, thinking. “A wood chopper. Gardener, occasionally. Cook. Weaver.”

“Your food is edible?”

Jangjun feels his heart lift at the slight teasing bite in your tone. “Probably more than yours,” he snipes back before continuing. “A brother, too. And…” Tentatively, he tangles your fingers with his. You don’t flinch this time. “Someone who loves you. If you’ll let me.”

The tiny smile that was growing slips off your face, but the broken glass look in your eyes fades slightly, less shattered than before. “What could I be?”

“I could teach you to weave or sew.” He looks at your tangled fingers, at the scars that cover your skin. They’re deft and you’re smart, you could pick it up quickly. “Even if you can’t tell stories the same way we do, there are other arts you could learn. Joochan’s partner might teach you to garden – you’ve never heard their song, it’s beautiful.” It might help you heal. “No cooking, though.” Jangjun smirks. “You’d probably burn down the kitchen.”

Your lips curve slightly. He soaks in the sight, the knife-like smile he loves so much, sharp and bladed but protective and somehow sweet. “Would you let me love you, too?”

Jangjun folds your hands in his. Your eyes sparkle – broken glass, yes, but shards on their way to mending, to becoming whole.

He smiles. “My heart is already yours.”

. . . . .

The palace was in fury. There was no trace left of the last assassin who had been sent, and upon investigation, little left of the original company at all. Money had been spent and havoc wrought, and nothing of it. Few cared enough anymore to find a lost prince rumored to be dead, much less the kidnappers who had taken him, and though the king and queen gritted their teeth in anger, there was nothing they could do.

The last assassin found a home in the guard’s arms, a steadiness in the heartbeat of his chest. Though they were hesitant to love at first, knowing how much they had hurt not just him but those who around them too, but the guard was gentle in his voice, patient in his care. Slowly, as the days, months, then years went by, the assassin allowed themselves to live again, to love, to care in the fiercely deep way they had learnt over years past, enough to give their heart to the guard.

Few would have noticed anything strange about the group of five that lived peacefully at the edge of the woods in a small town far from the capital. Certainly no one would have guessed there were two weavers among them, as well as a former prince, palace gardener, and trained assassin. This is where their story should end, with a motley family and their chaotic beginnings.

But someone knew of at least four of the five, and in time, he would ask them to risk their safety once more to bring about change. To topple a regime. For as those around him left to walk their own paths, he sought to find his way too – though in a world of peace and prosperity, not the iron rule of two monarchs whose voices pained more than they claimed to heal.

The words of this story now come to a close, with a furious palace and a tentative love. But the world is not over, not all ends reached. The lives told within still have years left to live.

After all, where one story ends, another only begins.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for whoever’s story comes next <3)

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mrlnsfrt · 3 years

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Elijah and The Widow

This post is part two of our Becoming Elijah series. You can read and listen to part 1 here.

Brief Review

If you were simply reading the Bible from Genesis to Revelation in order the first time you would become aware of Elijah would be in 1 Kings 17. He bursts into the story unannounced with a message of judgment from God. This message was also a direct challenge to Baal, the god many were beginning to worship who supposedly brought rain.

Elijah faithfully delivers the short message and God tells him to run and hide by a brook. We do not know how long Elijah was hiding but during that time he was fed by ravens twice a day and drank water from the brook. As time goes by, days, weeks, months, years perhaps, the water level at the brook continually drops, making it increasingly difficult for Elijah to drink from it. Eventually, the brook dries up because there has been no rain in the land.

Emotional Impact

I invite you to place yourself in the shoes of Elijah for a moment. Imagine being faithful to God and doing exactly as you’re told, only to have life continually become more and more difficult. Elijah finds himself hiding in the wilderness, in isolation because he is a wanted man. We do not know how long he was living by the brook or how comfortable his accommodations were. I imagine they were not the most comfortable he had ever experienced in his life. Life was hard. I cannot imagine what it must be like to be isolated for long periods of time. I know it is good to spend time alone in nature, but I have to admit I do not find it easy to do.

However, Elijah is not the first or the last person God called or caused to spend some time in a wilderness. Moses fled from Egypt and spend 40 years caring for sheep (Acts 7:23-30, Exodus 3:1). David spent years in the wilderness as well, caring for sheep (1 Samuel 16:11-13; 17:15, 20); and avoiding King Saul (1 Samuel 22:1-2, 23:14; 24:1, etc.). In the New Testament, we have Jesus being led by the Spirit into the wilderness (Matthew 4:1; Mark 1:12; Luke 4:1). Apparently, God uses wilderness experiences to equip His servants for service. The question then becomes are we willing to go through that training. When God sends us to the wilderness, do we spend time there learning what God wants to teach us, or do we give up and walk away?

How often are we in a hurry to do something great for God and in that hurry we fail to be properly equipped for the task He is calling us to do? Could we be struggling today because we avoided the wilderness experience, or perhaps are we currently living our wilderness experience?

Maybe COVID has caused you to feel like you’re all alone, so even though you may be living in a city, in your own home, you feel alone, isolated, and abandoned by God?

Is God trying to teach you something? Can God bring some good out of this situation? What can we learn from our wilderness experience? Instead of becoming bitter and angry towards God, what if we take this moment to reconnect with God and more intentionally seek His will?

Spending time in the wilderness is not comfortable, but it can be very beneficial for our souls. Taking a break, slowing down, having to deal with the discomfort and challenges, and hardships that accompany being in the wilderness can be a blessing in the life lessons we learn and the insights we gain about God and life. Our time in the wilderness can be a time of learning and growth even if it seems like a waste of time.

But how long do we have to stay in the wilderness? God lets us know.

The Word of the LORD came

Then the word of the Lord came to him, saying, “Arise, go to Zarephath, which belongs to Sidon, and dwell there. See, I have commanded a widow there to provide for you.” - 1 Kings 17:8-9 NKJV

We are tempted to believe that God is either not paying attention or that He does not have a plan simply because He does not make all the details of His plan available to us from the very beginning. God told Elijah to go hide by the Brook Cherith and Elijah obeyed. But God did not tell Elijah how long he was supposed to stay there. Maybe Eliah thought he would be there the whole time, maybe Elijah did not expect the drought to last as long as it had. Perhaps Elijah was tempted to believe God had forgotten about him, except he knew that God remembered because his food was provided twice a day every day. How would you have felt if you were in a similar situation? On the one hand, there is a clear sign that God is providing for your needs, in Elijah’s case the ravens bringing him food each day. On the other hand, there is a problem you see looming on the horizon, and you feel like God is not doing anything about it. In Elijah’s case the water level of the brook continues to drop, every day it gets more difficult for him to drink from the brook until it’s dry.

Only then the word of the LORD comes to Elijah.

You could argue that God didn’t tell Elijah anything earlier because it was not like Elijah could do anything about it anyway. But are we comfortable with that? Can our faith handle not knowing all the details? Can our faith survive waiting until the last minute before God reveals to us what the next step should be? Can we trust in God solely based on what He has already done for us, based on what He is doing for us? Is our faith strong enough to survive not knowing everything?

I am not talking about blind faith. I am talking about an informed faith, but a faith that does not have all the details concerning everything. Personally, I find it challenging. It is humbling when I get asked questions and I have to say that I don’t know, that it’s unclear, or that the Bible is silent on it. But I still find this healthier than coming up with personal theories and reading them into the biblical text or even into the will of God. By this I mean I would rather say I don’t know than to say that my personal theory is what God is going to do, or is doing when God has not made it clear. I hope we can all learn from Elijah’s story so far that sometimes we don’t know the details until it’s time to act on them. Until God makes things clearer we continue to faithfully follow what He has revealed. We should be very careful about making prophetic proclamations about end-time events, especially when we share personal views as if they were biblical truths.

Also, if you ever talk with me and I agree that your scenario is a possibility, please don’t tell others that I agree with your view, I only agree that it is a possibility, but there are many possible ways that the future will take place. Instead of focusing on that the next step will be one day in the future, how about we focus on what God has called us to do today, this week, this year?

Elijah remained at the brook until God told him to leave.

Zarephath

Zarephath was a small town in Phoenicia, located between Tyre and Sidon. Interestingly, the text mentions that Zeraphath belonged to Sidon, this is significant because Jezebel was a Sidonian princess (1 Kgs 16:31) which means that her father was the ruler of the territory where Zarephath was located. So God told Elijah, who was running away from Jezebel, to go hide in her home country, a land under the control of her father, a land where its inhabitants officially worshipped Baal.

I imagine Elijah feeling relief that God was finally revealing to him His plans and what he should do next. I also imagine Elijah wondering if it would be better to hang out by the dry brook for a bit longer. How does the expression go, out of the frying pan and into the fire? That might have been how Elijah felt at first. But don’t worry, it gets worse.

A Widow

Not only is God telling Elijah to travel to a gentile land where Baal worship is the official religion, but God is also telling Elijah that a widow will provide for him. Widows constituted some of the poorest most helpless people in society. Most of the time widows were not able to earn a respectable living with begging and prostitution generally being their only source of livelihood.

Another detail that caught my attention is the fact that God knew the widows who lived outside the borders of Israel. If God had commanded this widow living in Zarephath to provide for Elijah could this be evidence that God cares for everyone? I would not have expected God to use a poor widow from a pagan nation to provide for one of the greatest prophets of the Old Testament. I imagine this widow must have been seeking God, and God revealed Himself to her in some way and now God was sending her a prophet. I love how God takes this person that most would have considered forsaken and cursed by God and uses her to provide for His prophet.

I love how God uses people who don’t have it all together, people who are struggling and makes them a part of His plan to save the world.

Elijah Obeys

So he arose and went to Zarephath. And when he came to the gate of the city, indeed a widow was there gathering sticks. And he called to her and said, “Please bring me a little water in a cup, that I may drink.” - 1 Kings 17:10 NKJV

I am amazed by Elijah’s faithful obedience. Elijah does not question God or complain even though his life keeps getting more difficult at each step. It seems to me that all Elijah has been getting for his faithfulness is more challenges. But he simply obeys God and sure enough as he comes to the gate of the city he sees a widow. I am not sure about Elijah, but maybe many of us would expect this to be a wealthy widow, maybe she has a nice house with a view, a pool, a well-watered garden with lots of fruits and veggies growing. Maybe after roughing it by the brook Elijah had earned a well-deserved vacation. Now he will likely get to finally sleep in a bed and have a roof over his head and he eat something that was not brought by birds. I would be excited to join civilization again, or I would have been if it had been a city that belonged to Sidon. I would have been constantly worried if anyone had figured out that I was the prophet that queen Jezebel wanted dead. What if a neighbor decided to collect on a possible bounty that could have been set for me? Or what if someone simply wanted to get on the good side of the king by helping his daughter?

I don’t really know what Elijah was thinking, but I like to place myself in his shoes and try to imagine how difficult this could have been for him. What I do know is that Elijah calls to the widow and asks for water, which I imagine must have been really valuable at this time. I bet people were being very careful with their water usage during this drought.

Bread, please!

And as she was going to get it, he called to her and said, “Please bring me a morsel of bread in your hand.” - 1 Kings 17:11 NKJV

I can imagine Elijah asking a widow for water, she does not say a word but goes to get the water, then he interrupts her to ask for bread. I don’t know about you, but I struggle a bit with asking for help. I don’t mind asking for help to help someone else. If someone needs help I don’t mind asking others to join me in helping someone else. But when it comes to asking for myself, I hate it, many times I would rather go without than bother someone else with my needs. I believe this probably stems from pride, and God has been helping me with this by repeatedly placing me in situations where I need to ask others for help. But still, I struggle with the idea of asking a poor widow not just for water but also for bread. Especially in the middle of a terrible drought. Everyone is struggling. Brooks are drying up, crops are failing, animals are dying, how could I ask a poor widow for water and bread?

No Bread

So she said, “As the Lord your God lives, I do not have bread, only a handful of flour in a bin, and a little oil in a jar; and see, I am gathering a couple of sticks that I may go in and prepare it for myself and my son, that we may eat it, and die.” - 1 Kings 17:11-12 NKJV

The widow humbly informs Elijah of her plans for the future which consist of baking one last meal for herself and her son and slowly starving to death. If she was lucky she would not have to witness the death of her son, but on the other hand, would she really want her son to have to watch her die? This is just a terrible situation regardless of how you look at it.

I imagine Elijah saying, “Sorry, never mind. I must have confused you with someone else. Is there another widow in this town, someone with a big house, perhaps a pool and lots of delicious food?

On a more serious note, why would God ask a widow who does not have enough even for herself to provide for His prophet? After all, is it not God’s job to provide for His servants?

I believe the lesson here is that God prefers to work through us to bless each other and He can use anyone, even the poorest among us. Even the person who barely has enough to survive can be used by God to bless others. We are blessed as we go out of our way to help others. This blessing is not only for the wealthy, it is not only for those who have access to more resources. We are all called to do something. Don’t count yourself out simply because you don’t have as much as someone else. You can also help. When God calls on you to help He will bless you in order for you to be a blessing to others.

Do not fear

And Elijah said to her, “Do not fear; go and do as you have said, but make me a small cake from it first, and bring it to me; and afterward make some for yourself and your son. For thus says the Lord God of Israel: ‘The bin of flour shall not be used up, nor shall the jar of oil run dry, until the day the Lord sends rain on the earth.’ ” - 1 Kings 17:13-14 NKJV

The widow has legitimate reasons to be concerned, but Elijah tells her to not fear, she is to obey God and trust Him to provide for all her needs. If he makes God a priority in her life, she does not have to be afraid. When we find ourselves in God’s will, we have nothing to fear. We minister not because we have an abundance but rather because God calls us to. We step out in faith to bless those around us, trusting that as we do the will of God, He will take care of our needs.

He who finds his life will lose it, and he who loses his life for My sake will find it. - Matthew 10:39 NKJV

Jesus makes it clear, we find life by giving it up. I don’t think He means reckless living or suicide, but rather a life where the focus has shifted from self to other. A life where obeying God is more important than my selfish desires. This is not an easy life, but it is the only life worth living.

If I truly believe that God is my provider, that He not only created me but also redeemed me. If I believe that God loves me beyond anything I could ever hope to comprehend, and if I believe that God calls me to bless those around me, why should I be afraid of stepping out in faith? If God is calling me to help others learn about Him why should I be afraid?

Trust

So she went away and did according to the word of Elijah; and she and he and her household ate for many days. The bin of flour was not used up, nor did the jar of oil run dry, according to the word of the Lord which He spoke by Elijah. - 1 Kings 17:15-16NKV

"While Jezebel feeds the prophets of Baal in Israel (1 Kgs 18:19), the Zarepthathite widow feeds Elijah, the prophet of Yahweh, in Sidon (1 Kgs 17:13–16)" -- The Lexham Bible Dictionary.

We need to make sure we are following the will of God and not the will of humans, our own, or our spiritual leaders’. Spend time in prayer, read the Bible, but once you become convinced of what God is calling you to do, go for it trusting God to provide for you. Trust in God and live out your faith in service for those around you. Do not be afraid of ministry. Do not be afraid of helping others. Do not be afraid of sharing the love of God. Trust in God, don’t be afraid, and do what He is calling you to do.

Let your love for God guide your life, not fear. Do not focus on the problems, and reasons for you to not get involved, look to God, claim His promises, do not be afraid, trust in God, and get involved in service for the benefit of those around you.

God is faithful.

You do not have to be afraid.

#Elijah #Narrative #Old Testament

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bluepenguinstories · 3 years

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Remoras Full Chapter XXXVI: Winds of Change

Early spring, the rustle of the reeds against a gentle breeze. An indentation made among several rows of them as I lay, pressed into the damp soil. Arms under my head, eyes closed, thoughts floated away, just as they ought to. There were many reasons to worry, many wrongs to correct, and many mysteries to solve. But none of those things could happen unless I allowed myself a moment’s rest.

What of the others? Did I abandon them? No. But I wasn’t meant to stay for very long, it just wasn’t who I was. By nature, I was a drifter. By trade, almost, if such a thing were possible in the current age.

Ray gave me a phone so that he could call whenever things got bad again. It was like an ebb and flow, little tremors. Sometimes the activity would quiet down, but not long enough for anyone to think that the nightmares were over. Then they would build back up and people would show up with gashes, scrapes, bruises, all over their bodies with no explanation. Some reported whispers and little shadows that resembled people, but not quite. Whenever it slowed down, I went away again and found some place to hide out.

Why? Well, let’s just say I had my suspicions that I was just as much a target as were Ray and the others. Just the simple fact that an anonymous letter requested my death was enough to warrant such a suspicion. Ha. If whoever was behind that note wanted me so bad, they should have just fought me themselves. No games, no beating around the bush. My time could come any day now, but if someone wanted to take this life from me, by all means. But they ought to expect a fight.

Speaking of notes, there was one which was left for me that night when I met Remora in that abandoned building (well, not so much “abandoned” now, as I managed to get the electricity working before I left. Tragic as it may be, that was all I could do before I left and things turned south for me. I guess too many tip offs and “authorities” grew suspicious. So I bailed, as I often did, and I could only hope that those homeless friends I met weren’t so homeless, even if there was so much more I could have done had I managed to stay). It had Ray and Sunny’s address, as well as the phone number of the one who killed Rhea.

When I awoke, the piece of paper had been next to me, and curious, I picked it up. As soon as I looked over the contents, I scoffed, let out a little laugh.

“She’s really insistent, isn’t she?” I shook my head as I mused to myself. On the back of the paper was a further explanation of the events which transpired between ‘Ves’ and Rhea:

“Ves told me the story at the bar. Not that I needed to know the details from her, I already had an idea. Her original name was Etna Modelo. If that name rings a bell, it’s because she was part of the original ‘ETNA’ project. She had begun to grow unstable as the part of her that housed the angel of happiness clashed with the part of her that was human. Such a clash had adverse effects on those around her. The other ‘R’ and Douglas Fir were tasked with removing her from the world. Both met their end, although Ves seemed rather mournful of ‘R’ when we met, and although cured, it’s evident that the ordeal still effects her.

As I wasn’t there, I don’t know the full story, so I would still recommend asking her yourself. Your call, though. I’d just like to move on from it.”

Remora probably wrote that figuring I wouldn’t want to contact Ves myself. Yes, ‘Etna’, I’ve heard of her before: the girl on the run, the experiment, the artificial doctor. All of her incarnations. Hotheaded, explosive, short-tempered were all words that were used to describe her in reports and between eavesdrops of idle gossip from those who were aware of The Flashbulb’s pet project.

I considered contacting her, but felt it best not to. We were strangers, and she probably wanted to move on from such a thing as well. Besides, that was all I needed to know. Maybe whatever angel was with us now came here because they sensed one of their kin? Who the hell knew?

Rather than solve some cosmic mystery, some existential threat, I was instead relaxed in the fields of a small town in Idaho. As of late, I’ve been staying with this middle-aged man named Cleaver in his little shack. Two hammocks hung inside, he slept below, I above. Next to him was a wolf who he named Mange. Not my first choice of names for a wolf, but it wasn’t my place to judge.

I got up and stretched.

Still early in the day; a crisp air, a cerulean hue in the sky. Everything was early, yet not. As I made my way back to the shack, I caught a glimpse of cleaver with his sagged, sunken face and his potbelly hanging low out from his white T-shirt. Scruff all over his face, gray hairs all over.

“Fancy day for a squirrel barbecue,” he scratched his chin and announced in a low voice.

“Ha. You and your meals,” I replied as I brushed aside some tall grass. “You do realize there’s a restaurant nearby, right?”

“Bah! You just don’t get it, Zephyr: that shit costs money. You know, our ancestors got by just fine without money.”

What makes you think your ancestors are my ancestors?

“Sure, but are you really gonna subsist on corn and rodents?” I retorted.

“Hey, if it tastes good and it doesn’t kill me, what does it matter?”

I put my hands in my pockets and shrugged my shoulders. Fair, I guess.

