#if anyone needs a only partially committed beta

[erosiism]

SACRED | YANDERE PRIEST X M!READER

prompt: yandere!priest x transmigrated!male!reader

character(s): priest (anton), you

warnings(s): mention of violence, god complex, religious imagery, dub-con, not to be glorified or romanticised

note(s): male reader, second person, past and present tense, not beta read. from twisted faith on my wattpad.

It takes a few moments for you to truly process what just happened. From the coarse sheets underneath your skin that differ greatly from the silken ones you have grown so accustomed to, to the air that smells like blood, you know something is terribly wrong.

Then you see a mural of a priest on the wall, and you remember where you are. A horror game.

Anton. It’s the name of the priest you need to find.

The first time you see the priest is the day after you transmigrate into a horror game. The said game, Spiraling into the Abyss features almost a cult like fanaticism with religion: you learn in the first few seconds of your time in the new world that they worship a priest like a God, and that they sacrifice humans to please the apparent gods of the heavens.

You’re a sacrifice. You know that. You are found to be guilty of some stupid crime you didn’t commit, and as far as you know, you are a worthless extra who will die by burning—you will do everything to prevent that.

To survive, you need to get into his good graces. You see him on the day or worship, when you come early to the Church: and his beauty astounds you. Symmetrical features—and the whole blue eyes and golden hair combination that is seen as rather cliche, in terms of beauty—but Anton doesn’t have a common kind of beauty; he is radiant. Benevolent. Ethereal. You marvel at him. His skin is without a blemish, and is fair, like he hasn’t gone out in the sun for a while...yet it has a healthy glow to it. His expression is serene. Anton's hair frames his face perfectly, and his eyes are expressive and rather captivating, with long, dark lashes that draw attention to it. His cheekbones are well-defined, his nose straight—and those only add to Anton's appeal.

He speaks to you in lilted tones, and immediately, you realize the priest isn’t just evil—he’s downright a menace.

"Sometimes I forget you are a new, naive believer. God is perfect, is he not? So his messengers, in turn, can do no wrong. He sends his messages through me. God is part of me. I'm merely ridding the world of evil."  He strides to where you are, and his hands touch the top of your head lightly. His fingers fall to your cheek, and he strokes it gently.

You can only swallow. “Yes, Father Anton.”

There’s one day where you ask him why he burns those bodies. He calls it “cleansing”, apparently.

“They donate to the church out of the kindness of their hearts,” you tell him, swallowing the bile down your throat as you hear more screams. “Is that not…a little extreme?”

“Extreme? Why, no, not at all.”

“You burn people alive.”

“That is the cleanest way to proceed. Their ashes tumble away, and it makes it much easier for the people, too. If we were to use magic, or beheading, or even hanging—it would be much messier, no? And I believe fire is such an awfully beautiful thing. It can make death look inviting; and even though the heavens might cast them away…in hell, all they will see is the fiery pits. This is their punishment. To feel sorry for them is strange, Y/n.”

Despite this, for the sake of your survival, you continue to visit him. Now, such visits are rare: Anton barely makes time for anyone. But he does, for you. 

Of course, this partial treatment doesn’t go unnoticed by you. He treats only you like this: it’s concerning, actually. His words are light and gentle, but the weight of it isn’t. In fact, he speaks of cleansing, he speaks of murdering in such a calm manner that you wonder if the devil truly resides in him.

But one thing is clear. 

To survive, you need to get into his good graces.

You feel your sanity slip each minute you spend in the game.

Anton kills. So does the Church. And you still can’t explain the goddamn obsession he has with you. Why has he not killed you yet? Anton is no saint, not at all.

Perhaps Anton was ensnared by the promise of Godhood—ensnared by the tendrils of his own self proclaimed grandiosity. Perhaps he had been idolized so much…worshiped by the devoted believers that he had simply been led to believe in his imagined divinity. Anton was a mortal who had dared to cast a shadow that eclipsed the very stars that he had reached for. Anton was simply adorned in robes of imagined omnipotence, and smelt of the fragrance of narcissus.

Here, he was god, but Anton was completely alienated from empathy. For what was a god in isolation but a sovereign ruler over an empire of one, ruling over a realm devoid of the richness of God’s grace?

You can’t deal with him much longer. He keeps murdering: he murders those who come to you under the guise of the silly notion of cleansing, he finds it amusing to see you sob and cry…and he has no qualms about drugging you. If not for the items you have stored in your inventory, warning you of drugs, you would have succumbed long ago.

Anton is no priest. 

And now he stands before you, his lips curling into a smile when he sees the look of despair on your face. He has just killed a friend,

You have to. You have to fight Anton…you have to…

Anton leans forward. You two are a hair’s breadth away.

God. Is God real? Is the devil real—has he taken form in Anton himself, twisting, persuading, begging, tempting people to court evil, to withhold the stench of death? The crimson flames have not faltered for long, and have only seemed to welcome him with fiery contempt, only surrendering when everything has been destroyed in its wake.

You long to spit curses towards Anton. You long for your limbs to connect with his face, and leave a mottled bruise there. You long for your twitching fingers to wrap around the priest’s neck; watch as oxygen slowly slips from his lungs out of your throat. You long to see his body grow limp.

“You are so perfect,” Anton murmurs, “so, so divine. So perfect…”

You don’t get why he says this. He’s been telling you this for ages: it’s the reason why you’ve been treated well. He claims you are some savior from an oracle ready to save him, he claims you saved him.

And now in this scenario, where his fingers are grazing your cheek?

You swallow. There was no way, right? No fucking way—

“I want to kiss you.”

Your heart drops. “…If I say no, you wouldn’t listen.”

A kiss. It would just be a kiss, right? That was okay. It means simply brushing your lips against Anton’s…yeah, that was possible.

You want to cry. Anton presses his lips on yours—it’s a mixture of heat and warmth; the way Anton ravages your lips has some sort of twisted hunger to it, craving and craving and craving. There is an obscene sheen of saliva coating your lips when you part.

The kiss tastes just like the forbidden fruit, plucked from the tree of desire. It is the same way that Eve sinned—eating a fruit that had belonged to the serpent. It was as if you had forged a pact with the devil himself—that in kissing Anton, it was like sealing your fate in the molten wax of sin, staining the canvas of your soul. Had matted it black. 

It was shameful. So utterly shameful that the kiss…

Once Anton fully lets go, he smiles, and you collapse on the ground, tears running down your face.

He needs you, Anton thinks, he needs you. You are the savior who has brought him from the depths of hell. You are his miracle. You are his little pet; his little divine sacrifice, the white sheep with the white wool. You are the one who will follow him guiltlessly. Untouched, untainted, clean.

You are shaking like a newborn lamb.

He presses another kiss on your forehead.

[ before, Anton’s pov ]

The world was dirty.

It needed a savior. Someone to bring them out from the depths of hell—to cleanse them. After all, was that not what the texts read? Was that not what he had learnt, ever since young? Was that not what had been instilled in him since his very birth? Luke 15:11-32. The wayward son who squandered his inheritance but was welcomed back by his forgiving father—Anton had marveled at it when he was young. To think someone would have such boundless grace; such forgiveness for a foolish person…

The oracle. Anton saw the oracle as a gift—a symbol from God. It had been delivered to him when he was young, naive, and careless. 

Anton remembered very little about his childhood. Extremely little. He remembered his mother, his father. But that was it—but oh, how he hated them. Anton did not remember why he hated them, why the portrait of his family had been torn out. He regarded life then, and now, as the beginning of the end.

Something fleeting, something ephemeral. Something tragic. Life was a wonderful tragedy.

People look at me with such endless wonder; such spellbound eyes and widened mouths. They see me as God—they see me as a deity above them all.

And that was true, Anton thought. That was very true. Sinners. Wretched, dirtied, horrid sinners, all of them! Anton despised humankind; they were worthless—made of brittle bones with flesh. He did not even see them as humans. They were just mere vessels in need of salvation.

“Father Anton!”

“Father Anton, would you please help me?”

“Bring me to the path of salvation!

He was anointed by a divine purpose to purify the soiled souls of the world…

Yes, that was his purpose.

It was relieving and calming to have a purpose. To drift in the vast expanse of the world; the universe without a tethering purpose is akin to being a feather in the breath of the wind. Useless, damaging, lonely. Anton could see—it was very easy for him to see who were those who were aimless in life, compared to those who had the bright, bubbly life shining magnificently in their eyes.

Oh, Mother. Anton would stand before her grave. Again, he did not remember much of what he believed was to be a mundane, boring childhood, but his mother’s name left a bitter taste on his tongue, horrid and painful. Somehow, he did not feel a single bit of…remorse, or guilt when he gazed at her tombstone. He expected to feel guilt for something he was quite sure he didn’t do.

But his lips would always curve into a smile when he saw the words etched on the grave. She was dead, he would remember. Dead. Occasionally, snippets of memories would come to him—her shrill voice, her messy, jagged hair, her crazed, crazed eyes. The way her fingernails felt on her skin when she scratched at him wildly.

Clearly, she deserved to die. How did she die, though? What exactly transpired? What kind of person was she, and what kind of person had she tried to make Anton into?

Anton found, to his surprise, that he was bothered about this. Detachment was something he prided himself on: he would never venture too close.

To have attachment with someone would be detrimental. Annoying. Haunting.

There were times—many, many times when Anton had awoken, hollow and void. 

The oracle.

The oracle.

When is it coming? When is it coming? Have the gods lied to me?

The oracle—his lifeline since he was young—was the very proof that this world had a chance, to live on, to heal.

A savior.

There were times Anton would grow impatient. He needed to do something about the state of the world. It would be easy, wouldn’t it? Why did people falter in front of flames? What did people shun away from blood? Was the sight not wonderful, not enchanting? The heat was welcoming—a gentle caress. Those who ventured in, would have their faces bathed in mesmerizing glow. Nevermind their screams, nevermind their bleeding, rotting flesh. 

The fire illuminated the world before it dissolved like nothing. Like it hadn’t existed. 

“Horrible! Horrible! You’re fucking horrible!” Then the stinging of flesh. There was something piping hot, something burning him.

“Why won’t you even flinch, you monster?”

Anton smiled loosely. Another memory. They came into his mind occasionally and quickly. He never pondered over them—it was useless to; for he already had everything he wanted.

The day you came into the world, was the day he felt alive. Waiting had become a bore to him—it was the same routine over and over again, with the same stupid, foolish people—

Something extraordinary had graced his reality. The oracle. You were the chosen one. The chosen one. The chosen one. The one he yearned for; seeked for; the change in the world.

“Dear God,” You had said the first time he saw you. “I confess I have been impure in my holy spiritual presence…”

Anton had seen you before the mural; your head lowered, your words soft and quiet.

Anton had stepped before you, tilting his head to the side as he observed you. In fact, you seemed to be struggling.

“You have to be sincere. You can’t just read off the mural.” Anton sighed.

You seemed to look at him with flickering recognition.

“Forgive me, Father Anton, for I have sinned.” You appeared shocked for the words to even slip past your lips; and oh, you were beautiful. Lovely. Innocent. Anton gazed at you—this was the person he had been waiting for his whole life—fervently, impatiently, silently. 

“You don’t seem to be used to this,” Anton said at last, as he took off his hood. He had not meant to come to church today—he was aware the crowd was growing more stifling, more crazed by the minute. The women of the church reminded him of his mother. There were times he wished he could draw a blade to their throat, and watch the blood spill out in a wonderful crimson.

“I’m afraid it’s been long since my last confession.”

Anton couldn’t help but smile. You were lying. 

“That’s alright,” He said calmly, “you have come now. Is there something in particular that’s troubling you, perhaps? To bring you to confession?”

“I…”

Anton could read human beings exceptionally well. From the way their eyes narrowed, the way their pupils widened marginally, to the gap of their fingers…you were trembling. You were thinking of what other lies you could say.

An adorable fool.

“You…?” He prompted. “You must not feel self conscious in the eyes of God. He already knows, Y/n. He is only waiting for you to confess.”

I am only waiting for you to confess. To tell me that you are from the oracle.

“I cannot even recall it.” You admitted.

You cannot recall it because it is not true.

“What do people come here for, Father Anton?”

Many things.

“The ones who have sinned so awfully they are made to be sacrifices.”

Oh. Sacrifices. Anton did not even—

There were times he would stand before dead bodies, blood in his hand, blinking slowly. When? When had he killed them? It all happened so fast, he wasn’t even aware of the blood staining his clothes, the bodies riddled on the ground.

“You tell me, Y/n.”

“Murder…?”

Anton wanted to laugh. A textbook answer. You had much to learn, didn’t you? It was alright. Anton could teach you. Teach you from ground zero, till you would become who you were supposed to be.

“Mostly, it’s their lack of faith. Rebelling against us. It is their perceived lack of loyalty, and their utter ignorance and disregard for God that leads us to take drastic measures.”

“But that’s…that’s killing isn’t it?”

So pure. So untainted, so innocent. 

The oracle. The person from the oracle. 

“But that doesn’t matter,” Anton said softly, “you show a desire to learn. And that is always very splendid, always welcomed.”

Anton would morph you and turn you into something splendid, divine.

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[lorelune]

O4O: part i

|| jing yuan x reader || E/18+ || omega for omega, soft smut || wc: 10.3k  || ao3 ||

Jing Yuan has been content riding out his heats alone for centuries. You, despite being another omega, are happy to lend a hand if Jing Yuan will have you.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

💦🎀 this piece is apart of SPRING FEVER: an omegaverse collab! 🎀💦

✨O4O masterlist✨ // part i — part ii — part iii (part 1 & part 2) //

notes: hello omega jing yuan omega jing yuan save me... the way omega jy has haunted me for months. MONTHS. this fic is incredibly indulgent soft, needy smut with non-traditional a/b/o dynamics. THANK YOU to the lovely @owlespresso for beta reading!! please read the tags and enjoy!! <3

CW: a/b/o dynamics, omega jing yuan (with afab and amab anatomy), omega reader (afab anatomy), past yingxing/jing yuan/dan feng, bottom jing yuan flavors (though reader does not do any penetration), use of toys, worldbuilding around omegaverse, lots of biting, milfy jing yuan, mommy kink without the word mommy (at least not in this part 👀💗!!),

Jing Yuan has not shared his heat with anyone in a very, very long time. Centuries, most certainly. Jing Yuan doesn’t find it very useful to keep track of that length of time— he finds it cumbersome if anything. There’s no use holding onto a past that only forces him to redigest pain. 

Jing Yuan rarely has heats. He keeps a diligent schedule of medication and only has to go through them once every decade or so. Occasionally less, if the Luofu is passing a particular star system or comet field. His heats are always cumbersome. He can conceal his omegan sensibilities often, but it is more difficult prior to a heat.

Preheat is a different beast.

When Jing Yuan sequesters himself in his estate for the better part of a week, anyone who knows he’s even there assumes it is to go through a rut. A week is a standard amount of time to take off for a rut and is expected. However, a heat has a standard time off of about two and a half weeks. Much longer to accommodate preheat and nesting needs. 

Jing Yuan rarely indulges his own. 

The Luofu, at large, assumes he is an alpha. This is manufactured, however only partially. Generally, the citizens of the Luofu assume, given that he is the General and he has a larger, broad-shouldered stature, that he is an Alpha through and through. He always wears scent patches in public, which is normal for both omegas and alphas. Betas, too, occasionally. Depending on the subtype. The Charioteers know that he is an omega, but they are committed to some amount of discretion and guard the information as a secret. Lady Fu, an alpha, will occasionally scold him for being so secretive. Like he harbors some sort of self-hatred that he is an omega. 

It is simply more convenient for him to be seen as an alpha. Jing Yuan doesn’t wish to disturb this perception.

And therefore, it is much easier to wait as long as possible between heats and bear them alone. Whatever instincts he has can be satiated with toys and a half-decent nest. Jing Yuan has always considered this enough. ‘Enough’. 

(It’s not sating. Jing Yuan cannot lie to himself about this. He remembers laying with Yingxing, and how the alpha made him feel more full and content than Jing Yuan had ever thought possible during a heat. Or ever, truthfully. He remembers how calming Dan Feng’s presence had been— grounding and reassuring, too. Jing Yuan was fucked, filled and protected. An omega’s dream.)

Jing Yuan... copes with what he has. A large, plush bed with a downy mattress, a few donated, alpha-scented garments, and a collection of inflatable, knotting toys. He always leaves his heat with lingering cramps, a brutalized hole, and a yearning that takes a few weeks to quiet itself. 

It is natural that he craves his mates. Even if they are long dead (not dead. Not really. Not the same as they once were, anyway.)

And certainly, never to be his again. The mating mark on his neck has long faded.

Jing Yuan tracks his heat so such yearning can be anticipated and planned for. He knows when his heat is approaching, down to the specific day it will occur. He titrates off his suppressants carefully, and maps out a portion of time off for himself a year or so in advance. 

Which is why it is very odd that he starts exhibiting preheat symptoms in the middle of the day, a random day, during a tactical meeting.

Even if he had been titrating down his dose in anticipation for a planned heat in a few months time, it is far, far too early to begin feeling symptoms. The familiar itchiness prickling under his skin is entirely unexpected. Jing Yuan has to put a particularly large amount of effort to get through this unnecessary meeting without letting a single symptom slip. He can only adjust in his seat so many times before it is improper, or juggle the cradle of his jaw from one hand to the other before it is clear something is wrong. 

If any of the Charioteers and their advisers notice anything amiss with him, they say nothing. The only one who looks off-put is Fu Xuan. She’s a spitfire alpha herself, and perhaps she’s keen enough to notice that Jing Yuan is beginning to feel... unwell. Though he is masking his scent as he always does, he imagines that the flush in his cheeks is becoming increasingly obvious.

Fu Xuan gives Jing Yuan a wary look as the meeting is dismissed.

“General,” She says curtly. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” He gives her a rich laugh as he stands, muffling a groan as his stiff back and knees ache. He’d sat for too long. He feels light-headed as he rights himself and Fu Xuan glares at him.

“I doubt that,” Fu Xuan huffs. “I will not interrogate you in public, nor do I think you would give me an honest answer even if I did—”

“So little trust in me, Master Diviner—”

“ However, I will urge you to go home. ” She takes a step closer and sniffs the air. It’s just the two of them in the meeting room now, the rest of the parties in attendance having filtered out. Subtly and without fanfare, she takes his hand in her own, and presses her wrist to his. Jing Yuan keeps an easy grin on his face but can’t help the way he tenses his fingers, flexing them at the contact. “Do you need an escort?”

“Is Lady Fu worrying for me? How kind.”

“I’m— not, ” Fu Xuan huffs now and more roughly smears their wrists together. The scent gland she is almost abusing is swollen and hot to the touch. It takes all of his composure not to squirm with her treatment. “I’m no fool. If you have a heat starting, you should be comfortable at home, not in a war room.”

“Master Diviner, you think I’m an omega?” Jing Yuan says with a smile. He knows she is already privy to this, but he can’t resist teasing her a bit.

“You are insufferable. Even in this state. Go home. I will take you there myself.”

“I’m afraid I can’t return home just yet,” He hums. He imagines he has a few hours before proper pre-heat sets in. “I have a lunch date that I cannot miss.”

“You— a lunch date?”

“Yes, of course. It’s a scheduled event, dear Diviner.”

“Do not patronize me.”

Jing Yuan laughs as she fumes. He has the urge to ruffle her hair, but thinks better of it. The complicated updo would surely be ruffled, and Jing Yuan is already getting an earful as it is. 

“I would never.”

Fu Xuan yanks her arm away with a growl. She wears some type of masking perfume, she always has, but with her frustration swirling, a bit of her actual scent peaks through. It’s light on the back of his tongue, floral almost. Nearly inedible, but the kind of scent Jing Yuan that makes him nostalgic—

(For a master with a scent like frost-covered roses, and a packmate with a scent filled with springtime lilac blossoms in fat clusters.)

“If this lunch is really so necessary, may I escort you there at least? Or will your alpha be meeting you here?”

“They’re not an alpha.” Jing Yuan hums. His stomach feels warm regardless. “And I’ll be just fine getting there myself.”

Fu Xuan looks at him, questioningly. Her lips open, then close once more. There are questions she clearly has. And for all her brashness and hot-blooded fervor, she understands decorum better than most. She pries out of care and her good intentions, and Jing Yuan can respect that if nothing else.

“I’ll concede,” Fu Xuan sighs. “ However, please let me know if there’s anything else you need. You have my number.”

“Noted.” Jing Yuan rises, and feels the heat clouding his head sink lower in his body. He’s being engulfed. 

Fu Xuan deadpans, “General—”

“Have a good rest of your day, Master Diviner,” He calls with a light laugh, slipping away before Fu Xuan can give him any further grief.

...

As the Arbiter General of the Luofu, Jing Yuan knows its streets and secrets very well. There’s more than one way to arrive at his favored terrace garden without being seen or smelt by the public. It is helpful that this path is lined near an aqueduct stream, surrounded by lush greenery and clumps of fragrant azure asters. This path is tucked away, straddling an external tunnel of the Luofu’s inner tunnels. Really, only the Calibrators aboard the ship use it, and as there are only a few and they tend to keep to their delve, Jing Yuan has very little fear walking this way at his own leisure.

He is glad you tend to take your lunch dates in the privacy of this particular garden, under the gazebo and nestled atop its many silken blankets and pillows. A conventional restaurant in this state would be doable, but unideal. 

Jing Yuan can smell you as he approaches. It makes him pause, just outside the gate. His hands hovers over his jade abacus as he opens his mouth to taste you in the back of his mouth.

(Warm, a familiar scent that he associates with the rare indulgence of relaxation. It’s not overly sweet or ripe, but balanced and full-bodied. Not quite floral or fruity, and not deep enough to be akin to an aged black tea. Perhaps like the roll of a hearth or the beeswax of a lit candle.)

He’s sighs. It calms him instantly. 

Even if you aren’t an alpha, you are familiar, as is the current setting.

You’re sitting at a low table in the shade of the gazebo. There are several plates of cheeses, cut fruits, salted meats, and nuts laid out. You’re ladling sticky honey into a small dish as he enters, and look up at the sound of the gate closing.

You smile when you see him.

“General,” You smile. “I apologize, I started setting up lunch without you. Everything should still be chilled.”

“No need to be sorry,” he laughs gently, brushing a hand against your shoulder before rounding the table, and taking a seat across from you. “I could never complain about your diligence. You have chosen quite the spread today, haven’t you?”

You flush with a nod, and gesture down to the table, “The markets were lovely today, I had to splurge. You’ll have to let me know what you think.”

“Only if you do the same.”

“I-I can do that,” You smile at him softly.

