#please note he is bound on his knees before her while thinking this

[miceenscene]

New book off to a VERY strong start 👀

[lorelune]

cicatrix

|| jing yuan x reader || E/18+ || hurt/comfort, cathartic smut || wc: 21.5k  || ao3 ||

Both you and Jing Yuan are known to put well-being aside for the sake of others. You reckon with it.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

notes: i've been COOKING!!!! please enjoy this very cathartic, gooey oneshot 😩💕!!!!! jing yuan is so beloved and getting to chew on him and his character makes me wanna roll around and scream (positive). thank you so much to bee (@suguwu) for talking this piece out w me each step of the way and andy (@andypantsx3) for a so helpful final read through 🥺🩷 read and enjoy loves!!!

CW: reader is referred to with they/them pronouns and afab anatomy, author-created lore & worldbuilding, reader visibly loses weight due to bodily stress, general talk of weight and bodies, reference to pain during intimacy, a single pregnancy joke made entirely in jest

“You should go see him.”

This is not the first time Diviner Fu has told you this. It’s actually the third time. It’s her third time attempting to have this particular conversation with you, one which you are becoming increasingly adept at parrying around. 

“Who?” You lie. You already know who.

“The General?” Fu Xuan sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “He’s awake, you know. Barely. But he has asked for you. Both while he was mostly unconscious and since he’s regained his lucidity. Go see him.”

“I’ll pass.” You shift on your knees with a heavy thump. Bone on metal. “Besides, can’t you, of all people, see I am hard at work here? I don’t exactly have the time for personal visits at the moment.”

That is not a lie. That is a steadfast truth. One both you and Fu Xuan, as the Master Calibrator and the Master Diviner respectively, fully understand.

Fu Xuan has sought you out deep within the Luofu’s inner structure. Far below the sprawl of metal-plated cities and neighborhoods, are the catacomb intestines you’ve been toiling in for... sometime now. Since whenever the Lord Ravager harnessed the Arbor, and the roots of a dead tree powered by an Aeon mutilated the Luofu’s most delicate innards. Innards you need to fix, rather than having frustrating conversations with Lady Fu.

You tap around on the interface on your wrist-bound jade abacus and curse. Your fingers are newly calloused, irritated at the tips from all of the poking and prodding you’ve had to do. You dip your hands into one of the opened buckets fastened to your belt, pulling forth when you’re sticky with iridescent sludge that slowly drips down your wrist like thick syrup. 

Returning to the utility panel you were previously working on before being interrupted, you tinker with a few of its delicate dials. All thrown off by the overabundance of... Abundance and the physical impact of the roots growth, deeper in the Luofu’s structure. You concentrate and thread quantum with the sap on your hands, trying to coax the machines into a more stable stasis. 

“At least consider it.” Fu Xuan says. Technically, she could order you, as she is on some administrative level, your superior and (from what you last heard) the acting General of the Luofu while the Divine Foresight has been indisposed. And yet, she does not force you. 

“Fine. I’ll consider it— if and when the Luofu is running diagnostic assessments with an average above fourty.”

“That’s— somewhat agreeable. But, I do think you’re being entirely—”

“Foolish?” You interrupt her with a laugh.

“Childish.” Fu Xuan taps her foot. The sound bounces around the narrow passageway, rattling into your skull. “Can the two of you not talk like adults and settle things?”

“I’m not sure what there is to ‘settle’ with him, Lady Fu.” You twitch your index and pinky finger at the same time. The internals sing, a hymn you know, the chord is a step or two too low— fucker. “He did something supremely stupid, and I am working.”

“That’s an obtuse way to look at things, and you know it.”

“In what way?” You crack open your eyes. You hadn’t realized you’d shut them. You’re sure they’re bloodshot. “What do you think about the General’s actions in subduing the Lord Ravager, Lady Fu?”

“I do believe he was reckless— as reckless as that man allows himself to be.” Fu Xuan has clearly thought about this before. Frustration pinches in her voice. “But it was not without the results.”

“So calculated recklessness is fine if, in the worst case, you end up as the Luofu’s next Arbiter General?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“I am.” You say, sighing. Anger prickles under your skin. This is all easier to deal with (read: ignore) if you focus on the ship and its internals. Its stupid, destroyed, obliterated internals. “I apologize.”

“When was the last time you slept?” Fu Xuan asks.