My swords were laid inside his shack. Mange knew better than to knock them down. When it came to food, I had two options: The Garage Cafe, or run 8 miles to the nearest city and get some Wendy’s.

“I might be gone for a few hours,” I mentioned, “so see you later in the afternoon?”

“You know I don’t care where you go,” he waved off. That was something I liked about staying with him, is that neither of us ever minded the other’s business. He reminded me of an old man I once knew who I also crashed with. Rather literally, but I’d rather not get into that. He was kind enough, and I might not have survived without the help, but it was clear he wouldn’t last. I was just glad that I got to see off that old man. That was a few hundred years ago, but memories were funny that way, how they didn’t care how long ago something was, just how important they could have been.

Before I could depart to Wendy’s (let’s be real, while I knew it was junk food, I couldn’t help but love that place because of its name), I heard the sound of shoes against soft soil, someone running, and their short breaths.

Sounds of Mange’s growls could be heard from inside the shack. I scanned the area until I spotted the source of the running: a young woman, about a foot shorter than I, with messy, shoulder-length blonde hair. Still, there was no denying that I recognized that face.

“Fi...finally,” she huffed and hunched over to catch her breath once she approached me. “I found you. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it was to find you.”

Tell me about it.

I blinked. I opened my mouth, then closed it. It took a while before I could figure out what I wanted to say.

“How did you find me?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“I asked some of your friends in Chicago. Otis, I think was his name, told me how you said you were headed to Caldwell, Idaho. So I went there, asked around, and apparently an employee at the Wendy’s there says she’s seen you head over toward Notus.”

“Dammit, Otis,” I cursed under my breath.

Really, it’s my own fault for telling anyone where I’d be heading. I just figured after I returned from Ray’s diner that I’d check in on how some of those folks were doing.

“You know this girl, Zephyr?” Cleaver called over.

“Yeah. She’s fine. Tell your dog to knock it off,” I called back over to him.

“MANGE! SHUT IT!” Cleaver yelled to the shack. There was a low whimper, then nothing after that.

“Zephyr?” She asked.

“Yeah. That’s my name now. Demetria, was it?” I asked right back.

“Mm-hmm. That much hasn’t changed.”

I studied her but nothing looked all that different from when I met her. If she had an air about her that was different, I didn’t sense it.

“So, Demetria, what can I do for you? It’s clear you wanted me for something, but for what, I don’t know.”

She straightened up her stance and looked up at me, a more resolute expression took hold on her face. One which said that she was ready to get right down to business.

“I want you train me,” she stated.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me: I want to hone my skills with the blade.”

I puffed up my cheeks, desperate not to break into laughter.

“What?! You think I’m some wise, old master? Do you expect me to take you on as a pupil, and at the end bow and go ‘you have done well, my student?’ Is that it?”

“If that’s what you want to do, go ahead. But I’m serious.”

That much was obvious, but it still didn’t make sense to me.

“Why do you think I’d be a good fit to train you?” I questioned.

“Because our weapons of choice are similar. The way you fight, act, react, every movement has a purpose and it’s like you’re ready for anything. You don’t leave yourself with openings. If I had to pick someone whose style of attack was similar to my own, it would have to be you. Meanwhile, I’m reckless, less refined, and don’t know what I’m doing half of the time.”

“OK. But is there a particular reason why you want to be trained so bad?”

“Because I want to learn restraint.”

That still wasn’t good enough. I felt like I was missing the full picture, and despite how plain her answers were, it was like she was holding back, or avoiding giving anything away.

“Restraint, huh? And you think me, the cop killer, can teach you that?”

I glanced behind me. Cleaver didn’t seem to react to what I said. Strange, I thought that he would have. But I guess he figured it just wasn’t his business.

“You’re right,” she replied, “but I never said I wanted to be you, nor did I say what I meant by restraint.”

“Indeed. You didn’t.”

I paced about and thought it over.

“You use knives, I use large swords,” I pointed out, “each blade is different, with its own style and use. You don’t use a kitchen knife the same way you do a hunting knife. You don’t use an Oodachi the same way you use a Kodachi. Catch my drift?”

She nodded.

“What I can teach you, and let me be upfront, I’ve never taught anyone, may not help you.”

I continued to pace. While I explained such things, my mind was yet to be made up.

“That said, I do have some experience with small blades, but they’re not quite like the knives you’ve got,” I thought back to that night when we fought, “throwing knives and a hunting knife, right?”

“Yes. Although I’d like to broaden my horizons a bit.”

“Mm...I see. Short sword may do, then. But let’s not rush anything. Because if I’m going to train you, you’re going to need to learn more than just how to use a short sword.”

“Of course. So does that mean you’ll accept?” Her words were ones of excitement, anticipation, but her voice was flat. As for me, my smile widened and I let some teeth show through.

“Under one condition: every day, I want you to buy me Wendy’s.”

“Okay, sure, there’s one eight miles away, I can just take Cybele’s plane and head right back.”

“On foot,” I clarified. While I didn’t know who this ‘Cybele’ was, taking a plane would have defeated the whole purpose of such a training.

“What? Really? Do you know how long that would take me? Your food will get cold by the time I bring it back to you.”

“Then learn to get faster,” I shrugged. Wasn’t my problem, so long as I had my grub.

“Hey, don’t mean to butt in, but I got a solution,” Cleaver hobbled forward and chimed in.

“Oh yeah? What?”

“You and this girlie here should run together to the city, then you both can eat once there.”

“Ooh, like a race?” I liked the sound of that.

“Something like that. I’ll even take you back home in the back of the truck by the end of the day, since I can already tell she’s just starting out.”

“Hey! I bet I could run right back here!” Demetria protested.

“Go ahead and try, but I’m doin’ you a favor. Trust me,” he replied. He was right, of course, too, and that gross overconfidence of hers was all the more reason why she needed training.

“By the way, if you’re going to be running, you’re going to need a bottle of water,” I advised, then went into the shack to grab my water bottle: a nice and thick tin thermos. “Take this. We can stop at the Garage Cafe on our way to the city so you can fill it.”

“What about you?” She asked.

“I’ll get water once we get into the city. Plus, I can always get another thermos.”

“All right, all right, so when can we start?” She tapped her foot. Ever so impatient to be tortured, I see.

“Now,” I answered.

“What? Now? I just got he –”

Nope. Wouldn’t hear it. Especially after she begged. I took off toward town, then toward the highway right away. I’d glance back to see her in the distance, and it was clear that she was trying to run.

Okay, when we get to the city, I’ve got to teach her proper form.

Down on the highway, she was still quite behind, but she started to speed up.

“How...how much longer?” She huffed, short on breath, and still early in.

“Like, seven more miles?” I guessed. Really, we weren’t even a quarter of the way there. More like a quarter of a quarter.

She stopped and hunched over to catch her breath.

“You’re not going to get very far standing still,” I stopped too. Even though I was ahead of her, the training would have been moot if I just ran off without her. “It’s not about speed. If you try to sprint your way there, you’ll tire out fast. It’s about sustained motion.”

“How is anyone supposed to keep running for eight miles?!” She gasped out and threw her hands up.

“I just told you. You will get faster, eventually, but what’s important is to build up stamina and use up as little energy as possible. You can walk every now and then if you have to, but you need to keep moving.”

She gasped a few more breaths, then straightened up her posture.

“Okay. Let’s keep going.”

Throughout our run, she’d stop to walk for a few seconds, or take a sip from the thermos, then she kept going for a short burst before walking again. It wasn’t ideal, but I suppose she had to start somewhere. When we finally made it into the city, and Wendy’s, about two and a half hours have passed. Again, not ideal, but I suppose it wasn’t too bad.

She was collapsed at a booth in the Wendy’s, all huffing and puffing and complaining about feeling sick.

“You should get yourself something to eat,” I looked down at the suffering apprentice.

“I can’t. I feel like I’m gonna throw up,” she wheezed.

“Yeah, that’s how it is at first. But hey, I’m amazed you made it at all. It’s a good start. But seriously, some food will help you feel better. Plus you need the calories to replenish your energy.”

“...I’m...vegetarian…”

“Okay? So? Get a freakin’ salad. Go to another restaurant. But eat something.”

Her hands shook as she grabbed on to the edge of the table and struggled to sit up.

“I suppose I can do a salad,” she heaved out the words. I gave her a heavy pat on the back, which made her bellow out, “oof!”

“That’s the spirit!”

A few minutes later, she returned with a box salad, a large thing of fries, and refilled her water.

“Fries, huh?” I pointed out.

“It’s not meat,” she shrugged. Eh, fair point.

I myself had one of those big burgers, large fries, large soda, large chicken nuggets, large everything. Again, it was junk, but considering the name, I was biased.

“So, I should tell you this upfront: if you’re going to train under me, you need to have a reason. I don’t need to know what that reason is, but I won’t accept it if you don’t have one.”

“Trust me, I do,” she responded, not quite focused on me, and more looking listless as she dipped her fries in a pile of red sweetness.

“By the way, do you have a place to stay?”

“No, but I can check into a hotel. It’s not like I don’t have money.”

“If that’s what you wanna do, sure, but while you’re here, you can sleep over at the shack. It’s not the most comfortable, and you’d have to sleep on the floor, but it won’t cost ya anything. More convenient, too. Cleaver won’t mind.”

“Cleaver, huh? You sure seem to make friends easily,” she observed.

“Heh. It’s not quite like that, but I try to form connections where I can. I think you’ll find that it’s practical, pragmatic even, to get on someone’s good side wherever you go. Doesn’t matter if you think you’re stronger or weaker,” I shook my head and smiled, “it’s a lonely world. Universe, even. But there’s things you can do to make it less lonely. I’m a loner, both by trade and nature, but we’re all here on this Earth to help each other.”

“That’s a good philosophy. I’ve never given such things any thought.”

“You probably never needed to. It’s better if you don’t have to give it thought, but when you’ve lived as long as I have, with as many experiences as I have, you get plenty of moments to think. Reflect.”

“Huh?” She looked my way, as if I had caught her attention with my little musings.

“Huh what?”

“Oh, I thought you said my name.”

“What? ‘To think’? I guess that sounds like Demetria…”

‘My hearing’s probably off because of all that running,” she shook her head and groaned, “seriously, my ears won’t stop popping.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“How long do we have to keep this running for, anyway?”

“Until you can manage to do it without stopping to walk. Stopping for water is one thing, but even then, it shouldn’t take long. As I said, it’s not about speed. It’s fine if you run slow, just don’t stop running.”

We stretched outside after our meal and wandered around.

“I’m taking online classes, actually, so I may have to pass on your offer,” Demetria mentioned as we walked through the city.

“There’s Wi-Fi at the shack. I’m an engineer, it wasn’t too hard to do.”

“Oh, okay. You really think of everything, huh?”

I denied such a claim.

“I just try to see what’s possible. So tell me about these online classes of yours.”

“There’s not really much to tell. I’m studying marine biology, but I don’t really care for it. I’m just doing it to finish what I started,” she gestured toward me and I caught a glimpse of her reflection through the glass of an electronics store. She looked so animated, even as she told me how little interest she had in her studies.

“That’s still impressive in its own right,” I replied. It got me thinking about how many projects I left unfinished, how many times I had to leave a place and its people behind, how many missions went abandoned when new information made me see a different perspective. Even the times when I just abandoned a project out of a loss of faith or desire to see it complete. What could have come of them had I completed them?

We wandered around town for a little while, then sat at a park, although little was said. Just before sunset, Cleaver’s rusty pickup truck sputtered and screeched as it arrived at the base of the park. Both Demetria and I hopped in the back and we let the gentle breeze of early spring overtake us. Soon we were back at the shack and once we landed on the soft soil, I broke down the plan.

“While she’s training with me, can she stay here?” I asked.

“I don’t see a problem with that, but she’ll have to sleep on the floor next to Mange.”

“Who’s Mange?” Demetria leaped out from the side of the truck and landed on her feet with a thud.

“Eh, just my dog. He’s friendly. Might growl at ya. Might even bite your arm. Might even rip it off. But he’s friendly.”

She squinted.

“It’s a lone wolf he found,” I explained instead. As it turns out, Cleaver wasn’t very good with this stuff. “I think as far as Mange is concerned, as long as you don’t actively pose a threat, he’ll probably consider you part of the pack.”

“Hold up. Why do you have a pet wolf?” She turned to Cleaver. He scratched the back of his head.

“Helps keep away the cougars,” he answered all matter-of-fact.

“Why do you need to keep away older women for?” She questioned and I almost spat out the soda that had already been digested three hours ago.

“I like this one,” he pointed his thumb to her, “she knows what’s up.”

“Actually, I think it’s the opposite,” I refuted.

“So while we’re training, what if we practice sparring right outside the shack?”

Then it would get interesting, I thought the devious thought. Of course I wasn’t going to disclose that.

“We’d just have to keep the door closed, I guess,” I said instead.

We all made our way inside, a very cramped space. There was a bathroom in the back, complete with a shower, but aside from that, it was a bedroom with little room to house one person, let alone three plus a gray wolf. Besides the bunk bed hammock and the wooden planked floor, there was a dresser on the left end once we entered, and on the right was where Mange slept (when he wasn’t sleeping outside).

“You don’t mind if I have my laptop open while you sleep, do you?” Demetria asked Cleaver as he was already headed up to the top hammock to get some shut eye.

“Do what you want, but if the bright screen wakes Mange, don’t come cryin’ to me when he bites ya.”

“Here, I’ll sleep on the floor across from you,” I offered to her, “so don’t even worry about it.”

“Thanks,” she turned quiet and looked down to her side.

“She’s working toward her degree!” I cupped my hands to tell Cleaver. “Her studies are very important to her!”

“Really, now?”

“How the hell should I know? They’re her studies, not mine,” I hissed out the words, trying not to be too loud as to wake Mange.

“Bah, you know it’s all a scam,” he grumbled.

“You’re a scam,” I mimicked back.

“Are you gonna be okay sleeping on the floor?” Demetria seemed puzzled at my offer.

What about you? I bet you’re more used to sleeping on a bed than I am.

“I’ll be fine. I don’t care where I sleep. I’ve slept just about everywhere,” I reassured her.

“Bah, there she goes again. ‘Look at me, I’ve slept in penthouses and castles and trash cans alike’. We’ve heard it all before,” Cleaver started up again. I ignored him, and leaned in to whisper to Demetria:

“That’s him on his good days. Now type away.”

Sleep never came easy for me, if much at all. That’s always been true, or at least as far back as I could remember. The dim glow of Demetria’s laptop didn’t make much of a difference. Mange for his part stretched during a couple of intervals, but other than that, didn’t seem to pay Demetria any mind. Not even as she was leaned up against the back of his fur.

There wasn’t much else to do but watch. After a while, she started to yawn and her eyelids started to droop down. There were a few more clacks against the keyboard, then she pulled the laptop screen down slow and closed it before setting it aside. She didn’t seem to notice me at all. All the better for it. I wasn’t fixated on her, but my surrounding as a whole. It was a quirk of mine which I attributed to countless years of pursuit. Always alert, always looking forward. If someone were to try to kill me in their sleep, they would be left disappointed.

If somebody managed to kill me while I was asleep, I’d like to live long enough to thank them.

Still, for what it was worth, I was still human. Tiredness was still a thing. Sleep came eventually. Even if just a single wink, I would have liked that. An hour must have passed, and I felt ready to nod off when I heard Demetria mutter something. It was faint, but I had peachy keen ears, and was able to make out what she said:

“Games? Like having a snowball fight? Building a snowman? Then again, it doesn’t have to be a snowman…”

“Snowman?” I mouthed. I had to think about it, because it sounded familiar. I soon began to hum a little tune.

“Isn’t that...from a movie?” I asked myself in a low mutter.

Not something I ever watched, but I’ve probably passed by TVs in display windows playing that thing. Those kind of animated films with songs are inescapable, regardless of the quality of said tunes. Well, I’m not going to speak on the quality of something I’ve no interest in. It’s just kind of amusing that she’d be reciting such a song in her sleep. Despite her moody exterior, maybe she’s just a kid at heart.

Demetria started to stir and then her eyes crept open.

“So, Frozen, huh?” I asked, my voice a little hoarse. Likely due to my lack of sleep.

“Mm...what?” She yawned a sleepy little mumble.

“You were talking in your sleep. I think you were singing a song from Frozen,” I pointed out.

“Huh. The only Disney movie I like is Finding Nemo. So what song was I singing?”

“Hmm...’do you wanna build a snowman?’ I think it’s called.”

“Oh wow. Asleep me has poor taste. Can’t say awake me has any better taste, but still.”

“Whatever. Just let it go and get back to sleep.”

She nodded, then closed her eyes again and leaned back. Soon it seemed that sleep had taken her once more, though I did hear her mutter one more thing before departing to a soundless rest:

“Not like I plan on being around much longer, anyway.”

Heh, I leaned my head back against the dresser. You and me both.

In the morning, I stepped out of the shack and took in the crisp morning air. It was bliss, it was serene, it was –

“Ugh...so sore…”

Behind me, a shambling zombie-like figure groaned. Almost as if someone had raised the dead.

“Right. I should have taken that into consideration,” I groaned as well, realization of who was behind me set in.

“What are we going to do?” She scratched the back of her head and a look of general displeasure possessed her face.

“We eat some food, we do some stretches, we do some heavy lifting,” I ran through the check list.

“Heavy lifting?! I thought we’d be taking it easy today since I’m so worn out!” She was flabbergasted and most devastated.

“This is taking it easy. We’re not going to be running to the city today. Instead we’ll work the upper body.”

“What happened to ‘buy me Wendy’s every day?’” Demetria mentioned, something I didn’t expect to get brought up.

“Eh,” I shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be every day. How about just every time we go into town? Now, I’m going to make it so you hurt in other places, so are you ready?”

She gulped, being given an answer she didn’t expect, herself.

“If at any time you want to quit, just say the word,” I offered. “Because it’s not going to get any easier from here. You’ll just need to get better.”

She gulped, being given an answer she didn’t expect.

“If at any time you want to quit, just say the word. Because it’s not going to get any easier from here. You’ll just need to get better.”

Another gulp, then she shook her head.

“I’m not going to quit. I can’t afford to.”

Her determination was commendable. I had to give her that. If I didn’t end up breaking her spirit, she could very well end up a force to be reckoned with in her own right.

So it went: we stretched. We walked around the fields near the shack. Our day came and went with little word save for what was spoken on her resolute face. Another night. Another dim glow from her screen as she typed away at whatever project she had.

Dusk turned to daylight; we ran once more the following morning. There were still some stumbles, still some hurdles. She steadied her movements more, and with only being the second run, it was a startling improvement. Maybe minuscule in the grand scheme of themes, but I would have thought it would take longer for her to show any signs of improvement.

Two or three miles in, she stopped, slowed to a walk, then a few minutes later, built back into a jog. This happened another mile out, as well as the next. During the second half, however, whether it be a high or just having found a rhythm, she managed to keep pace the whole way through.

After our meal, we found a nearby park and wandered into a deeper portion of the park, less populated, with the thicket of trees concealing us from the potential misunderstood eyes of passerby.

“All right. Now it’s time to fight.”

She was slumped over as she had followed me into the park already worn out. However, upon the word ‘fight’, she perked up. That, or it was a look of shock. Either way, I had her attention.

“A...Already?! It’s only the second time running here and I’m still a little worn out.”

“Your enemies aren’t going to care if you’re worn out. Hell, they’ll use that to their advantage,” I corrected her. Not that she had enemies. Maybe I was just drawing from experience with that example.

“You’re right,” she agreed, something which took me by surprise. However, as poised as she looked, it was little more than show, and her knees wobbled before the fight even began.

I swerved my left leg to the side and dragged my foot against the soft grass, which tripped her and she fell before she could even attempt to avoid it. She landed right on her butt and struggled to get up. Before she could bring herself up, I stomped down, and that time, she reacted well enough to roll over.