Despite your familiarity, you still regard him with some amount of anxiety. Jing Yuan has long since placed this has less to do with his status as General, and more than likely due to a deepened amount of affection that Jing Yuan... entertains. Enjoys. Thrives off of, even. He perhaps returns it, though he hasn’t told you that explicitly.

Besides, you believe him to be an alpha. He’s sure that, if you did know his secondary gender, such affections would fade quickly. The allure of what he could provide as an alpha is quite different from what he can provide as an omega.

Jing Yuan takes a sip of sparkling juice, and as he lowers the thin-necked glass, you look at him strangely. A crease knits itself between your brows.

“Did I get some on my face?” Jing Yuan chuckles and wipes at the corners of his mouth with his thumb.

“No... you just,” You stumble with your words, hands flexing in your lap. “Are... are you alright? Your cheeks look quite warm, and you’re sweating around your hairline.” 

You always have been keen to bodies other than your own. It’s not the most common trait. 

“... Am I?” Jing Yuan could choose to lie at this moment. It would be easy to say he was using a new brand of suppressants, or blame it on a stressful day. However, he doesn't like lying to you, only twisting the truth when entirely necessary. “I do suppose I’m at that point in my cycle.”

“Oh!” You startle and sit up more straight. You push a plate at him. “Pre-rut? You should eat, then. You’ll need your strength. Do— do you have someone I can call? I don’t mind.”

Your worry is cute. 

Jing Yuan can’t help thinking about it. You are an omega full of so much care and urge to help. Jing Yuan has seen it and experienced it many times, and has also seen how it has gotten you into unfortunate situations. You have a trusting mind and spirit, and more than once, it has been used against you. 

Jing Yuan likes keeping you close, so he can look after you, even if it’s from a distance.

He stares down at the plate. There’s a pile of glistening orange grapes, a few roses of sliced, cured meats, a chunk of honeycomb, and buttery looking crackers. It does look delicious, however Jing Yuan has always struggled to eat in his pre-heat. When he looks up at you to decline, your expression looks even more worried, almost sour.

Before he can speak, you are. Petal-soft lips lips downturned. “Are you... not in pre-rut, General?”

He deflates, slightly. He is old— and. He does not wish to steer you away from what is a correct assumption. You are his most trusted companion.

“I am not,” He says softly, and picks up one of the grapes. He squeezes. The skin is taut and tight. “And, please call me Jing Yuan. Formalities can be dropped, yes?”

“I— yes, of course.” You look from his plate to him. “So, you’re... pre-heat?”

“I am, yes.”

“Oh!” You immediately heap his plate with several other kinds of fruit, and grab a clean glass and pour ice water from a pitcher into it. “I apologize— for. Making such an assumption.”

“No need to apologize.” He soothes and lays a hand over yours. “I’m aware of what the vast majority of the Luofu assumes my secondary gender to be. It does not bother me. If it did, I would have corrected the greater public long ago. I apologize for not telling you directly until now.”

“It’s— okay,” you reply. Perhaps a bit hurt. “I never asked. I just— I just thought. Wrong.”

(Please be kinder to yourself, he thinks. It hurts to see you saddened on my account.)

“Nonsense,” he laughs and gracefully takes the water you offer. He downs the glass down his parched throat. He— hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. “No harm done. If anything, I’m grateful that you now know.”

(Regardless of how it could change your feelings toward him.)

Jing Yuan has tempered heartbreak for millenia. Another one— is not nothing, but it is manageable. Perhaps not during preheat, but he still has time to mourn. 

“I’m glad too,” you tell him, and squeeze back his hand. You only scent him sometimes, always so shy about it, but now you firmly rub the scent gland in your wrist against his. His aches, and the sensation and exchange of pheromones nearly makes him wheeze. He straightens his spine. 

“Was that—?” You almost pull away.

“No, it’s very welcome.”

You stare at him, intent and soft, before settling. Tentatively, you rub at the gland in gentle circles.

“You should eat,” you say after a moment. “Do you have an alpha I can call? Or— um, anything you need me to pick up for you?”

“I am fine.” Jing Yuan will text Qingzu for the essentials, rather than troubling you. “I’ll finish lunch with you, and then see myself home.”

“... No alpha to pick you up?”

“None to speak of, no.” Jing Yuan manages a smile.

(It has been— centuries since Jing Yuan had an alpha to care for and stake a claim on him. The notion of finding another has been put out of his mind since he himself had to confine Dan Feng to the Shackling Prison and exile the man Yingxing became. Even after meeting them as they are today, Jing Yuan knows they are no longer his mates.)

“Oh.” 

Every one of your emotions is so clearly on your face. You look so sad for him and you squeeze his hand. He has half a mind to pull away, and remind you that he does not need your worry. However, he is in pre-heat, and by Lan, he is craving worry.  

“And... heatmates?” You ask. “I don’t want to pry, but it’s hard to spend a heat alone.”

“Once again, none.” Jing Yuan replies without hesitating. The silence that follows is poignant as you study him. 

“I see.” You frown again, clearly thinking. Jing Yuan can see the thoughts turning around just behind your eyes. You pile on even more fruits to his plate. “Eat, eat. You need it.”

“This much fruit will give me a stomach ache, I fear.”

“Some of it, at least!” You huff at him. “For me, please?”

Jing Yuan meets your gaze, easy and soft. There’s no threat, only the heat that matches your scent and the feel that radiates in his chest.

(You are not his alpha. You are something entirely different— something that he wants so badly to hold.)

“For you.”

...

By the end of lunch (in which, Jing Yuan does manage to eat a decent amount of the fruit you’d put on his plate), Jing Yuan’s pre-heat has begun to simmer into a more uncomfortable territory. He desperately wants to shed his uniform and armor, and slip into a robe and no bottoms. He hasn’t begun to slick yet, but he will surely start to by sundown.

Jing Yuan stands after the meal, stretching. It’s proper afternoon now, and the birds of the garden chirp eveningsong. 

“Jing Yuan?” You ask as he stretches his arms above his head. His name sounds lovely in your mouth.

He hums, “Yes?”

“Do you want a heatmate?” You ask quietly. 

He looks at you. 

You’re fiercely meeting his gaze, even though you’re clearly struggling to. Your bottom lip is tucked between your teeth, and you’re fighting a frown from the crinkles on your forehead. Regardless, you stand your ground and ask a question that is surely difficult to broach, especially so directly.

“I—I am offering.” You stammer. “To clarify.”

“To be my heatmate?”

“Yes— I hate to think of you suffering alone, Jing Yuan. If I can be by your side to ease it, if only a little, I would like to be.”

“That is very brave of you to ask.” He smiles with a tilt of his head. “And bold.”

“I— I’m being honest.” You almost whine. It’s so cute. “Is that a no?”

“No, not at all.” Jing Yuan replies. “However, I wouldn’t want you to help solely for my benefit. If you wish to enter my nest exclusively to be an aid, and not out of... personal wants, I would feel guilty.”

“It’s— it’s personal wants too.”

“... Is it now?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Even though I’m not an alpha, as you thought?”

“Yes.”

“You’re certain.”

“ Yes, Jing Yuan.” 

“I cannot give you a knot—”

“I do not need one!” You break, much to Jing Yuan’s amusement. “I am happy to be by your side, regardless of that! If anything, I’m more than happy to share a nest with you without the assurance of a limp and a potential pup.”

Jing Yuan smiles, almost unrestrained, and your cheeks heat deliciously. 

You stammer, and poke at his chest, “You’re teasing me—!”

“I apologize, you must forgive me—”

“ Rude—!”

Your bury your face in his chest and nuzzle there. It’s— clearly a self soothing action, one you realize a moment too late isn’t quite proper. You stiffen, beginning to draw away, before Jing Yuan catches you by your scruff and holds you there. 

“You’re alright,” He holds a wide palm there. “I apologize for teasing you. I mean so warmly.”

“... Scoundrel.” The sound muffles into his chest.

“Am I?”

You peer up at him, so warm in the cheeks and eyes... almost watery. Something in his chest feels sticky and molten. 

“ Yes—” You dare to meet his eyes again. “But, one I’m very fond of.”

Jing Yuan steels himself.

You are an omega. It is not your pheromones addling his mind. There is clarity in the attraction and affection he has for you, one not influenced by the urge to be knotted and bred. Though, Jing Yuan wants that, maybe part of him needs it. There is a trunk full of toys and implements he has tucked away that will sate the urge. The feelings that he carries for you will not so easily be placated.

“I would like it very much if you were to share my heat with me,” He speaks softly, just for the two of you to hear. Not even the garden birds will know his words. “If you are still offering.”

“Yes,” You say quickly, tentatively wrapping your arms around his waist. “Yes.”

He chuckles, easy and low, and presses his nose into your hair. Perhaps it’s pre-heat, making him sentimental and mushy. He usually hides out and bears it alone in his comfiest nest so these feelings typically do not get expressed in any other way other than delirious, anguished cries while a knotting toy takes the edge off. 

Jing Yuan finds these are nice to indulge, as your scent envelopes him.

...

“I lied earlier,” Jing Yuan says as you enter the threshold of his estate. “I apologize sincerely.”

“Oh?” You ask with a tilt of your head, accepting a pair of house slippers eagerly. “... What about?”

“I am in pre-heat unexpectedly. Though I have been tapering suppressants for an anticipated heat, it has come far earlier than planned . Things are... not as I would like them. You’ll need to excuse me for a few moments.”

Jing Yuan, like any omega, is particular about his home and nest, especially around his heat. He knows his home and inner chambers are not to his liking and he’ll need to prepare them. Even if you aren’t an alpha entering his nest, you are a guest and companion he is very fond of. You deserve only the best.

“Of course, whatever you need,” you assure him. “Do you need me to grab anything while you do so? I don’t mind running to the market—”

Jing Yuan turns on his heel, grabbing your arm firmly, “You’re not leaving.”

“O-Oh.”

Your eyes widen, and heat rises in your cheeks. Your throat bobs as you swallow and nod. Jing Yuan— were he not in pre-heat, would perhaps be a bit embarrassed by his brazeness. However, now? The idea of you leaving his home sends him reeling. You cannot leave— not until you smell like him and his nest. Not until— not until this is over.

“I sent a request to Qingzu to fetch us a few things during the walk over. She’ll be here shortly. I do, however, have a bowl of fruit that could be cut up while I get myself sorted. How does that sound?” 

You nod eagerly, happy to follow instruction. Jing Yuan knows this about you and enjoys it thoroughly.

He sets you up in the kitchen with a bowl of sunsiettas, a box of meldberries, and a few bunches of perfectly ripe, round kaishen grapes. Jing Yuan leaves you to the task, which he can already tell you will do dutifully. You thrive off of praise and direction. It’s a dangerous trait of an omega to carry, even more terrifying to hold openly as you do. Jing Yuan knows it has burned you before.

However, he intends to indulge you well and kindly, as it pleases him very much.

His mind, far-too warm and itchy, yearns to spin fantasies as he locks himself in his room with a shake of his head. 

He must keep it together. Just for awhile longer. His bed is— not a nest. Not the nest he wants (needs) it to be. His duvet, thick and luxurious as it is, needs a fluffing and a fresh scenting. His pillows are not arranged to his liking, and he needs to poke through his linen closet and add some extra layers as well. He needs to make sure there’s lube nearby with clean toys. Water out. His phone charged and volume on— (though, he already sent a message to Qingzu stating his heat has hit and he’ll be out for at least a week. ‘Defer to Diviner Fu :3’ , which is Jing Yuan’s payment to Lady Fu for the list of errands he had sent her.)

Jing Yuan shakes his head with a laugh. The little alpha will certainly be pleased when she hear she’ll get to play General for a while. 

Pre-heat drives him forward. He sheds his many layers (without aid, which is objectively a headache and he regrets not asking you for assistance initially. However, Jing Yuan is fairly certain that if he were to be fully bare around you, regardless of his pre- heat or not, he may jump you and drag you into his nest—)

Pre-heat is also making him somewhat irrational.  

He throws on his favored robe, a silken, cream-colored garment with delicate gold and red embroidery around the hems. The sleeves drape at his wrists and a sash ties it snugly around his waist. The itch that’s been rolling around just under his skin feels duller, with the less restrictive garment. The fabric crosses over his chest in a way that is... revealing. Probably too revealing, under any other circumstance, especially given that you have never seen him in anything less than his daily regalia. 

The thought of looking so indecent around you has its allure to it. One that Jing Yuan lets himself entertain with a smitten smile as he works.

He is attracted to you, surely. This he knows and has known. 

Jing Yuan acknowledges that this is both emotional and physical. You are dear to him, truly. In a way that is unique to any of the connections, he holds in the present. Your presence is one he thoroughly enjoys, and, more than once, (many times), has craved during his late-evening ruminations in his courtyard. He— has thought about inviting you over, if for nothing else than a chat in the moonlight and tea or wine to your preference, however—

He has always stopped himself.

Yearning, he will allow in the ways he has learned to manage it over the centuries. Small doses of longing that can be enjoyed and swallowed down, without festering. Being brazen with his wants and feelings is... slipperier. Especially concerning you, as you are dear to him, and Jing Yuan, for better or for worse, would like to share space with you for as long as he can manage. 

This attraction is regardless of secondary gender. 

Jing Yuan has not cared about secondary gender for a great while (since he shared a bed with a short-lived alpha and one of Long’s Scions, who, like all Vidyadhara, did not have a secondary gender at all.) 

Your presentation as an omega was never a deterrent to him. If anything, it was something of a comfort. Jing Yuan was claimed long ago, and he knows that no alpha’s claim will feel the same as Yingxing’s and he wouldn’t want anyone, especially you, to attempt to emulate it. The ownership of a claim was not something he sought. Jing Yuan has had his heart broken enough for this lifetime. He is sure you could rend his heart asunder, however it would not be in the way of losing a mate that he is biologically tied to. 

Statistically, Jing Yuan is lucky that such a loss did not cause him to become Mara struck five hundred years ago.

He is very content with whatever your relationship could become. If nothing else, the prospect of it allures him. Especially now that you know his presentation and clearly seem undeterred yourself. If— if anything. Your scent calmed and cooled when he’d told you on the terraces. 

Another thing that Jing Yuan will have to parse when he isn’t so wet that he’s leaving puddles in his wake. 

For now, Jing Yuan’s nest is satisfactory aside from a few personal items. 

Now, all it’s missing is you. 

...

Jing Yuan does not find you in the kitchen, but rather the foyer, wishing Qingzu a goodbye with a wave and shout. 

Jing Yuan must—

(Temper his instincts because you are far too close to the door and you need to be in his nest and his teeth need to be in you and his scent on you—)

“Jing Yuan,” you say to him warmly, with a smile. There are a few canvas bags on your arms. “How are you feeling—?”

Jing Yuan can’t stop himself from dragging you away from the tall set of doors and back to the kitchen. You squawk at his firmness, but don’t reject his touch. He helps you heft the bags onto a low table. His own arms shake, with both the strain and his own heat-induced weakness.

“It’s really progressing, huh?” You tentatively raise a hand, and place it on his forearm to stroke there.

Jing Yuan practically purrs when you rub over the silken fabric, “It is. Quickly. However, my nest and appropriate supplies are ready. Did Qingzu deliver all that I asked?”

“It seems so.”

There are— three more bottles of lube. A few pearly-looking medicine pills, a specialty item from the Alchemy Commission. Several stacks of ready-made meals and electrolyte powder. There are several vials of milky-looking oils he had her grab for more scandalous purposes as Jing Yuan would like to avoid any type of friction abrasion. Lastly, there are few unmarked boxes with new toys.

“You’re so well-prepared.” Your eyes are wide as you take stock of the haul. Jing Yuan bundles things into a basket and ushers you to his nest.

“I have gone through many heats,” he chuckles. “I have learned the best tricks.”

“I-I can see.”

As you enter his bedroom, you stare at his nest with wide eyes. You jump when Jing Yuan locks the door.

“... Is that alright?” Jing Yuan asks.

“Yes, yes, of course. I just—” You swallow. “I haven’t ever helped another omega through a heat. If you have any pointers or preferences, let me know while you’re still in your full mind, please? I’d like to make this as comfortable for you as possible.”

Jing Yuan thinks for a moment. With a tilt of his head, he rests his hands on your shoulders. Your scent is spiced, a bit nervous, but also undeniably aroused. Your gaze darts down to his exposed collarbones and chest, then quickly back up to his eyes. Heat rises fiercely in your cheeks. 

“Your presence will be helpful in and of itself,” he assures you with a squeeze. Carefully, he hooks his thumbs on your outer garment and pulls it down, undoing buttons and ties along the way. Your lips part, breath hot. “I’ll guide you as I need. My heats tend to be mild, though they do last a full week. There will be lulls, which I tend to be quite worn out during. I’ll need your assistance more than anything.”

You nod, taking in his response. 

Jing Yuan— he’s holding it together. Slick is beginning to drip down his inner thighs and there’s an ache in his core that feels heavier and hotter by the minute. However, he does want to do this part slowly. He prides himself on his patience. Piece by piece, he takes off your day clothes and tosses them into his nest. Without them, your scent is stronger. Your neck is bare from any topical or adhesive blockers.

“During the rest of it though?” You ask, softly. “When you’re in the throes of it.”

Jing Yuan hums, letting a shaking hand rest on the curve of your waist, “I’m not certain. It’s been quite some time since I’ve shared a heat with anyone.”

“... Really?”

“Yes.” Jing Yuan presses his lips to your forehead without thinking. The heat of it, of you, sinks into his own. He feels like he’s going to burn up. “Does that surprise you?”

“Yes.” You answer, and push yourself closer to his neck. Your lips part to taste his scent on the back of your tongue. “You are a catch. I know you have quite the lineup of suitors... I just assumed.“

“You also assumed I was an alpha.”

“The General is a skillful liar.”

Jing Yuan clicks his tongue, sliding a hand below your last garments. Satin, lacey things that are almost sheer. Thin. He could tear them easily, but doesn’t. His touch lingers.

“ Jing Yuan,” he reminds you. You stammer before pitching into him. He carefully walks the two of you backwards. His legs are close to giving out. “And I’d like to think of it as a skillful withholding of unnecessary information.”

“ Jing Yuan is very good with his words,” You murmur into the soft skin of his neck, lingering around one of the scent glands there. They ache, sore and unstimulated.

So carefully, you stretch up on your tiptoes to nose at one of them. Your scents bloom together and his eyes almost roll back into his head at the meld of it, the relief and rush of connection. 

It’s the last push Jing Yuan needs before dragging you into his nest with a stifled moan. Coherency is shattered and all he can do is crave, crave, crave.

...

You are a good heatmate.

Astoundingly good. Attentive, kind, and so soft. It’s a relief to Jing Yuan, who’s heat-addled mind is so used to loneliness and cold. You do not have the scent or knot of an alpha, but you’re more than enough. It’s presence and comfort in a way Jing Yuan so, so missed. It’s enough in a different way— and that difference is good. 

(You are not Yingxing or Dan Feng, and Jing Yuan is grateful that you aren’t.)

Jing Yuan finds himself on his back, with you wrapped around him. You let him pillow his cheek against your collarbone. His nose presses against your scent gland, and he pants against it with an open mouth and spit slicked lips. Your hand lays over his chest, cupping his breast while gently thumbing over his nipple. He’s so swollen there, aching.

He cries out as you pinch, as if it could relieve any of the pressure roiling around under his skin.

You curl closer into him with your lips against his temple. “Does that feel good?”

He can only keen and hope you understand that it’s a plea for more. 

You must because a moment later you’re squeezing with your entire hand. It’s— too big of a handful for you. Your fingers are soft and your touch gentle. The visual of the plump flesh of his chest bulging out from between your fingers rewires Jing Yuan’s brain for a craving he never knew possible. A rush of slick gushes from his cunt and— it’s so much. He lurches into your neck, licking blindly at your scent gland. Vaguely, he notices you stiffen and your scent grows a little sharper. 

It’s worry. Jing Yuan can’t have that.

With every ounce of his strength, Jing Yuan rolls you below him, and sits on your hips. You let him, so pliant and agreeable, and lay below him. Jing Yuan’s breath catches and drool slips to the corners of his mouth.

You are beautiful. You look debauched, and you’re not the one in heat. You’re flushed and damp with sweat, just as he is. The robe he’d draped you in is mostly open, revealing supple skin and your last bastion of modesty in the form of a cute pair of panties that Jing Yuan will fantasize about later. 

You look up at him in awe, lust-hazed just like him. There’s little composure to be had as your fists ball up in the sheets around his thighs. Your gaze goes glassy as you look from his face down to where he’s seated atop you and back again.

“No teeth,” he assures you. It is the last coherent thought he has, if only to provide your some comfort.

You look up at him sweetly and nod, grabbing the plump flesh above his hips. “No teeth.”

(A claim wouldn’t take, anyway. Not really. Omega-to-omega pairings lack the necessary pheromones to stake a claim on each other. The most it would do would indicate that whoever has been bitten is a submissive-leaning packmate. Which— Jing Yuan actually would not mind biting you. He would like his teeth in your neck if you would ever allow him.)

He groans at the thought, lowering his head as a silver mane of hair spills around his face.

Jing Yuan is drenched and hard, leaking from the tip of his cock and seam of his cunt. It’s— filthy. You’re soaked too, with a mix of him and undoubtedly yourself too, though Jing Yuan can’t scent it over the smell of his own heat. It’s regrettable as he is sure the mix of you must be divine. Heavenly. 

He wants it in his mouth.

Jing Yuan slinks down your body, licking and sucking at patches of your skin. You try to bat him off, haul him up and away from your own leaking sex, but he resists. He needs a taste or he’ll die, probably. His heat can be quelled in a number of ways, he presumes.

With his face buried in your cunt, surrounded by your scent, the ache for a knot is dulled. When you cry out on his tongue, it is almost deafened.

Jing Yuan drinks you up— he should pay more mind to your clit, probably, if he wants to get you off properly. However, he is so immensely distracted by your entrance and the essence of you that’s leaking out. There’s a rapidly widening damp spot beneath your ass. A steady flow that Jing Yuan needs in him. 

He seals his mouth over your cunt, and prods his tongue inside of you. He presses so close, suffocating with his nose tight to your clit, to lap at your insides. 

You— you wail above him. Your hands bury in his increasingly tangled mess of hair for any sort of leverage. Jing Yuan doesn’t let up; he doesn’t think he can. Your tone crashes into one that’s softer, more airy, begging for more. For less. Jing Yuan can’t entirely tell. He isn’t sure he cares, truthfully. All he knows is that your thighs tighten around his head with each suck and slurp.

The sound of it is heavenly.

Your thighs press around his face. Flush to his cheeks are the scent glands in the apex of your inner thighs. Not everyone has them, as they’re something of a recessive trait among all secondary genders. The scent that comes off them is your own, however muskier and deeper. It sticks to the inside of his nose and pours down his throat like a nectar. You mewl when he breaks away to lap at one, coaxing out more of the scent. He gluts himself on it.

He needs, he needs, he needs.

“Jing Yuan,” you pant above him, propping yourself up with one arm while the other blindly reaches among his nest. “Do you need it? Knot?”

He— 

(He needs to be filled. He isn’t picky if that feeling is quenched with his cunt, ass, throat, or nose. The scent of you is almost enough, even if he clenches down on nothing and feels hollow in his belly. The sensations are so dull with you nearby. He feels heat incensed, but in a way that craves closeness with you and not the manic pursuit of a knot.)

It’s refreshing. Jing Yuan regrets not propositioning you for this treatment sooner.

“Are you offering?” Jing Yuan purrs. He places his thumbs over the scent glands of your inner thighs and presses down on the swell of them, just under your skin.

Your back bends off the bed and you throw your hand over your mouth. Teary eyes meet him and you nod. From the folds of the nest, you pull forth a knotting toy with a shaking grip. 

It’s beautiful for a toy. It’s a model that Jing Yuan had seen in a few high-end adverts on the few social medias he moonlighted on. It’s a flesh-like plastic cock, with an inflatable knot at the base. A little, wired remote drags along the blankets of his nest as you hold the phallus out to him. The plastic of the toy is a light gold, cut with veins of blue. It looks otherworldly and unreal. Jing Yuan has never cared for much realism with his toys, though this one is human enough. 

He makes a mental note to get Qingzu a bouquet for purchasing it for him on such short notice. 

The head of it feels cool against his cunt. It’s a welcome sensation as it feels like his body is burning up from the insight. He lays over you, wrestling you a bit to be flat below him, with his thighs caging yours. He growls when you try to grab the toy from his hands to assist.

It makes you pause.

Your soft palms cup his cheeks, “Do you not want me to help?”

“The angle—” The angle won’t be right, Jing Yuan wants to say. His words feel lost in his throat as he slowly begins to push inside himself. He gasps and tries to duck into your neck, to like and suck at the gland there and feast on your scent.

“I can try—?”

“ No.” 

Jing Yuan wants you just like this. In his nest, smelling like him and arousal and safety. The toy that’s sliding into his cunt is mostly irrelevant, as is the twitch of his cock as he slowly and methodically fucks the toy into himself. Little by little, he bullies it into his underused hole. The stretch is— is not bad. It would be far more uncomfortable if he weren’t in heat and pouring slick. 

You ask more quietly, just as he bottoms out. You still haven’t let go of his face. “Are you sure?” 

He is, but he can’t find the words to say so. Instead, he nods and tucks himself closer to you. You pet down the back of his neck and push on his scent glands. They ache with his heat. The pressure and direct contact makes him grunt as he adjusts to the toy in his cunt.

You hush him and nuzzle in his cheeks, “You’re doing so well. So good, Jing Yuan.”

He keens and pulls back the toy cock, only to shove it back into himself a moment later. Praise from you is a drug. He’s sure. You’re unbearably earnest and sweet and you are too kind to him. You whisper more of them into his ear as he fucks himself, deep and slow. He feels the sentiment of your words more than he hears it. Deeply affectionate and caring. If he were more lucid, he would be disarmed by you, speechless even. Perhaps he is already speechless, but he blames that on the heat haze and how the head of the toy is pressing deliciously into his sweet spot.

He narrows his focus on the spot and fucks him on the toy in earnest.

Jing Yuan will have an arm ache after this. Many aches, actually. It will be worth it. It is easiest to bear with you underneath him, tilting your hips up to grind against his dripping cock. It’s not the friction his body craves, but it’s welcome. It sends sparks down his spine and he whines into your neck. 

You nip at his neck, high on the side of it, and Jing Yuan lets loose a cracking moan. It’s almost embarrassingly loud. Were Jing Yuan able to feel shame in that moment, he’d be red-faced.

Instead, he tips his head to the side, allows you room to mouth and suck marks as you desire. You catch on quickly, and hum, licking broad stripes and soaking him in your scent. Your marks. It surrounds him.

He fucks himself on the toy faster.

(It’s nothing like the heats he had while he was mated with Yingxing and Dan Feng. Not at all. They were shorter, back then. Perhaps it was his youth or the relentless pace and haze Yingxing kept that burned Jing Yuan out faster. Or, maybe it was that Dan Feng always made sure he was wrung out, despite not craving him in the same way Yingxing had. It was carnal then. It still is now, but it does not feel as manic. You are gentle without qualifiers, sweet without expectation, and happy to let him rut into you and back onto the toy as much as he pleases. Your kisses are bruising, but not bloody like Dan Feng’s. There’s a different pace, a different scent, and a different intent.)

Jing Yuan once enjoyed the desperation that Yingxing put into everything he did (including him). He had fallen in love with Dan Feng for his poetics and distanced care. You have neither of these. It is unfair, ultimately, for Jing Yuan to draw comparison. 

Perhaps, he’ll feel guilty over it later. For now, his arm gives out and he falls into your chest with a keen. His back arches, hips raised, and the new angle is so, so good. You run your hands through his hair, and move your thigh, just right, so he can grind on it to his heart’s content.

He’s close; he can feel it in his belly.

What sends him over the edge is the feel of your lips against his hairline, the way your lips have curled into a soft, easy smile as you kiss him there. You stroke down his back, like how a good lover would.

You are a good lover. 

He shudders as orgasm grips him. The sound that rips from his throat is shattering, as overwhelming as the heat that boils over in his guts. And you are such a good lover, that the little remote must have already been in your hand, as in the moment he comes, the knotted base of the toy begins to swell. Jing Yuan can’t— can’t chase his orgasm. He can feel his eyes growing wet while his body feels out of his control (he hates that, he really does). You, however, are a good lover and reach and stretch, matching his angle with the toy and fuck him through it yourself. The knot catches once inside him, then a second time, and with the third, it locks him and the toy together.

And with what can only be called a sob, Jing Yuan fully collapses on top of you.

He can’t keep himself upright, he realizes. His thighs tremble terribly, and his arms are the same. His eyes are filled with tears he didn’t expect and doesn’t know what to do with. It feels vulnerable. Too vulnerable, in a way that Jing Yuan has avoided for centuries now. 

Before the feeling can consume him, you’re coaxing him onto his side and wrapping yourself around him. A sheet gets pulled atop the both of you and you’re nosing into him wherever you can.

“It’s okay,” You tell him. “You’re okay, I promise.”

A muffled sound that comes from your throat, followed by the low roll of a purr. 

Oh. 

All for him?

He shoves himself closer, skin to skin in all the spots he can reach. His tongue laves at your scent glands as his cunt flutters around the toy. He claws at your back before locking his arms around your waist. 

You’re purring for him.

He can help but do the same, even chirping without meaning to as he nips at your jaw. Jing Yuan trails his lips to your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. You curl and laugh at his touch, and Jing Yuan steals the lovely sounds from you with a kiss. It’s something deep and consuming, and Jing Yuan needs more of the taste of you. You squirm into it, gasping and opening your mouth for him to explore as he needs. Your openness continues to undo him. 

It’s all the reassurance he needs. Any poisonous feelings fall away, and Jing Yuan, for the first time in far too long, finds himself content and knotted. 

...

Jing Yuan has never had a heat quite like this one.

It is certainly more mild, and certainly a bit shorter than what he was expecting. The worst of it lasts five days, followed by three days that he can’t quite call post-heat. Though the desire in him is less feverish, he still craves your presence so much it hurts, and the idea of you being out of his nests sends him into a toothy panic those days. The ‘no teeth’ rule is modified to allow some biting, as long as it doesn’t involve any scent glands.

(However, Jing Yuan still would not mind putting a claiming bite on you. He makes a note to bring this up when he’s feeling some clarity of mind and can... attempt to court you properly.)

The most intense days of his heat are spent with a knotting toy in his cunt, rutting against your soft thighs, or with your hands wrapped around his cock. He eats you out whenever he can muster up the energy to shimmy between your legs and luxuriate there. Any down time is spent dozing in the warm sun rays that his bedroom is perfectly placed to receive. 

The latter days of his heat, Jing Yuan is more lucid. 

It’s in those days he truly enjoys his heat. Though the burn of arousal still lays within him, it is easily tempered with your presence in his nest and your many shared bite marks. Your time awake is spent lazily kissing, speaking in low voices, and sharing laughter and cups of cool water, one after the other. 

Jing Yuan, partially, did not think he would ever get to experience this type of connection again. with you or any other partner. The intimacy of the act is so deeply vulnerable, and after the spiritual loss of both Yingxing and Dan Feng, he never endeavored, or wanted to endeavor to, open himself up in that way again.

He, perhaps, convinced himself he did not need to.

(Nevermind the many nights, both heat-addled and otherwise, Jing Yuan spent craving nesting companions. Nevermind how many nights Jing Yuan lay alone, accepting his losses and mourning mates he’d never hold again. Jing Yuan could never choose to be selfish.)

It helped when Yanqing was little. He was just a small pup with golden eyes like Jing Yuan’s and a fiery spirit, even when he was so small. Jing Yuan had never considered himself maternal, however having a pup to take care of brought out latent instincts he’d spent the better part of his life pretending didn’t exist. As Yanqing aged, however, he was less receptive to such affections and connections. After presenting (far too young, poor thing, traumatized body), Yanqing wouldn’t share a nest with Jing Yuan unless he fell ill. Even then, Jing Yuan would have to coax him into it.

It quenched something in him. It allowed Jing Yuan to let himself care in the direct way he craved. With his position as General, how often does get to show care with his hands, and not with his words or stratagems? Not with sacrifice or poetry, but with his body and scent. 

Jing Yuan realizes now that there truly have been so many urges and behaviors Jing Yuan simply did not indulge.

And as his heat breaks, Jing Yuan thinks he’d like to start indulging them more.

...

On the last day of his heat, you stir around nightfall. You are exhausted, Jing Yuan knows this. Though his heat has provided him with a surprising amount of stamina, you are in standard condition, and looked wrung out halfway through day two of his heat. Jing Yuan’s grateful you’re as fond of midday naps as he is. 

You are cradled against his chest, your cheek pillows on his breast. He’d thrown a robe on while washing up, and hadn’t elected to remove it. The silky texture of it feels lovely against his flushed, sensitive skin. You seem to enjoy it too as you grip at the fabric of it in your sleep, nuzzling into his chest.

Your brow scrunches and a little sound pops from your throat as you try to burrow closer. It’s a hopelessly sweet gesture, desperate and honest. Jing Yuan can’t help but chuckle and smooth a hand over your mussed-up hair.

When your eyes crack open, your voice is raw, “‘S morning?”

“No, nighttime.” Jing Yuan nods to the darkened window.

You raise yourself up just enough to look, hum, and then fall back on top of him, “Feels like it should be morning.”

“We haven’t been keeping a very consistent sleeping schedule,” Jing Yuan rarely does, but he imagines that you and your position with the Sky Faring Commission have quite a regular routine. “You can keep resting.”

“I don’t wanna’,” Though, you shove your nuzzle into his chest, smearing him with your scent. “I wanna stay up and talk to you.”

“Me?” Jing Yuan smiles, smitten. He pinches your cheek. “About anything in particular?”

“... Not yet.” Your eyes slip closed. “Maybe later. I want to say things to you, but I feel... mushy. Inside my head.”

“Pheromone drunk?”

“‘Something like that,” Your words slur. “Not that I’m complaining. You smell so good, Jing Yuan.”

When you say his name, he shudders. The hand that’s been playing with your hand slips to your nape and squeezes. You keen at the contact and tangle your legs with his. It’s an impossible amount of closeness you are seeking, but Jing Yuan must attempt to give it to you. It’s abashed and honest, and in the stillness of night, how can he not indulge?

“Do I?”

“ Mhm.”

“Like what?” 

You’re falling asleep, clearly. You’re struggling to keep your eyes open even as you inhale deeply. Your lips part and you take his scent into your mouth. 

“Earth after rain,” You hum. “Sunbeam and linen. Warm milk.”

He squeezes you.

(A long time ago, Yingxing had complained about his scent. ‘Complained’. His face had been flushed crimson, telling him how distracting his sweet, rich scent had been. Dan Feng thought it was the funniest thing, considering Yingxing so clearly enjoyed Jing Yuan’s scent, as did he. They’d described it similarly— “petrichor” Dan Feng had told Jing Yuan while sweeping his mane back from his neck— “the smell of sunshine” Yingxing had told Jing Yuan after berating him.)

“How complementary.” Jing Yuan purrs and pulls you closer by the waist. Your face is smushed against his chest, but you don’t complain. You keep your lips parted to enjoy his scent. “And you like it?”

“So much,” You assure him, droopy-eyed. 

So good for him, so so good.

Jing Yuan presses the tip of his finger to your lips, a bit chapped from the dehydration and exertion. You chirp with it, a bit more awake.

He hushes you, and pushes his finger further into his mouth, “Sleep now, dear. You need to rest.”

“‘So do ya’,” You try to say, though it comes out garbled as Jing Yuan lays his finger on the flat of your tongue. Your eyes widen and go a bit crossed to look at his wrist, then up to his eyes. 

Jing Yuan isn’t entirely sure what compels him, but something does. Gently, he leans down and presses his lips to your forehead. He idles there, and pets down your side.

“I’ll sleep soon, I’m sure you know.” Jing Yuan says softly. “Will you indulge me?”

(He asks to be selfish.)

Without hesitating, you nod.

(And you let him.)

Jing Yuan doesn’t explain himself. He doesn’t need to. Maybe it’s the specific sweetness his scent must take on, or the night air in contrast to the warmth and comfort of his nest, but you understand what he wants and give it to him without so much as a word.

Your lips open a little wider and Jing Yuan slips another finger inside. You stroke your tongue on his fingers as you close your mouth, eyes going dazed and heavy-lidded. You take a deep breath, inhaling his scent into the deepest parts of your lungs. You suck on his fingers gently. 

Jing Yuan watches with still, even breaths.

Later, he will analyze why this scratches so many itches in his brain. Why his post-heat mind feels more calm and sated than he thought possible. Why he wants more of this, always, even if he doesn’t have a name for it yet.

For now, he is so, so content to have you this way. You are lulled back to sleep so easily, sucking on his fingers with your cheek still smushed against his breast. Even as you sleep, Jing Yuan doesn’t remove his fingers. He explores the inside of your mouth with gentle, easy pressure, so as to not wake you. It’s exploratory, more than anything. 

He plays with you in such a way until he’s too drowsy to continue. Satisfied and warm, he drags you under the covers and holds you close, scenting you one last time before letting himself fall into a contented, new kind of sleep.

...

You depart suddenly, while Jing Yuan is in the kitchen deftly chopping fruits and assembling little parfaits. 

You had been in his bathroom, freshening up with whatever products you’d like from his stash. Jing Yuan had left you your own robe for when you exited, quietly beaming that he’d have yet another article with your scent on it.

However, when you do leave the bathroom, you are fully dressed in the day clothes you arrived in a week ago. You stand at the doorway of his kitchen, pausing, wide-eyed.

“I n-need to go,” Your voice wavers, like you’re going to be ill.

Something squeezes in between Jing Yuan’s ribs. There are thin, transparent patches on your neck on either side. Scent blockers. Your eyes look watery. Jing Yuan immediately sets down the knife he had been working with.

“Is everything alright?” asks Jing Yuan. He knows something is wrong, even if he can’t smell you, you’re clearly distressed and disheveled.

“It’s— it’s nothing. It’ll be okay.” You tell him. Your voice trembles and you shake your head. 

“Are you sure? I can help.”

“It’s— it’s really nothing. I need to leave. I-I’m really sorry.”

You look from him to the foyer that leads to his front door and back again. There’s a desperate look in your eye that Jing Yuan has never seen with such an intensity before. It makes his heart ache and his hands feel clammy. He sighs.

(And a quiet, ever-present voice in his mind says, “they all leave, eventually.”)

“Alright.” Jing Yuan gives you a smile, the best he can muster. He knows it must be sadder than intended, as your expression falls and you look like you’ve been punched. 

“I’m so s-sorry.”

“It’s alright,” It isn’t. Not fully. “Handle whatever it is that you must. I’m only a call away. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

“Okay.” You take a shaking breath and shudder out the exhale. You’re trying not to cry and it takes everything in Jing Yuan’s being not to rush to you and attempt to mend whatever is causing you distress but—

(He can’t. He can’t do that. You have asked him to leave you be and Jing Yuan has spent his entire life honing his ability not to chase, even when he so, so badly wishes to.)

You give him one final, fleeting look, “Thank you. I— I’ll see you at our next lunch, okay? I’m sorry.”

It looks like there’s more you want to say, but you’re already out the door before you can. Jing Yuan hears it open and shut with a soft thud that vibrates throughout his home. It leaves Jing Yuan standing alone in his kitchen, frozen, while the robe he wears slips down his shoulders. He bears your marks, and reeks of your scent. His nest grows colder each minute. And though his heat has ended, the yearning for you has not.

If anything, the feeling is far stronger than it was before.

He latches onto the fact you will have your lunches. That— he will find some clarity then. That he can inspect you for damage during the next sunshine-filled meal you share, and prod to see if the last week and half did not carry the same type of... meaning for you, as it did Jing Yuan. He will need to make sure you’re well. He’ll fret until then, he knows this.

(A more dormant, possessive part of him wishes he snatched you back from his foyer and threw you back into his nest. If something was wrong, he could. If something needed fixing, he could help. If it were anything official for your work, Jing Yuan would pull any and all strings to get you out of the obligation. If you were hurt, Jing Yuan would do anything to see you better.)

Instead, Jing Yuan idles in his kitchen, feeling struck and helpless. Something in him aches, deep and low, and Jing Yuan lays a hand over his chest and squeezes it into a fist. He had thought he had become used to this type of loneliness, but it aches all the same.

[relaxxattack]

Jade content?? 👀

obligatory This Is Just My Personal Opinion Warning (i love hiveswap and its writers so much and anyone who gives me any alternian lore) 📢

it’s partially the fact that there is a lot of jade content, but it’s also mostly the fact that i don’t particularly like how hiveswap portrays the jade caste in general. i’ve posted about it before but i don’t personally agree with the idea that jades would be tasked to “take care” of grubs, or that jadebloods such as bronya would be promoted to leaderly positions, when the in-comic lore about that caste dictates that motherly instincts are actually incredibly rare for them, and that trolls who attempt to “take care” of grubs the way bronya was — aka the dolorosa — were kicked out of the caverns.

honestly though this is just my personal opinion, because in-comic they never really go super in depth to what living in the caverns is truly like (because kanaya is unique and weird) (kanaya being unique and weird is also a reason i really think most jades would not be motherly but i digress) but i tend to be of the opinion that the beta trolls are actually strange and outcasts for their society, much like the beta kids.

i also usually tend to be of the opinion that jadebloods need to be much more apathetic than motherly, considering they’re the ones that are committing all of the eugenics, culling the mutants, and putting the babies through the trials so that they can potentially be accepted by their lusii?? again that’s just me though

ALSO. jades are supposed to be rare as fuck and mostly trapped in the caverns? so like it’s crazy that we met not only one Entire cloister in hiveswap act 2, but were apparently going to see more background jades at the mall and stuff? like i get that they probably Snuck Out but like holy shit. thats so fucking many jades we have met SO many jades compared to the other castes when they are supposed to be not only the least populous caste but LOCKED UNDERGROUND…

generally hiveswap tends to go with the notion that all of the beta trolls are fully representative of the roles of their caste rather than the idea that they are funny little weirdos, and i like to take the opposite approach so yeah :]

[uhhh-yh]

i genuinely wish to contribute to fandom but the only way i’m decent with is writing but i don’t have the time to write a full story so i want to beta someone else’s story but i’m afraid of being too slow or being disappointing or accidentally taking over and changing things too much so i’m just kinda stuck

[ashen-crest]

May Updates! Or something!

The past two months have been a bit of a whirlwind. In April, I wrote a full draft 1 of The Spirit Well, and this month I wrote a draft 1 of A Captured Cauldron.

(Not that impressive- both are garbage drafts, and are very short. ACC, for example, clocks in at just under 40k.)

I wanted to finish ACC a bit early so I had time at the end of this month to read, draw, and plan out draft 2 of The Spirit Well, which I’ll tackle in June!

I learned a ton of things about my writing process from doing this- I’ll put them under the cut. I’m mainly writing it out for myself, but if it helps anyone else, that’s cool too!

TSW

I started draft 0 back in November, then went through an annoying cycle of partial drafting and re-outlining. I thought the starting and stopping was me finding problems earlier and fixing them, but instead, it was only causing frustration. Now I know just to get the full draft completed the first time.

ACC

For this draft, I did commit to writing the whole thing, but I didn’t outline or prep in my usual way. Instead of my chart outline and character sheets, I just went in with a rough bullet point outline and a vague idea on what the new characters should be like.

Like with the partial drafts for TSW, this didn’t really pan out. I had to go back and make my chart outline about halfway in, and not having a good grasp on the characters meant I couldn’t take a good stab at forming the arcs in this draft. I would’ve benefitted from fleshing out my outline and doing some character exploration before writing this draft.

The problem with months

I usually structure my goals/stages in terms of months. I’ll take a month to draft, then switch to another wip, then revise, then give a month for beta readers, etc.

But it doesn’t leave any wiggle room for reading or letting all the wips rest or writing short stories! So I need to figure that out a bit. I’m loathe to delay release dates, because I already don’t have any book to release until March 2024 (and that one’s TSW, the more difficult of the two.) But I’m also not dependent on the income from new releases, so…I really shouldn’t feel bad about it. Idk.

[danny-chase]

Breaking a Promise - Read on AO3

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Titans (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), The New Titans (Comics) Rating: Mature Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Dick Grayson/Koriand'r, Dick Grayson/Joseph Wilson Characters: Dick Grayson, Koriand'r (DCU), Joseph Wilson Additional Tags: tw for self harm, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Angst, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Canon Divergence, emotional breakdown, Broken Bones, description of injury, star crossed lovers, Flowers, Canonical Character Death, it's Joey guys, I'm Sorry, Swearing, lot of f bombs, POV Dick Grayson, Dick grayson centric, Dick Grayson is bi, Dick Grayson is Bad at Feelings, Dick Grayson is Discowing, Dick Grayson Needs Therapy, Dick Grayson Whump, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, a little bit of fluff near the top, Gardening, when your gf is poly and ships you with someone else, Heartbreak, Heartache, no beta we die like -sobs- Joey, Hurt/Comfort, and then hurt/no comfort to follow it up Series: Part 5 of Bad Things Happen Bingo Summary:

The one where Dick Grayson has his heartbroken twice.