“While the idea does turn me on, some things are more important,” she remarked with a grimace.

...What?

She hurried up that time and I swung my right fist in a slow and deliberate manner, slow enough that it would have given her enough time to do any number of things in response. She chose to block it with her left arm and although she reacted in time, I soon overpowered her. In spite of that, she tried to hold her arm up. As she was distracted, I once again swept my leg to the side and knocked her down.

“Don’t try to block if you can’t withstand the hit. Dodge instead. Also, don’t leave yourself open. Your enemy could find an array of maneuvers to attack you if you leave yourself an opening.”

She winced and gave a short nod.

Further days passed; what was one week turned to two. Run, stretch, block, dodge, react. After two weeks, she managed to run the whole way through. From Notus to Caldwell with a reserve of stamina left over. At the park, she jumped when I did a side-sweep. Either a short jump, or jumped back. When I swung my fist, rather than block it, she would either duck down, or lean back.

Another week went by and on the third week, I introduced weapons into the mix.

“Dodging, avoiding hits, all that’s well and good, but you’ll also need to fight back,” I instructed.

“Of course,” she replied.

I knew she had her knives on her. I also gave her a short sword to use. For my part, I had my signature katana, though to make it more fair for her, I pressed a button on the blade’s scabbard and split them into two kodachi-type blades.

“Wha – how did you do that?” Her eyes widened and she blinked, astonished at the sight.

“It’s not an ordinary blade. It came with my old profession, you could say.”

“You mean as a janitor? Did everyone have weapons like that?”

“Some. I’m sure you’re aware that Remora’s rifle can split into two smaller, pistol-like guns which fires off a wave of energy. My blade, or blades, are coated in an oil which repels a certain kind of creature.”

“Angels,” she answered.

So you know? Whatever the reason, I’m sure it’s not a good thing.

“That is one way to call them. But not angels in the biblical sense. No, more like the ‘beings beyond comprehension’ sense.”

“Yet we comprehend enough to craft weapons to deal with such things,” she added.

“Sorta. It’s hard to know when these weapons will be useful, or even how useful they will be. Especially when dealing with beings that are unheard of.”

Like what Ray and Sunny were dealing with up in the arctic. Whatever was behind it, I had little to go off of. If they even wished to stand a fighting chance, I would need to know more, but I didn’t know how to learn further.

What was known wasn’t comprehensible, either, as it didn’t seem to fit a specific pattern or intention – creatures that were an amalgamation of other creatures, contorted to a strange shape. Shadowy mass filled with various materials and limbs, like rope, wire, legs, and tentacles that could cause others to lose their sense of self. People whose limbs grew out from their backs, who could control such strange hybird creatures. Then the latest addition – a fog which blanketed the area near Ray’s diner and gave injuries to passerby. Some reported shadows of strange shapes, others reported voices.

What exactly did it feel? What did it embody? How did all of those phenomena correspond with what the source embodied?

At any moment, one of the diner’s proprietors would call me up to tell me that things got bad again and I’d have to cut the training off there so I could hurry to their aid. Remora’s rifle more than likely protected the diner from the inside, but the surrounding area was fair game for the entity and the beasts it produced. For now, however, I could focus on training Demetria, who still had a great deal to learn, even if she picked up on things at an alarming rate.

We clashed with the blades, and that time, she was able to block well. At one point, I swung down only for her to block it with the scimitar I let her borrow. When I swung the other blade to the right, she side-stepped to avoid the swing. Then the left, and the same. However, she kept up the block the whole way and even if she managed to dodge in spite of the openings she left, she was still overpowered when I swung both blades down against the scimitar. She tried to bend her knees and apply more pressure, but it wasn’t enough, and both blades were but a hair’s breath away from her face.

Without any more strength to give, she fell. I put aside my weapons before they could cut her down, then I scolded her.

“Again, don’t block if you know you can be overpowered. You did good blocking one blade, but you left yourself open. If the enemy starts adding more pressure and you can’t keep up, release and get out of the way.”

“Right…” She sounded wiped out. I couldn’t blame her, and she was improving, but she needed to know where her weak spots were.

“We’ll call it a day for now. Tomorrow we’ll spar by the shack.”

“Right on! I’ve been wanting to do that since the beginning!”

Are you that excited to get beaten up?

“What’s so special to you about training near the shack and training in this park?”

“Well, for starters...I’m always worried someone’s gonna show up and get concerned. It might scare someone and they could even call the cops!”

“Let the cops come. I’ll skewer them all with glee,” I dispelled any unease she had.

“It’s not just that! The field by the shack is really secluded so we can go ahead and go all out!”

Ah, yeah. That is a good point.

Our training continued the next day at Cleaver’s shack. We had an open dirt clearing where we weren’t as hindered by tall grass. Both of us stood on far ends of the circle with our weapons in hand.

“Come at me, bro!” She shouted.

I had a moment of weakness. As in, I hesitated, hearing such a ridiculous statement. Or phrase, rather. It only took a moment, though, and after that moment washed away, I rushed in.

Our blades clashed once more and she dodged the attacks, struck when she saw an opportunity, and timed her blocks well as well. Although I could also block and dodge each of her attempts, it had more to do with my experience.

You really are a fast learner, aren’t you?

However, another weak point showed through once more as soon as I struck with a side-slash. No, she managed to dodge it. That wasn’t the problem: the problem was that she pushed her legs in and jumped up. If she didn’t manage to jump high enough, or didn’t move in time…

“Wrong!” I shouted as I stood in place.

“What’s wrong?” Her voice squeaked and she scowled. To her it must have been just a disagreement of ideas, and she looked ready to protest my scolding, but it had to be done regardless.

“You dodged it, but the way you did so was way risky and took up more of your energy that it should have. You’ve built up a lot of stamina, but in a fierce battle, every bit of energy counts. It would have been less risky and have used up less of your energy to have stepped back, even jumped a little backward, than to try to jump over it.”

“Yeah...I see what you mean now,” she looked down and shook her fists, obvious shame written all over her.

“I’m not saying this to be rigid. If you didn’t jump high enough, you would have gotten slashed for sure.”

“I’ve been slashed in the stomach already,” her voice turned low, and a sullen look took over. She then lifted up her shirt, which made me take a step back. Across her stomach was, indeed, a long thin scar. “So it’s not so bad, right?”

“It’s true that slashes are generally less harmful than stabs. It’s said that in old wars, soldiers would slash rather than stab their enemies so they wouldn’t have to bear the weight of killing another person. But a slash can still be very harmful depending on how much force is placed, and the proximity. If you get a deep slash, like say you strike a vein, expect blood to spray out. An endless flow that you wouldn’t be able to stop, and if unable to be treated soon enough, death. Given enough force, one could even slash a limb clear off or cut someone in half.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Sheesh. Such gory imagery,” she made little “ack, ack” sounds to accompany her statement so that she could further express her disgust.

“It’s just muscle memory is hard. I know the right moves but sometimes I do the wrong one because so used to a particular pattern,” she added, something which I understood.

“Which is why we need to take it from the top until you get it right.”

We continued through the afternoon until sunset hit. After we called it good, Demetria headed back into the shack.

“Well, this thesis isn’t going to bullshit itself,” she told me as she waved before entering the shack. I waved back, but sat out for a while, letting myself bask in dusk’s chill.

“Is this what I’ve been reduced to? A mentor? An escort?” No, such thoughts weren’t good, especially not when spoken out into the air.

It was too late, of course. Once those words were spoken, the rest of the thoughts followed. Like, was I ever alive at all? What did it look like when I had a life? What was I now but a ghost, a shade, a wandering remnant? It wasn’t even that I didn’t want to help others or be a mentor, but that the only semblance of a life I had was one that would never leave. Violence was ingrained in me, ran through my bloodstream as I lived and breathed. There could be no help without it and the only justice I knew was an unshaken, violent justice.

For a while longer, I let myself sit beside the comfort of darkness. Close to silence, with the only sounds to fill the air being the crickets and the frogs which hid out in any given direction.

With a sigh, I allowed myself back inside. Demetria sat there, as she had many nights, with her face glued to that laptop screen. However, when she saw me enter, she closed her laptop and addressed me.

“How are you feeling?” She looked up.

I sat down and crossed my legs. I smiled, for I knew no other way to express anything.

“Just how I always am,” I shook my head, it sounded like such a carefree dismissal. Part of me expected her to be satisfied by such an answer.

“And how is that?” She asked instead.

That was a more difficult thing to answer than it should have been. It wasn’t a sense of monotony, but something else. Loss of life, or a loss of humanity.

“Forgive me if I’m unable to give a straight answer,” I replied after some thought.

“That’s okay, I’m gay.”

Fine, but just know that you brought this on yourself.

“Some say that ghosts are just memories, so in that sense, nothing ever leaves, does it, so long as the memory is there?” I posed the question. As I said, I couldn’t give a straight answer.

“Are you saying that you feel like a ghost?”

I shook my head.

“Not quite. I told you once that I considered my old self dead, right?”

As well as my current self. But only in a different sense.

“Yeah. How you were accused of –”

“I told you what my original name was back then. It was a lie. Not the story, but the name. Considering how long ago it was, my name was more than likely a simple one. Like Kuso Gozen, or something. There were bits and pieces of that life, that girl, that I remember. Being accused of an assassination, being put to death...but much of the details are lost. Forgotten. Hell, it’s enough for me to question if what I remember is real or made up,” I let out a deep breath. I was doing this again, wasn’t I? And who was I to say that was to confide would be any more real than last time?

“It could have been that I did murder someone. That I was given due punishment, and chose to evade such punishment. Based on what I know of myself, I wouldn’t put it past me to take out a corrupt official. But that’s beside the point.”

“What is the point?”

I shook my head.

“Ha. If I knew...well, I suppose the point is: maybe it’s better that I don’t remember. Maybe it’s better to be forgotten. To be more than dead, less than a memory.”

“I think I can relate with that. I suppose most people would prefer to be remembered, but I suppose to some, it may be better to forget. Like if you did something bad.”

“Mm...that’s not quite what I mean. As for that old self, yes, she’s forgotten. But my current self? I don’t mind people knowing my deeds. But this life I’ve had...I don’t want to preserve it.”

“What? You mean you’re going to let yourself get killed?”

No, that wasn’t quite right, either. But then, what ever was?

“Hell no,” I refuted, “I wouldn’t go down without a fight. But I’m just waiting for my time. Some say I’m like a cockroach, the way I’ve survived so much and had so many lucky breaks. But for the sake of my own sanity, I hope that’s not the case.”

“Why live your life that way? Why are you so eager to die?”

“It’s not like that. Maybe it’s a curiosity. How it will end and when. Will it be a quiet one, or a roaring crescendo? Will I be remembered afterward? Talked about? Or will I be forgotten, not even a passing name.”

“I’ll remember you. I already met you. Plus you’ve got all those homeless friends,” she pointed out.

“Ha! I guess you’re right about that one. It’s easy to call anyone a friend when you know you’re just passing through! We form a connection, make small talk, and then I disappear into the wind. It’s not really any different than how life was like with that company – I’d visit different places in different timelines, meet some people, do my job, and then go onto the next one. That’s just how it was. I suspect everyone who worked there, it didn’t matter what their personalities were or how big of a heart they had, got that way: just passing through, not really being alive. If any of us ever were in the first place.”

“How do you even know others were like that?” concerned dripped from her lips. Despite her stoic front, she really couldn’t keep all of that in, could she?

“Let’s call it an observation. I’ve seen how others were: some cope by indulging in their vices. Sex, drugs, booze, you name it. Some go numb, others break down, unable to find a sense of calm. Some can try to settle down, live a quiet life, maybe try to start a family, but it never leaves them. That feeling, like life, death, it may as well be the same thing. I think it’s the job, it does something to you. To all of us. Maybe that’s why I think that the ones who died were the lucky ones. Otherwise you just end up like me, waiting for your time to come.”

I gave a hearty laugh and smiled, not caring who I would wake up.

“I guess that’s why it’s so easy to talk to you about all this, because it doesn’t really matter. I may as well be talking to myself.”

She turned her head, puffed up her cheeks, and scowled. I thought she was ready to blow up at me, talk about how unkind that statement was, that I shouldn’t have had that mindset, but when she finally spoke again, it was about something else entirely.

“Do you know how Rhea died?” She asked, a fun topic for the whole family.

“Yeah. Was assigned to get rid of someone who was possessed by the embodiment of happiness. It was a pretty big task: potential world at stake scenario. Anyone could have lost to something like that.”

“Are you sure? Because I’m not so sure.”

“Why do you say that?” I stroked my chin, eager for her explanation.

“Ves is my cousin’s wife. She’s still mournful about the whole thing. She never wanted to kill her, and in fact, I think Ves was the one who could have easily been defeated. Apparently the two actually talked, tried to work out a compromise. Rhea actually showed her mercy, and in the end, I think Rhea was holding back because she wanted to be the one to go.”

How interesting. Mercy. Well, I suppose I would have at least tried to figure out what all of the options were before going in for the kill. So it’s not too surprising if it happened to be the same way.

“Did your cousin’s wife tell you all that?”

She nodded.

“It may have been the case that she was holding back, who’s to say?”

“But why would she do that if she knew the world was at stake? Did she just forsake the world?”

I remember the first time I met up with Demetria, she said that she had little interest when it came to Rhea. So now the sudden interest struck me as a little odd. But then again, maybe there was something to spurn such interest and I just didn’t know it.

“It’s doubtful the world ever mattered in the first place. After all, it was just one instance of the world, out of an endless amount of instances.”

“Yeah, but it’s my world! It’s the only instance I have!”

I leaned over and pressed my finger to her lip.

“Shh. Others are sleeping.”

After I released my finger and returned to my original position, I continued.

“She didn’t have a world she belonged to. While I’m sure she understood the risk, the stakes weren’t the same for her as it may have been for you. Maybe she was just done, and knew of no other way to go but through a fight.”

“But why did she show Ves mercy? That’s just not like her, is it?”

“Maybe she had a last minute change of heart. It’s possible.”

“Do you think she was infected by the entity? Is that why?”

I shook my head.

“It’s a possibility. There’s no way to know that for certain, though. As much as it’s natural for many of us to speculate, the bottom line is that the only person who knew what was going through her head was herself, and she’s not around to give us any answers.”

“You’re right...I was just wondering: what would you have done if you were in her position?”

I thought it over some.

“I don’t think I would have done anything different,” I concluded.

“Do you think she was lucky as well?”

Ah. So maybe that’s why she brought it up. I had to close my eyes for that one, lest the piercing glare give anything away.

“What do you think the answer to that one is?”

There was a pause, and there was something serene about such a pause. The heavy breaths of the wolf behind her, the snoring of the middle aged man at the top hammock. It carried with it a peaceful wind.

“I’m worried about you,” she said at last.

“Don’t be,” I shook my head and smiled, “the student has no need to worry about the mentor. You should get some rest.”

When we picked up on the following day, her growth was more than apparent. I’d strike down, but she’d sidestep, then do a sweeping slash, which I blocked, then did a slash of my own. She surprised me next, by sliding down, then struck up. I had to react fast just to block it.

“Ha. You’re getting better at reacting, but you’ve yet to land a hit,” I remarked.

“Just you wait,” she shot back with a smug smile.

Such confidence. I wonder if it will last.

In an effort to show that it wasn’t just a bluff, she rolled once, did another side step, which made me turn around as she made her next strike. Again, our blades clashed, and I still had another blade in my other hand. However, this time, she pulled something out from her pocket and I leaned my head back just in time not to get hit by what turned out to be a knife.

When I realized what she just tried, I couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t a condescending laugh, in fact, I was quite impressed. All the same, I was as amused as I could ever be.

“Ha, good one. You fancy yourself a ninja or something?” I gave a hearty chuckle.

“Not quite. I just need to learn all that I can,” she dispelled any such idea. She didn’t look any short on energy, either. That was good.

We’ll have to hone that aim of hers, but she seems to already have some sort of grasp. Force and precision, two things to work on.

“Let’s make things more interesting, shall we?” The proposal slithered out from my mouth as I slipped a cunning grin.

“MANGE!” I called out.

She looked over, a sharpened glance. It wasn’t even so much of a reaction, but more of an acknowledgment.

Has she adopted some of my traits? Is it from the training? Or did it just come with the confidence?

Busted out through the door of the shack came Mange, all fired up. That tired old wolf may not have been much but a heavy sleeper on his good days, but he could still be tricked into thinking there was trouble.

“Now you’ll have to dodge both of us.”

Before, I’d have expected her to react like, “really? Wolves are much faster than people! And they’re huge!” But instead, once again, a single nod of acknowledgment.

We clashed further, clangs of our blades as we maneuvered around each other. But soon, Mange gave chase, and as expected, darted toward Demetria. She stepped back, but he was quick to turn. She stepped to the side, but that didn’t stop him in the slightest. It was getting to the point that she was backing further away from me without even realizing it.

Panic seemed to set in and she turned her head from side to side and noticed how much further she had gotten. Mange was seconds away, and Demetria rolled forward, which seemed to do her little good. I charged toward her, like a little nudge to remind her who her target was, and I watched as she knew she was cornered on both ends: Mange behind her, and I about to strike her down in front.

So in a twist of events, she crouched down, then when Mange got close enough, she leaped into the air and launched herself off of that poor wolf’s nose, which propelled her further. I watched as she tossed a knife down in my direction, and I blocked it with the sword at my right. However, she then swung her blade down from over her shoulder, and I reacted just in time, with the blade at my left hand overhead. However, the force was strong enough that I needed both arms free, and before I could lift the other sword, she swung her legs together and flung herself forward against my abdomen, knocking me to the ground.

With her on top, the blade raised against my head and her head close, I could feel her warm, heavy breaths on my face. They weren’t breaths of exhaustion, but excitement instead.

I wonder if that’s what she meant when she said she wanted me to teach her ‘restraint’.

“Well, you’ve got me pinned down. What’s next?” I flashed a sharp-toothed grin.

No answer. Mange didn’t seem so interested in pulling her off, despite the image present. So it was up to me: I grabbed her by the wrist, even with that sword firm in her hand, and tossed her off of me.

“Waah!” She squealed, caught off guard.

I got up and brushed off any dirt that had gotten on me.

“Good job. That was a risky move, but it paid off. To think I had just tried that today and you had already figured out a counter,” I commended her. However, she walked off and seemed to have brushed aside every word.

“It’s still not enough,” she grumbled.

“What is enough?” I demanded. As much as I hated to admit, her attitude got to me.

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll know when I get there,” she huffed out a reply.

“Hey,” I called her out. That time, she turned around. “I know I said you didn’t need to tell me the reason, but what is it that you’re after, anyway?”

“I need to improve my aim when throwing knives, I need to improve my reaction time. My reflexes still aren’t enough.”

“Bullshit. What more do you need?”

“I need to be able to dodge a bullet,” she replied with such conviction that despite the absurdity of the statement, I had no choice but to take it seriously.

“If that’s your goal, you should give up right now. It’s never going to happen, no matter how good you get.”

“I need to.”

“Nobody’s fast enough,” I shot down once more, “you think I can dodge a bullet? You think I’m faster than what comes out of a gun? I just have to get lucky and hope there’s something I can shield myself behind. That, or hope that I’m faster than the one with their hand on the trigger.”

“Fine. Then I need to be able to block a bullet,” she was adamant, which only served to irritate me further.

“With what? A sword? Even if you could react fast enough, it’s more likely that the bullet will break the sword. What then?”

“I’ll…” She grit her teeth, “I’ll think of something.

How stubborn. Looks like I’ll need to compromise.

“Fine. How about this? For the next few days, or however long it takes, I’ll borrow your throwing knives, toss them your way, and you’ll have to dodge them. I’ll paint some targets on trees and I’ll have you keep throwing until you can manage to hit the middle. I’ll make sure you’re using proper form. Does that sound good?”

She gave it a few seconds pause, then signaled her approval with a single nod.