Full story under cut

Two years ago:

“Dick, what about this one?” Kor’i smiled sweetly, positively glowing in the sun. She gestured to a little potted plant sitting in the shade of the bottom rack. Her hair fluttered in the wind, seeming to sweep up his heart as well. Crouching, he gently bumped her shoulder, and she nudged him back. Perfect.

 “Why don’t we look over there?” Dick asked, pointing over to another shelf.

 “But I like this one.” She pouted, puffing out her bottom lip slightly. He glanced at the little sprout she picked out, his mind happily buzzing as he identified it without looking at the tag – botany lessons with Alfred had paid off.

 “Lamprocapnos spectabilis.” He began. Kor’i nuzzled her head on his shoulder, reaching out a hand to stroke the leaves. He grabbed the little tag sticking out of the pot. “This one is of the Valentine variety.”

 “Mmm.” She rested her hand back on Dick’s thigh, warmth spreading from the spot. “Tell me more.” He swallowed and complied.

 “They’re a perennial – they come back annually. They like full or partial shade, and are native to Siberia, Japan, northern China, and Korea.”

 “How big will it get?” She asked, rising to her feet, carrying the plant with her.

 “About yay high.” He spread his hands two feet. “But Kor’i, uh, I can’t just give that to Joey it’s-”

 “Commonly known as the bleeding heart?” She smiled mischievously. “I don’t see why not, your heart bleeds all the time.” She innocently widened her eyes, batting her eyelashes. “Or is it because it symbolizes love? Do you not love him?” Doubt was as clear in her voice as it was in her face.

 “I-” He stammered; he would never cheat. “I love you.” Heat rose to his face. “Only you.”

 Kor’i was perfect, she was so loving, always building him up, never tearing him down. Always healing, nurturing, growing seeds of her own – not just in him, she seemed to bring out the best in everyone she met. People basked in her beauty, and he simply basked in the knowledge of her presence. In being loved so fully, so openly and honest. Dick didn’t know if he could ever love anyone more.

 “Oh.” Kor’i looked thoughtfully at the clear cerulean sky. “I wouldn’t mind if you… loved someone else too.” He frowned.

 “I’m sorry if I made you feel like I did, but Kor’i, you’re the only one for me.” He stood, lightly pecking her on the cheek. She grinned, grabbing his hand, dragging him towards the checkout line.

 “I like this one, forget silly earth symbolisms, Joey would love it.”

 Dick sighed, following along anyways – she was right, of course, she always was – Joey would love the flowers, they were pals after all, he wouldn’t read too much into it.

   One year ago:

A cool breeze snaked its way over the hillside, finding its way around the rock at his back and through his hair – leaving him disheveled in its wake. A chill rain up his spine, goosebumps swiftly decorating his arms. He could feel his hair slowly rise up, standing in a desperate bid to retain heat.

 Dick wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there, knees tucked to his chest, head resting on his crossed arms. Too long likely. He should be back to the tower soon – he didn’t want anyone to worry, but after the mess on Tamaran, it was best for him to be alone right now.

 He was just… so tired. He’d already destroyed half his punching bags trying to fight the emotion out – which had worked to some extent, leaving his hands throbbing and arms burning. He sprinted as far as he could go before his legs gave out. It had dulled the anger and pain, leaving him worn out and exhausted. The dull ache in his chest returned just as soon as it had left.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at the night sky – he’d come out here for comfort – to watch the waves lap against the rocks from far above and gaze up at the stars. But the stars could never shine brighter than Kor’i, only serving to remind him of what he’d lost when he’d ventured too close to the sun.

 It wasn’t fair – Kor’i hadn’t loved Karras though they were together – legally bound, and he was here, light years spanning the distance between those bound by their souls.

 He never believed in love in first sight. Not until he’d met her.

 He’d always believed in love, though, from the time he was a child – his parents were living proof. It was foolish – his parents had died hadn’t they? Believing in their love until the bitter end, loving their lives, each other, him. It was love that kept them on the trapeze all those years, and that love had killed them.

 He sighed, maybe Bruce was right – love wasn’t something compatible with their lifestyle. He never shared himself so fully with others or lost himself so fully either. Always playing cat and mouse with his lovers, never committing, communing with another soul the way he had with Kor’i.

 He licked his chapped lips, tasting salt in the air. Light footsteps padded towards him. He curled further in on himself, not in the mood to talk. A rough woolen blanket dropped over his shoulders.

 It smelled like crisp green apples, mixed with a hint of cinnamon.

 Adeline Wilson had great tastes in laundry detergent – something she’d handed down to her son.

 Joey crouched next to him, wrapping an arm around him, offering warmth and comfort. Dick hesitated, mind screaming to recoil, run away – be alone and repress, but heart yearning for the warmth and comfort he always seemed to find in Joey. That same warmth reminded him of Kor’i.

 The desire for comfort won out, loosening up, he leaned against Joey’s shoulder. Joey’s chin nestled into the base of his neck; soft puffs of warm, wet air sent tingles down his spine. He raised his head a little dislodging Joey, feeling weirdly uncomfortable – but not displeased – just – he’d think about that later, now wasn’t the time.

 Joey quickly backed off, removing his arm. Dick gave him a side glance and for a moment, lost himself in kind emerald eyes. <em>He isn’t Kor’i</em>. Why was that so hard to remember?

 It took him a minute to process Joey signs. ‘Your hands.’ He followed his gaze down to his numb fingers. Upon seeing them he was hit by the realization they hurt like hell. He probably should have remembered to wear gloves, or at least wrap them, before taking his frustration out on punching bags.

 His right hand had swollen, both had bruises blossoming, his skin rubbed raw, blood freely dripping from busted knuckles.

 “Fuck.” He’d be out of the game for at least a month, if he was right about his right pinky – that was a boxer’s fracture. Tendrils of pain crawled out from the spot, his hands throbbing in time to his pulse. Dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes like that – the Titan’s needed him!

 Joey squeezed his upper arm, ‘let’s go’, he suggested, rising to his feet. Dick bit his lip, internally cursing himself for being such a dumbass. He shakily rose to his feet, immediately hit by a wave of exhaustion. Which in hindsight – he probably shouldn’t have sprinted until he dropped either.

 Joey wrapped an arm around his waist, bending slightly to stand under his shoulder and steadying him as the blanket slipped over his shoulders. They left it were it lay – more pressing matters to attend to, but Dick shivered in the cool night without it. He took a few wobbling steps forward – and dumb – his knees gave out.

 He never came close to the ground, instead, finding himself lifted into a princess carry. Joey smiled apologetically, with a little shrug. Dick sighed; this was embarrassing. He was eighteen – he should know better – Bruce had taught him better!

 “It’s fine, thanks.” He ignored how rough his voice sounded, instead concentrating on the throbbing from his hands, using the pain to block out the ache in his chest. He focused his gaze forward, not thinking about how close he was to Joey, how Kor’i used to carry him this way, how Joey smelled like honeysuckle and lilac, how this was everything he missed – and he just prayed he wasn’t falling in love again – he couldn’t be, no – he just... he was projecting. He just missed Kor’i.

 He ignored Donna’s concerned eyebrow raise as they passed her on the way back to the tower. Gar’s whistle as they crossed the living room. The way Joey was so delicate when placing him in the passenger seat of the helicopter, so careful to avoid eye contact, so mindful of his pride.

 In the brighter lighting he noticed stark red against Joey’s golden curls. A flower from a bleeding heart had made its way into Joey’s hair. There were gardening gloves in his back pocket

 His heart sped up as they took off, he felt weirdly lighter than before – though perhaps he was just dizzy from pain. Joey stared at him, his eyes darker than before, brow set determinedly, but looking pained and a bit melancholic.

 “What’s wrong?” Dick asked, feeling guilty for ruining whatever gardening project Joey had evidently come from. A lot was wrong, he was wrong, was asking a stupid question.

 The tips of Joey’s lips curled into a frown. ‘Do not do that again’ he pointed at Dick’s broken hands.

 Dick shrugged, it was a dumb move, he couldn’t guarantee he’d never break his hand again. He shifted his gaze back through the window. Joey tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Promise.’ Well, if it would keep Joey happy, he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

 “I promise.” He wouldn’t break his hand as long as he never broke his heart.

   Now.

He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid, and he didn’t lack self-awareness. He knew how to bottle his feelings into a jar, create a vacuum seal, and tuck them away on a shelf. The thing was, he also knew eventually he had to deal with the things he compartmentalized.

 It had been a month since Joey died. He’d been putting it off. But today…

 The bleeding heart had wilted.

 The jar fell to the floor and shattered, his heart disintegrating into a million shards with it.

 A watering can joined the broken glass on the floor, before he knew what was happening, he was running from Joey’s garden, not knowing where he was going, not sure of his surroundings. His vision narrowed, relying on muscle memory and reflex to avoid crashing.

 Crashing was a good way to describe this.

 He was right there. Looked Joey in the eyes. Watched him become twisted and never even noticed that his beloved friend was going through things no one should ever go through, slowly destroyed from within, suffocating from a painfully sluggish death before Slade made the final move.

 “FUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCK!” Birds flapped away as he screamed at the sky, at the world for letting this happen. Joey never knew – he never told him – was too scared that this would – that he would –

 WHY DID THINGS HURT SO MUCH HE SWORE NOT TO LOVE ANYONE LIKE HER AGAIN-

 *CRACK*

 He broke a tree, feeling bone snap against splintered bark.

 He froze, staring at his right pinky, and laughed.

 So much for promises.

 Laughs turned to sobs, knees buckling as he fell to the forest floor – sitting on his heels before flopping to his back. Staring up at the baby blue sky, cumulus clouds drifted by without a care in the world, laughing at him, mocking him from the high heavens.

 Tears flowed freely, nature as the only witness.

 His heart wasn’t supposed to break like this, he’d locked it away long ago, he wasn’t supposed to care about people like this anymore, that wasn’t in the fucking plan. He’d restrained himself, time and time again, turned down offers, avoided hanging out – he did everything he was supposed to do to not fall in love again.

 And absolutely none of it mattered.

 Love had mattered – fuck love for being like this – fuck Bruce for making him believe he could live like him – fuck the world – fuck Joey – fuck Kor’i – fuck everything. Fuck whoever he was supposed to be, his training, his painstaking control of his emotions.

 He pounded the ground with his good hand, promises could be broken, but he wouldn’t break – not today – he didn’t have time. He could be dead today, next week, fuck – half the Titans were dead, Jason was dead, he couldn’t waste time like this - his life was going to be short.

 His life was going to fucking short and he needed to pull himself together – he had family to get back to. He had people he loved – if his heart was going to break anyways – he was so FUCKING stupid.

 Drowning in regret, he slammed the ground again, hard enough for the shockwaves to jar his broken hand. Feeling pain was better than feeling this – because fuck – fuck – he loved Joey. He loved Joey and Kor’i and they were both gone and nothing was okay anymore. Joey never even knew. Never even knew – and it was all his fault – and he never knew how much he mattered – never knew how when he smiled it everything around him dulled in comparison or how when they talked it was like he had known him his all life.

 He never knew.

 And would never know.

 He focused on taking painful breaths sobbing himself silly, laughing till he couldn’t breathe, and crying until he couldn’t feel. Time passed in a vacuum, hysteria waxing and waning until he ran out of tears to cry.

 He rolled over, pressing himself up, wiping his face on his shirt, ignoring the familiar pain creeping up his arm.

 He made a new promise because well, fuck the last one didn’t work out so he might as well start over. Giant pines towered over him standing tall as silent witnesses. He swore on the living along with the dead, any that would listen really – he didn’t care - he couldn’t keep living like this.

 “Whoever I love will know.” He whispered the words as a sacred oath, finding an odd sense of solace. He paused, letting the words hang in the air as if imbuing them with some sort of power.

 Stumbling forward, he made his way back home.

[takonei]

Beta AU - Main story, Chapter 3, deadly life (Part 7)

Note of the author: ... Damn this Deadly life is long. I know there were two deaths but still.

Chapter 3: What is beyond humans’ control - Deadly life

...

“Huh?” the girl blinked.

“I said...” Rantaro gripped his podium. “How do you know what a curare is?”

Shuichi was confused. What’s a ‘curare’ anyway?

“Um... I think I heard it once but don’t remember who said it...” she replied, tapping her cheek.

“... That’s a lie and you know it.” Rantaro became more and more nervous. “I never mentioned anything about curares. I never even said the word, and I don’t think anyone here knows what it even means.”

He turned to the rest of them to see if he was right.

And he was, since everyone glanced at each other to see if anyone knew.

“I mean, I do know but...” Tsumugi pondered. “I don’t remember mentioning it, but I could be wrong, since the past few days have been erased from my memory.”

“Still...” Rantaro turned back to the craftswoman. “Curare is the scientific name for what I described as ‘paralyzing product’ so that everyone would understand.”

“But you couldn’t have known that unless you read the label on the bottle.”

“I... Think I do remember now! I did see it when I checked the shelves in your lab once because I was looking for painkillers! But that was even before the disease!” she joyfully replied.

This looked incredibly suspicious anyway. And Rantaro seemed very skeptic.

“... Supposing this is true...” he turned to the rest of them. “This is the first and last time I want someone rummaging through painkillers. I want to be here if any of you want some painkillers, since I know it’s easy to take the wrong doses.”

... First time? Didn’t Kaito...

No, now wasn’t the time.

He nodded. The rest of the group agreed as well.

“I still have trouble believing you, Angie.” Tsumugi narrowed her eyes.

Ryoma sighed. “We said we would solve the murder, then accuse people. However...”

He turned to the girl. “We still have a suspect list with some of you more suspicious than others, and that includes you, Angie.”

She joyfully nodded. “I’m not the killer~ But we can continue the trial if you wish to!”

Shuichi didn’t know her that much, but that still looked strange.

Kokichi seemed to have an eye on her, but he didn’t look mad at her... For some reason.

What is he even thinking?

“There’s something that has been bothering me ever since I- no. Since we discovered it.” Kirumi glanced at the violinist.

Something they both discovered? Ah, is it...

“... You mean the missing plants in the shrine?” he perked up.

“The what now?” Miu was confused.

“Some bushes were missing in the shrine.” Kirumi explained. “We left it for a few minutes with Rantaro because Monokuma asked us to at the end of the investigation, and when we came back I’m positive they were replaced.”

Kiyo and Ryoma nodded to each other. “That’s what we noticed as well.”

“But what’s that supposed to mean?” Kaito frowned.

“Did any of you find the missing plants anyway?” Tsumugi asked the autopsy trio.

They glanced at each other to confirm that no, they didn’t.

“Does any of you have an idea on what they could have been used for?” Kiyo questioned.

Something they could have used the plants for...

The bushes, and not the flowers.

Perhaps for something that was worth taking off the bushes, yet not the flowers...

And for some reason the bushes disappeared without a trace.

It hit him.

“Did the killer... Burn them? That’s the only explanation I can find...” he suggested.

“Wouldn’t they have taken the flowers with it?” Kaito asked.

Tsumugi shook her head. “No. Flowers are not as flammable as bushes, so I can see where Shuichi comes from, and that’s the most plausible theory.”

“But to burn bushes? What’s the point?” Miu argued.

“My guess would be that they had something else to burn.” Kirumi said.

Something else to burn...

“What about the labels on the bottles? We didn’t find a single one of them in the shrine, but...” he trailed off. “Why would they burn the labels? We know which bottles are missing...”

“I think this has to do with which bottles we would find liquid around.” Rantaro answered. “So we couldn’t identify which ones were used then thrown, and which ones were thrown without being used.”

So this had to do with an already solved mystery.

“Perhaps there is something else we can add to the things they burned.” Kiyo declared. He turned to the medic. “Rantaro, you did the autopsy in its entirety, right?”

He hummed. “Yes, and I’ve given every information I found.”

“Was there a trace of a letter Himiko may have received inviting her to the shrine?”

Rantaro’s eyes widened in realization. “Now that I think about it, no. I didn’t find anything on her.”

“Then we can say that the letter burned with the labels and the bushes.” the therapist concluded.

“So the killer just used the bushes as a way to make fire?” Miu scratched her neck.

“Not just to make fire.” Tsumugi corrected. “To make a fire strong enough to burn both the letter and every single piece of label on the bottles.”

“Let’s not forget the fabric used as a bag.” Kirumi added.

“However there’s a huge contradiction with this entire theory.” Ryoma countered. “You see, I think I know enough by now considering how much time I spent in the warehouse and...”

“There isn’t a single lighter in this academy.”

Shuichi blinked. If there wasn’t any lighter, then there couldn’t have been any fire.

But that theory felt so right...

“You mean like, no way to burn stuff?” Kaito turned to him.

“Nope. Even the monomono machine doesn’t give anything like that, from what I’ve tested.”

Angie pondered. “That’s weird, I swear I have seen fire somewhere...”

She thought for a moment. “There were candles in the rooms of the fourth floor, right?”

That was... Right, actually. When they visited the rooms after they opened, and when they installed furniture for the ill ones.

“Yes, but we blew on them each night so the others could sleep.” Rantaro defended himself, knowing the accusations would be against him.

“Each night? What is that supposed to mean?” Tsumugi raised an eyebrow.

Shuichi forgot for a moment she didn’t remember the last few days.

“Monokuma relighted them each time, for some reason.” the medic replied.

“I remember waking up in a dark room this morning. They were extinguished.” Ryoma testified.

Tsumugi nodded. “I can confirm this.”

Shuichi barely heard Kokichi humming as he nodded, too.

"I went one last time in the rooms before actually eating my meal. You three asked me to turn off the lights, and so I did.” the medic explained.

He frowned. “I didn’t think much of it since you asked me the same the day before, but I should have guessed something was wrong.”

Shuichi could see Tsumugi glancing at Kokichi- the only one in the ill students group who remembered the last few days, to see if he reacted to a potential lie.

From his expression that wasn’t the case.

“But then how are you supposed to burn things without any sort of lighter?” Kaito questioned.

Either the theory was wrong, or they were missing something.

Think.

"Perhaps there wasn’t any fire in the first place?” Kiyo pondered.

Wait, what if...

“Rantaro, didn’t you show us a burned wooden stake?”

Kirumi nodded. “I remember now. There was a partially burned wooden stake on the crime scene.”

“Which means there was a fire after all.” Rantaro confirmed.

“But where does that get us? The thing was partially burned, right? There were no trace of burning anywhere else!” Miu exclaimed.

“But there has to be a way this burn mark was made.” Tsumugi declared.

A way to make fire with a wooden stake...

It hit him.

There was only one person who could have been able to do so.

“Angie...” Shuichi hesitantly turned to her. “You know how to make fire with wood, right?”

The girl innocently tilted her head to the side. “Hm?”

“Yes. You told me about your experiences on your island and told me that was one of the basic things to learn as an artisan.” Kiyo agreed.

“Oh... Did I say that?” she put a finger on her cheek.

Kiyo looked nervous, yet confident in his voice. “Yes Angie. You did.”

All eyes were on her now. her podium emitted a red light and went forward.

“Angie... You’re the culprit aren’t you?” Shuichi narrowed his eyes at her.

Upon a quick glance, Kokichi was still unreadable. It was like he wasn’t even caring about the situation and paying close attention at the same time.

"...”

The girl was silent.

Everyone was waiting an answer.

“... I was in my lab yesterday until 8:00 PM. I never moved from there, actually~”

“Angie.” Rantaro stared at her. “We need an answer. You’re the only one who could have done this.”

“Answer my question then!~” she span around to turn to the medic. “Did any of you see me leaving my lab and temper with the meals?”

The others glanced at each other, hoping to find an answer.

But nobody said anything.

“See? If I did so, one of you would have noticed me. However, since we’re talking about ‘fire’...”

She turned back to Kirumi.

“You’re a mercenary, right? You should have plenty of firearms to help you in your lab~”

“I never use firearms." she countered. “I only use knives and poisons. Nothing in my lab could have done anything of the sort.”

“Can we be sure?” Kaito hesitantly asked.

“I’ve looked at your profiles, several times actually.” Tsumugi argued. “And I remember seeing on Kirumi’s profile that she dislikes firearms. I doubt Monokuma would come up with a lie to defend one of us.”

“Besides...” Ryoma added. “Firearms is only the name. Unless you had gasoline you couldn’t have created fire. And it would have been way too loud to be an effective method.”

Shuichi stared at the craftswoman, hands strongly gripping the podium. “You’re the only one, Angie.”

“I still don’t have the answer to my previous question~” she wasn’t phased at all.

“None of you saw me put soporifics in the meals. And everyone can make fire if they try, it just takes some time~”

“No one saw you, it’s true.” Tsumugi glared at her, one hand placed on her podium. “But you are the only one who could have committed the murder, and that’s all that matters.”

Shuichi thought about the day Angie’s lab opened. Angie had specifically said that she could use all the tools with great skill.

That included the axe.

He felt a chill down his spine. Even though some of them were strong physically, it was an expert who used such a powerful tool on Himiko.

“It’s not like it matters anymore.” the prodigy continued. “Let’s just get to voting time already. The blackened is decided.”

“No they’re not!!!”

Kokichi slammed his hands on the table, startling Shuichi.

“I told you all! There is one blackened here and it’s me!” he put a hand on his chest, as if it would strengthen his argument.

“Kokichi-”

“Even if- Even if any of you really killed Himiko there is one person here who deserves to die, it’s me!” he yelled.

Convincing Kokichi was going to be a hard task.

“Besides, there’s not enough proof to tell it’s Angie! She never left her lab yesterday, you guys must have seen it on your monopads!”

Shuichi blinked. This was how he knew she was in her lab.

But what if...

“I’m the only blackened here! Just vote for me already!”

The violinist took a deep breath.

He has to convince him.

That he isn’t the blackened and Angie is.

It’s almost over. He has to.

Argument armament start!

“She isn’t the blackened, I am!”

                               “There’s one person

                                                              who deserves punishment,

                                                                                   it’s me!”

                                        “I am the blackened!”

                                                       “You don’t have enough proof

                 she is the blackened!”

                                                 “She doesn’t deserve to be punished!”

                                    “Just vote for me already!”

“It’s still my karma

                                      that is responsible

                                                                         for Himiko’s death!”

                 “The killer is just a small part!”

                                         “I am the culprit here!”

                                                        “I’m responsible for her death!”

             “I am the one you

                                                     have to execute!”

                                “You made so many theories incriminating her...”

“But Angie never left her lab, you should have seen it on your monopads!”

                       Mono     pads     tracking     function

“The monopads...” Shuichi muttered.

“The monopads don’t track people, they track the other monopads!” he exclaimed. 

Tsumugi bit her nail. “ Angie just left it in her lab so she could form an alibi...”

Kiyo looked at his monopad. “It’s never stated in the rules that you have to keep the monopad on you at all times, so she must have done this.”

“Satisfied now?” Rantaro stared at Angie.

“...”

There was a long silence.

"I think we should go through this one more time...” Shuichi glanced at everyone.

-Closing argument-

The plan started the night the motive was introduced. The ill students were placed in the rooms on the fourth floor, with Rantaro keeping an eye on them.

The culprit already had their plan prepared. So the first night, when Rantaro was sleeping on the fourth floor...

They went to his lab to look for soporifics. That was a major part of their plan.

Rantaro didn’t notice them missing since he never had the time to check because of his role as the medic for the ill ones.

The next day, the culprit waited until Kirumi started preparing dinner for the hospital team. And when she was out to ask the others their preference...

They went in and drugged the meals.

-A part of him knew the reverse karma was probably the reason why Angie managed to get to do this without being caught, but refrained from mentioning it.-

Of course, neither Miu, Kirumi nor I noticed anything, so we gave the plates without questioning anything.

Rantaro had asked us not to go visit too often because there was a risk we would get the disease, so no one noticed he fell unconscious in the stairs because of the soporifics in his meal.

After nighttime started, the culprit slipped a letter to Himiko inviting her to the shrine of judgement at a certain time, probably between 12 AM and 1 AM.

They began preparing the weapons for their crime.

The culprit cut off some fabric from Maki’s lab to make a bag and transport the weapons.

That included tools from their lab, darts from Kokichi’s lab, scissors from Maki’s lab, and finally, knives and poison from Kirumi’s lab.

Actually, the poisons were not necessary, since their plan was not to poison Himiko. They only made us think it was used to confuse us about their method.

And so, they completely destroyed Kirumi’s lab to make us think they desperately wanted poison.

There was one last thing they needed to retrieve from a lab.

Paralyzing products to use on Himiko so she wouldn’t fight back. They stole syringes as well so they could use it.

Before taking the weapons to the shrine, there was one last thing to do.

The culprit dragged Rantaro’s unconscious body to his lab, and retrieved a chair from Kirumi’s lab to make us think Rantaro was never drugged in the first place.

And so, they could finally make their way to the shrine.

Once Himiko arrived, the killer took her by surprise and drugged her with the paralyzing product so she wouldn’t fight back.

She was already not very strong, but that was important to our culprit.

I do not know how exactly things went from there... The killer... Used all the weapons they had taken on Himiko. They also drew angel wings behind the victim’s back, as shock value, I suppose.

The culprit now needed to dispose of the evidence. That included the labels on the bottles, the letter they sent to the victim, and the fabric they used as a bag.

Since there was no way to create fire in the academy, the killer had to use their own skills.

They snatched the bushes from the shrine, and used them as a base for the fire.

Since our culprit is the ultimate craftswoman, creating a fire was no big deal. They simply used wooden stakes.

Once the culprit was done with burning the evidence, they planted one of the stakes in Himiko’s chest, which was ironically the final evidence to guess the identity of our culprit.

After that they left the horrifying scene for us to see the next day.

And the culprit...

... Is you, Angie Yonaga, the ultimate craftswoman!

“...”

The girl stayed silent for a minute... Then smiled.

“Yep! You are correct!”

Her eyes looked devoid of regret.

“I am Himiko’s killer!”

The joy in her voice... It was terrifying. How could she be so happy about this?

Did she have the disease like Rantaro suspected?

Kokichi was speechless, staring at Angie, with pure horror in his eyes.

Himiko was finally getting her justice but...

This whole situation was atrocious.

“Let’s just end this already.” Rantaro spat, disgust written all over his face.

“Allllllrgihty then! It’s... Voting time!” Monokuma cheered.

Shuichi’s heart skipped a beat when he glanced at Kokichi. Was he going to-

Fortunately, he saw the boy looking down, but still pressing an icon on his tablet.

The violinist turned back to his podium, and pressed Angie’s icon.

“Now then, it seems the voting has finished. Let’s see the result.” Monokuma declared.

The giant screen turned on and everyone’s icons appeared.

9 votes for Angie Yonaga, and 1 vote for Kokichi Ouma.

Shuichi could barely hear Angie mutter “Hm? Weird, I voted for myself...”

Upon a quick glance, it was easy to guess who voted for Kokichi.

“Who’ll be chosen as the blackened? Will you make the right choice or the dreadfully wrong one!?” Monokuma continued his usual speech.

VERDICT

The wheel turned for a few seconds before slowing down… And landing on Angie.

The coin machine on the screen made its distinct jingle, and coins rolled out of it.

Angie was unreadable.

“Wow! Seriously!? You’re correct again! A-Amazing! This is the third correct verdict in a row!”

“The blackened who killed Himiko Yumeno is Angie Yonaga, the Ultimate craftswoman!”

[shirlleycoyle]

How Uber Turned a Promising Bikeshare Company Into Literal Garbage

One morning at the end of May, Mark Miretsky awoke in his San Francisco apartment and groggily browsed his phone. There was no rush to get up. Just a few weeks earlier, he had been laid off from his job at the bikeshare company JUMP, which was owned by Uber, along with hundreds of other people.

While still lazing in bed, he opened the Slack with more than 400 of JUMP’s laid off staff, and he saw something that hurt him even more than the layoffs. The JUMP bikes were being destroyed by the thousands and someone was posting videos of it on Twitter.

At first, Miretsky couldn’t bring himself to watch. He spent eight years of his life, often working 100-hour weeks to the point of nauseous exhaustion, to get people to ride those bikes. He did this because he believed in bicycles, and that they are worth riding.

Miretsky's family left the Soviet Union while his mother was pregnant with him. They briefly lived in Italy but couldn’t afford any mode of transportation other than a single bike. His dad pedaled, his mom rode side saddle on the rear rack, and his brother, just a toddler at the time, sat in the basket. Miretsky grew up hearing these stories, and even if he didn’t realize it at the time, he said it taught him bicycles are the cheapest, most efficient, and equitable way to get around. He would end up spending most of his adult life working with bicycles, caring about them so much he can’t even bring himself to get rid of any of his seven bikes.

In one of the videos, viewers can hear the claw crunching the frames and baskets while lifting the JUMP bikes. That was enough. Miretsky didn’t need to watch a second time.

“It kind of crushes one’s heart,” Miretsky said. He had difficulty putting into words exactly how he felt, but repeated what one of his former coworkers told him. To the die-hard bike enthusiasts who worked at JUMP, destroying bikes is like burning books. “To me, and to many of us [who worked at JUMP] the bike is not an object to a means of a business. It has a soul.”

Few, if any, of JUMP’s former employees were shocked by the videos. To some, it even felt a fitting, if upsetting, coda to a troubled two years under Uber’s stewardship.

Motherboard spoke to a dozen former JUMP employees about their time at the company, most under the condition of anonymity because they signed non-disclosure agreements in order to receive severance and extended health care during a global pandemic. Former JUMP employees who agreed to speak on the record did so under the condition they not talk about the time the company was owned by Uber. They described remarkably similar experiences, in which JUMP, a previously thrifty company, with a culture that had a deep commitment to a shared sense of purpose gave way to Uber’s scale-obsessed model. The early promises of bikeshare for the world and replacing ridehail trips with bike journeys only partially materialized, but it came with unsustainable inefficiencies and waste. Uber bought JUMP in 2018 and two years later sold it to Lime, a changed and broken company. To these employees, the literal destruction of the bikes was a metaphor for the destruction of the operation they’d worked so hard to build.

Uber’s unrelenting pursuit of scale created all sorts of problems for those working on the bikeshare systems on the ground. In cities with high rates of theft or vandalism, the same people hired to retrieve, charge, and fix bikes were also responsible for recovering stolen ones, an occasionally dicey proposition. To address this, Uber hired private security teams, which three employees referred to as “hired goons,” to assist in getting the stolen bikes back. One employee from Providence, Rhode Island described a scene in which one “hired goon” wearing a bulletproof vest and carrying handcuffs and pepper spray “tackled” a black teenage girl riding a JUMP bike. The employee said it was something he would “never forget” and that “the optics didn’t look good, as people would say.” An Uber spokesperson said the company has no records of such an incident taking place and this account is “wholly inaccurate” because JUMP technicians and the security teams accompanying them were instructed not to forcibly remove anyone from the bikes or “engage in aggressive behavior.”

While hardly typical of JUMP’s operations, the incident—which occurred last year during a rash of thefts enabled by a faulty bike lock design—exemplifies just how far the company strayed from its original mission of getting people of all walks of life onto bikes. JUMP used to be a company that held countless community meetings in low-income neighborhoods prior to launching in a new city to make sure they were addressing everyone’s needs and offered low-income residents virtually unlimited biking for just a few dollars per month.

But JUMP’s rise and fall is not just about Uber—which only owned the company for two out of its 10 years of existence—or even just about bikeshare. It's about the role cities play in determining their futures, how much of that role has been usurped by a handful of people with a lot of money, and the perils of trying to be the good guy.

Even with everything that’s happened, many former JUMP employees still think selling the company to Uber was the right decision. Had it not, one former employee told Motherboard, “the company might have saved its soul, but died much younger.”

*

Ryan Rzepecki became a cycling evangelist when he borrowed his roommate’s bike one summer day in 2005 while living in New York City's East Village. It made getting around the city so much easier and more pleasant, even though at the time New York didn’t have anything resembling safe bike infrastructure.

On a trip to Paris, Rzepecki came across the Velib bikeshare system. Although Velib has had its problems, to Rzepecki’s eyes it was a marvel: tens of thousands of bikes for Parisians to use for a very small fee. No worrying about locking the bike, storing it, maintenance, or repairs. Just unlock it, ride it, dock it, and be on your way.

But Rzepecki had an idea for a different kind of bikeshare system. He wanted one without docks, where people could begin and end their rides anywhere they like. He thought this would be the key to unlocking cycling for the masses. In 2010, he started Social Bicycles.

The original business model of Social Bicycles (SoBi) was different from the one it would adopt after re-branding as JUMP eight years later. Instead of going directly to people, it sold its proprietary bikes and docking stations to cities, who would then contract with another third party to operate the bikeshare system.

The key to this model was SoBi’s quasi-docked model, in which every bike had a GPS unit and a built-in lock. Riders had to lock the bike to something, and were encouraged to lock the bikes to SoBi’s docking stations, but could use regular bike racks if they wanted.

“It’s probably good I didn’t have a technical background,” Rzepecki told Motherboard, “because if I knew how hard it would be I probably never would have attempted it.” It was not a simple or easy business. Back then, cities would put out Requests for Proposals (RFPs) that announced they were interested in a bikeshare system, triggering a two-year process that, if all went well, resulted in a bikeshare system. The RFP process ensured a deep partnership with the city that would minimize long-term uncertainty or community outrage over bike rack locations. For both SoBi and the cities in which they worked, this trade-off was worth it, because they were in it for the long haul.

SoBi hired urban planners to help cities with the expense of figuring out where new bike racks should go. This involved not only painstakingly drawing architectural renderings for hundreds of bike racks, but presenting those drawings to local community groups to hear their feedback. As a general rule, they drew up plans for about three times as many racks as they would ultimately install, knowing local community groups tended to reject about two-thirds of them.

While this approach to a bikeshare system was complicated, time-consuming, and expensive, Rzepecki and his early team thought it was the best way to forge the kind of relationships between the city government, local bike advocates, and casual riders to allow bikesharing to thrive in the long run.

Likewise, Rzepecki wanted SoBi’s bikes to be comfortable and fun to ride. They debated the merits of certain bolts over others, the size of the baskets, and the best distance between the handlebars for the most comfortable ride for the most people. SoBi’s designer, Nick Foley, and the other designers not only took into account the rider experience, but also that of the mechanics charged with fixing and maintaining the bikes. They standardized parts, reduced the number of different bolts and screws as much as possible, and put thought into how to make flat tires easy to replace. The bikes were not to be disposable objects, but permanent, rideable street art.

“Ryan’s goal was the bicycle comes first,” another former employee told Motherboard. “He brings that kind of attitude, that I want to make my city better.”

All that attention to detail notwithstanding, in the early days SoBi’s technology barely worked. One of its first clients in 2012, the San Francisco International Airport, wanted a bikeshare program for employees to use during their lunch breaks. But the bikes barely worked. Miretsky remembers having to run around the airport to reboot the bikes’ onboard computers, which he described as “super 1.0 early beta technology that wasn’t working” in which the GPS and computer unit was attached to the bike with velcro.

There wasn’t very much money in the bikeshare world then. The company was operating hand-to-mouth, people were forgoing paychecks some weeks, and everyone was working on shoestring budgets. One employee recalled the “SoBi flop houses” where six of them would live in a two-bedroom Airbnb to save on costs. The unlucky ones who didn’t get a bedroom would sleep on the floor; more than one former SoBi employee recommended if I ever find myself in a similar situation, I snag the space under the dining room table so that anyone getting up in the middle of the night doesn’t step on me.

With this shared sacrifice came shared responsibility. The company structure was remarkably flat. Once a month, everyone would get on a call and make decisions together by consensus. People’s titles only vaguely aligned with their actual jobs. “Things got done because everyone wanted them to get done, not because someone was assigning them or there were super-clear expectations,” one employee described it. “You just went to wherever you could supply the most-needed help.”

Over time, SoBi worked out the kinks, and each contract got slightly bigger than the last. Its big breakout came in 2016, when 1,000 of its bikes launched in Portland’s Biketown program, sponsored by Nike. It was the company's biggest launch to date and also its most successful. It was also the first year SoBi was profitable. Things were looking up, until the people at SoBi started hearing about these bikeshare companies out of China.

“Here’s where the story changes,” Rzepecki said. “Just as we were figuring out how to do bikeshare and make it work, the entire landscape changed.”

*

Up to that point, the bikeshare world was a small one, an industry of government contractors and their suppliers. Companies couldn’t be neatly divided between partners and competitors. Social Bicycles sold its hardware to Motivate, which operates the biggest docked bikeshare systems around the country, to operate Biketown, even though SoBi and Motivate would compete for contracts elsewhere (to complicate the dynamic, Motivate was purchased by Lyft around the same time JUMP was bought by Uber). It was a small world, in part because it had to be; there wasn’t enough money in bikeshare to make it any bigger.

Which is why when two Beijing-based bikeshare firms, Ofo and Mobike, expanded to the United States right around the same time Biketown launched, it blew up everything the bikeshare world had known.

Rather than work closely with cities over years, Ofo and Mobike parachuted in, got permission to launch a bike share by shoveling money at cities, and then did it. They also introduced a fully dockless model known as “free lock,” in which riders didn’t have to lock their bikes to anything after finishing a ride. They could leave them wherever they wanted, including in the middle of sidewalks and strewn across lawns.

“At least initially, there was this hint of hope that this big dumb app company was actually helping push us towards a more sustainable transportation ecosystem.”

This went against everything SoBi believed in. It not only was a short-sighted strategy that was sure to create conflict with city officials and communities—the very people SoBi felt were integral to any bikeshare systems’s success—but it sent the wrong message about the bikes themselves.

“Freelocking turns the vehicles into trash and blocks the sidewalk,” one former JUMP employee said, “which is both bad for business and bad for cities.” It turns bikes into obstacles for people with mobility issues, the exact opposite of what bikes are supposed to be. And it sends the message that the bikes are disposable, have little value, and belong to no one.

But it was not the free lock element of the Ofo and MoBike model that changed everything, at least not directly. Without the need to go through the lengthy RFP process or site docks, Ofo, Mobike, and their countless imitators could grow as quickly as their bank accounts permitted. It was catnip for the type of venture capital investors who love exponential growth charts.

Suddenly, dockless bikeshare became the trendy investment. From October 2016 through July 2017, Ofo raised $1.28 billion in two funding rounds, according to Crunchbase. Mobike raised more than $800 million. In October 2017, the newly-founded Lime (then called LimeBike) raised $50 million. To Social Bicycles, this was an unimaginable amount of money. Up to 2016, SoBi had raised only a few million dollars.

“It became a feeling of there is no way we can succeed anymore,” Miretsky said. “We were playing checkers and it suddenly became chess.”

“They would go into markets we were just in with RFPs and said ‘we’ll pay you. How many bikes do you need? We’ll give you more,’” Miretsky recalled. “Cities said well great, this is no longer a problem for us to solve, the business community has solved it.”

Almost overnight, Rzepecki said SoBi lost 25 percent of its revenue. For sexy startups like Mobike and Ofo, a 25 percent revenue drop would be a tough pill to swallow. For SoBi, it was poison. Thanks to overseas investors flooding the market with cheap bikes, the time of working closely with cities to build a sustainable bikeshare system was over. The RFP approach, everything SoBi had built its business around, was dead.

SoBi pivoted to be a permit-based dockless bikeshare company like the others. But it resisted what it viewed as an ideological non-starter and it did not succumb to the free lock model. Just as in the SoBi days, riders would still have to end the ride by locking the bike to something.

Moreover, SoBi didn’t need to compromise on its deeper philosophy because Rzepecki had an ace up his sleeve. For two years, SoBi had been secretly developing an electric bike, where a battery-powered motor helps the rider pedal, making bike riding an effortless endeavor even up the steepest of hills and longest of distances. Former employees credited Rzepecki and Foley for having the foresight to know the entire industry would eventually shift to e-bikes, and the only way JUMP could survive was to get there first. And it did.

In the summer of 2017, as JUMP was looking for investors to stay afloat, Uber invited two JUMP employees in to demonstrate the e-bike, sparking conflicted feelings among the JUMP staff. This was right at the height of an Uber public relations disaster, as its co-founder Travis Kalanick floundered in the days leading up to his resignation. At this stage, Uber was virtually synonymous with spoiled rich kids flouting laws and operating solely according to their own internal code. Among the JUMP staff, Uber was regarded as wasteful and environmentally irresponsible at best and downright evil at worst.

Some former employees believe JUMP ultimately took the meeting as an intelligence-gathering operation, others as an implicit admission of JUMP’s precarious condition despite the distasteful prospect of working with the company so many of them loathed.

In any case, two JUMP employees rode the e-bikes to Uber’s headquarters on Market Street, where Dmitry Shevelenko and Jahan Khanna, the duo behind Uber’s micromobility and transit expansion, took them for a test ride.

“This was like the first time using an iPhone.” Shevelenko told Motherboard. “It just feels magical.” He had demo’d other bikeshare e-bikes in recent months, but the JUMP bike was far superior. Instead of having a motor that kicked into gear providing an unwanted jolt, JUMP’s e-bikes sensed how hard a rider pedaled and increased the motor power to match what the rider is doing. It felt like a partnership between human and bike, not a human ceding total control to a machine. “It was almost like a superpower,” Shevelenko recalled, “like this bike is connected to your body.”

Shevelenko and Khanna viewed the e-bike as a perfect complement to Uber’s ridehailing business. Insofar as it would cannibalize Uber trips, it would be shorter city trips that weren’t profitable anyways. The e-bike would not only be cheaper for riders, but also quicker during rush hours in the dense urban areas where Uber is most popular. And Uber wanted JUMP’s superior product. Shevelenko figured JUMP had a year’s head start on every other dockless e-bike. Paired with Uber’s resources, they thought it would be hard for anyone else to catch up.

Image: CHESNOT/GETTY IMAGES

After some brief negotiating, the companies initially formed a partnership and Uber connected JUMP with the venture capital firm Menlo Ventures to keep the company afloat. Starting in January 2018, SoBi officially rebranded as JUMP and its bikes would be shown as a rental option in the Uber app. Four months later, Uber acquired JUMP for close to $200 million.

It was, undoubtedly, an odd pair, not just in mission but in corporate culture. Many of JUMP’s staff were self-described hippies, a far cry from Uber’s bro culture and no-holds-barred approach to business. But, the acquisition made sense as one between two companies struggling to figure out what they were doing at a time when the old way was no longer going to cut it. Uber had to clean up its act and put on a good face for investors in a run up to a public offering, while JUMP had to find a model that worked in the dockless world of VC capital.

On a personal level, eight years of bikeshare startup life had taken its toll on Rzepecki and the original SoBi crew. To illustrate the point, Miretsky said that when he visited the New York office where Rzepecki was based, he had stopped buying breakfast, because he knew Rzepecki would take two bites of a breakfast sandwich, vomit it up from nerves, and then give Miretsky the rest of the sandwich.

When asked about this, Rzepecki confirmed his stress manifested with various physical symptoms around that time, and that “2017 was particularly hard.”

“I think it’s really on the right course now and [Uber’s then-new CEO Dara Khosrowshahi] believes the way we approach working with cities and our vision for partnering with cities” aligns with Uber’s mission, Rzepecki told TechCrunch when the acquisition was announced. “That was important for me and his desire to do things the right way. This is a great outcome and gives me a chance to bring my entire vision to the entire world.”

“At least initially, there was this hint of hope that this big dumb app company was actually helping push us towards a more sustainable transportation ecosystem,” a former JUMP employee said. “And then they fucked it up.”

*

Accounts differ on precisely how long it took Uber to undermine everything JUMP had previously been about. Some former employees said it happened virtually immediately. Others described a more gradual process that took a few weeks. But they unanimously agreed it didn’t take long at all for JUMP to stop being JUMP.

Not only were JUMP employees no longer working on a shoestring budget, they barely had any budgets at all. Sleeping under the dining room table gave way to $400 per night hotel rooms. Like the Ofos and MoBikes they long decried, JUMP was now buying as many bikes it could get its hands on.

For a split second, JUMP was “the hot new thing” at Uber, as one former employee put it. Khosrowshahi talked it up during company all-hands meetings and in the press. He came to the warehouse where JUMP built new prototypes.

"During rush hour, it is very inefficient for a one-ton hulk of metal to take one person 10 blocks," Khosrowshahi said at the time. With JUMP, "we're able to shape behavior in a way that's a win for the user. It's a win for the city. Short-term financially, maybe it's not a win for us, but strategically, long term we think that is exactly where we want to head."

One of the first signs that the acquisition was not going as planned came just two months after the acquisition when Uber put longtime employee Rachael Holt in charge of the New Mobility unit. In one of her first meetings with the JUMP team, Holt made it very clear that she was in charge, as multiple employees recalled. This directly undermined what Rzepecki had publicly said when the acquisition was announced, that JUMP would remain independent of Uber. Now, the employees were being told that wasn’t the case. When asked about this reversal, an Uber spokesperson described Holt as “a longtime Uber executive with experience growing a mobility business.” Holt did not respond to a list of questions sent by Motherboard.

"There was also an awareness that this was no longer some private company, that it was fucking Uber now."