“Good. Now, let’s practice some sprinting. Run around the field for a while until you get worn out. Mange will chase you around, but don’t worry, he won’t actually hurt. He may knock you down, and he is heavy, but he’s friendly enough.”

With a sprint, she took off. As she went busy with that, I returned to the shack and decided to lay down for a little while on the bottom hammock. For whatever reason, as I lay, a smile formed, then plastered its way onto my face. Above me came the gruff voice of Cleaver:

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Maybe I am,” I replied, “who’s to say?”

“You’re not fooling anyone. You’re getting a kick out of this.”

“Of course,” I gave in, “I’m most alive in a fight. Not to mention, it feels refreshing. Both to fight without such high stakes, and to be a mentor. It feels like I’m passing on my knowledge to the next generation.”

“I don’t really get it, but I could tell there was something up with you ever since you first showed up.”

“Oh?” Consider my interest piqued.

“I mean, c’mon, some tall Japanese swordswoman just shows up looking for a place to crash? Like, what time period do you think this is? Obviously there’s something up with that, either that, or you’re just a weirdo.”

To be honest, I’m more of an oddball than I’d care to admit.

“But you know,” he went on, “I never pried, I never asked about what your story was, because I just didn’t care. As long as you’re going to help me out and mean no trouble, then it’s none of my business.”

“See? That’s why we get along so well. I’ve never asked you what your deal was, either,” I threw at him. If it wasn’t clear, I was a little cheeky.

“You wanna know something else? When you and that girl are talking late at night, I can hear you. You’re not as quiet as you think you’re being.”

“Aw, Cleaver, at your age, you need your beauty sleep.”

“Guh,” he grunted, “you’re one to talk. What with your talks. I’ll be honest, I don’t understand most of it, but your whole ‘I’m just waitin’ for my time’ bullshit like you’re some old woman about to croak.”

“Heh. I am. I’ve lived a long life, Cleaver.”

“You’re younger than I am. I bet you haven’t even hit forty.”

“I bet you’re right. But I’m past my expiration date, so to speak. With the kind of life I’ve lived, I’d say I’m past the average life expectancy. It’s a little strange...just to exist at all.”

Large breaths of air lingered just before the last few words were uttered. It was as if I had gone speechless, starved of oxygen.

“Well, if you’re havin’ fun, that’s gotta count for something,” he seemed like he was trying to make some sort of attempt at encouragement.

“Never said it didn’t, but thank you for the sentiment.”

“Another thing, uh, for what it’s worth, what does it matter if you’re just passing by? Doesn’t mean it don’t got meaning. Plenty of people are just passing by, having chance encounters. But it still has value.”

“I agree. Try not to put too much stock into the things I say,” I advised him. Selfish as it may have been, part of me wanted to know what kind of life he had lived, and why he lived in a shack out in an open field. Was it choice or circumstance? Was there another option? But just like him, I was fine with not knowing.

I think it’s always been that I’ve gotten along most well with older folks of a certain kind. Lost souls, or those who were destitute, vagrant, fallen on bad luck and hard times. Hermits whose own lives had become a distant memory. There was nothing to be fascinated by it, nothing romantic. It was just a certain kinship I felt. I in no way ever wanted to just scrape by with whatever I could reach for. It was just what I developed into, and now I felt as if I could live no other way. If I could even live at all.

III

Even as the days passed, and another couple of weeks flew by, it proved not to scratch that itch she so desired. Despite every throw closer and closer to the bullseye, every projectile avoided, every knife caught in the grip of her gloves (that one surprised me the most. Another risky move, but one I allowed, despite the trouble that could have caused. It seemed like less of a mistake and something she wanted to do. Still, I made sure to drill in her head not to try that with bullets, because all that would do, best case scenario, is give her a bloody hand), it wasn’t enough.

Throughout the training, I had wondered what her reason was. Although I told her she didn’t need to tell me, it was still important enough to her that she sought me out. She could have sought out anyone, a professional trainer, for example. But no, it was me. There had to be something specific there, and I had my suspicions as to what it was.

“Satisfied?” I inquired after she had managed to hit the target, square in the middle.

“Not quite,” she shook her head. That all but confirmed it; no more beating around the bush, I had to ask:

“Are you trying to be like your crush?” I drilled to the center of the matter, hoping to find gold.

“Excuse me?” She asked in turn.

“Remora. You haven’t mentioned her since you got here. You mentioned Rhea, which is surprising in of itself, but she never mattered much to you. As I’m sure you’ve thought, yourself, her and your cousin’s battle had nothing to do with you. But it was Remora who you were interested in, wasn’t it?” Her brows creased, and I could tell she didn’t enjoy such a topic.

“I’ve just had nothing to tell. Feelings can change,” she replied, her voice lowered, guarded in its response.

“Indeed. So it was a falling out?”

“Something like that. It’s a period in my life that I’m done with, so I don’t need to think about it anymore,” she flat out stated. Still, she didn’t echo the same confidence that she did in our spars.

“So that’s just it? Yet you came here, to someone you knew worked the same job as her, and talk about wanting to dodge bullets. Even if you don’t feel like you don’t need to think about her, you either have her in mind, or something similar.”

That time, her defensive face relaxed, and she changed her expression: a smile took hold and stretched to a smug grin.

“Something similar, you could say that. You could say I want to be just like her.”

I figured as much, although a part of me hoped it wasn’t such a case.

“Or rather,” she added, then turned away, “I’d like to be strong enough to be able to kill someone like her.”

Such confidence. This could be interesting, if also disconcerting.

“Someone like me?” I suggested.

She shook her head.

“I’d rather not kill. That was the whole reason why I wanted to learn restraint. But if my suspicions are correct, then I may need to. Which means I have to make sure I’m strong enough to do so, even if it means becoming like one of you guys.”

“Suspicions? What are you talking about?”

It sounded like some delusion of hers, although I knew better than to think such a thing. If there was even a chance of someone else like Remora or I, even alive and out there, then what did she want with someone like that? Did she have some personal vendetta? Did someone kill someone close to her? What could have prompted such a desire?

“I think I’m ready to show you,” she paced about, then brought out her phone.

Yes. Please. Show me.

I watched her put her phone up to her ear, then speak into it.

“Hey Cybele. It’s me. I’m ready for you to pick me up. Oh, and I’ve got someone with me. There’s a place I want to show her. Both of you. I might be able to get you your money, there, too.”

There was a short pause.

“Cool, see you soon? Cool.”

She ended the call, then turned back to me.

“You can take your sword with you, if you want.”

Was planning on bringing it, anyway. I’ve got some bad vibes from all this.

“What is it you want to show me, anyway?” I asked her.

“You’ll understand when we get there,” her smile held as she assured me.

What was left in me was a sense of confusion. Before me wasn’t the same Demetria that showed up a couple of months ago, but then, she must have had such a thing planned out. So either she had been masking how she really was, or it was an alarming determination. Something which she was driven to see through.

“By the way, you should get that dog back inside. I don’t think my friend would like seeing them,” she advised.

“Mange is a wolf,” I corrected, then stuck two fingers in my mouth and whistled. “Hey Mange! Get inside!”

Mange let out a whimper as he slowly walked toward the shack. He looked over at me, let out a soft, “awoo,” then pouted and went inside.

“Yeah, yeah. Awoo to you too.”

About fifteen minutes later, a woman with a blonde ponytail and wearing a blue blouse and a pencil skirt walked approached us. At first, she stood up straight, but as soon as she saw us, she slumped over.

“Ugh, lemme tell you, it’s so hard to find parking when you fly a plane everywhere,” she bemoaned. Then she stood right back up and looked over to me. I raised an eyebrow and gave a short wave.

“Hey, who’s this?” She asked Demetria, who looked up at both of us.

“Cybele, this is Wen...err...Zephyr,” she introduced.

Cybele then smiled a big smile and held out her hand.

“Heya, nice to meet ya! Nice muscles,” she greeted. I took her hand and shook it, then tilted my head.

“Thanks, I made them myself?” I replied.

She let out an awkward laugh, then turned to Demetria.

“So, what’s this place we’re going to?”

“You’ll see,” was all she said in response, then made her way toward the plane.

“Oooookay. Looks like we’re off,” she strutted off. I followed behind.

Aboard her plane, I just realized that I had heard Cybele’s name before.

“I think Ray’s talked about you,” I mentioned to her.

“Oh?” She sounded curious.

“Yeah. He’s really serious about this thing that’s been going on.”

Demetria scowled and sat across from me, her arms folded.

“So you know what’s going on too? Was I the only one who didn’t?” She accused and stuck her nose up.

“Of course I know what’s going on, girl. I showed up at the diner a little after you left. You would have known too, had you stayed.”

“I was under no obligation to stay,” she rebutted.

“You’re right, but I take it you would have, had you known.”

“No shit.”

“Still, she knows now,” Cybele butted in.

“She found out?”

“Ray told me, then I told her. She seems pretty serious about saving them.”

My ears perked.

“Is that so?” I turned back to Demetria.

She shook her head, arms still crossed.

“Finishing up school is more important. They can handle themselves.”

“Wow, cold,” I reacted.

“Not as cold as the arctic,” she shrugged.

“Well, you’re right about one thing: there’s no reason for you to get involved. If it gets to be too much, Ray will call me back over there.”

She didn’t say anything after that. By the looks of her, she seemed disappointed, as she hung her head low, but she didn’t make any objections.

“Say Cybele, you got any drinks on this plane?” I called over to her. She walked over and got into stewardess mode.

“Yes, what would you like?”

“Got any alcoholic beverages?”

“We have spiced rum,” she offered.

“Cool. I’ll take it.”

“I’ll be right back with your drink, miss,” she did her best to sound polite, then raced off to the back of the plane. I leaned back and awaited our arrival to the mystery destination.

We landed a few hours later in a clearing through a forest. Demetria got out of the plane first, followed by myself. Demetria looked up to Cybele, who was still next to the door of the plane, then addressed her:

“Cybele, can I ask you to stay there? We’ll be out soon, promise.”

“Trust me, that place looks foreboding enough as it is. I’m totally cool with staying here,” she assured.

Demetria gave Cybele a thumbs up, then we walked toward the building in question: this long and high marble building with few windows. Around the perimeter was a barbed wire fence.

“Apparently this place used to be a prison,” Demetria explained. Not that I was interested in the building’s origins. My interest was more in what we were doing there in the first place.

She opened the door inside, then motioned me to follow her in. As if that was really necessary. I would have done so anyway.

Once we stepped foot inside, I noticed the thin tunnel-like corridor, many rooms on the floor above us, and an absence of sound. Another thing of note was that the lights were on, which made it appear less abandoned than it really was. Demetria looked around, then remarked in passing:

“Looks like she took care of the dead bodies like she said she would.”

That caught me off guard, and also made me take note of the floor. Indeed, there wasn’t any hint of bloodshed or anything of the sort.

“She?” I inquired.

“I encountered someone who wants to kill Remora. She said that Remora killed her father, so I take it it’s personal.”

Figures. That frosty bastard wasn’t as good at taking care of loose ends as she thought she was.

“Do you know whose father she might have killed?” Demetria asked.

“No idea. I never shared any missions with her, and I don’t know what kind of jobs she took on. Could’ve been anyone’s father.”

“That makes it difficult,” Demetria shook her head. I wonder, do you still have some concern for her?

“What is this place, anyway?”

Our journey took us to the end of the hall, where two flights of stairs to the upstairs were situated, and we stopped at a door along the back wall.

“There was this organization. They were trying to revive the janitor company. Don’t worry, though. I took them all out, so it’s not going to happen.”

“You mean, you killed them?” Was my first question, although there were many others which could have taken precedence. Like why anyone would want to do such a thing, let alone how they knew of such an organization in the first place.

“Their turret killed them,” she corrected. “They were too heavily armored for me to have done anything on my own.”

She opened the door, then stepped inside. I followed suit, and my jaw just about dropped at the sight of stacks of cash lined up along shelves on the walls. Aside from that, there were several guns strewn about the floor, and alongside those weapons, there was something else quite peculiar: minerals which appeared to change shape and color without end, going from smooth to jagged to crystalline. Brown, gold, blue, purple, green, black, white. No specific consistency, and yet at the same time as it made those constant changes, it was as if the ‘minerals’ or whatever they were, were still objects and objects which made no such movements to warrant such a change.

“Concentrated celestial aura…” I heaved out the words. Demetria turned to me as she shoveled stacks of cash.

“You know it?” She asked.

“They’re the materials created from the essence of angels, made solid. They were used to forge the weapons we use. What they’re doing here...no, how they got their hands on…” I was just about speechless.

“Yeah, I don’t have an explanation, either,” Demetria echoed my sentiment. “There’s many things I don’t know, but I figure with this, I’ll have a fighting chance.”

“Fighting chance? What are you talking about?” I snapped.

“I want a new weapon of my own created from this stuff. I’ve already got an idea as to what I want, it’s just a matter of finding someone who could forge with these.”

Astonishment turned to irritation, and I held my fist against the wall.

“That’s not what I mean! What do you expect to do with a weapon like that?”

Her face turned sullen, and her voice lowered.

“I have an idea of what’s causing these phenomena that Sunny and Ray have been dealing with at the diner. If my suspicion is correct, then I need to make sure I’m prepared.”

“Prepared? How the hell could you possibly know what’s going on up there?”

“Because I’ve dealt with it already!” She snapped right back. “There was a man who ate two people alive, two people who I tried and failed to save! Who claimed to serve an indescribable creature, and even though I burned that place down, I know it didn’t take care of anything! There were still monsters in the arctic, strange things that went on, and they’re still going on! I have to put a stop to him! It’s my responsibility!”

“No, it’s not. You need to stay out of it. I get that you’re worried about them, but you don’t have the experience that I do. So just go back home to your family, live a quiet life, and let me deal with it.”

She didn’t budge.

“I know I lack the experience, that’s why I had you train me, so I could be strong enough to take them on. Like it or not, they are my family just as much as my biological family, and you better believe that I will protect them.”

“So you were planning to go there after all? Was the education thing a lie?”

“Not at all. I’m graduating at the end of the month. After that, it will take another month or two to forge the weapon. Then, I’ll find a way to get there. Mark my words. I just hope that I’m not too late by the time I get there.”

I pulled out my sword.

“Maybe she no longer matters to you, but do you think Remora ever wanted you to be like her? What about me? We went through hell to become the kind of people we are, and you’re saying you want to be like that too?”

“You’re right: I wouldn’t want to go through the same things you guys did. I can’t even imagine how you dealt with it. But I’m willing to put myself through hell if I have to for those people, because damn it, they’re worth hell. So we can fight right now if you want to, but I’m not backing down from this. Not when their lives are at stake.”

I let out a single heavy breath, then eased my nerves as I sheathed my blade.

“Fine. I did tell you that I didn’t need to know your reason, but you better understand that there’s no guarantee of success and if you’re not careful, this will cost you your life. Are you still willing to proceed?”

“Without a doubt,” she answered without hesitation.

“Very well. We’ll take these materials with us,” and before we could get ready to do so, I spied something beside the boxes of celestial auras. “Hey. You said you wanted to be able to block a bullet?”

She nodded. I picked up the small devices and handed them to her.

“These are miniature bounded fields. I’ll train you how to use them.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

“I still don’t like the idea, but I can tell that your mind’s made up.”

So I grabbed a couple of boxes of the minerals while she carried stacks of cash and the miniature bounded field devices. My load was heavier, but I could take it.

“By the way,” she spoke up while we hauled the items back to the plane, “I don’t remember if I’ve asked, but did you know any janitors named Cronus?”

“No,” I replied, “do you think someone by that name is behind these attacks?”

“Yes. Or someone using that name as an alias. What about someone who ate people alive, or had a big mouth. Anyone like that?”

I had to think back a little, there were so many others, now lost to time.

“There is one person who comes to mind, but I don’t know much about him,” I suggested.

“Who?”

“He had the codename ‘Tarrare’. Apparently his specialty was more akin to a true janitor...as in, he cleaned up messes, all right. From what I heard, the higher ups would find jobs that had to do with disposing of dead bodies, and they’d send him out to devour the corpses. It’s kind of gross to think about, but I guess he had the stomach for that sorta thing.”

“Anything helps. It’s hard to believe there’s any other janitors alive, but I’m not going to rule it out.”

Just a few minutes later, we arrived back on the plane and took off. Demetria handed Cybele the cash, Cybele hugged Demetria tight, and few was spoken after that. In fact, I stewed in my thoughts.

I can’t believe I’m letting her do this. She must have been planning this a while, but how will she manage? For that matter, will she be okay with who she becomes? Or was it who she already was, and she just needed the resources? Then I considered that it must have been the latter.

We returned to the field later in the afternoon. Demetria waved goodbye to Cybele.

“How will you get around without me?” Cybele wondered.

“I’ll figure something out. Besides, I’m sure we’ll meet again soon enough,” Demetria assured Cybele.

“Okay. Stay safe, and remember: you’ve got friends!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Demetria waved off and dismissed. “You take care, yourself.”

As soon as Cybele took off, I turned to Demetria.

“What’s next?” I inquired.

“We keep training, I go to campus to get my degree, and then I take off to get my weapon forged.”

“I see. What kind of weapon do you have in mind?”

She flashed a smile.

“I dunno. I was thinking a sword,” she gave a little wink. So much for originality.

“All right, so we’ll train a bit more, you’ll graduate, but do you even know a blacksmith who can work with this stuff? For that matter, how will you get back to the diner? In case you aren’t aware, normal flights aren’t going near there, and if Ray knew you were coming, he’d try to pull out all stops to keep you away.”

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll figure it all out.”

I couldn’t help but smile in response to all that.

“Now I’m curious as to what you’ll come up with.”

She shrugged. Looks like I’d just have to wait and see.

The end of the month came, so too, did the end of spring. Demetria rushed out the door of the shack that morning, laptop and backpack in hand, and woke us all up.

“What’s the rush?” I turned to her, voice all hoarse and groggy.

“It’s my graduation. I’ve gotta get my degree in person. I think it’s dumb, but rules are rules. So going to take a Greyhound bus a few states over. See you in, like, a day at most.”

I clapped.

“Well good for you. It’s like you’re growing up and everything.”

“Oh, shut it,” she laughed. “Anyway, bye.”

“Have a good time,” I waved to her, then she was gone.

Cleaver sat up from his hammock and looked down.

“That kid gone?” He looked around.

“Yeah, but she’ll be back,” I informed him.

“I can’t believe it’s been three months already,” he shook his head. “Crazy, huh? She turned from a pipsqueak to a powerhouse.”

“She was already a powerhouse, she just needed for that power to come to the surface,” I corrected him, “now I wonder if she’s something more than a powerhouse.”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” he climbed down. “I’m going to find some possums to barbecue. Wanna join me in the hunt?”

“I’ll pass. But send my regards to Mange, will ya?”

He grumbled an incomprehensible grumble, then walked out the door.

“I suppose all that’s left for me to do now is wait,” I spoke into the air. Wait for Ray to send me that call, telling me that the place was in danger, or wait for Demetria to return. Wait for so many things, up to and including the prospect of an eternal rest.

So I went around town, I rested in the fields, I swung around the sword, but for the most part, I just sat and waited. On the following afternoon, Demetria returned running toward the shack, with plenty of stamina in tow.

“Hey, welcome back,” I greeted.

“Thanks!” She replied, and there was something different about her, as she was grinning and a glow seemed to surround her.

“You seem in a good mood. How was it?”

“Oh, you know, boring stuff. But you wouldn’t believe who I saw there. It was an old friend who I thought I’d never speak to again, let alone see! I guess we’re really still friends after all. It’s hard to believe,” she seemed to wipe a tear from her eye, and she continued to smile.

“Who was it?” I asked.

“Not who you’re thinking!” She backpedaled, and I was a little confused.

“I wasn’t thinking of anyone in particular,” I argued.

“Well, it’s not who you weren’t thinking of in particular, I can tell you that much! It was just an old friend from college. We used to be roommates.”

“Look at you! Being all social and stuff!” I congratulated.

“Stop it. I doubt I’ll see her again. My life’s just heading in a different direction and I probably won’t be able to have as many bright and cheery moments as that one. I have to accept that.”

How unfortunate.

“You should at least allow yourself the moments of happiness you can find,” I advised her.

Her smile lowered down until her face turned more serious.

“Yeah...you’re right.”

Before either of us could say anything else, Demetria’s phone rang, and she answered.

“Would you look at that, perfect timing,” Demetria remarked as whoever was on the other end must have greeted her, “been a while, hasn’t it, Hera?”

Hera? Was that the friend Demetria knew back at her university? I didn’t know, but I continued to listen in.

“Oh my. You want me to come over? Gee, I’d love to do that, but I don’t have any way to get there. I don’t have...how do I put it...the coin.”

You need a coin to get...well, she was probably talking of transportation money. But still, doesn’t she have plenty of money considering what she took at that building?

“Wait. You’ll come get me? Well this changes everything. Okay. Hold on. Slow down. I’ll meet you in Caldwell, Idaho. You can probably find me at a coffee shop. Thanks so much,. Bye.”

She then hung up and looked down where I sat.

“Well, time for me to run down to the city while carrying rocks in my backpack,” she announced, then tossed me her phone.

“Why did you give me this?” I looked down, confused.

“Can you hold onto it for me? Where I’m going, it’s best if I don’t have this.”

I was still confused.

“What am I supposed to do with it? I’m a homeless old bat!” I griped.

“Oh, come on. You’re not that old. Just pretend to be me if anyone texts.”

I shook my head and sighed.

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this, but what the hell?”

“Thanks! So I’ll see you around!” She rushed out the words and was in such a pose that suggested she was ready to run off then and there.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” I cautioned.

“Ha. Do I ever?”

We both allowed ourselves a little bit of a laugh, and then she ran off inside the shack, then ran back out with the backpack on her shoulders. Without so much as looking back, she ran off at once. Before long, her image faded from view. Then I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the shack.

“I think if fate will allow, I’d like to live at least long enough to see how this plays out. If not a little longer,” I sent my wish out into the air. It wasn’t so much of a wish as it was a certain sentimental idea. I wouldn’t have minded if my time came tomorrow, or that very instant.

#remoras full #writing #training montage #action #slice of life #fiction #sorry this took so long #turns out this chapter is even longer than chapter 27 was #sorry about that too

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imaginaryelle · 4 years

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Thanks to @morphia-writes for beta help, and to @miyuki4s for all the brainstorming help that went into this chapter!

An excerpt:

There are some things Lan Wangji cannot doubt: Wei Ying’s love for his sister, and her children. His affection for Jiang Wanyin, and the Wens. His dedication to ensuring that Lan Wangji himself does not succumb to the curse he carries.

Every evening, he creates a fresh talisman to replaces the one on Lan Wangji’s arm. He brews one of three different medicinal teas from Wen Qing, in sequence, and serves it, sometimes drinking a portion or two himself. He invites Lan Wangji to play Rest as a duet for the suppressed, resentful souls they carry, and then other, less spiritually charged music, and asks after his core, after their evening meditations.

Every morning, Lan Wangji takes longer than he needs to to comb his hair, and tie it up, and dress. Wei Ying looks younger in the diffused dawnlight inside the tent. Softer, sprawled carelessly under blankets with his sleep robe twisted out of place to reveal the hollow of his elbow and the line of his collar bones.

It’s an indulgence Lan Wangji shouldn’t permit himself. A few moments, watching Wei Ying breathe and concentrating on the steady warmth of the soulbond under his own skin.

Read on tumblr under the cut!

It takes more than one day for a sect leader to prepare for the sort of journey they’re planning. Not because of the journey itself, Wei Ying is quick to point out, but because of all the things he has to make sure are done beforehand.

“Wen Qing is locking me in my study today,” he says over breakfast on the first day, “but Sizhui, Xiuying and Weixin are meeting with a tailor for new clothes and you should go.”

As he has been wearing borrowed or stolen clothes for several days now, Lan Wangji cannot bring himself to protest. He has no desire to wear extra infirmary underlayers while traveling, and the plain black outer layer Wen Qionglin had brought to his door was clearly intended to fit as many people as possible. Commissioning something new, or at least something altered to fit properly, is only reasonable.

Wei Ying insists that he’s already paid for the service, which Lan Wangji can only thank him for; he has no funds of his own, or reputation to call on.

“Get something you like,” Wei Ying tells him, even as Wen Qing looms over his shoulder. “Anything you want is fine.”

Lan Wangji assumes this event will take place within Yiling-Wei’s walls, as was generally the case in Cloud Recesses, but instead he finds himself following Wen Sizhui, Zhou Xiuying and Liu Weixin through a town that looks much more prosperous than the Yiling he visited thirteen years ago, and is almost certainly louder and more crowded than he remembers.

That impression may be influenced by his company. Certainly he had felt there were entirely too many people in the street when he was surrounded by onlookers with a toddler clutching at his leg, but if anything their small group draws even more attention now.

Everyone seems to know Wen Sizhui. There are street hawkers and shop owners who greet him by name, and press freshly steamed baozi and sticks of hawthorn candy into his hands, and it is clear from their comments that the townspeople of Yiling are close to their Sect in a way that is certainly not true of Cloud Recesses and Caiyi, or Jinlingtai and Lanling. One merchant is so insistent on thanking them for some past service that all four of them end up holding packages of lotus root, despite the fact that Lan Wangji can have had nothing to do with solving the woman’s problems.

The pattern continues inside the tailor’s shop—the young Wei cultivators are being fitted with new black outer yi and trousers designed to the Jiang Clan’s specifications for the upcoming archery tournament, but they are all clearly well-known to the staff. And Lan Wangji has come with the Sect Leader’s express instructions. And also the offer of his purse.

“Wei-zongzhu said you might prefer these,” one of the tailor’s assistants says, his hands full of fine-woven cream and blue fabrics, “but we do have other colors, of course.”

None of the fabrics on display are the shining, pure white of Gusu-Lan, but there is sun-bleached silk and cloud-white cotton and pale wool woven thinner than paper. It doesn’t seem to matter what he says, or how he responds: he is fussed over, and measured, and prodded. Silk and wool and brocade are draped over his shoulders and held up to his face for comparisons of shade and texture, and he leaves the shop—it is much later in the afternoon than he expected—with the black robe he arrived in newly altered and a sash of summerweight wool dyed the blue of a pale spring morning tied around his waist. Travel clothes, he is assured, will be delivered in the next few days.

He could not bring himself to commission a forehead ribbon, in any color; he is already quite certain these new robes will exceed any budget or social standing Liang Feihong could expect to claim. Wei Ying seems unconcerned.

“It’s a gift,” he insists after dinner. “Besides, you’re still a cultivator, and you’re traveling with a sect leader. It’d be weird if you looked like a fisherman.”

Lan Wangji is certain there are several measures of difference between the dress of a fisherman, a rogue cultivator, and the fabrics that were held before his face today.

“Look at this map with me,” Wei Ying says, the topic apparently closed. “I’m trying to figure out which roads are least likely to be blocked by mudslides. Wen Qing says if I get on a boat during the spring rains she’ll kill me now to save herself the trouble of burying me later.”

Lan Wangji may not have any formal responsibilities at Yiling-Wei, but Wen Qing makes it clear that she expects marked improvement in his spiritual power before he leaves her area of influence. He is given a list of meditation exercises and a schedule of daily training sessions for sword and unarmed work with her apprentices on hand to monitor his condition.

This is not a hardship. He had already planned to dedicate most of his time to this task, and the Wei cultivators have a unique style—not quite Yunmeng-Jiang, but not Qishan-Wen either. Wei Ying, of course, is the most practiced in it, and his version does not even involve a sword; Suibian is distinctly absent from their training sessions, but this does not seem to affect Wei Ying’s efficacy. Twice Lan Wangji is not fast enough to avoid the touch of a talisman to his shoulder, or his core.

He takes no actual damage from them—Wei Ying is careful in his craft, and these were written specifically for this purpose, but the failure drives him to train harder, even against other sparring opponents, until whatever apprentice is observing him steps in and orders a rest.

He spends this enforced downtime reading theory texts from Wen Qing’s library or at his guqin, picking out simple practice scores and more complex Lan melodies in the hope of re-training both his fingers and his core in the delicate language required for performing Inquiry. He works outside, in the scattered gardens, whenever the weather allows. A few hours spent alone in his shuttered room during a sudden storm proves detrimental to his focus, no matter how many handstands he does, or what other meditation techniques he tries. It is better to be out in the open air, where he can breathe more easily.

“Lan Zhan!” On the afternoon of the third day Wei Ying leans around the mulberry tree on the other side of a plot dedicated largely to cooking herbs. He looks around as if he thinks they’re being watched, and then all but runs over to crouch next to Lan Wangji. “I want to show you something,” he whispers. He tugs on Lan Wangji’s sleeve. “Come on, quick!”

“Something” turns out to be the paddock, where a 2-day-old foal is taking in the outside world for the first time under his mother’s watchful eyes. Wei Ying drapes himself over the fence and watches them both with a rapt expression Lan Wangji has never seen him wear before. Zhou Xiuying is also in attendance, alongside her wife—Feng Xinyi—who he learns is the one of the Wei Sect’s grooms.

“Xiaoying and Heitu are just one pasture over, if you wanted to meet them,” she says, which is how Lan Wangji learns that Wei Ying intends to travel by mule.

“Do you know how hard it is to feed a horse?” he says as they walk through tall grass flushed green with the rains. “Have you ever tried to train a horse for night hunting? In a Yunmeng summer? The heat is terrible for them. I think the only reason Jiang Cheng still has horses is his grandmother sent a whole caravan of grooms and breeding stock from Meishan when the war ended.” He produces two apples from his sleeve and holds one out to the nearest mule and the other to Lan Wangji. “Mules are better,” he says, his tone flippant as he pets Xiaoying’s long nose. “And almost as impressive.”

Xiaoying and Heitu are undeniably beautiful animals; good conformation, clearly healthy, and their dark bay coats shine red in the sunlight. And Lan Wangji knows that he will not be able to travel by sword for some time yet. Not alone. He cannot expect Wei Ying to transport them both, and walking will be too slow. Riding makes sense.

“Little Shadow?” he asks, of Wei Ying’s mount. “And … Black Rabbit?” They are hardly the sorts of names he is accustomed to hearing for a cultivator’s steed. There is little sense of speed, or power, or even luck in these names. Wei Ying shrugs.

“Xiaoying used to lie in the grass and pretend to be dead. Sizhui tripped over her all the time, and then she’d follow him for hours. And Heitu likes to jump, she hopped all over the place as a filly--ah! Lan Zhan!” He grins, gleeful, mischief in his face. “Do you remember the rabbits I gave you, all those years ago? And now I can give you another one! A bigger one!” Wei Ying laughs, just as he had laughed in Cloud Recesses, depositing two rabbits on the floor of the library, some sort of gift and joke and torment all in one, Lan Wangji had been sure.

Lan Wangji hadn’t known what to do then, with the boy who refused to leave him alone, who insisted on teasing him at every opportunity. Now, he stares at Wei Ying’s hands, at long sleeves pulled back to reveal his wrists, at his lips, and he knows what he wants to do.

He steps closer to Heitu, offers her his hands in a bowl instead of reaching out beyond her.

“I remember,” he says. It’s possible that his brother allowed his pets to stay, after his death.

Unlikely. But possible.

Heitu snuffles at his hands, all warm breath and soft nose in a way that is, in some small semblance, reminiscent of the soft warmth of his rabbits. She bears nothing like their fragility, but she takes the apple he offers delicately, and he keeps his fingers well clear of her teeth. Wei Ying strokes Xiaoying’s face and talks sweetly at her until she takes his sleeve in her mouth, at which point he switches over to annoyed admonishments. Lan Wangji has just stepped nearer to help him when Wen Qionglin appears at Wei Ying’s shoulder.

“Qing-jie wants to know if you finished that letter to Ouyang-zongzhu yet,” he says.

Wei Ying jerks, and there’s a sound of tearing cloth. He sighs.

“Feng-shimei told you to stop keeping food in your sleeves,” Wen Qionglin notes, even as he distracts Xiaoying with a hand on her neck. She drops Wei Ying’s sleeve and nudges her nose into Wen Qionglin’s chest. Both animals seem accustomed to his presence.

“I took it out as soon as we got here,” Wei Ying grumbles. “I wouldn’t have torn anything if I wasn’t surprised.” He sticks his fingers through the tear in his sleeve and wiggles them. The look on his face can only be described as a pout.

“I can fix it for you—” Wen Qionglin actually looks worried. Wei Ying just sighs and flaps his sleeve.

“I’ll fix it,” he says. “Why should you fix it? It’s fine.” He frowns at Xiaoying for a moment, then leans into Lan Wangji’s shoulder.

“I really can’t recommend becoming a sect leader,” he says, low-voiced, as if this will affect Wen Qionglin’s hearing. “The number of letters you have to respond to is too much work. I don’t think Ouyang-zongzhu even reads them, he just sends some new complaint every few weeks, as if I can control the weather, or the river, or how sleepy his cultivators get when they’re on tower duty.”

Lan Wangji has never heard his brother or his uncle make similar complaints, but they are Lans; they would not say such a thing even if it were true.

“Did you not choose the position?” he asks.

Wei Ying’s face scrunches up with displeasure. He shakes his head, though whether it is denial or dismissal is impossible to determine.

“I better get back to it,” he says instead of answering the question. “Before Wen Qing tells the kitchens to put radish in my food again.”

He sighs, and waves aside Lan Wangji’s bow. “I’ll see you both at dinner,” he says, and Wen Qionglin nods. Lan Wangji watches Wei Ying walk back up the hill towards the main compound until Heitu seems to take offense to his distraction and knocks her head against his shoulder, huffing at him.

“Does Liang-gongzi know how to ride?” Wen Qionglin asks. It’s a fair question: Lan Wangji does not actually know if Liang Feihong was trained in riding. He prevaricates. What is true for him is just as likely to be true for Liang Feihong as not.

“It has been a long time.”

“Would you like to practice?” Wen Qionglin asks, and Lan Wangji agrees without hesitation. Practice, and especially practice in caring for his mount without servants to help, can only improve the upcoming journey.

Wen Qionglin shows him to the tack room, and he manages to brush and saddle Heitu with a minimum of fuss. The main difference between outfitting a horse and a mule, he finds, is that Heitu’s tack includes two belly cinches, there is an extra strap that goes under her tail to stop the saddle moving too far forward, and he has to be especially gentle with her long ears while placing the bridle. Xiaoying is the more mischievous of the pair, Wen Qionglin tells him, and has to be watched carefully so she doesn’t puff out her stomach and make the cinches too loose.

Riding is initially awkward, but after a few slow circuits of the paddock he finds his seat and is able to push Heitu faster without losing his balance too badly. She takes direction well, has a steady, comfortable gait, and doesn’t startle as easily as some horses he’s ridden. He will almost certainly be sore later, especially without a dependable supply of spiritual power to speed healing, but the wind in his face and the simple pleasures of riding are more than worth that discomfort. He turns back toward the stables when they have both worked up a light sweat and sees Feng Xinyi speaking with Wen Qionglin. She smiles as he approaches, but doesn’t stay.

“I should get back to the little one,” she says. “But I’m glad to know Heitu will have a rider who knows what he’s doing.”

Wen Qionglin leads Heitu to a water trough and pets her cheek until Feng Xinyi is out of earshot.

“Wei-zongzhu trusts you,” he says. As if this is a fact.

Lan Wangji stares back at him. Wen Qionglin does not breathe, and he does not blink. He stands perfectly, unnaturally still, and waits. Apparently some response is required.

He settles on, “I trust him, also.”

Wen Qionglin watches him for a moment longer, and then nods. Then he says, “If he truly needs help, I will know. No matter where he is. And I am very fast.”

Oh.

This is probably intended as a threat.

Lan Wangji slides off Heitu’s back, so that they are eye to eye.

“I mean him no harm,” he says. In his current state of spiritual power it’s almost reassuring to know that someone else is concerned for Wei Ying's welfare. It should not be at all surprising, but he finds he is often surprised by Wen Qionglin, who has continued to move and talk and physically reside with his family for over a decade when everything Lan Wangji has been taught says he should not even exist.

Those same teachings would object to his own new existence as well; they are, both of them, supposed to be long dead.

“I will not let him come to harm,” he says, “if I can help it.”

He worries for a moment that this will be too revealing, but Wen Qionglin does not question him further. Perhaps he doesn’t need to. They are both well aware of the loyalty Wei Ying can inspire, under the right circumstances.

“I will show you where to find the saddle bags and travel rations,” Wen Qionglin decides, and he doesn’t speak of anything but Xiaoying and Heitu’s care and habits for the rest of the afternoon.

The evening before their planned departure, Wen Qing summons Lan Wangji once more to her study. Wei Ying arrives partway through her examination of his meridians and, surprisingly, sits quietly beside her desk until she’s finished. When she nods he joins them both behind the privacy screen and produces two cloth-wrapped packages—in one, two coiled lengths of red silk string, and in the other a pale jade carving of an endless panchang knot.

“Our hope is to give your spiritual power a new path through your meridians,” Wen Qing tells him as she inspects the strings. “One that minimizes the curse’s influence.” She blocks the meridians at his shoulder with her needles, and then ties one string to his arm, above the curse mark, and the other below it, each secured with a cloverleaf knot and sealed with a touch of spiritual power.

Wei Ying leans in close and presses two fingers to the talisman over the curse mark, but doesn’t touch either the silk or the jade. He keeps his silence. Lan Wangji watches his face and cannot read his thoughts.

“Just making sure this doesn’t interrupt us,” he says when he sees Lan Wangji watching. He holds up a second talisman in his other hand. “Wouldn’t want to have to start over in the middle.”

It’s a reasonable precaution: Tying the new charm is a long process, a progression of knots that covers most of his forearm. The jade panchang knot is tied in just above the curse mark, and another panchang knot of red silk tied below the wound. Wen Qing and Wei Ying both study it closely, and then she removes her needles and takes his wrist again, walking him through a slow meditation, cycling spiritual power through his body.

The flow of power is smoother, though it does perhaps take a little more time than he expects.

Wei Ying removes his fingers with a nod and a sigh. Wen Qing smiles, satisfied.

“The talisman will still need to be reapplied regularly,” she says, “but these charms together should be enough to minimize the curse’s effect on your meridians, so your core can begin to heal.”

It has already begun. He can feel the difference.

“Thank you.” The words seem inadequate, but he has little else to offer. Even this, she waves aside.

“I’m sure you don’t need my guidance for the proper exercises, but I do have many more theory texts, if you wish to read them.”

“We can bring some along,” Wei Ying promises. “Most of the best ones, we have more than one copy.”

Lan Wangji thinks of the library—of the many books that bear the same hand. Some copied by Wen Qing. Some by Wei Ying. Others in a clear, steady hand he doesn’t recognize. Of the single bound copy of the Lan Clan rules he’d found next to a copy of the Wen principles, and the books that he doubts his brother knows exist, copies of texts that were available to guest disciples studying at Cloud Recesses.

He wonders if his brother knew, when he was rebuilding the Library Pavilion, just how exact Wei Ying’s memory can be.

“Thank you,” he says again.

“Get some sleep,” Wen Qing says. “Both of you.” She stares hard at Wei Ying. “I’m not going to be the one dragging you out of your rooms in the morning. It’s no matter to me if you miss traveling during the coolest part of the day.”