Holt brought an Uber 1.0 approach to bikeshare, one that mimicked what companies like MoBike and Ofo were doing (MoBike co-founder Wang Xiaofeng had previously been general manager of Uber’s Shanghai operations). They flooded the streets with bikes under the philosophy that any second a bike is not on the street, it's losing money. They expanded to new markets and hired so many people so fast some employees spent half their time in hiring meetings and prospective employee interviews. Teams doubled or tripled in size within months, only to find they were now overstaffed. Bike mechanics at the main warehouse would have thousands of bikes to build that were just delivered from China, but local mechanics in the cities where JUMP operated didn’t have spare parts to fix the bikes on the street.

In other words, JUMP employees felt Uber was applying a software business mentality to bikeshare. It was, to JUMP’s longtime employees, a fundamental misunderstanding of what kind of business they were in. Uber was running JUMP with the mindset that anything that’s broken can be patched, but, as one employee put it, “a firmware update can’t fix a bike chain.”

“Like any startup (whether inside of Uber or out), JUMP’s early days can be characterized as scrappy,” an Uber spokesperson said. “JUMP was scaling very quickly. When we bought JUMP they were a very small company with a fleet of only 500 e-bikes in San Francisco. When we merged with Lime a few weeks ago, we had tens of thousands of e-bikes and scooters in 30 cities around the world.”

Otherwise an impressive feat of engineering, the bikes JUMP released in early 2019 under Uber had one critical flaw. JUMP replaced the sturdy if bulky U-lock with a cable lock in order to make the bikes easier to secure. But the cable lock wasn’t robust. It was a critical oversight, one that highlighted how far JUMP had strayed from its roots, since any New York City bicyclist knows a cable lock is an open invitation for theft. All someone had to do was flip the 75-pound bike over and the cable would snap under its own momentum (there was also a method using a hammer that took more finesse). With a few well-placed blows, thieves could easily disable the GPS unit and be on their way with a (very heavy) bike.

While every city experienced some degree of theft, Providence, Rhode Island experienced among the most because, for whatever reason, stealing JUMP bikes became a form of sport for the city’s teens.

“We didn’t understand the magnitude of the problem until it was too late,” one former JUMP employee familiar with the situation told Motherboard. “Hundreds and hundreds of bikes were getting stolen.”

In emails obtained by the Providence Journal, JUMP’s operations manager in Providence, Alex Kreuger, told the city that, in one weekend in July 2019, 150-200 bikes were vandalized out of a fleet of about 1,000 bikes.

“Someone brandished a gun on a field tech, kids tried to steal bikes directly from our warehouse, riders reported attempts by people to steal the bike as they were riding them,” Kreuger wrote.

In another instance, according to a source, an employee trying to retrieve a bike reportedly had to wield a broken kickstand to fend off some kids swinging a 2×4 at him.

In the fall, Uber hired a private security firm to ride along with the field technicians in order to retrieve the stolen bikes. This didn’t strike any of the employees as especially odd, since none of them had signed up to be fighting kids in the streets. One field tech who spoke to Motherboard estimated that "five to 10" instances resulted in private security workers physically restraining people while the bikes were being recovered, as was the case with the bulletproof vest-clad rent-a-cop tackling a kid riding a bike.

Among other things, the vandalism made it impossible for JUMP to have 90 percent of its bikes on the street at all times, as its contract with the city required. Sometimes, one former employee said, they’d have fewer than 300 bikes, or less than 30 percent of the fleet, on the street.

In August, JUMP pulled its bikes off the streets of Providence for what it claimed was a temporary period, but the bikes never returned. In October, the field technicians, who had ridden around with the security guys for weeks, received an email at the end of their shift telling them not to bother coming in anymore; they were all fired. The security guys got an email at the end of the shift, too; their new job was to take over bike retrieval, but their first order of business was to escort the field technicians out of the building.

At least one former Providence employee thinks the vandalism could not be disconnected from the Uber acquisition.

“There was also an awareness that this was no longer some private company, that it was fucking Uber now,” they told Motherboard. “This is owned by a corporation that doesn’t care about bettering anyone’s fucking community or whatever, so people saw an opportunity there.”

Whether or not that was the case, JUMP had bigger problems than just Providence, and Uber had bigger problems than just JUMP. After breakneck growth and an IPO in the spring of 2019, Uber was under more pressure than ever to show it could be profitable. And thanks to its growth-at-all costs approach to bikeshare, JUMP was leaking cash.

But it wasn’t the financial losses that bothered JUMP employees the most. It was the gradual erosion of everything that got them to sacrifice so much for the company in the first place. Morale tanked as people slowly noticed they were busting their asses to hit growth metrics. The joy of cycling and creating a community good was not only secondary to that, it was becoming a memory.

“We went from putting 45-pound steel plates with 35-pound racks down on street corners where we had paid surveyors to stand and count people riding and locking bikes and working very closely with municipal transportation services, universities, and community groups, to, from what I understand, basically offering cities as much money as they needed to launch as quickly as possible and putting as many bikes on the curb as quickly as possible wherever we could,” one former employee said. “That’s the same approach that Bird used for scooters, that Lime used for their bikes, and Ofo used for their bikes in Texas and got in so much trouble for. And that’s why they’re trash. And that’s why JUMP became trash.”

In September 2019, JUMP employees were transferred to a new entity called Sobi LLC, which some employees took as an indication they were being broken off for a sale. An Uber spokesperson said it was because “As JUMP grew its footprint, so did the need for more focused business support for day-to-day operations.”

Four months later, at the beginning of 2020, Rzepecki and a handful of other original Social Bicycle employees left. The following months would result in a cascading series of layoffs in which Uber let 25 percent of its staff go.

At the beginning of last month, The Information reported that Uber was leading a $170 million funding round in Lime in a deal that would involve transferring JUMP to them. This was news to the JUMP staff. In an all-hands call that day, Khosrowshahi refused to directly answer a question about JUMP’s future, which both irked and worried its employees. An Uber spokesperson said, as a public company, Khosrowshahi could not discuss the transaction before it finalized. The next day, Uber laid off nearly everyone at JUMP. Because it was in the middle of the pandemic, the laid off had one hour to say goodbye to their friends over Slack. Then their computers turned off.

*

Whatever comes of JUMP under Lime’s stewardship, it will be without the people who made JUMP what it was. Lime was founded in 2017 by two former venture capital executives who quickly bailed on bikes to hop onto the scooter fad. It even experimented with a carsharing service. Lime obtained the intellectual property rights for the newest versions of the JUMP bikes and scooters, but, as of now, none of the people who designed or built them.

The big question facing the bikeshare industry—and its scooter-share offshoots—is whether the business can ever be profitable. To date, the answer is no. Lime lost some $300 million last year while its major competitor, Bird—founded by a former Lyft and Uber executive—isn't faring much better. While 2020 doesn’t look poised to turn industry fortunes around due to the global pandemic, it is a testament to how poorly managed the micromobility industry has been that ceasing operations may, in fact, be a blessing in disguise for companies that haven’t figured out how to run a service without bleeding cash.

Unlike software, transportation is a deliberate business, sometimes painfully so. To tech executives, this appears to be a flaw, an inefficiency to disrupt. No doubt the RFP process and other regulations around the transportation industry can be improved, but there’s a reason transportation businesses move slowly. It costs too much to screw up, both in money and in reputation. Useful mass transportation doesn’t suddenly appear. It is carefully nurtured from a tiny seedling of a good idea to a fully-formed organism that breathes life into a city. It is a process that takes time and effort and patience as well as money.

For all their shortcomings, this is something the SoBi people knew well. It is also something Uber could never understand, because it has always rejected the premise that it’s in the transportation business. It’s been telling itself and regulators since its inception it is merely a business-to-business software application so it can skirt employment regulations that would force it to make all of its drivers employees. But that deception became so ingrained in company culture that it conducted itself as a software company even when it was purchasing and fixing bicycles by the tens of thousands. On the most basic level, it’s impossible to succeed when you don’t know what line of work you’re in.

On top of that, transportation companies have to work with the cities in which they operate whether they like it or not. To several of the employees Motherboard spoke to, this was the single biggest and most consequential culture shift after the acquisition. Whenever there was a problem with a city, Uber postured for a fight, which went against every instinct JUMP had.

“We wanted to work with [the cities] and build trust,” one former employee summarized. “Uber wanted to steamroll them.”

(“We disagree,” an Uber spokesman said. “JUMP worked diligently to address sidewalk riding and parking clutter through both operational changes and investing in innovative technology.”)

And the whole scheme was built on a faulty premise, that putting more and more bikes on the road in more and more cities would eventually result in profits, even though the company lost money on each ride. They imitated the strategy that MoBike and Ofo used to blow up the bikeshare industry—which itself imitated the strategy Uber used to become a global behemoth—because that’s what investors wanted to see.

But by the end of 2018, the very strategy JUMP would later imitate was clearly not working. MoBike was sold to Chinese neighborhood services company Meituan-Dianping and retreated from foreign markets (its European operations were spun off, so some MoBikes are still on the road there). In June of last year, a Chinese court found Ofo “has basically no assets,” according to Quartz, and couldn’t pay off its debts. Photos of mass bike graves of the erstwhile bikeshare boom went viral.

But the damage was done, because the perception of what bikeshare should be had been irrevocably altered. It was no longer a transportation business; it was a tech business, and everything that brought along with it.

Even at the time Ofo and MoBike were getting handed billions in cash, the JUMP people didn’t know what to think, because they were still thinking like bike people. “We didn't believe the unit economics worked,” Miretsky recalled, “Then we heard the companies said the unit economics worked, and we thought well they couldn't be lying, we wouldn't lie. And then it turned out later they were probably lying.”

*

After the videos of the bikes getting destroyed surfaced, several former JUMP employees wondered if there was something they could do to save as many bikes as they could. They asked that I not disclose who they were so as not to jeopardize the NDA they signed with Uber.

With some help from current Uber employees, they were able to save some. They will get donated to various groups and organizations. The Bike Share Museum in Florida got five, but an Uber spokesperson did not say who got the rest. But multiple sources told Motherboard that, in total, they saved 5,298 bikes. They each knew the exact number.

How Uber Turned a Promising Bikeshare Company Into Literal Garbage syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/

[kuriquinn]

You Are Cordially Invited [2/?]

Cover & Disclaimer

Chapter Summary:  This time, if he accepts the mission, he would have to find Sakura. He would have to tell her he’s leaving her behind again, not even a day after they’ve decided on a future together. While he knows neither of them will ever live a quiet life—they are shinobi, after all, and the mission always comes first—he’d hoped for some more time with her.

Chapter Beta: Sakura’s Unicorn

Sasuke leaves the old Uchiha district, still mulling over his housing conundrum. It isn’t until he’s wandered into the busy centre of the village that he realises it’s all a moot point anyhow. Before he can even consider finding a house, he has to know the state of the Uchiha clan finances. Those, he suspects, are probably not very stable.

He hasn’t really had to think of money since he got back.

Between Sakura fussing over him to eat breakfast whenever she has mornings off, and Naruto insisting he come eat dinner at the Uzumaki household every other night, and Kakashi allowing him to stay in his unoccupied apartment, he hasn’t needed to worry about food or shelter. In lieu of an actual regular job, he’s been performing the odd specialised job for the village, such as  testing the village’s sensory barrier for weak points.

It’s a hand to-mouth-existence, which suits him fine after his years of wandering, but he doubts it will suit his future wife. Sakura is used to a roof over her head, three meals a day, and a life that follows a certain routine (at least as much as one can expect with a shinobi lifestyle). If they’re going to be happy, Sasuke needs to re-adapt to that kind of lifestyle. Even if he hasn’t lived like that since he was eight years old.

The more he thinks about it, the more Sasuke is convinced there’s no avoiding it; he needs advice. The question is—who to ask?

His immediate instinct for matters like these is to ask Kakashi. His former teacher has always been good at saving money—considering how many times the man tricked his genin squad into paying the bill at Ichiraku, he has thriftiness down to an art form.

Kakashi’s job hasn’t exactly provided him with a lot of wealth. The post of Hokage does not pay well; it keeps the money-hungry from aspiring to it. Kakashi gets a small stipend from the village for his services, paid for by taxes and occasionally as diplomatic gifts from the daimyo or other hidden villages. On average, it probably only covers Kakashi’s basic needs and not necessarily his dependents.

If anyone has experience with finances in that family, it’s probably Manako.

Like most Hokage’s wives have done in the past, Kakashi’s spouse remains firmly in the shadows and out of public life. She even maintains her own separate residence in her name, even though Kakashi has been more-or-less living there for years now. It’s why he had no compunction about letting Sasuke use his apartment when he came back.

Officially, it’s a measure of protection—the enemies of great men will always try to go after families and loved ones. Even in a village of people who can handle themselves.

Unofficially, Sasuke suspects it’s because the Inuzuka woman hates pomp and circumstance about as much as Sasuke does. By maintaining a separate residence she avoids any unwanted accoutrements of being married to the Hokage.

Still, the fact that she can manage two households suggests she knows her way around finances. And she owns her own business—which makes asking her a better option than Kakashi.

The only problem with approaching Manako is…it’s hard to talk to her. And considering Sasuke’s overall apathy toward speaking to most people, that’s saying something.

Growing up, if there was anyone in the village who came close to hating Itachi as much as Sasuke did, it was Manako Inuzuka. She was one of his brother’s agemates, and Manako’s best friend, Izumi Uchiha, was Itachi’s first victim during the massacre.

Based on his own childhood memories and the lingering effects of Itachi’s Tsukuyomi, Sasuke remembers Izumi as a smart, talented girl with a kind smile. She was very similar to Sakura, both in temperament and the tenacity of her affections. Konoha lost a rising star when it lost her, and her death impacted Manako in a way that Sasuke understands on a primal level.

It would be the same as him losing Naruto or Kakashi.

As a child, Sasuke kept his distance from Manako—partially out of respect for her grief, but mostly because he needed to focus on his own hatred instead of worrying about someone else’s pain.

Since the war, he’s spoken to her a few times—the first instance, shortly before he left Konoha, and once or twice since returning—but mostly he maintains a respectful distance. He can see in her eyes that it’s hard to look at him, and Sasuke knows that’s because of his resemblance to both her dearest friend and the man who murdered her.

Kakashi might be the better option to ask after all.

He glances skyward—the height of the sun tells him it’ll be at least an hour before Sakura finishes her shift. It’s early enough that Kakashi will still be at the office; no doubt Shizune has him buried in paperwork.

Decision made, Sasuke heads to the Hokage Tower.

He doesn’t bother announcing himself, simply slipping silently through the hallways until he reaches his former instructor’s office. When he gets there, Kakashi is indeed sandwiched between two giant towers of paper, but he’s clearly not working.

A familiar orange-covered novel is clutched in his hands.

Some things never change…

He wonders if he should clear his throat, but Kakashi glances up, looking crestfallen. “Oh. You’re here. That was faster than I’d hoped.”

Sasuke frowns. “You were expecting me?”

“Yes. Didn’t Shizune say?” Kakashi sighs, moving to tuck his book away. “I was hoping it would take her longer to track you down.” He notes Sasuke’s blank expression. “Unless you’re here on an unrelated matter and it’s just coincidence.”

When Sasuke only raises an eyebrow in response, Kakashi’s defeated demeanour vanishes and his leans back in his chair, still clutching the book.

“Excellent. If you’re here, she’ll spend longer looking for you. It works out for everyone,” he says happily and motions to the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

“I’ll stand.”

“Of course, you will.” Kakashi rolls his eyes. “Well, what are you here for, if Shizune didn’t send you?”

“It can wait,” Sasuke replies. Shinobi business always comes first. “What did you need me for?”

“Our daimyo has forwarded me letters from his counterparts in Earth and Wind Country,” Kakashi tells him, sifting through one of his file folders. “There’s also a note here from the General of the Land of Iron’s samurai regiment—I know…not exactly your biggest fans,” he adds when he notices Sasuke frown, “—which makes their request even more interesting.”

“Request?”

“There are concerns about a potential enemy force rising in the North-western Mountains. Mostly, it appears to be in the Land of Earth, but Iron and Wind suspect whatever is going on is spreading to the other two countries as well. They’ve requested aid.”

“From Konoha.”

“The Tsuchikage believes that whatever the threat is, it’s based around a new kind of genjutsu,” Kakashi says. “So far, none of Iwa’s shinobi have been able to confirm this or even find information. The same with Gaara’s people and General Mifune’s.”

“They can’t confirm it because they can’t identify it, or because they’ve died?”

“It could be either, but I suspect it’s the latter. Everyone sent to investigate has gone missing.”

Sasuke clenches his fist.

“They’ve all requested that I ask you to check it out—seeing as how you’re the foremost genjutsu user in the world,” he concludes in a sardonic tone.

“We don’t know that for sure,” Sasuke dismisses, uncomfortable with the praise.

“I’ll take my chances,” Kakashi remarks dryly.

“Earth Country…”

The north-western border is about six days away—possibly ten if the mountain conditions aren’t favourable. And if whatever’s going on has spread to Iron and Wind…it could be a month or longer, not even accounting for the reconnaissance involved.

“I know it’s a lot to ask. You haven’t been back very long, and you’ve been sticking close to home. If you don’t want to accept it, I can find someone else. As you say, there are other shinobi that specialise in genjutsu. We are still in contact with the last survivor of the Chinoike clan.”

“No,” Sasuke says immediately. “Chino is strong, but still healing from her past. Sending her up against an unknown enemy that has three separate countries worried…that would be unwise.”

He is quiet a beat longer, mulling over the prospect of this new mission. For the first time, he finds himself reluctant to commit. Before, he would’ve accepted the second Kakashi brought it up. He’d probably set out without even stopping to let anyone know he was leaving.

He can’t do that anymore.

This time, if he accepts the mission, he would have to find Sakura. He would have to tell her he’s leaving her behind again, not even a day after they’ve decided on a future together. While he knows neither of them will ever live a quiet life—they are shinobi, after all, and the mission always comes first—he’d hoped for some more time with her.

“How long before I need to leave?” he asks, deliberately neutral lest his resignation be audible.

If Kakashi notices anything, he doesn’t say. “Well, this time of year, the roads between here and Iwa will start to flood. I’d say you have three weeks before the main routes are impassable.”

Sasuke nods. “Very well. I will notify you when I’m able to leave.”

Kakashi studies him for a beat, and then his eyes crinkle in what Sasuke knows is a smile beneath his mask. “What was it you wanted to ask when you came in?”

“It can wai—”

Sasuke pauses, considering the merits of saying anything now. If he’s just going to leave, he might as well stay mum on the subject until he returns. On the other hand, if it’s something that will take time anyhow, perhaps now is the best moment after all.

He doesn’t bother sugar-coating it. “Does the Uchiha clan retain any funds, or have they been depleted completely?”

When his clan was murdered, all of their holdings reverted to the village. Sasuke has no illusion of where most of it went—first, to pay for the body removal and funeral costs for the dead, then to Danzō and the Elders. They would’ve drawn from those funds in “reparation” for years, justifying it based on the failed coup and Itachi’s crimes.

As a child, Sasuke’s weekly allowance came from what was left in the fund, but it was controlled by the Hokage. First, Hiruzen Sarutobi and then, briefly, Tsunade Senju. After leaving Konoha the first time, he always assumed the Elders had taken complete ownership of it.

“No,” Kakashi says. “Tsunade kept as much of it as possible from being used by the council.”

Sasuke blinks in surprise. “Well. That’s something.” He suspects it’s more her dislike of the council than any affection for him.

“A lot of what remained was spent during your trial,” Kakashi continues, sounding apologetic, “and to cover your own reparations to the village, inside and out.”

Sasuke nods. It’s as he thought—he’s basically starting from scratch.

“I can look into transferring whatever remains back to you. It should take a week or two. Unless… Is there something in particular you need it for? It might help speed up the process.”

“No.”

The idea of having to ask the village for his own money in order to get married and start a family bothers him—as if he has to ask their permission to be happy. He would rather do it on his own.

Maybe a loan…

He is doubtful even as he considers it, and it’s on the tip of his tongue to ask Kakashi, but then he stops. If he continues this line of questioning, Kakashi will begin to pry. Perhaps Naruto—

No. No way will he know how.

Even if Naruto knew how to get a loan, he’d spend a good deal of time making fun of him.  And then just tell him to go to Sakura which he doesn’t want to do because it defeats the purpose of showing her that he can take charge of their plans for the future. If only there was someone who—

Wait. There is someone.

It’s a mark of how the times have changed that Sasuke even thinks about Hinata Hyūga—Hinata Uzumaki, now, for almost six months.

He’s spent more time with her since he’s returned to the village, seeing as how he’s become a frequent dinner guest. He pretends that it’s because Naruto will nag him until he agrees to dinner, but in reality, it’s Hinata’s cooking. It’s the best he’s had in years (actually, it’s the only home cooking he’s had since his mother died).

She grew up learning to run an entire clan and preparing to be the wife of whatever Hyūga she was married off to. Now that she’s married to Naruto, and with him so busy most days preparing for his future job as Hokage, she’s the one in charge of the household.

If there’s anyone in the world who won’t mock Sasuke or have a snide comment on the subject of houses and loans, it’s her.

Well, that’s one problem solved…

“If there isn’t anything further, I’m leaving,” he tells Kakashi.

“See you,” Kakashi replies, already flipping open his book. Sasuke is almost to the door when he speaks again. “Oh, and Sasuke?”

He inclines his head.

“Be sure to say ‘hello’ to Sakura for me.”

The suggestion itself is innocent, but the tone is heavy with implication.

うちは

Sakura yawns and throws down her pen, the last chart of the day filled in and signed. If she wasn’t able to channel her chakra so well, her hand would be cramped up from the amount of writing she’s been doing today.

Still, it could be worse. I could be Kakashi-sensei.

She grins to herself and stretches like a cat, even purring with pleasure as the muscles in her back pull taught and then relax.

“You’re in a good mood,” a voice to her left remarks, and she glances up to see her assistant, Ando, in the doorway. He’s a scrawny kid with wild brown hair and wide eyes—sort of reminds her of Konohamaru Sarutobi at that age, only with more common sense and less of a sense of humour. Fourteen years old, Ando just recently made chūnin, and his former genin squad leader suggested he had a talent for medical ninjutsu. He’s been with Sakura since May and has already made her life a hell of a lot easier—and more organised.

She’s inclined to agree with his former squad leader.

“It was a good day,” she tells the boy with a smile, even if that’s only half of the truth.

For the first time in a long time, she is perfectly and unquestionable happy. She’s running the day-to-day affairs of Konoha Hospital for Tsunade while she’s away, her children’s clinic is still a huge success, and all the people she cares about are happy.

All of this utterly pales in comparison to the secret fact that the love of her life has proposed to her. It’s a dream she never thought would become a reality, and yet it is.

She’s spent every spare minute today fantasising about it. She’s already dreaming of the flowers she’ll choose and whether she’ll have a traditional dress, or one of the beautiful white gowns that are all the fashion out West.