Traveling with Wei Ying, and only with Wei Ying, is different from traveling alone, or with other Lan disciples, and different again from his memories of travel during the Sunshot Campaign. Then, Wei Ying had shifted through moods like ripples in water, sometimes predictable but more often not. A laugh like a clash of swords, a glare that pierced like needles. More than once Lan Wangji had found him alone but for the poor company the dead might provide, brooding under a shadow that seemed to cling to him even on the clearest of days. And then he would turn and ask if Lan Wangji knew this or that song, or if he wanted to spar, or if he’d eaten because surely it must be time for the next meal by now, and Lan Wangji would push aside his concern until hours later, when Wei Ying was just as likely to pull a prank as get in a fight with an ally. A fight with Lan Wangji himself, more often than not.

But that was the war. Decades ago, now, for everyone but Lan Wangji himself.

Now, Wei Ying laughs with more humor, and the cant of his eyes is merely sly rather than cutting. He grumbles through his breakfast and morning tea. He bickers with Xiaoying while saddling her and slouches through the morning hours until some unknown precondition is met, and then he begins talking aloud about whatever is on his mind at the moment: the weather, which continues to be wet, with cool mornings and steamy afternoons, or theories on their two investigations, or tales of past night hunts, which quickly shift into stories of Wen Sizhui, or Jiang Wanyin and Jin Rulan, and from there to the other members of Yiling-Wei, and Yunmeng-Jiang, and Lanling-Jin. Once, when they stop and take shelter under a half-repaired watchtower to wait out a storm, Wei Ying says, “Ah, Lan Zhan, do you remember that week we had rain every day, in Gusu?” and he speaks of Lan Xichen, and the Lan Sect, and what little he knows of its current status.

Cloud Recesses has been rebuilt, reportedly exactly as it was before the Wens attacked. Lan Qiren still teaches, and Lan Wangji feels a swell of relief to know his uncle still breathes. The Sect still hosts a year-long seminar for young disciples of any sect, every few years. Wen Sizhui, Liu Weixin and Zhou Xiuying have attended it, and returned with reports of young Lan cultivators who Wen Sizhui described as friendly, Liu Weixin called unbearably rigid, and Zhou Xiuying pronounced worthy sparring opponents. Lan Xichen has, unsurprisingly, built a widely-spoken reputation for even-mindedness that Lan Wangji knows he himself could never hope to match.

There is no bitterness to any of Wei Ying’s tales. No mention of hardship or enmity, over a span of more than a decade that Lan Wangji knows cannot have been easy, especially near its start. But then, Lan Wangji has long known that Wei Ying lies more easily than he tells the truth, omits more than he ever says openly. Even when he was living among the Mass Graves, quite obviously short on food, the only hardship Wei Ying would admit to was a lack of visitors, and news.

Still, there are some things he cannot doubt: Wei Ying’s love for his sister, and her children. His affection for Jiang Wanyin, and the Wens. His dedication to ensuring that Lan Wangji himself does not succumb to the curse he carries.

It’s an indulgence Lan Wangji shouldn’t permit himself. A few moments, watching Wei Ying breathe and concentrating on the steady warmth of the soulbond under his own skin.

He turns away. Steps outside. Rekindles the fire for breakfast.

During the long afternoon of the fourth day, after they have shared a quick lunch beside a clear-flowing stream and are letting Xiaoying and Heitu forage their own meal, Wei Ying draws out Chenqing and plays songs that seem to be purely for personal entertainment; there is no spiritual power behind them at all. Some, Lan Wangji recognizes as common to drinking houses and inns. Others he doesn’t recognize at all. He is considering unwrapping the guqin when Wei Ying’s somewhat random little melodies turn suddenly familiar.

Not just familiar.

Every note is etched into Lan Wangji’s soul.

Wei Ying catches him staring. He’s not certain what expression his own face is making, but Wei Ying looks suddenly defensive. His hands drop to his lap, wrapping around Chenqing as if Lan Wangji will try to tear the flute away from him.

“What?”

“You remember.” Lan Wangji shouldn’t be surprised—Wei Ying has remembered enough of his brief time at Cloud Recesses to reproduce the Lan Sect’s rules and three different treatises, and that’s only what Lan Wangji found. But it had been only once, in the Xuanwu’s cave. That song has only ever had an audience of one.

Wei Ying frowns at him.

“What ...” his eyebrows rise high on his forehead, his mouth forming a perfect circle. “Lan Zhan.” He leans forward, suddenly eager. “Lan Zhan, you know this song?”

Of course he knows it. How could he not?

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying continues. “No one knows this song. How do you know it? Is it a Lan Clan song? What’s its name?”

Words stick in Lan Wangji’s throat. Wei Ying doesn’t remember. Not really. He looks away. At the play of light on water. The swirl of shadowy fish, underneath.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says again, moving closer. “I can never remember where I heard it, and no one ever recognizes it. How do you know it?”

No one ever recognizes it, he says. Which means Wei Ying has been playing it. For other people. For thirteen years. And he doesn’t know.

Lan Wangji swallows back his foolish hopes. The words he might have said.

“I wrote it,” he admits, to the low rush of the spring and the whisper of reeds in the light breeze.

“What?”

When he risks a glance back, Wei Ying is staring. He looks utterly shocked.

“What do you mean, you wrote it?”

Lan Wangji does not want to have this conversation. Not now. Not if Wei Ying doesn’t remember something so important.

At least, it had been important to Lan Wangji.

“We should keep moving,” he says, and stands. Heitu is drinking from the stream, but she only flicks her ears when he touches her shoulder, and doesn’t offer any more protest than a shift of her weight as he unties her hobble and mounts.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying is frowning at him.

“We are wasting daylight,” Lan Wangji tells him. It’s true enough. This break is no shorter than any other.

Wei Ying grumbles. Retrieves his things.

“What’s its name?” he asks as he settles on Xiaoying.

I have already told you. Lan Wangji locks the words behind his teeth. Wei Ying does not speak of the soul bond, never broaches the topic of their battle with the Xuanwu or anything else from their lives that occurred after he left Cloud Recesses months before any other disciple, does not remember this, despite Lan Wangji telling him, despite his clear memory of the music itself and his perfect recall of texts long burnt to ashes.

“Think about it.” He says instead, and urges Heitu into a quicker pace, too fast for easy conversation.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying calls after him, but Lan Wangji does not look back.

When Wei Ying catches up he speaks of other things, and does not mention the song again.

Notes:

For the curious, Xiaoying and Heitu are named as references to famous horses from Romance of the Three Kingdoms. 絶影 (sometimes translated as "Suppressing Shadow" or "Shadow Runner") was one of the horses of Cao Cao, head of the state of Wei. He famously kept running despite taking three arrows, and thus saved his rider from enemies. 赤兔 (Red Hare) was described as "the best of horses" and within the tale people considered him to be too good for his original master. After that master died he was given to a new, more virtuous hero (Guan Yu, sometimes described as an ideal incarnation of loyalty and righteousness), who he was extremely loyal to.

(on to part 11)

#wangxian #mo dao zu shi #lan wangji #wei wuxian #mdzs #mdzs fic #wangxian fic #role reversal soulmate au #turnabout verse #alex writes #the yearning goes on #as ever

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ardentprose · 4 years

Text

Cold Brew - Prologue

This is my attempt at the old coffee shop cliche. I’m warning you now, my writer’s block is strong. But I will tell you this story to the best of my abilities.

*I don’t own the gifs.

*Dialogue: English will be in standard font while Korean will be italicized.

Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Slow-Burnish, Romance

Warnings: Language (if more are found, please message me)

Summary: Going to an American college for music was an opportunity Min Yoongi could not pass up. Despite the comments about his eyes and accent, he’s determined to make it through the semester and prove himself to his parents back home. After an awkward but fateful conversation, Yoongi finds himself crushing hard for a girl he only has so many weeks to confess to. If he will at all.

November

He sits at a table shoved against a wall, his mind concentrated on chasing down the train of thoughts bustling through his mind before it escapes him. His hand scurries across the page, the inevitable pain slowly rising in his wrist as the pen audibly scratches through the journal. Now and then, his left hand brushes the pale hair settling on his eyelashes. The brim of round wire glasses faithfully slides down the smooth bridge of his nose and so his fingers are kept busy with this task as well.

In the past hour, the bell has jingled a hundred times, the voices of patrons intermingling with the whistling espresso machines and clank of the register drawer. It’s background noise easily tuned out, and yet with an uncanny sense, when the bell chimes again announcing a new arrival, Yoongi slams his journal closed, slipping it into the safe cavern of his backpack.

He pulls out his English Composition 101 textbook and the accompanying black spiral notebook to set on the table.

She slides into the chair across from him, her sweet perfume cutting through the ever present aroma of coffee. The soft thud of her messenger bag accompanies her warm tone.

“Yoongi.” His eyes train on his notebook, watching the veins in his hand flicker as he opens the massive textbook to the current chapter. Only after finding the correct page does he looks up at her and her awaiting smile. That brief moment of delay does nothing to prepare his heart as it skips twice, taking in her shining eyes, rosy cheeks, and chapped lips parted for him.

“Hey.” He swallows the strain in his vocal chords, hoping to disguise their fragility with a long sip of his cold brew.

“How are you? Did you get any sleep last night?” She asks as she leans forward and slips out her winter coat. She drapes it over the back of her chair, left in a hoodie dyed the navy blue of the university.

“The same.” He mumbles, licking the aftertaste from his lips and anticipating the crinkle in her brow.

“Yoongi, you have to learn to go to bed! It’s not healthy to skip sleep. One of these days you’re going to collapse from exhaustion.”

“I have...too much work.” He reasons, watching the lavender scarf she claims to have knit herself unravel around her neck. She leans over to stuff it into her bag and then gives him a glare.

“We all have too much work to do, Yoongi. You need to sleep.”

Why does she keep saying my name? He muses, intrigued and yet horrified at the electricity that shoots through him every time he hears her say the familiar syllables.

“And you?” He chides, watching her momentarily cover a cough and then sniff. “You gonna catch a cold.”

“No, I’m not. I was just outside.” She shakes her head, tugging out her own textbook and note-taking utensils.

"Your voice is scratchy. That wouldn’t happen if you drank the warm honey water like I told you to.” Yoongi says.

“Yeah, well...” She sighs, and her eyes flicker to his along with a guilty smile. Despite her age, youth couldn’t prevent the exhausted wrinkles creasing under her eyes.

“Let’s both agree to take better care of ourselves. You go ahead and start, I’m going to order some tea.”

“I got it.” Yoongi says, allowing her to remain in her seat, albeit with a confused expression. He waves his hand above her head, catching the eye of the barista, who nods and disappears behind the kitchen. He returns promptly with a porcelain tea cup on a saucer, setting it down in front of her wide eyes.

“Thank you!” She glances from the barista to Yoongi, blinking several times at the steaming cup of tea.

“Let’s get started.” Yoongi clears his throat, taking another sip, and flipping open his notebook to the next blank page.

She hums, taking a careful sip of the spiced chai she so dearly craves. Soon, they slip into routine silence and time passes as it always does. She explains the English language in a patient voice, sometimes reaching over with her pen to point out a particular word or phrase. He writes it down, taking note of her correction and the way his knuckles burn when she grazes them in proximity. The atmosphere is calm and productive, and Yoongi can’t help but notice the contrast between the silent companionship in the café to the initial meeting they had only a mere three months ago.

September

He had just arrived in America, via a Student Visa and Study Abroad program. Though he had only spent three weeks at most on campus, he quickly realized the color of his skin and the accent of his words was evidence enough to attach numerous stereotypes to his character, most of which he had never heard of before in his life. The American students would clap him on the shoulder in class, asking if he could check their math homework. The teachers would speak to him in a patronizingly slow English, as if he had a mental issue, not a language barrier. A fair share of giggling girls with pretty Asian men tucked into phone cases would ask for his number, but struggle pronouncing his name. The worst of it came from the frat boys who, though having never seen his crotch, assumed it was lacking in comparison to their superior American-made crotches. It was by that time, Yoongi decided that save for the incredible opportunity it was to study music in America, the rest of it could burn in hell.

The only one stopping him from taking the next ticket back to South Korea was his roommate Hoseok, who came over on a dance scholarship the year before. Having acclimated for one year to American college life, Hoseok tried to convince Yoongi on a daily basis that not all Americans were as ignorant as they let on. However, it still took Hoseok disconnecting Yoongi’s laptop from the school Wi-Fi on a particularly climatic night in order to convince him to stay in America - at least until the end of the semester.

That being said, Yoongi had, fair or not, formed a prejudice against American students and avoided them at all costs. Ironically, it was this mindset that caused him to open his mouth, one picnic table away, and comment on some American’s awful pronunciation of his native tongue.

The soon to be victim was sitting at the picnic table next to his sitting with a presumably Korean girl.

“I haven’t gotten it down perfectly, but I definitely know how to have a basic conversation.”

“Really? Show me, show me!” Her loud volume caught Yoongi’s attention, which up until now had been focused on the next four measures under his pencil.

Having forgotten his earbuds in his dorm, he was left with no other choice but to eavesdrop.

“How are you?" The friend immediately asked and Yoongi could hear her smile in the eager question.

“I’m great! How are you?” The American responded.

A frown wrinkles Yoongi’s brow. He understood her words, but the pronunciation was slightly jarring, as if she was talking with rocks in her mouth.

“Very good!” The native encouraged and asked her what her career is, a basic introduction that any stranger would ask.

“College study gift. I’m study music and singer.“ Stumbling and humming her way through the sentence, Yoongi can’t help but snicker, holding his knuckles to his grin.

“Yes!” Expecting a correction, Yoongi scoffs as she ignores the obviously incorrect sentence and encourages her on.

“Are you kidding me? She sounds like a damn Google translation.” He laughed, resuming his writing with a shake of his head.

“Hey! Who the fuck asked you?!”

Yoongi’s heart jumped into his throat. One moment he was scribbling notes on a composition sheet, chuckling to himself. The next, a furious Korean female was in his face, cursing him out.

He blinked up at the sudden fire and brimstone before him. Before he fired back a few choice words of his own, he pieced together that his comment had been overheard.

He glanced at the woman currently sitting at the other table, her tears brimming and her lips tucked in shame. She may not have understood his comment, but clearly, by the tone of his words and the righteous anger of her friend, he had insulted her. She cautiously lifted her eyes to him and Yoongi felt the boulder of remorse hit his stomach.

“Fuck.”

Leave it to him to insult the one American woman who, at the very least, was doing her best to understand his culture, and at the very most, was the prettiest woman he had ever seen.

Without a moment’s hesitation he met the eyes of the furious friend, choosing to deal with her first. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you could hear me.”

“That doesn’t mean you can insult her! She was trying her best. We weren’t even talking to you.”

“I’m an asshole, okay? I didn’t mean to take it out on her. Can I at least apologize?” Choosing to agree in order to calm her down, Yoongi maintained his calm exterior despite the guilt twisting his stomach into knots.

The friend huffed, tossing her raven hair over her shoulder as she stepped back slightly. Yoongi cleared his throat, ignoring the tremble in his fingertips and shuffled over to the picnic table, sitting down on the opposite bench.

“Hey, I’m...” Doing his best to clearly pronounce his English was just another lash of shame against his burning cheeks.

“I’m very sorry for...my words. I was...idiot. Very big idiot. I...You speak...good Korean. More good than...I speak English...” Stuttering and flitting his eyes around her face, the table, and his shaking hands, Yoongi stumbled through an apology, his voice gruff but his expression sincere.

“It’s alright.” She sighed, swiping under her eyes with the back of her fingers. “I get it. I probably do sound really dumb. But thank you.”

Her instant compassion tore at Yoongi all the more and he wondered at which point he turned into the monsters that terrorized him all day long.

“I...I help you, if you help me.” He was speaking the words before he could register them. Once they do, a cold terror drained his expression at the same time a large smile warmed her face.

“Really? You’d do that?”

“Hey, what about me?” The two glanced at the Korean friend who sensed the sudden shift in the conversation.

“I need all the help I can find, Eun. You know we hardly have time to meet up as it is. This is the first since two weeks ago I’ve been able to practice with you."

Eun rolls her eyes. “He just insulted you. Don’t trust him so easily.”

Yoongi blinks, lacking the words to defend himself and still processing why he offered his help to a stranger when he hadn’t given the time of day to anyone other than Hoseok - who wore a watch.

Her gaze fell on him now, taking in his features for the first time. Her eyebrows wrinkled.

“Haven’t I seen you in a class before?”

“I...uh...I take music.”

“Oh, I am too! Music Production with Mrs. Harris, right? You’re the one who plays the piano all the time. I never see anyone with you. Have you made friends here?” Before he has time to think of an answer, she cuts him off.

“Oh my word - ignore that! That was so rude to ask! I’m so sorry.”

Again, how could he have insulted the kindest person on campus?

Yoongi licked his lips, shrugging. There weren’t enough English words in his vocabulary to explain the prejudice-driven harassment and bitterness he had experienced since moving here. He never noticed someone so genuine and sweet in that classroom of entitled pricks, himself included as one of them.

“Never mind. All the more reason. It’s a deal, then.” She held out her hand, brimming with a newfound excitement that hadn’t caught onto him yet.

“You’ll fix my pronunciation. I’ll help you pass ESL 101.” She promised as Yoongi slid his palm over hers. The fact she knew he was taking the English as a Second Language course wasn’t a surprise. All exchange students were required to take it and this incident more than warranted her assumption of his class register.

Swallowing thickly he nodded, now finding himself the one put out. Eun rolled her eyes but sat down beside her friend again.

“At least tell each other your names if this is gonna happen.” She exhaled.

Yoongi’s new tutor laughed, and it’s so contagious, he cracked a smile.

“We’re off to a great start, aren’t we?” She giggled, giving him a look that could rival the stars.

Chapter One

#yoongi x reader #bts x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi x yn #yoongi x you #bts x you #suga x reader #bts suga x reader #suga x you #suga x y/n #suga fluff #yoongi fluff #yoongi cold brew #yoongi cute stories #yoongi coffee shop au

133 notes · View notes

thanatasia · 4 years

Note

Cha'l!- [1, 5, 7, 9, 11, 14, 15, 16, 20, 32, 37, 38, 48, 58, 59, 61, 63, 65, 66, 70, 72, 74, 81, 85, 93, 95, 98]

Fleur!- [1, 3, 4, 7, 11, 12, 13, 14, 16, 20, 29, 32, 37, 48, 58, 59, 61, 63, 65, 66, 70, 72, 74, 81, 84, 85, 93, 95, 98]

Azra!- [2, 7, 14, 15, 17, 18, 20, 47, 65, 66, 67, 69, 70, 84, 94, 95, 99]

Kiel!- [7, 14, 47, 65, 66, 67, 68, 70, 84, 94, 95, 99]

Sorry not sorry!

Behold! The master list of questions lol. I’m sorry this took so long to answer! I kept rewriting it a lot lol

Thank you @jack-toons these were very insightful questions about them and I had so much fun answering them all!

I meant to share the names of Cha’l and Fleur’s special someone’s in a shipping post but I can’t help it lol

For everyone who doesn’t know Cha’l’s girlfriend is named Shiyoon and Fleur’s boyfriend is named Razer. Both belong to @jack-toons / @myfanartblogplusshippingtrash and you can see what they look like!

1. What do they smell like?

Cha’l smells like fresh pines and sometimes like a bakery lol

Fleur smells like freesia flowers!

2. What is their voice like?

Azra’s speaks with an Irish accent and her tone and mannerisms are similar to Konata Izumi from “Lucky Star”

3. What is their biggest motivator?

Fleur’s biggest motivator is her desire to see things she has never seen before so she can tell exciting stories to her friends and family.

4. What is their most embarrassing memory?

Fleur’s most embarrassing memory was when Cha’l caught her learning to read and write. She spent a lot of her child and early teenling years avoiding it and when Cha’l snuck up behind her practicing, she threw a pillow at him on embarrassed reflexes.

5. How do they deal/react to pain?

Cha’l reacts to physical pain in two ways; for a injury received in battle no matter how deep, he would brush it off. For anything dislocated or broken he would scream.