Sasuke is the more traditional sort, so probably the first option—

“Your stalker is here.”

“My what?” Sakura demands.

“That guy you go home with practically every day,” Ando rolls his eyes. “You should be careful.”

“Of who? Sasuke?” Sakura laughs. “Listen, he might be a legend, but I can hold my own against him.” They both have bruises from their last sparring match to prove that. “And we don’t go home together, he walks me to my place. He’s a total gentleman.”

“Good. I would hate to find out my supervisor is a woman of loose morals.”

“Loose mor—what the hell’s that supposed to mean?!” Sakura demands, raising a threatening fist.

“The guy needs a haircut,” Ando goes on, glancing out the window. He sounds utterly unimpressed with Sasuke, as if his status as saviour of the planet means nothing compared to being well-groomed. “Who wants to go on a date with a guy who looks like a mop? And if he’s going to wait around for you every day, would it kill him to bring you some flowers? If my boyfriend walked me home every day and didn’t bring me flowers now and then, I’d dump him.”

Sakura is suddenly bombarded by a long-forgotten image of a different Sasuke, one gracing her with a dazzling smile and a red rose in hand.

A rose for someone else.

And while she knows that Sasuke wasn’t real but simply a figment of Obito’s genjutsu world, she still shudders.

“No, that would be a nightmare,” she declares, earning a puzzled stare from Ando. “Never mind. If you’re done criticising my love life, I’m heading home.” She shrugs out of her lab coat and reaches for her bag. “And if I see Hikaru on the way, I’ll tell him he better get you flowers because you’re so grumpy today.”

Ando sniffs in response.

Outside, Sasuke is waiting in his usual spot across the street. He leans against the wall opposite the hospital, his single hand shoved in his pocket and a preoccupied look on his face. As usual, when she steps out onto the road, he falls into step with her.

“Hello, Sasuke,” she greets him cheerfully.

“Sakura.”

From here, they usually head to either a nearby restaurant or meander toward one of the tree-lined roads. Mindful of his thoughtful expression, Sakura heads toward the trees; he’s more likely to open up about what’s bothering him if they’re alone together.

They walk in silence for almost a quarter of an hour, until the last stragglers along the path disappear, leaving the street deserted but for them. As they head toward the forest where they both like to stroll, their hands inch closer together. It’s enough that Sakura can sense the heat of Sasuke’s, even though they aren’t touching.

Until they do.

Their little fingers bump, at first by accident, and then, she thinks, perhaps on purpose, but she isn’t sure if it’s her or him instigating it. The fourth time, Sakura’s eyes widen as Sasuke ever so slowly curl his fingers around hers—little finger first, followed gradually by the other digits, until their palms touch.

Sakura continues to stare straight ahead, but can’t help the happy sigh that escapes her. She squeezes his fingers briefly, signalling her approval and even gratitude. This is the first time he’s held her hand, which is a very encouraging first step.  

Maybe one day he will bring me flowers, she thinks idly. And then she frowns, remembering something else Ando said.

“What?” Sasuke asks, and she jumps. She didn’t realise he was watching her expression.

“Nothing.”

“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be frowning.”

“Look at you—ten years ago you wouldn’t even have noticed,” she teases.

“I would’ve noticed,” he tells her seriously, “I just wouldn’t have said anything.”

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

“Are you going to answer?”

“I want to go on a date with you,” she tells him firmly.

Sasuke blinks. “A date.”

It’s a statement, but she reads the question in his tone.

“Yeah, you know, you and me, spending time together, the two of us,” she clarifies. “A quiet, romantic dinner, or…moonlit walks under the cherry blossoms?”

“We’ve been doing things like that since I got back,” he points out.

“No, those weren’t da—I mean, I guess, technically, yes, they do sort of fit that definition,” she allows, “but it’s not like…we didn’t have to get dressed up nice or anything, and there was no planning a picnic or…or watching the stars together or…” Sakura flounders. She’s explaining this badly and knows it.

“So planning and stars are the difference between what we’ve been doing and a…date?” Despite the critical note on the last word, as if he doesn’t like the way it feels coming off his tongue, Sasuke’s question is for clarification. As if he is truly trying to understand what she is saying, instead of shrugging it off in contempt the way he would when they were younger.

“Well, that or a romantic candlelit table for two, or dancing or…” she trails off when she sees his eyes widen—it’s only incremental, but on anyone else it would be panic. She exhales through her nose. “I’m freaking you out right now, aren’t I?”

“No,” he says, but the syllable is pushed through clenched teeth.

“I am,” she sighs, and a moment later makes a waving motion with her free hand. “Never mind. It’s just…” Leftover fantasies from when I was a girl. “You’re right. I’m being silly. We already do all the stuff I want to do and asking for any more would make things feel forced.”

“We can. If you want to.”

“No. I don’t need that,” she dismisses, tucking that dream back into her mental hope chest. “It’s only, at some point before we get married, it might be nice to have some indication that you see me as a woman, and not just the person you happen to be in love with.”

Sasuke is utterly confused at this and doesn’t even try to hide it this time. He clears his throat, uncomfortable, and changes the subject. “On that note…did you have a specific time you were thinking about?”

“I’m not sure,” Sakura responds. “When Naruto and Hinata got engaged, they did everything really fast—about four months. So, I guess we can use that as an estimate. About whether we should do it sooner or later, I mean.” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “Except…if we have the wedding in four months, it’ll be winter, and I don’t really want to have a wedding in the snow. It might be romantic for about five seconds before the cold and the wet and people being inconvenienced would ruin it.”

“We could wait for the spring,” he suggests reasonably.

“We could…except…I sort of don’t want to wait four months, let alone six,” she admits. “We’ve waited long enough, don’t you think? And I can deal with having less fuss than they had. I was actually thinking…two months from now?”  

Sasuke frowns and glances up at the sky. He has his problem-solving face on.

“And this planning for the wedding,” he says after a moment, sounding careful, “is something I need to be present for?”

Sakura smacks him in the shoulder—a little harder than a playful tap, but not with any malice. “Yes, you have to be involved! It’s your celebration, too—unless you don’t want to celebrate?”

“In that case, we may have to wait anyhow.”

He stops walking and turns to face her. He looks grave, and she immediately tenses for bad news.

“Kakashi offered me a mission,” he tells her. “There’s something happening in the Land of Earth, and might take anywhere from a few weeks to a few months.”

Sakura’s chest tightens. “Oh.” She swallows. “And you said yes?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I told Kakashi I would let him know, but I wanted to speak to you first,” Sasuke tells her. “You will be my wife. This is the sort of thing that I’m meant to speak to you about in advance. Especially if it interferes with your plans, in which case…Kakashi proposed another individual who might take the mission…if that’s what’s required.”

He sounds like he’s telling himself more than her, as if he’s reminding himself about a long-forgotten social norm. Though her disappointment is rising—she’d hoped to spend more time with Sasuke before he inevitably started taking long-term missions again—she recognises the effort he’s making.

Konoha wasn’t built in a day, she reminds herself.

“Thank you for considering me,” she tells Sasuke softly, squeezing his hand, “but don’t worry. And, of course, you have to go on the mission. Besides, would you really tell Kakashi ‘no’ if I had a problem with it?”

Sasuke shifts uncomfortably, but his expression is unapologetic. “No.”

“Good,” she declares. “Some things have to come first, especially if we want to build the future we risked our lives to protect. It’d be the same if a situation came up at the hospital, or if I had to visit another village to offer medical aid. You wouldn’t expect me to run things by you first, would you?”

Sasuke snorts.

“Exactly. But I’m glad that you thought this was important enough to discuss with me beforehand. It was thoughtful and…and very husbandly of you.”

He looks away, but the back of his neck turns red.

“So, when are you leaving?” she asks eventually, breaking the silence.

“Soon,” he answers. “I told Kakashi to give me some time. But since we’ve spoken now, I’ll probably go back right away and tell him I can leave tomorrow morning.”

“…Oh.”

She isn’t quite capable of hiding her disappointment here, and Sasuke notices. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Sakura.”

“It’s just…I mean…I know we just said the mission comes first and everything, but since Kakashi-sensei gave you that time, maybe…we could spend some of it together.”

Sasuke considers, frowning in thought. “Kakashi said it’s possible for me to wait a week or two,” he says slowly. “If you want.”

“Would you?” she asks, trying not to feel so selfishly pleased. “I mean, only if it’s not going to inconvenience you—because, if it does, then you wouldn’t be doing your job. And I don’t want to be the one who holds you back from—”

“It won’t kill me, Sakura,” he deadpans, but there’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth that tells her he’s more amused than irritated.

She grins and leans into his shoulder.

“Let’s have dinner—a team dinner! We’ll have Naruto and Hinata over,” she suggests. “And Ino and Sai, and Kakashi and Manako. And Yamato, if he’s in the village. We can tell all of them the news together.”

“You said you wanted to keep it to ourselves for a while.”

“That was before you got a mission that could take months. I’m not keeping a secret this big for all that time!” she protests. “Besides, it’s in the best friend code that I have to tell Ino within at least forty-eight hours of getting engaged. And you know Naruto will whine and complain that you didn’t tell him before you left.”

“Hm.” There is a beat of silence, as if Sasuke is considering whether he should chance it—and then probably figures (quite correctly) that if the news came out while Sasuke was away, Naruto would follow him on his mission just to kick his ass (or raze a forest trying). “All right. Dinner might be a good idea.”

“Great!”

“But not ramen.”

“Obviously. This isn’t exactly a casual conversation. I’d like it to be a little more special than ramen.”

“We’ll do it at my place.”

“You mean Kakashi-sensei’s obscenely tiny apartment?” Sakura prompts, making a face. “No. Let’s have them over to my place.”

This time Sasuke makes the face. “With your parents hovering?”

They both wince.

“All right. Fine,” Sakura decides. “We’ll have it at your place. Who cares how cramped it is when we’re with people we care about, right?”

She beams at him, and Sasuke stares at her, his mismatched eyes adorably wide. He seems completely stunned for a minute, and then hastily looks away, letting his hair fall over his face again. From the tense set of his shoulders, he is considering something difficult.

“Sasuke?” she prompts. “If the dinner is too much, we don’t have to. I’m just as happy telling them all individually if you—”

“Come with me.”

She blinks, a little confused by the non sequitur, but shrugs. “Okay. Where?”

“No—that’s not what I—” he cuts himself off, looking frustrated for a moment, and then forces himself to continue. “Come with me on the mission.”

It’s Sakura’s turn to be stunned.

“You asked me once,” he reminds her, “and it wasn’t the right moment. But you’re right—we’re wasting time. I would prefer not to spend any more of mine without you by my side.”

It feels as if the world and all its sound has suddenly disappeared, along with the air from her lungs.

“I know that you have responsibilities here,” he continues quietly, “and that it would make the most sense to occupy yourself with those. I would understand if that’s what you choose to do—”

“Sasuke—”

“—and with this mission, if it’s…what you want, I’ll go tomorrow and come back here as soon as possible.”

Her vision becomes a little blurry.

“But if you—”

“I’ll come with you,” she tells him firmly, reaching up to take his face in her hands. “That’s not even a question. And don’t worry about my responsibilities here. I have people who can keep an eye on things while I’m away—they’re trained for that. Besides, after the amount of work I’ve done for this village, I could use a vacation.”

“A mission isn’t a vacation,” he reminds her.

“Does the mission involve paperwork?”

“I doubt it.”

“Then it’s a vacation,” she says happily, and before she can think better of it, hugs him around the middle. He goes rigid at first and then relaxes into her embrace. “Thank you for asking me, Sasuke.”

“…You’re welcome.”

“So, we’ll go, and when we get back, we’ll plan the wedding and get married,” she decides, pulling away from him. “We might end up marrying in the spring after all.”

“But you don’t want to wait.”

“It’s not so bad, the waiting—as long as I’m with you.”

“…Hm.”

He looks a little conflicted, like he’s still worried this idea is an imposition somehow. She’s not entirely sure how to assure him that it’s anything but, and not just because she’ll be by his side.

An idea occurs to her, a little bolder than she’s used to—but then, this whole situation is a little bolder than what she’s used to.

“There are…other reasons this could be a good trip,” she begins, trying not to sound uncertain. “It could be a good opportunity…to practice?”

Damn it, I shouldn’t have phrased that as a question!

“Practice what?”

“Practice for…well…you had that second goal,” she reminds him, trying and failing to keep the blood from rushing to her cheeks. She hasn’t tried to flirt with Sasuke since they were genin, and isn’t entirely sure how to go about it now that they’re adults. When continues to look confused, she curses herself for starting out with something so…lewd. 

Well, I started this, I might as well commit!

“Back when we first got put on the same squad?” she reminds him. “Remember what you said?”

Sasuke stares at her blankly for about five seconds before he realises what she’s talking about.

And promptly turns as red as his favourite food.  

He looks away from her, his entire body tense and Sakura experiences a moment of panic.

Oh, no! I’ve embarrassed him! That was so not the point, I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, I just…!

“Sasuke, I’m sorry!” she stammers over herself to say. “I didn’t mean…that’s not what I…I meant practice being close…the two of us—not that it’s not the two of us now, it is, but—”

When Sasuke looks back at her, his cheeks and the bridge of his nose are still darker than usual, and he shoots her an exasperated look. She exhales in relief to note it’s fond exasperation, and not the Naruto-exasperation.

“Annoying woman,” he says wryly. “All I am to you is a piece of meat.”

And he turns to walk away.

Sakura’s jaw drops.

“Did you just…did you just make a joke? Sasuke? Sasuke! Wait up!”

Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated! Also, if you are in a supportive mood, I have a tip jar button through ko-fi located at the top of the page, or you can check out the link here. Thanks for your interest in my work!

クリ

Next Chapter

[master-thief-gray-shadow]

1-51 answer all of them

Already answered a handful, so I’ll just do the rest.

What was the first fandom you got involved in? Naruto. I didn’t actually post any fanfic, but I read loads and I did write some stuff.

What is your latest fandom? Little Witch Academia. I haven’t written anything for it, but I might someday.

What is the best fandom you’ve ever been involved in? Either the Touhou or Kancolle fandom. The fans I met were great people, and both fandoms have some very good fanworks.

Do you regret getting involved in any fandoms? I regret my entire Naruto phase. Also RWBY, a little.

Which fandoms have your written fanfiction for? Naruto, Pokemon, Star Wars, Harry Potter (this was all in the same fic, mind you), Fullmetal Alchemist, Touhou, and Love Live. Only my LL fanfics have been published, though.

List your OTP from each fandom you’ve been involved in. PokeShipping, SasuSaku (it was before Sasuke became an irredeemable cuntwaffle, okay?), AlMei, KaiMei, SoKai, MeiSaku, KyouSaya, Arkos, UmiNico, and DiaMaru. That’s not all the fandoms I’ve been in, but I don’t have OTPs in every fandom.

List your NoTPs from each fandom you’ve been in. SasuNaru, PuppyShipping, Sora/Riku, ReiMari, KyouMami, Lancaster. Most of these I’m okay with now, at some point I chilled out and stopped caring about what other people shipped. Lancaster still sends me into fits of rage, though.

How did you get involved in your latest fandom? A friend showed me Little Witch Academia and I liked it.

What are the best things about your current fandom? I’ve met some great people here. Not that this fandom doesn’t have its fair share of awful people, but I’m glad to know some of the good ones.

Is there a fandom you read fic from but don’t write in? Yes. Touhou, Little Witch Academia, Kancolle…

Who is your current OTP? UmiNico!

Who is your current OT3? NozoUmiNico!

Any NoTPs? LANCASTER

Go on, who are your BroTPs? UmiMaki, Eli optional.

Is there an obscure ship which you love? Uh, yeah! UmiNico!

Are their any popular ships in your fandom which you dislike? NozoEli. It’s not a bad ship by any means and I do sometimes read fic for it, but I’ve come to associate it with certain things I don’t like. That, and the fact that every goddamn AU in this fandom seems to involve it in some way has made me kind of sick of it.

Who was your first OTP and are they still your favourite? SasuSaku. And if you want the answer to the second question, just ask me what I think of Sasuke.

What ship have you written the most about? UmiNico or KotoUmi, depending on what you count.

Is there a ship which you wished you could get behind, but you just don’t feel them? HonoUmi. I can absolutely see why people would ship it, and I would also like to be able to appreciate it, but for some reason it just doesn’t do it for me.

Any ships which you surprised yourself by liking? Well I kinda started shipping UmiNico as a joke, so…

What was the first fanfic you ever wrote? Boulder Walls, an epic crossover of Naruto, Pokemon, Harry Potter, and Star Wars that involved Itachi having pictures of naked girls in his room, Ginny getting molested in her sleep, Brock hitting on Bastilla, and other random and stupid things.

Is there anything you regret writing? Yes. The aforementioned Boulder Walls, as well as Naruto’s Retarded Adventure. Please don’t ask about that one.

Name a fic you’ve written that you’re especially fond of & explain why you like it. The Best House Party, while not the best thing I’ve written, is probably my favorite, because it involves Best Girl getting gangbanged by 2nd and tied-for-3rd best girls.

Do you have a beta reader? Why/Why not? Nope. Never cared to get one.

What inspires you to write? Partially a hunger for glory, partially a desire to show my vision to the world, mostly because it’s a talent I have that I would like to grow.

What’s the nicest thing someone has ever said about your writing? “Je t'aime de tout mon coeur Gray.” - @mykhii on Sensation

Do you listen to music when you write or does music inspire you? If so, which band or genre of music does it for you? I don’t so much listen to music when I write as listen to noise. It doesn’t matter what it is, music, a Let’s Play, a TV show, The Dr. Rabbit Revival Collab, doesn’t matter, just has to be noise.

Do you write oneshots, multi-chapter fics or huuuuuge epics? I want to write huge epics, but I haven’t mastered the art of commitment yet so I write oneshots.

What’s the word count on your longest fic? 4904

Do you write drabbles? If so, what do you normally write them about? I’ve written a few drabbles. They’re mostly about being really deeply in love with someone.

What’s your favourite genre to write? Uh, smut?

First person or third person - what do you write in and why? Third person. First person is only good if the piece is short and introspective, otherwise it just places a lot of limitations on what you can say in the prose.

Do you use established canon characters or do you create OCs? I’ve created OCs, but I’ve never written about them. I prefer to work with canon characters when possible.

What is you greatest strength as a writer? I think I’m good at describing feeling. Maybe.

What do you struggle the most with in your writing? Not rushing. I think a lot of my stuff has a kind of rushed feel to it and I don’t like it.

List and link to 5 fanfics you are currently reading:

The Cure by okapifeathers

Paradiso by okapifeathers

Caged Bird by FurFurKanga

Midnight’s Luck by Lrihgo

水曜日の月 by Lrihgo

List and link to 5 fanfiction authors who are amazing:

@zippyzapmeister, @nui-the-super-lesbian​, @jstonedd​, @mackinmacki​, @saberin​

Is there anyone in your fandom who really inspires you? Bonnie, really. She’s great, and sometimes I think she might be better than me.

What ship do you feel needs more attention? UmiNico, duh.

What is your all time favourite fanfic? Reimu Fights the Bad Guys of Adrkness, which is like a cross between Half Life: Full Life Consequences and Touhou.

If someone was to read one of your fanfics, which fic would you recommend to them and why? Sweeter than Chocolate, because that’s my favorite fluffy fic I’ve written and I’d like someone to descend slowly into futa hell.

Archive Of Our Own, Fanfiction.net or Tumblr - where do you prefer to post and why? While reviewers on FF.net tend to say more, the site itself is kind of shitty and there are a lot of problem users. I like how AO3′s rules are basically that you can post anything you want as long as you tag it properly, which means that you don’t get groups like Eliminator telling you that you’ve violated the community guidelines like they actually have any sort of power. And Tumblr? I only post on Tumblr out of a sense of obligation. Fuck this site.

Do you leave reviews when you read fanfiction? Why/Why not? Sometimes. Depends on my mood.

Do you care if people comment/reblog your writing? Why/why not? I would like comments/reblogs, but I like to think I’m above begging.

How did you get into reading and/or writing fanfiction? One day I just found FF.net. That’s it. It was that simple.

Rant or Gush about one thing you love or hate in the world of fanfiction! Go! There are…certain authors in the LL fandom, not naming names, who write things that everyone seems to love. But when I try to read their stuff, I don’t like it. And yet everywhere I go people are showering their fics with praise. Part of me wants to believe that everyone in this fandom just has shit taste, but I know that’s not true, so I wonder if I’m missing something in these fics.

[olusegundare]

BROTHER SAMSON & SISTER DEBBIE’S STORY CONTINUES

Sister Debbie writes on "what are your advices?" 2nd May 2012 As my spiritual son and his fianceé, Miss Shield drove off, I took "mai" lord's hand and arm-in-arm we are heading towards the main entrance of the fast food auditorium as we approached d door, d security @ d door opened d door for us and we walked in talking about his spiritual son."He is such a nice person", I said."Oh, Yea! That is him 4 u...He is a lively person to be with", "mai" lord said."Oh Yea! I can see dat u were much engrossed in your conversation with him", I said"You know it is getting close to a decade dat we parted. When we were 2geda he was such a nice person to me...he followed me everywia,...to d wilderness of prayers...valleys of prayers...mountains of prayers...he is my very good companion those days...when he wanted to leave, the only thing i did not do was crying, bc I knew I will miss his companionship greatly..." Broda Samson said."Uhm Uhm", I said...by now we have moved close to the counter where we will get the foods we have paid for...we bought tandoori, pies, and drinks...as we walked back to a corner designed for lovers...there is another private corner within the premises of the Fast Food Complex...there instant photographers there to put Lovers, and other people who may wish to remember, relive the events experienced at the complex days...years afterwards...so we went to this Lovers corner...there are about two love birds there also enjoying themselves...we also got for ourselves a place...sat down...to relax ourselves...after some days of separation...as he continued 2 talk abt his spiritual son..."I missed him greatly you know, bc he usually assist me when I was just starting my business...he will help me to market some of my goods...Wash some of my clothes and ironed them...go 2 d market to get me soup ingredients...cooked it...at some other times he will sleep @ my house...So, all these activities readily came to my mind when he left...""Unfortunately, I have not come into your life then" Debbie interjected."Oh Yeah! Quite unfortunate. Had I even known you then? Maybe, maybe not", He said."But, I have known you before that time," I said, as I put a meat in my mouth.""Eegun mọni ni, eniyan ni ko mọ eegun"" as he grasped my hand from taking anoda meat to my mouth..."you are even not a good lover"...and he signalled that I shoudl put the meat in his mouth as a sign of love..."Eyin o tile mo wipe e ti ndagba, awa omode loye ki a ma je eran", I said."Are u also believing what those "eyibos" are saying? How many of us ate meat when we were babies, when we were children? Few if there are...this is because, our parents will say, meats are for our parents, but not for children...so leave acedemic researches that is centered for the developed world for the developed world and let us live our life here, and live it to the best within our confines", he said..as he poured the drink into a wine cup...and put the cup into my mouth and said, "...gulp down the juice of love darling..."...I also did di same to him, as he continued his saying after gulping down the juice..."many people know me, but I do not know them then and even till now, some get annoyed when I do not greet them "specially", as such they usually call me to order, telling me where they know me from...and after hearing that, I usually apoligise and re-greet them, attaching some "speciality" to such greetings", he said."You have not greet me specially oh...that is partiality", I said."How special do you want my greetings to you to be again?" he inquired."As special as special can be now...even more than theirs", I said."I have been doing that all along and I will continue to do that", he said."Hun-hun-hun, (shaking my head like a baby) you have not been doing so, you need to start now", i said."Alright." He stood up from where he was, come to my side, embraced me...okay..."how is my parents, my lecturers, my friends...oh, how are the brethren?..."I was by now laughing...pat him by his side..."a ti gbọ sa, gbogbo wa wa lalafia ara"...I said"okay. Good. That is a tips of the iceberg of the greetings...more later", he said."Ẹ se sire! But honestly speaking, many people wouldnt know you considering the number of people you address weekly then, however some may have exchanged some greetings with you once, maybe after d programme and such people may think you have known dem, maybe dat is why dey think you are deliberately ignoring them" I said.said"That is it...That is what I also guessed is happening...but whenever anyone greets me after a programme and I answered, I immediately forget afterwards, how many faces will I commit to my memory? That is why it is not good to presume dat some people deliberately ignored you, sometimes those people may fix their gaze in d direction of d person, but d person may not be seeing d person not bc he is blind but bc the person's mind is elsewhere", he said. "That is true..."I said "That is why one may call d person & greet d person if one sees dat d person ought 2 greet one but d person does not, one should not assume dat d person ought to have seen u as such ought to greet", he said. "Many people have been embittered by dis, many have nursed ill feelings, ill thoughts to d oda person bc of dis which shdnt be", I said. "Yes, such shdnt be. I read an article & d man said, doing un2 odas wat one wants odas 2 do unto him/her includes one calling d person whom one thinks ought to greet 1st & bell the cat by being the 1st person to greet the person", he said. I nodded my head in support of what he said, "it is a good summation", I said. "My love, you have insisted we come here...which we have done, but you are yet 2 tell me what we are "washing"" Broda Samson said...I did not answer him immed8ly, as i kept on looking @ his face.."why are you looking at me like dat?" He asked. "I am appreciating God for sparing you, giving you me, that is why I am looking at you", I replied. "Oh thank God for that..but that has not answered my 1st question, whats up? What is d good news all about? Have you been promoted? Have you seen some of your results?" he inquired. "Nope. None of the above", I said. "Then wat is the goodnews about? A change of job to a beta one? Or have you received reply from baba @ home giving a nod to our relationship?" He asked. "Nope. It is none of what you guessed. But, I know Baba has no other option other than yielding to what I said in the leta. He is a simple man, he just want to be sure I am in safe hands thats all", I said. "Okay wat is it? I dont think I can guess again" He said, as he took my fingers and was playing with them,,."your nails are even dirty, d lecturers ought to be checking the nails of students these days", he said. "Itumo? Se a wa wa ni kindergaten (KG) ni tabi "primary school"?" I said. "Ki wa niyato eleyi ti e wa ati alakobere bayi?" He said. "E o mo iyato tabi? Ma gba ìka mi kuro lowo yin o", I said. ""Emi o ti mo iyato o" bc d nails of KG pupils are usually cleaner..but yours are dirty...Later, ti e ba bimọ, kini e fe ma so fun awon omo nyin ti eekanna won ko ba mọ?" He asked. "Eyin na laba nibe"" she said. "Lona wo o? Gbogbo enia e gba mi o", he said Smile..."" Awon wo ni yio gba nyin"? Where are they? Who dare come and un-nest this lover's birds nest dat we are in? Bi won ba ntan yin e ma tan ara nyin ko si enito le gba nyin kuro lowo mi nibiyi o...mo ti gbe nyin wa sibi oju olomo ko to o" i said. "I thank God my spiritual son knows I am here", he said. "Yes. He knows you are in the right hands"... "And whose hands, if I may ask? Interjectingly asking. "My hands ofcourse, he has sanctioned our being here together", I said smiling. "Then I will appeal to other authorities that I have been kidnapped..." "By?" i interjected. "By a beauty personified...by a star from a special planet...by "eyin-fun ju owo", by "ẹleyinju ege", by "ibadi aran", by spotless faced lady, by..." "Uhm! I think I shd be recording some of your words, it will make a good sales", I said "You want to add business to salary to academics "ni"? Jack of all trade mama", he said. "It is money we want...whatever legal means of getting it is acceptable globally", I said. "Kama fi oro sile soro", I hope u have not prepared anything for me @ home?" he asked. "Why do u ask?" I asked. "I asked bc of these dirty fingernails "ni", bc I wont eat it lest I eat micro-organisms and become infected", he said. "That will be good. We will give it to animals...but, before you talk further my nails got dirty as a result of the cleaning i did @ home", I said. "Has The cleaning said you should not trim your fingernails?" "Okay. "Se ibi ti ẹ nba ọrọ lọ niyẹn"?" I said. ""Ibẹ ni o"" He said. "Nigbati e o fi owo ti a o fi ra abefele ranse na ni a o fi ge ekana wa", I said. ""Laduru gbogbo owo ti a fi nranse yen""? "Photocopies, Lamination, printings, typesettings "ni gbogbo re ba lọ", I said. "Haa! Debbie mi! Wo epo lenu rẹ", he said. "There is no oil on my lips...", i stylishly took my handkerchief to clean my lips.. "No one sees the lips of liars bleeding", he said. "Well, I am not lying. I am just telling you dat my allocation needed to be increased”, I said said"Your prayers on me is not enof "na ni" bc d Gross Personnal Profit(GPP) is yet to be increased", he said "GPP yin ma increase "loruko Jesu"" we said "Amin" together. "Eyin na e je ki adura wa o gba lori yino.."I concluded. "" Iya aladura, adura yin ko ni ni idena lori wa o...so, what are we celebrating here?" he asked again. "You mean to tell me dat nothing crosses your mind as we are here sitted?" I asked. "Nope love. Nothing that I can think of", he said. "You did not remember any past thing that brought you here..", I asked again. "Sincerely, I do not...what do you think or know?" He asked. "Okay. "Mai" lordship sire. What happened to you when you were 44 years old that brought you here?" I asked "That should be few weeks before you came into my life... "Eh", I said interuptingly. ""Pause" me to think it out" "Se" you "don" become DVD player "ni"? I asked "Okay. Have you laid your hand on one of my diaries?" he asked. "Hun-hun", I said. ""O tile" serious. That one belongs to the past and it should be treated as such", he said "But what happened, something must have led you to its documentation", I said. "I wouldnt be too sure if there is any specific occurence that day, but generally speaking, anyone that is undergoing some trials do have a time when the thought of such things shall grip the person's heart beyond measure.. "Ehn-Ehn?" I said surprisingly. "Yes..and I think that was what happened that day, the thought of loneliness, going lonely all these years gripped my heart beyond measure that day to the extent of shedding tears...and after I cleaned my eyes, I decided to come here and relax...taking my heart off the issue generally..." "But can there be stimulus to such occurences?" I asked. "Yes, stimuli usually come via people's utterances...somtimes they may mock the person, sometimes they say it unintentionally, sometimes it is due to the manner of presentation by some other people which wil make the person undergoing the trial to think they are deriding him and thus it will pain the person...and depending on the person's threshold to issues, the person may weep or cry...lose appetite..become unsettled...lose focus etc", he said. "So, when such happens, what do you suggest such a person do?" I asked. "To such a one, I will advice she or he leave the spot...move to another spot where she or he will think less of such incident...try as best as she or he can to eat good food", he said. "Okay", I said. "Is this why you have brought us here?" He asked. "Not really..I just want to tell you that I am here for you forever and that there is no loneliness for you and I again till death do us part... May 3rd write upAfter leaving him, my fiancé, bro Samson, I became morbidly restless on my student bed, as I turned left, I think of him, when I tried 2 sit, I think of him, wat could have been d matter? I left him few hours ago...I could neither do anything substantial nor close my eyes in sleep...so I decide 2 come off d bed n sit down 2 pen down something 4 him...Here is what i wrote:When my heart was failing, I couldnt think straight, Just then some1 entered,The entrance of the person, Into d room I was, Illumine d room,The illumination, drives off darkness, And I could see, though dimly, Everything in d roomThings in d room, Yea, in my immediate n distant vicinity, Were afore unseen by meAs I withing me thank God, And my stars For d illuminer, Then, I also speak 2 God in my mind,What I uttered in my mind, Was not a mono-traffic, as I abinitio thought, Because d person actually comes to where I wasThe touch of d person brings me relief, The odour of his body is like a Nasal decongestant As my breathing returns to normal, The shadow of his presence wipes away Perspiration all over me The over-bearing burden on me, Becomes lighten by the Person's smile The Person's word is not a tingling to my ear, As it sets vibrating d oscicles n labrythyn of my ear, which orientate my disorientations As I began 2 wonder, Then a finger touched my lips, And yet some other fingers were on my foreheadWords that followed were those of love, Such wordings that I have ever longed for, Wordings that I have ever prayed for, Wordings that I have ever hoped for-Igniting words of love. As if by permutations and combinations, The subsequent followings are, Nostrils to nostrils; Breath to Breath, Mouth to mouth... The dying heart has been given a drug, Acetycholine has been infused into d cardiac muscles, Rescurcitation has occured, The collapsing mind is deeply subsumed, In the oceans of care, affection, warmth and Love, The pulse of the mind is nay collapsing anylonger The failing heart fled, The dimmy eyes become lightened, I became well again... Oh, bro Samson my love, Since, I opened the door of my life 4 your entrance, I have always been envied by all What can I do for you my love? What can I give my love? How can I express my love 2 you? I summarize my love 4 you in the common Yoruba sayings; "àkèré wipe kàkà ti ohun ko fi ni dun ọbẹ̀ tapà-titan ohun ni yo lọ sí i" (meaning a triped frog with smooth skin says "for me not to be rich in soup, my fore and hind limbs will go for it") and this biblical sayings, where you die, I have decided to die... In me, you shall ever find irreplace-able love and lover... Loving you now and always. -Debbie, written in d year of amnesties. NOTE: As I said before I used Yoruba interjections, i have bring out those words that may be clumsy and obscure to you and interpreted them here...Here are the meanings of the words beneath: "mai" -It is a special word coined out for this special story and it means "mine or my" everywia,-Everywhere Eegun mọni ni, eniyan ni ko mọ eegun- Yoruba Proverb meaning, Masquerades know people, but people do not know the masquerade (The masquerade usually put on several clothes as well as cover their faces with their eyes open like Muslim women, so masquerades can see and recognize people but people cannot recognise them because of the paraphernalia on them) "Eyin o tile mo wipe e ti ndagba, awa omode loye ki a ma je eran"- Yoruba word said by the lady (Sister Debbie) meaning don't you know you are getting old? It is those of us who are young who ought to be eating meat eyibos -Means the whites (Scadinavians, Caucasians etc) a ti gbọ sa, gbogbo wa wa lalafia ara" -We have heard you sir. We all are in sound health dey -they dat -that odas -others bc-because anoda-another Ẹ se-Thank you wat -What broda -Brother baba/Baba -Father Itumo?Se a wa wa ni kindergaten (KG) ni tabi "primary school" -Meaning? Are we in Kindergarten or primary school? "Ki wa niyato eleyi ti e wa ati alakobere bayi?" -What is the difference of where you are and those in KG/Primary school? "E o mo iyato tabi? Ma gba ìka mi kuro lowo yin o"- don't you know the difference? I will retrieve/take away my finger from your hand Emi o ti mo iyato o-I am yet to know the difference ti e ba bimọ, kini e fe ma so fun awon omo nyin ti eekanna won ko ba mọ?-When you give birth, what shall you be telling your children when they keep their nails and the nails get dirty Eyin na laba nibe-You are behind it "Lona wo o? Gbogbo enia e gba mi o-How? Everybody come to my rescue oh Awon wo ni yio gba nyin"-Who are those who will rescue you from me? Bi won ba ntan yin e ma tan ara nyin ko si enito le gba nyin kuro lowo mi nibiyi o...mo ti gbe nyin wa sibi oju olomo ko to o-If you are being lied to or deceive, do not deceive yourself for I have taken you to a place where parents can neither monitor you nor deliver you from me eyin-fun ju owo-Teeth that is Whiter than money ẹleyinju ege",-Beautiful and inviting eyes "ibadi aran"-Beautiful buttocks ni-or what? "Se ibi ti ẹ nba ọrọ lọ niyẹn"?"-Is that where you are going? or is that what you want to imply? or is that what you want to get at in your word? ""Ibẹ ni o"" - Yes, that is where i am going "Nigbati e o fi owo ti a o fi ra abefele ranse na ni a o fi ge ekana wa", - It is because you have not sent the money to buy blade or nail cutters that is why i have neither cut nor trim my nails ""Laduru gbogbo owo ti a fi nranse yen" - Upon all the monies I have sent? ni gbogbo re ba lọ", - Where did all go or on what did you spend all? "Haa! Debbie mi! Wo epo lenu rẹ", - Ha! My Debbie! Look at palm oil at the edge of your lips (It is a word saying somebody is lying) enof -Enough "na ni -that is itloruko Jesu"" - In Jesus name "Amin" -Amen. "Eyin na e je ki adura wa o gba lori yino.." - You should also let our (or my) prayers be answered on you oh "" Iya aladura, adura yin ko ni ni idena lori wa o - Praying woman, your prayer would not have hinderances on us Se - Is it that (Insert these interpretations there and you will understand the story line... The story is about a Christian brother whom I give the name of Samson, a good Christian brother who finds it hard becoming engaged despite the fact that he has grown old and is ripe to be engaged.... After a while he talked to a lady, Debbie (Deborah) who is far younger than him, and the lady agreed and they started the courtship... It is a LOVE STORY, fictitious)

[thecosydragon]

My latest blog post from the cosy dragon: Interview with E. A. Barker

An Interview with E. A. Barker, author of Ms. Creant: The Wrong Doers!

  E. A. Barker believes he is an average guy in mid-life who has led a mostly average life. His readers may not agree with his assessment. The single biggest difference between him and most other people is his pursuit of knowledge. Throughout his life he never stopped asking the simplest question: Why? E. A. describes himself as a collector of ideas and a purveyor of dot connections. He attempts to present his findings in an entertaining fashion in an effort to encourage people to read—especially men who are reading far too little these days. E. A is an advocate of education for its ability to affect social reform and actively promotes the idea that a global conscience is possible.

COZY DRAGON INTERVIEW

 Everyone has a ‘first novel’, even if many of them are a rough draft relegated to the bottom and back of your desk drawer (or your external hard-drive!). Have you been able to reshape yours, or have you abandoned it for good?

(E. A. laughs.) It’s crap! I write narrative non-fiction partially because my ability to write quality dialog is so lacking in my opinion. I am reasonably certain I am at least decent at what I do. Ms. Creant ‘s mission was to challenge the beliefs of the reader so that we might change and grow as humans. This is a niche which I believe best suits my abilities.

Some authors are able to pump out a novel a year and still be filled with inspiration. Is this the case for you, or do you like to let an idea percolate for a couple of years in order to produce a quality book? 

I admire prolific writers who can produce quality works time and time again. For me, it does not come so easily. I suppose my percolation happens during the extensive research phase, which in the case of this book, represented a one year period.

I have heard of writers that could only write in one place – then that cafe closed down and they could no longer write! Where do you find yourself writing most often, and on what medium (pen/paper or digital)?

Wow. Your first sentence supports my working theory that we writers are merely scribes channeling the thoughts of some other entity. This is probably not the place to get all weirdly metaphysical so I will move on to the question at hand. I can write wherever I can make my body comfortable and where there is little distraction or noise. Paper notes always litter my workspace, if not the entire room, until such time as they are compiled by section into my trusty old HP laptop.

Before going on to hire an editor, most authors use beta-readers. How do you recruit your beta-readers, and choose an editor? Are you lucky enough to have loving family members who can read and comment on your novel?

I have never been clear on how the literary world uses some terminology. My scientific background tells me to speak of alpha readers first. To me, the process is as follows: 1) I produce a very rough draft which is then read by alpha readers whose sole job it is to blow sunshine up my butt so that I can find the courage to continue. In my case, it was my hairdresser. 2) I then read, revised, re-read, revised . . .  until I realized I was stuck in an endless loop and had to seek professional help. 3) Enter my editor—who I picture in my head as Ilsa of the SS—she is what I believe to be my beta-reader. Laura had no trouble telling me how I had gone off course (content editing); nor did she lose any sleep over pointing out my embarrassing grammatical errors; and I believe she rejoiced in highlighting the literally thousands of typos and punctuation errors. This is what makes her good. Her ability to completely devastate any ego the writer in you had developed, will either force you to be better, or quit. Badly shaken, I chose the former. I made massive revisions which fleshed out ideas, supplied answers, and ultimately resulted in three additional chapters. The most observant of readers might see where I ended the book on three separate occasions. She was recruited by writing a cheque. 4) The gamma reader was my proof-reader who line edited (a.k.a. copy edited) the manuscript prior to publication. She only found another five hundred or so mistakes in punctuation as well as missing words I just could not see when I read those sentences. She was recruited through a negotiated exchange of services and the promise of a signed hardcover.

I walk past bookshops and am drawn in by the smell of the books – ebooks simply don’t have the same attraction for me. Does this happen to you, and do you have a favourite bookshop? Or perhaps you are an e-reader fan… where do you source most of your material from?

I LOVE PAPER BOOKS! It is easy to understand people who like digital books though; they can buy books for far less money and could carry their entire library with them at all times. There is a danger that we should be discussing in the digital revolution we are in the midst of. I USE LIBRARIES to source most information. Libraries have always been the keepers and conservators of knowledge. Budget cutbacks combined with limited shelf space are leading many libraries into e-book information technology systems where the librarian will no longer be the curator. Whosoever controls “the cloud” will then control all knowledge. We must continue to encourage a balance between paper and digital books or we risk quickening our fall into a dystopian nightmare.

Oh my! Asking an author if they have a favorite bookstore is leading them to potential career suicide. ANY bookstore that carries or recommends Ms. Creant: The Wrong Doers! is a favorite of mine. I do however frequent a local used bookshop in the Beaches area of Toronto near my home.

I used to find myself buying books in only one genre (fantasy) before I started writing this blog. What is your favourite genre, and do you have a favourite author who sticks in your mind from:

childhood? Jules Verne

adolescence? Frank Herbert

young adult? Robert Heinlein

adult? Hemingway? I am now trying to read the greats across previously unexplored genres including poetry—something I would never have done when I was younger.

Social media is a big thing, much to my disgust! I never have enough time myself to do what I feel is a good job. What do you do? 

Social media is a massive time suck that keeps us from writing. I would like a PA to take it over but I have yet to have a quality unpaid one offer to do so.

This is my approach:

Facebook is number one in terms of users. If you are willing to track people down and stay engaged with them, it can be powerful. Therein lies the time suck factor—engagement. Facebook goes out of their way to minimize your reach. Only 3 to 7% of your friends and followers will see some of your posts regularly.

Twitter is second in terms of users; limited in terms of post length, but UNLIMITED in terms of reach—all your followers and all selected hash-tags receive your posts, you can tweet @ anyone on twitter and they do not put you in jail for over engagement.

I tweet daily and send the tweet to both my facebook profile and my author page. In theory you could do this in 30 minutes per day but you would not have the all important needed engagement with other people.

Not long ago, I found statistics which clearly showed you really only need to be engaging on Fridays and Saturdays. This opens the door to time suck savings by posting (a.k.a. updating status) each day, but engaging just on those two days.

Understanding the value of any marketing effort is often difficult to measure in immediate sales—social media is epitome of this. After two years of working social media an average of three hours per day, seven days a week, 360ish days per year, I will tell you its value cannot be measured monetarily. When I attempt to do this, the numbers make me feel foolish.

$0.03 is what I have been paid per hour.

30 minutes is invested in each follower.

Followers rarely buy your book but about 1% will.

You will get 0.1% response from a twitter campaign.

My RATIONALIZATION for continuing at all is I committed to this for two years–one year leading up to this release (the building phase), and one year of promoting the book after release. I assure you there will be a massive scaling down of social media work once the book has its first birthday.

So what are the positives?

You gain a handful of digital pen pals from around the world—priceless.

A good percentage of initial sales and reviews will come from people you meet on facebook.

It is the digital equivalent of flyer distribution and it is free, if you do not count your time.

About 50% of blogger interest came through social media channels.

The best alternative to social media marketing is REAL WORLD marketing but you must be an extroverted salesperson to do this, and many writers are not. Some will have costs which can quickly add up.

E-mail campaigns have netted the greatest amount of interest thus far with about a 10% response rate. This is literally 100 times better than social media and introverts can do it.

Direct mail promotion to independent bookshops and libraries seems to generate interest.

Attend book fairs and sell signed copies.

Public speaking is always an opportunity to sell books.

Pitch indie bookstores and other merchants on buying or displaying consignment copies of your book.

Send out review copies to literary critics. Most will not give you the time of day, but just one published positive review from these people can make a career.

Links to: Twitter Facebook

Answering interview questions can often take a long time! Tell me, are you ever tempted to recycle your answers from one to the next? 

Your questions were thought provoking and multifaceted so I could not cheat. We are faced with some stock questions which cause us to reiterate answers. I have yet to copy and paste an answer, but who knows what the future may bring.

Ms. Creant: The Wrong Doers!

This book was created for everyone from young adults to seniors. It was written from a male’s point of view, speaking to men who are endlessly struggling to understand the opposite sex. For women, this is a fascinating journey inside the male psyche. The book gives a young reader a glimpse of the future, with a recommended time-line for key life events. Mature readers, who have already experienced much of what is discussed in the book, should come away with a new found understanding and perhaps even closure. Ms. Creant is a controversial, entertaining, yet informative look at everything which influences human behaviour including: relationships, life, health, biology, philosophy, sociology, theology, politics, genetics—even physics. E. A. Barker shares twenty-four “inappropriate” stories of life with women. The author based these stories of women behaving badly on his real life experiences, spanning four decades of his search for an ideal partner. The lessons taken away from the book will serve to help readers make better choices, become more aware, grow and change—at any stage of life.

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