Cha’l reacts to emotional pain by sulking for a while, not eating and staying quiet. If it was something truly horrible, he would hold it in his mind for a while until he is able to truly get over it.

9. Describe the way they sleep?

When Cha’l is sleeping alone he tends to sleep like a log and on his side a lot. He also sleeps shirtless. When he’s sleeping with his girlfriend Shiyoon, he likes to cuddle in his sleep.

11. What do they feel the most insecure about?

Cha’l: his singing ability, he’s the only one with a meh voice. What others think of him. If he’s being to paranoid.

Fleur: when she was a childling she was insecure about her skin since it drew so much attention to her (she’s outgrown it though) Failure. Asking for large quantities of food

12. How do they like to dress?

Fleur likes to dress up a lot in pants and shorts. If she can run in it she will wear it. She wears dresses and skirts on days where she wants to relax and on special occasions like going on special dates and visiting family. Most of her voice tops are form fitting with a modest v-neck.

13. How do they react to feelings of guilt?

When Fleur feels guilty about making someone close to her sad/upset she becomes slightly anxious and overthinks if she should have done something differently. If they’re nearby she would quietly sit beside them and apologize in a very gentle tone. If she had wronged someone, she might feel too ashamed to look at them for a while.

14. How do they react/deal with betrayal?

Cha’l gets angry and will raise his voice, not screaming just projecting his voice, and ask them why they thought it was better to betray him.

Fleur get very angry and will slap the Gelfling who betrayed her trust, then walk away before she really hurts someone. The last time she had been betrayed she gave the Gelf responsible a piece of her mind. She may not be a sailor, but she sure does have a sailor’s mouth when she’s angry.

Azra will start plotting her next curse. NO ONE BETRAYS HER and gets away with it.

Kiel will smile in their face as his mind starts to think of how he can exact his revenge. He’ll make whoever betrayed him feel like they’re off the hook before he counterattacks.

15. What is their greatest achievement?

Cha’l’s greatest achievement is surprising his girlfriend with the biggest most well planned out surprise. He’s really proud for having kept the secret for so long and not looking for advice from anyone who would spill the beans!

Azra’s greatest achievement was when she successfully cursed a Gelfling with uncontrollable vomiting for 3 days because they disrespected her Grandparents

16. What are they like when they’ve had too little sleep?

Cha’l is a zombie as he aimlessly does his tasks and reacting very slowly to jokes.

Fleur gets grouchy and light headed. Feed her if you want to live!

17. What are they like when they get drunk?

Azra rarely drinks but when she does she becomes a “philosophical” drunk lol

18. What kind of music do they enjoy?

Azra enjoys listening to the sounds of terrified screams of terror because of her doing. Her actual favorite music is anything with a flute with crashing waves in the background.

20. Fears?

Cha’l fears losing those he loves without saying goodbye. He’s also afraid of Rakkida and tales of the Hunter. He also has a thing about black beady eyes, they creep him out. The beady black eyes of the Moog and Swoothu look into his soul and he can’t get past it fully.

Fleur’s biggest fear is dying alone; dying on a solo adventure or bounty. She’s also terrified of water that goes above her waist; something grabbed at her in the Black River and it scared her of deep water ever since.

Azra’s biggest fear is crowded places. It’s one of the reasons she prefers to not travel on big Sifan ships. She begins to hyperventilate because if something terrible were to happen and a stampede occurred, she would easily get crushed to death. She’s also afraid of Pluff’M, her grandmother had one when she was little and it nipped her finger; Pluff’M don’t have sharp teeth but getting bit by it really turned her off from them. Only one Gelfling knows that fear and it’s her best friend, Shiyoon.

29. Are they a morning person?

Fleur is definitely a morning person! Most of her bounty hunts require her to wake up early, especially when she’s sleeping in the wild. The only time she isn’t a morning person is if she’s partied it up too much and has a hangover lol.

32. Pet peeves?

Cha’l- loud chewing, not getting a word in during a conversation, and open mouth chewing

Fleur- Not saying thank you, burping, getting cut off in telling a story and needing to repeat herself more than twice.

37. When was the last time they cried?

Cha’l’s last cry was when he was watching the fireworks with Shiyoon. (I headcanon fireworks or some form of fireworks exist in Thra lol)

Fleur’s last cry was when she came back from a mission to find a missing Gelfling. Sadly, on the way back they were surrounded by a pack of Rakkida and Fleur wasn’t able to protect them. It was something she beat herself up about, especially when she had tell the news to the family.

38. Were they with anyone when they cried?

Cha’l was with Shiyoon and he was telling her that he loves her for the first time. The moment was beautiful and he couldn’t contain his tears.

Fleur was with Viara and Razer when she opened up about it. It was one of the few times she allowed anyone to see her ugly cry.

47. Are they romantically interested in someone?

Azra will be adamant on her heart being too black for romance...for now

Kiel is not romantically interested in anyone at the moment but I picture someone catching his eye soon.

48. Are they dating/married to anyone?

YES! Cha’l is dating his soulmate, Shiyoon. They are OTP!

YES! Fleur is also dating her Sifa sailor, Razer. They are also OTP!

I LOVE BOTH OF THESE SHIPS! They are adorable and the way they interact with each other is just too cute!!! They will be posted on my page and it will be glorious!

61. When bored what do they do?

Cha’l- dancing, plotting his next prank/surprise, swimming, playing card games with his girlfriend, and making wood carvings.

Fleur- climbing trees, singing, if she’s with her boyfriend she enjoys teasing him, dancing, drinking and doing her and anyone she’s close to hair.

63. Do they have an accent?

Both Cha’l and Fleur have an English accent with a very faint Italian or Spanish accent. There are certain words they’ll say that makes that Italian or Spanish accent stronger because they’ve heard their father, Bhihaar, pronounce it that way.

65. If they knew they were going to die what would they do/say? (aka how sad can I make this?)

Cha’l- If it was life and death and the only way to secure the safety of others was to sacrifice himself, he would. This would be an emotional scene and right before he charges to face death (with his girlfriend of course) his final words to his companions would be something like; “See you around.” As he and Shiyoon take their lasts breathes, his final words would be of how happy and loved, Shiyoon made him feel. If it was more of a slow natural death, Cha’l would go to his favorite spot with everyone he is close to and reminisce. Afterwards he would spend alone time with Shiyoon.

Fleur- If it was a fatal wound she was dealt she would want to have her final moments to be with her loved ones underneath a tree full of flowers and give an emotional speech to everyone present. If her boyfriend, Razer, is there she would give him a final tender kiss and say how much she loves him as apologize for all the things they couldn’t do, she’d definitely call him by one of the nicknames she gave him. Before her body goes limp, Fleur would give Razer one of her hair accessories and say he can return it when Thra reunites them. If it was a slow death by infection, she would try to do everything she had wanted to do and can still do. She’d be even more affectionate than she already is because knowing she’ll be passing soon would make the hugs and kisses all the more bittersweet.

Azra- If it was an untimely death during the Garthim Wars, Azra would make a snarky comment about the Garthim and the Skeksis, probably trying to recite a curse on them as well. She’d be sure to say her piece with her friends, especially her best friend, Shiyoon. Although she knows she’s dying, she would have a smile on her face because she knows she’s be reunited with her parents. If it was an ongoing internal issue, she would spend the day prior spending time with those she loves, she wouldn’t tell anyone about her death because she doesn’t want their last memory of her to be her still face. She would send a Swoothu to send them a message about her passing.

Kiel- If it was a death in the result of the Garthim War, Kiel would probably try playing the hero to help protect everyone, as a way of presenting himself as not just the silly prankster but as someone who stood up for what was right. He would be the most serious he’s ever been, talking about a lot of sentimental things about those around him. Right before he takes his last breath, he tells one last joke, his best joke. If it was a death caused by an ongoing health problem, Kiel would admit to all the wrong doings he’d done in the past to all of his crewmates and close friends. He would try to keep his energetic nature up and perhaps do one last prank on his rival.

66. How do they feel about sex?

Cha’l enjoys sex and only engages in it with his serious relationships. Promiscuous sex want never his cup of tea but he doesn’t go around condemning anyone who does have promiscuous sex. He views sex as a sacred activity that strengthens the physical and spiritual bond because he loves the deep connection. He and his girlfriend, Shiyoon want to have childlings one day (not too soon though) and he’s excited for trial and error.

Fleur shares a similar view as Cha’l. To many Gelfling she seems like someone who’s had lots of sex but, she has been saving herself for Mr. Right or someone she wouldn’t mind saying; “I’m glad my first was with him”, whichever came first at the time. She frequents a lot of Taverns and many guys she meets just want a fun night. When she does start having sex, she really enjoys it for the pleasure, the closeness and vulnerability she and her boyfriend, Razer share.

Azra has had sex but she doesn’t go around looking to bed someone. She doesn’t see the big deal about it but only takes part in it if her partner is a sexual Gelfling and they’ve been going steady for a while.

Kiel enjoys having sex and in the beginning it was a way for him to feel grown up, as many Gelfling in his teenling years saw him as too childlike; mostly because of his actions. When he became an adult his view and reasoning changed, it’s an activity he indulges in from time to time. When he finds a partner he enjoys everything about it.

67. What is their sexuality?

Azra is panromantic asexual.

Kiel is bisexual.

68. Do they become squeamish at the sight of blood?

Yes! Kiel gets terrified because as a childling he had gotten into an accident that ended up cutting his leg pretty bad. The blood spilling out along with his panicking really scared him. It didn’t help that his father made a joke about all the blood lol

69. Is there anything they find really gross?

Azra- jokingly public displays of affection or anything super sweet.

Kiel- Eyeballs!

70. Which Tv Trope(s) best describe them?

Cha’l- supreme chef, moderately masculine, big brother instinct

Fleur- action girl, tsundere, hard drinking party girl

Azra- goth girls know magic, creepy loner girl, preppy goth

Kiel- the trickster, troll, bishōnen

72. Are they allergic to anything?

Cha’l- honey and dust.

Fleur- really bad pickup lines.

Azra- pollen.

74. Are they quick to anger? What are they like when they’re angry?

Cha’l is quick to anger if someone is messing around with his loved ones. His voice is harsher and he wouldn’t be afraid to take part in a fight.

Fleur has a bit of a temper and it’s usually related to Gelfling being prejudice. She’ll be sure to have them repeat something offensive they said to her face and if she’s fired up she’ll yell or out of reflexes punch them. Aside from that she’s pretty mellow.

81. Do they try to hide their emotions? Are they good at it?

Cha’l is not good at hiding his emotions. Whatever he’s feeling can be read on his face easily. He gets teased a lot by Kiel and Shiyoon about it. He doesn’t try hiding his emotions unless he’s in public and feels like he’ll turn beet red.

Fleur- after her previous heartbreaks Fleur chose to hide and push down any romantic feelings she could get to protect her heart. She was pretty good at it but when she was alone she would cry at times. When she does start to feel warm and fuzzy, it comes off VERY tsundere (without the excessive hitting) in the beginning. If something is bothering her, Fleur will keep it to herself, she’s gotten good at hiding certain things unless someone persists her long enough.

84. What are some physical features that they find attractive on people?

Fleur- tattoos, a charming smile, striking eyes (it’s not eye color but more of a look; if they pierce through her soul the better), abs, and defined arms (they don’t need to be gigantic, just toned enough to see some muscle. It’s *chef’s kiss* perfect lol)

Azra- Dreadlocks/locs, freckles, tough hands, green eyes and scars (especially on the face)

Kiel- dark hair paired with light eyes, muscles, tall, facial hair, long silky hair, and doe eyes.

85. What personalities do they find attractive?

Cha’l- fearless, adventurous, optimistic, carefree, and imaginative

Fleur- confident, persistent, adventurous, mysterious, charming and *cough cough* bad boy/rebellious *cough cough*

93. What things anger them?

Cha’l- selfishness, disrespectful Gelfling, Gelfling who talk bad/dirty/ill of his siblings or girlfriend (he’s a very overprotective brother and if anyone talks bad about his girlfriend, Shiyoon...hold him back!)

Fleur- liars, cheats, rude/prejudice Gelfling , selfishness, (not particularly angers her but, when her loved ones doubt themselves too much)

95. What makes them sad/depressed?

Cha’l: untimely death, feeling of not being good enough, and not belonging

Fleur: heartbreak, getting into arguments, feeling like she will never leave her mark and being forgotten.

Azra: illness (she lost her parents and the thought of losing her grandparents depresses her) and winter (that’s the season she lost her parents)

Kiel: death, being seen as a burden, and being misunderstood

98. Something they regret?

Cha’l: never having a conversation with the family of his first love on why mixed-clan Gelfling were a bad thing. This is just something he wanted to get closure on but never did.

Fleur: giving her first kiss to a Castle Guard who viewed her as a side piece. The sentiment of sharing her very first kiss is gone. She regrets the whole thing because her brother warned her but she was too stubborn to listen. Although she regrets it she does see the silver lining; she became a much better kisser after it.

99. Biggest accomplishment?

Azra: being able to get two gigantic centipede-esque insects to love her like furry pets!

Kiel: being able to successfully cheat at a game of cards against his Captain. The reward he won was worth the anxiety of not getting caught.

9 notes · View notes

bcbdrums · 4 years

Text

Pancakes//Surprised

FFn link --> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13577191/14/The-Little-Ones

@midnightcaptions is to blame for the pancakes. Idle comment in chat went crazy. And the rest of the concept was inspired by @gothicthundra‘s 13th chapter of Lipsky Family Shorts.

Enjoy the uber-fluff!

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

Shego wasn't surprised by much anymore, given the way her life had changed.

She wasn't surprised to wake up alone, since, at nine months pregnant she tended to sleep in, and her poor sweet husband still barely slept for six hours a night despite years of her training him.

She wasn't surprised to hear sounds of voices and utensils coming from the kitchen—and she was grateful their bedroom was far from it—as their daughter was an early riser like her husband. She also wasn't surprised that her husband had been making a point of waking before their young daughter for the last several months, to make sure she didn't come bounding into the bedroom and 'disrupt her beauty rest' as her husband put it.

More like, avoid making the pregnant woman grumpy, who might then take it out on the blue man with glowing green fury. It was a self-serving motive. Or, that's what she told herself on her bad days. She knew of course, his motives were pure.

When she arrived at the kitchen, she wasn't surprised to see her husband clad in an apron, and the shiny black hair of their three-year-old daughter just visible above the top of the counter. A wooden spoon was being waved in the air by a tiny hand that came from somewhere below the counter, near the hair.

"Can I stir?" the small voice said.

Drakken smiled a bright greeting at Shego as she silently entered the room, and then he reached down and hefted their daughter up to rest on his hip as she waved the spoon without coordination toward the large, metal mixing bowl. Shego watched Drakken try to hide the wince on his face from the effort, but he could no more hide that from her than he could the gray in his hair. She was grateful they'd had kids right away, so that Drakken could enjoy the years when the children would have boundless energy before nature forced him to slow down.

The wooden spoon held by the tiny fist descended into the bowl, and it hit the side with a soft metal thud, doing so more than it actually seemed to stir. After a small drop of batter was flung out of the bowl and hit Drakken's cheek, his spoon joined the process.

"I want to stir... Mama!" The excited grin on her daughter's face made Shego's own grow. "We're making pancakes!"

"I see that. Is Daddy letting you stir, AJ?"

Drakken gave her a look, and Shego only gave him a knowing smirk. He hated the nickname that she'd given their daughter, and the conversation about it was still repeated many, many times.

"We need to get her used to it."

"It's a boy's name!"

"And it's what everyone is going to call her in school, so she may as well learn to like it from us."

"They won't call her that!"

"Do you not remember being a kid?"

That was where it always stopped. But it didn't prevent Drakken from bringing it up again almost every day. But he never did so in front of their daughter, so Shego knew she could get away with it for awhile.

"Daddy, why doesn't Mama cook?" Abby asked, peering up at her father.

"Yeah Daddy," Shego echoed, "why don't I cook?"

Drakken gave her a look, and Shego's smirk grew. Neither expression lasted as they kept eye contact throughout Drakken's response.

"Mama does cook sometimes," he stated simply, continuing to stir the pancake batter which their daughter had abandoned as she stared at her father's chin.

As long as it had taken them to get used to calling one another by their real names, which still sometimes felt out of place, calling one another by their parental appellations had been very easy. And it usually brought an extra joy that they shared through a look, as they were now.

Being parents, especially as difficult a journey as it had been to arrive there, meant everything to them.

"Grandma says that Mama can't cook."

Shego's brow rose as Drakken startled and looked down at their daughter in shock. He cast a wary glance at his wife and winced as he saw that Shego's jaw was clamped shut.

"When did she say that?" Drakken asked cautiously.

"When you were on your trip. She th-..th-..." the girl stuttered slightly while thinking of the word, "th-threw away Mama's cookies. And my lunches."

Shego's teeth were bared as she glared at Drakken, who kept casting fearful glances in her direction as he quickly set their daughter back on the floor.

"Down you go, Abby Joy," he said a bit shakily. "Would you like to set the table while I cook the pancakes? Mama can help you get the plates."

"Yes!" the toddler said brightly.

Shego slowly rose, a hand over her belly as she tried to quell the swirling anger and heat rising within her. She'd worked really hard on the food for Abby while she and Drakken had taken a weekend trip for some alone time.

As she got the plates from the cupboard she noticed another pan on the stove with something dark reducing, like a caramel. She sniffed the air and thought she recognized the scent, but she wasn't sure.

"Be careful, AJ," she said, handing the three plates to her daughter who was beaming with pride for being trusted with the task.

Shego sidled up to Drakken.

"I had no idea!" he whispered anxiously, giving her an apologetic glance as he flipped a pancake.

"After this kid comes out I'll find a way to get her back," she muttered in reply.

"Shego!" he whined quietly, his eyes pleading.

Just then, a shatter.

"Uh oh."

Shego and Drakken whirled to see that the top plate on the stack of three had slid to the tiled floor and broken into several pieces at their daughter's feet.

"Don't move!" they both cried in alarm. They looked at each other as Abby's face began to redden and her eyes crinkled with the onset of tears.

"I'll—"

"No," Drakken interrupted, "you finish here. I don't want you trying to get on the floor."

Drakken pushed the spatula into Shego's hands, and she stood dumbstruck for a moment and watched as her husband crossed the kitchen in two large steps, put the remaining two plates on the table, and then scooped their wailing daughter up into his arms.

Shego listened to his soft murmurings that they weren't mad and that it was just an accident, cradling their daughter close to his chest as her tears fell. It was only when Shego smelled burning that she spun around and saw that the pancake on the griddle was smoking. She bit back a curse and lifted the entire pan up to slide the ruined pancake onto the short stack Drakken had already cooked. She could eat that one...

While Drakken dealt with the broken plate and comforted Abby, Shego focused on the task she'd been given as she understood it. Butter the pan...ladle the batter...wait for bubbles...flip. And then wait again and hope she guessed right. Pancakes were easy, Drakken had told her a few years back when he'd taught her. She couldn't mess up pancakes...right?

The burned one was still making her nervous, but the others were going well so far. Her baby bump made things a bit awkward, and she stayed a step back from the stove just in case.

A soft bump against her leg startled her, and she looked down into her daughter's tear-bright eyes.

"Mama needs to concentrate, Sweetie..." she said gently, looking back at the pan as her daughter hugged her leg.

"Daddy said to stay with you while he cleans up the broken plate."

"Okay," Shego said. She peered down at the dark hair again and the face pressing against her stretch pants. "You did so well helping Daddy with the pancake batter. They're going to taste great!"

Abby looked up with a shy smile, and Shego grinned confidently at her. Their daughter was already showing a mixture of traits from both of them in her personality, with her matter-of-fact way of talking but her shyness in approaching unknown things. It didn't feel like she'd been theirs for three years, as some days it felt like it had been forever and other days like they were brand new parents. But it was always a joy.

Shego reached down and ruffled the girl's hair. "My Abby Joy."

Abby giggled, and then turned as Drakken spoke.

"All done!"

Abby ran over to hug her father around the knees, and then she scampered away to parts unknown. Her rapidly shifting attention and focus was another trait of Drakken's. Also very typical for her age. Shego noted that not only was the broken plate cleaned up, but the table was set and ready with plates, utensils, and toppings. All that was missing were the pancakes.

Drakken stepped up and looked at where Shego had created a large, haphazard pile of the steaming breakfast cakes on a paper towel. He lifted his brow at her.

"So I can't stack. At least I've only burned one."

His brow rose higher.

"Maybe four. But only one is bad."

Drakken grinned and started organizing her pancake pile. "This is more than enough. We'll save the rest of the batter for tomorrow."

Shego felt a wash of relief as she dropped the ladle in the mixing bowl and tossed the spatula into the sink. She turned off the burner and then glanced at the other pan where whatever was reducing had thickened more.

"Uh...should I have been watching this?" she asked.

Drakken glanced up and smiled. "No. But you can turn the burner off, it's ready."

Shego did so. "What is it?"

Drakken carried the pancake stack to the table and glanced back at her with a sly smile. "Taste it. But be careful, it's—"

"Hot, yeah, I get it."

She dipped in the spoon he'd been using to stir at one point and watched the thick, translucent, reddish-gold liquid drip off of the metal. She waited several seconds before testing it with the tip of her tongue, and then licked at the sweet concoction a bit more. It was very familiar, but she couldn't place it.

"What is it?" she repeated as Drakken came back to her side.

He set his arms around her from behind, one hand holding her shoulder as the other gently rubbed her large baby bump.

"You can't tell?"

She shook her head and leaned back into him. He furrowed his brow and took the spoon from her and tasted what she'd left of the sticky substance there. She watched as his face twisted further in confusion.

"It tastes like it should... Maybe your taste buds have changed," he said with a sigh.

"I still like it," she encouraged him. "What is it?"

He set the spoon down and held her shoulder again.

"It's watermelon caramel."

Shego's brow rose. Suddenly the familiarity of the taste became clear. She turned around to face him, setting her arms around his neck as her belly pressed into him.

"Where have you been hiding a watermelon?" she asked with a grin.

"At the back of the fridge," he said. "It was a small one."

Her brow crinkled. "None left?" she asked, pressing closer to him. His arms went around her waist.

"I used it all. It was a very small one. They're out of season," he explained with an apologetic smile. "You can put the caramel on your pancakes."

Shego pulled him closer until their foreheads touched, smirking all the while.

"Unless..." Drakken grinned and lowered his voice, "you'd rather have some sugar?"

"I'd love some," she said, just before their lips met.

Shego lost herself in his touch, as she always did, until a bump against her legs brought her back from the soaring high of his kiss. Drakken however, didn't seem to be aware as his lips floated over hers and his tongue skimmed the edge of her teeth, attempting further entrance.

"Mama? Daddy? Are the pancakes ready?"

Drakken opened his eyes and peered down along with Shego, though their lips didn't part.

"Mm-hm," Drakken acknowledged their daughter, turning his attention back to Shego. He pulled away just enough to look into her eyes and he gave her a dangerous look. "We haven't really said 'good morning' today," he said in a hush, his voice deep.

Shego felt her heart race and in seconds was again lost in his kiss, gentle and tame as it was in front of their daughter.

"Stop kissing. You're always kissing!" Abby complained at their feet, her tiny hands pushing on their legs.

Shego turned her head out of the kiss slightly to grin down at their frustrated little angel. She was short-tempered at times, and demanding; both traits of her mother's.

"We can't stop," Shego smiled against Drakken's lips. "We're stuck together."

Drakken's shoulders shook with silent laughter at the familiar joke as Shego returned to their kiss. It had only fooled Abby once. Briefly.

"No you're not!" Abby whined, wiggling between them and pushing hard on their legs to separate them.

They gave in and stepped back, Shego leaning against the counter as she chuckled while Drakken picked up their daughter and hugged her close.

"We could kiss you instead?" he said.

"No!"

In unison, Drakken and Shego leaned forward to kiss Abby's cheeks. The girl squealed and wiggled in Drakken's grasp, so that he stepped back and held her tighter.

"It tickles!"

Drakken continued kissing her cheek as she squirmed and laughed until he plopped her in her booster seat in her designated chair. Shego slowly took her seat, and Drakken stepped over just in time to help her push her chair in before heading back to the stove. He poured the caramel into a dish while Shego put a pancake on Abby's plate and began cutting it into small pieces. Just as she finished, Drakken returned without his apron and placed the caramel in front of her.

"How many?" he asked her, beginning to set pancakes on her plate.

"Three."

He served himself the same and then sat down as both he and Shego dressed their breakfast to their preference.

"Butter..." Abby said, watching with a smile. "Blueberries for Daddy... Strawberries for Mama... And both for me!"

"And both for Abby Joy!" Drakken echoed, spooning some of the fruit onto her plate.

Abby's attention however had shifted to Shego, who was pouring the watermelon caramel over her pancakes instead of maple syrup.

"What's that?" Abby asked, pointing.

"Your Daddy made me watermelon caramel. It's like syrup, but it's thicker and it tastes different," Shego explained.

"Can I try?"

Shego took Abby's fork and dipped it in the thick liquid, handing it back to her once the blunted tines were coated. She and Drakken watched as their daughter stuck the fork in her mouth and sucked on it. After a few moments she made a face.

"Hmm... I don't like watermelon," she declared.

Shego froze and looked up at Drakken who was equally startled. They blinked at each other for several seconds before bursting into laughter that was loud and long.

"Mama? Daddy? What's so funny? Stop laughing! What's so funny?"

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violet-knox · 5 years

Text

Hiding Spots

Year 6 - Chapter 44

Summary: Students are asked to evacuate the castle in preparation for the second task of the Triwizard Tournament, but you and Severus have other plans in mind.

Word count: 3200

A/N: I just want to remind you all that feedback is always welcome, including constructive criticism. I want to evolve and improve my writing, so if there’s anything you think I can work on, please do feel free to reach out 🙂

Previous Chapter - Chapter 1

“Severus?” you whispered into your surroundings, searching for him as you rounded the corner around Gryffindor Tower. “Severus?” you tried again, squinting your eyes as you narrowed down on the trees ahead in the hopes that it would help you spot him. You hadn’t exactly talked about where you’d meet, hence why you assumed it would be near the same tree where you’d met last time. But as you’d already waited there ten minutes, you thought it prudent to search elsewhere, fearing that he had a different meeting spot in mind.

The area around the tower was quite wide, which had you worried about getting caught if you didn’t find Severus soon. You frantically continued searching, doing your best to stay hidden yourself when suddenly, you felt a hand placed on your shoulder. You quickly spun round in shock, praying you’d be met with the person you’d been hoping to find. Please let it be Severus, please let it be Severus.

“Professor McGonagall!” you said wide eyed, mentally cursing at your bad luck.

“Miss.(Y/L/N). Students are to gather outside the Entrance Hall, so what, may I ask, do you think you are doing heading in the opposite direction?” you looked into her stern eyes, a little frightened of what she would do if she found out what you were planning on doing before she caught you.

“I-I just thought… of perhaps umm, grabbing a jumper.” What a stupid excuse. You’d be lucky if she believed that, and judging by the irritation written across her face, she surely didn’t. Though in all honesty, you were banking on the fact that she had to sweep the tower behind you for straggling students rather than deal with your insolence as you didn’t think any excuse would let you off this time.

McGonagall sighed as she shook her head in disapproval. “I’d love to see how you’d manage to retrieve said jumper when you were walking away from the entrance of Gryffindor tower,” her stern voice echoed through your head as your face flushed red. You really had come up with the worst excuse imaginable. “Not to mention that we are nearing spring and it’s far too warm for a jumper .” That’s it, you’re dead. She’d caught you and was no doubt about to give you a lifetime worth of detentions for disobeying a direct order from the Headmaster himself. You only hoped you’d serve it with her and not Flinch again. The way that man spoke sometimes, about how they used to punish students, scared you more than you’d care to admit. “Five points from Gryffindor Miss.(Y/L/N).” Wait, only five? “And count yourself lucky I’m too busy clearing the castle, otherwise I’d be sure to find out where exactly you were planning on going.” Well at least the inconvenience of this second task for the Triwizard Tournament had proven to benefit you in some manner. “Make your way to the Entrance Hall like you were asked, and don’t let me catch you wandering off again. This second task is no time for foolishness, do you understand?”

Your eyes brightened, thankful she’d spared you a sentencing as she seemed rather worried about the events that were to take place this afternoon.

“Yes Professor, thank you,” you quickly backed away and sprinted towards the Entrance Hall until you were out of sight. Looking back, you watched as McGonagall made her way into the Tower, leaving you unsure of what to do next. You’d planned to meet Severus outside of Gryffindor Tower, but that seemed to be out of the question now. Hesitantly, you began making your way back, thinking that perhaps, if McGonagall was busy clearing the tower, you could resume your search for Severus.

“(Y/N)!” You heard your name shouted across the yard, coming from some bushes off near the side of the castle. You picked up speed as a smile made its way to your face when you saw a familiar blur of black and green running towards you. “I saw you with McGonagall and waited for you to lose her,” he said as you both slowed down and hugged one another.

“I’m just glad you found me,” you whispered as you buried your face in his hair, tightening your hold around his neck. Though you’d gone back to hugging a while ago, the feeling still felt estranged as you still felt your heart flutter each time his hands wrapped around your waist, gently placing themselves across your lower back. It felt as though you were some long-lost lovers that hadn’t seen one another in decades. With a bit of reluctancy, Severus broke off and gestured for you to follow him as you made your way back to the castle.

Heading towards Gryffindor tower, you struggled to keep up with him as you followed him around the side of the school. You’d never done much adventuring yourself as the moving staircase were already hard enough for you to deal with. And though Severus wasn’t one for wandering the halls, you knew that he had become quite familiar with certain parts of the castle, specifically the ones leading to and from the dungeons.

As you approach the concrete building, you could see a door in the distance, smaller than the other entrances you’d seen and shaped like a rectangle, lacking an archway. Looking at Severus, you easily deduced that this was the entrance that he’d been used to using and it seemed today was no different. Distracted by your curiosity, you’d completely forgotten the fact that you were breaking rules and averting Professors when you suddenly heard a voice coming from the other side of the door as Severus pulled your arm forward, quickly hurdling you both to the side. You placed your hands on his chest as he pulled you close by your waist, both of you turning your head as you heard the door swing open.

Hiding behind a pillar, pressed against one another, you both listened, recognizing Slughorn’s voice as he asked a group of students to make their own way to the Entrance Hall, despite the fact that they looked as though they were first years who’d never exited the castle from this side before. You both waited for the entrance to the door to clear before sprinting towards it, making your way back inside the castle.

“Where should we go?” you whispered to Severus as he peeked around a corner, deeming it clear to head down.

“I thought perhaps the Slytherin common room?” he whispered back as you continued making your way deeper inside the castle the staff was so determined to evacuate. When you’d suggested ditching the viewing of the second task, he couldn’t help but remember what a lovely evening you’d both had last time when you brought him to the Gryffindor common room. Looking back, he hadn’t fully appreciated what you’d done and was a little heartbroken that you hadn’t offered to do the same this time, so he took it upon himself to try and recreate the night best he could. If you weren’t comfortable taking him to your common room, then he’d invite you to his. “I thought perhaps it would be the safest place away from whatever they’re doing for the Tournament?” you nodded your head in agreement as you followed Severus, making your way to the dungeons.

Though you agreed with his suspicions, you still felt a small sliver of worry trickily inside your chest. You hadn’t been told much this morning when the Headmaster announced the prerequisites to the second task, but you definitely overheard people talking throughout the rest of the day and what they said had you worried. You’d been informed that the castle was to be the arena for the second task and that it wouldn’t be safe for students to wander around as the Champions fought to complete their assignment. Hence why you were all asked to evacuate the school as soon as lunch was over and be escorted to the Quidditch pitch by the staff who weren’t surveilling the Tournament.

Of course, Dumbledore couldn’t give any more information than that as the task was supposed to remain a secret up until the Champions were to accomplish it, but that didn’t keep others from hypothesizing. From what you’ve managed to piece together, various obstacles were to be placed in the castle, testing the Champions in a range of different skills, which did explain why Peeves seemed extra riled up these last few days. You found the idea behind this task a little unfair as the Hogwarts Champion seemed to have a clear advantage over the others; having years of experience roaming around the castle. Then again, you didn’t really know the scope of the task, so you had to give them the benefit of the doubt.

“This way, this way, follow me.” Flitwick. Severus suddenly took your hand and turned a corner just as the Charms Professor lead his Ravenclaws down the hall. Realizing the path he was taking was going to be littered with students and professors, Severus pulled you deeper into the unknown corridor in the hopes of avoiding any more unwanted company.

“Where are we?” you asked as soon as he stopped sprinting down the hall, stopping to look at his surroundings.

“I’ve.. been here before,” he said as he seemingly began searching for something. Whatever it was, it looked like he found it as he confidently walked towards another corner, gesturing for you to follow as he turned down another corridor. You sprinted forward, catching up with him and took his hand, feeling a bit worried about how dark it seemed to be getting the further down you went. “Strange,” you heard him say as you’d suddenly come to a stop.

“What is it?” you asked as you spun your head back around, staring at an old wooden door that clearly needed renovation. It was a lot smaller than all the other doors in the castle. In fact, it looked as though it was the perfect size for two people to step through. You’d certainly never seen it before and though you didn’t think there would be anything in the castle too dangerous for students to suddenly wander upon, this particular door seemed a bit shady if you had to be honest.

Severus immediately grabbed the doorknob as soon as he heard some rapid sounding footsteps approaching. Before you knew it, you were being pulled into the mysterious room, the door disappearing behind you as soon as it closed. Your heart raced as you went to intertwine your fingers with his, squeezing his hand, feeling a rise of panic in your chest.

“Severus-” you stopped as soon as you turned around and joined the boy beside you in gazing around the strange room you’d just accidently confined yourself to. It was like someone had looked into your mind, extracting your ideal sitting room and combined it with Severus’. The room was cozy, warmed by the fireplace to your right, facing a loveseat and an antique looking table. On the left wall was a mostly empty bookcase, only lined by a few books and from what you could tell, they were Transfiguration books. The decor of the room was quite strange. You swore that if you looked at it from a certain angle, the design covering the wall shifted from green and gold to red and silver. It was like what you’d imagined the Slytherin common room to look like mashed together with the Gryffindor common room. “What is this place?”

“I’m not sure,” he said as he led you to the fireplace. “I thought perhaps this was the same corridor I’d told you about before. The one I found those old candles in. But clearly I was wrong.” He looked back at you, making sure you were okay with staying here, before seating himself on the sofa, gesturing for you to join him.

You felt unsettled at this strange room, but if the door had disappeared, then perhaps it was safe enough to spend the day in. Your major concern was how you were to leave. Would the door reappear when you were ready to head out, or was there a spell you needed to know for this? Either way, you were glad you were with Severus. He’d always been so crafty, you knew he’d figure out a way to leave if you couldn’t.

Looking down at him, you smiled in content, settling yourself down beside him as you snuggled into his chest. He wrapped an arm around you as you snaked your own around his waist.

“Talk about close call,” you said as you closed your eyes feeling your heart rate settle down to a regular pace. You could feel Severus’ own heart thumping against his chest as well, telling you his adrenaline was probably running just as high as yours.

You felt him peck the top of your head before reaching over to grab his bag. You buried your face further into his chest, feeling that bubble of guilt forming in your stomach again. Severus had been so affectionate towards you, slowly going back to treating you like his girlfriend, but you were still so reluctant to return those feelings.

You saw Severus place the Potions book you’d been making your way through the last few weeks on his lap and quickly sat up, allowing him to open the book, holding it up for you to read. Though you were glad that Severus was enjoying himself, taking his time with the book, you were growing quite bored with it which is probably why you were currently fighting the urge to walk to the back of the room and pick up one of those Transfiguration books.

But Severus seemed to really love reading it with you, occasionally showing you the enthusiastic side you never knew he had. You always found yourself smiling every time his eyes shined with joy as he went to grab a quill to make notes. Though the fact that he was scribbling in the book made you feel as though you should have bought him a notebook as well to spare him the pain of contaminating a new book. Perhaps that could be your next gift, just dozens and dozens of notebooks for him to take notes in. That should last him quite a while and help keep his poor textbooks from a certain inky fate.

As you two silently read together, you instinctively tugged on the chain around your neck, feeling a bit bored of the long time intervals between each page flip and revealed the locket Severus gave you from under your shirt. Severus did a sort of double take when he saw the light of the fireplace bounce off the metal trinket in your hand. He paused and slowly put the book down as he watched you fiddling with it, keeping it so close to your heart.

“You-you still have that on?” he said in surprise. You’d been so zoned out, you hadn’t even realized he’d put the book down. But when he spoke, you turned your head to look at him and sat up as soon as you saw the shook across his face.

“I-I never took it off,” you said softly as you gave him a sheepish smile, “and, I don’t think I ever will,” you added nervously waiting for his reaction. Severus looked back down at the locket, seeing his name peeking through your fingers as you continued to play with it.

“You-you really like it?” he said, feeling his heart swell with joy. He felt so flustered at the sight of you cherishing the little locket so much.

You looked into his softened eyes and leaned in closer, placing your hand back around his waist as you let the locket dangle from your neck. “I really like… you,” you said flirtatiously, his heart fluttering in response. He searched your face before slowly leaning in, stopping inches from your parted lips. He wanted so badly to kiss you, but knew that he shouldn’t press your boundaries, the fear of pushing you away lingering in the back of his mind. He pulled back, staring down at his lap before looking back at you.

His cheeks had gotten so rosy, you just wanted to reach up and pinch them. You knew he was holding back, that he’d just resisted the urge to kiss you. And despite the lingering memory of the hurt you felt after the Yule Ball, you could still feel your heart swell as you looked into his lovestruck eyes.

“I love you,” he whispered softly, gently sweeping hair away from your face, hoping he hadn’t overstepped tonight.

“I love you too,” you replied softly. That was the second time you’d ever spoken those three words to him, to anyone really. And right now, in this moment, it felt so right. Even more so than at the Yule Ball because now, now you knew that when he said it, he truly meant it.

You propped yourself up, allowing you to lean in a little further. Half open, your eyes flickered between his eyes and his lips as you wondered if you were ready to push your luck further than you already had today. Feeling confident enough in your choices, you closed the distance and gently pressed your lips to his, feeling a rush of pleasure course through your veins.

He was quick to kiss back as he snaked a hand in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. His eagerness came off as confidence compared to the nerves that were causing your hands to shake ever so slightly. You wrapped an arm around his neck, pressing yourself closer to him, missing his touch.

You’d come so far and though you couldn’t help but feel anxious about the kiss, it just all felt so right. Like fate had brought you to this room, helping you take another step further into your relationship.

Once the need for air was too great, you parted the kiss and leaned back, smiling as you both lightly panted. Nervously, you tucked your hair behind your ear before leaning back down. Looking back at Severus, you couldn’t help but notice the smile on his face had grown wider. You’d never seen him so happy before and it really warmed your heart.

“Shall-shall we continue reading?” you asked, gesturing at the book in his lap, hoping the distraction would help calm your nerves. It’s just a kiss. You’d kissed a million times before this, so why did this feel so… so special.

Severus kept his eyes on you as he reached up to cup your face, stroking his thumb over your cheek and searched your eyes as you waited for an answer. He slowly nodded his head as the enchantment he seemed to be under broke and reached over to open the book, finding the page where he’d stopped. You settled yourself back against his chest as he gently stroked your hair and you both continued reading as the love circled around the room, just like the first time you’d both cuddled up to a book together.

Next Chapter

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