“... Yesterday? Probably?” There’s no daylight. You conserve battery life on your various devices by keeping screens dim, so you don’t know the hour. Time has felt liquid for some time now.

“I could take over.” Fu Xuan suggests.

“You still have a ship to run, I assume. Unless the Divine Foresight was so eager to get back to work already.”

“... Tasks can be delegated accordingly.”

“It’s not necessary.” You shake your head. “I mean this as no slight, but the rate at which you would be able to complete repairs and calibrations would be at the same rate at which the ship’s fail-safes and functions are degrading. It isn’t worth it.”

Perhaps, under different circumstances, Fu Xuan would squawk at you for discounting her skills as a calibrator so quickly. She is trained, not to your degree or expertise, but in a pinch, she can complete repairs, hear the chords, see the quantum maps required to keep the Luofu and its many delicate parts and pieces functioning accordingly. 

However, the Luofu’s current circumstances do not constitute a ‘pinch’ and rather a ‘once-in-an-era disaster that nearly killed the long-lived, beloved General, destroyed the longstanding Creation Furnace, revealed the previous disgraced High Elder of the Vidhaydara, nearly reawoke the Ambrosial Arbor’. And, as Jing Yuan had told you in confidence— “It’s a Stellaron.”

And hence, you and your expertise are best-suited for the task of repairing the insides of the Luofu. 

“... Even still.” She says somewhat gravely. “This is unsustainable.”

“I recognize that.” And you do, childish avoidance of the General aside. “Once the ship’s up to forty percent attuned, the diagnostic algorithms attached to the internal citrine abaci should stabilize and begin to re-establish a self-healing cycle. At which point, my manual diagnostics and repairs will no longer be necessary at the level at which I’m completing them now.”

“What percentage attuned is the Luofu at, as of now?”

“... Twenty-seven.” This is, technically, the truth. 

(However, you have little confidence in that number, as it fluctuates heavily based on time of day and your own location within the tunnels and mechanical catacombs. You imagine this may be due to any number of things— there may be a gamma leak down deeper, where the radiation sponges are not as effective. There could still be creatures and roots of Abundance, alive in the passageways, wreaking havoc on the systems in real time. The diagnostic systems themselves could be failing, or at the very least damaged, which means that prescribing a number at all to the Luofu’s condition is a stupid idea to begin with—)

Fu Xuan says your name sharply.

“Yes?” 

“... I’m worried.”

“That’s probably for the best.” You wish there was more sympathy in your voice, but it sounds cold and outside of your body. 

(You’re so tired.)

Fu Xuan sighs, and drops to her knees next to you, peering in one the copper box you’ve been wrist deep in for the better part of ten minutes. Distractions slow down the process so immensely. 

“Your reasoning is sound, and I understand that this isn’t entirely some ploy to skirt around the General’s requests to see you.” Fu Xuan hands you a small pendant, cut of purple stone and lit from the inside out. “Please, wear this. It will transmit your vital signs and location to a monitor on the surface.”

You blanch, “Is this for you, or the General?”

“For the Divination Commission on paper.” Fu Xuan loops it around your neck. “You’re the only Master Calibrator on the Luofu. To lose track of you, or lose you, would be dire. It will also assuage some of the General’s anxieties and keep him from pestering me about you.

“The general, anxious?” You throw back your head with a laugh and withdraw your hands from the paneling. The sludge has liquified further, more mucus-y now as it drips down your forearms. You wipe away what remains with a well-used rag from your belt. “I’ve never known Jing Yuan to be anxious.”

“He is now.” Fu Xuan says simply. “Or, as much as he allows himself to be. I am not interested in delving into the General’s psychology, but I am interested in keeping you in decent condition. That pendant has an emergency function. If you tap it three times, it’ll send a distress signal with your location.”

You want to say that that’s ‘unnecessary’, but you know that’s your bad mood. There’s a reason why Fu Xuan made this journey, alone, and is speaking to you so frankly. There are bags under her eyes too.

“Thank you, Fu Xuan.” You say, softly, kinder than you have been. 

Despite your grime, perhaps mutual, you wrap your arms around her shoulders and squeeze. She hugs you back and deflates, if only for a moment.

...

The Luofu’s utility organs are built downwards, filling what would be considered the ‘hull’ of the ship, until you hit the Hall of Karma. There’s insulation between the ship’s most vital part and the weary souls of the departed, which provides you some comfort as you must descend deeper and deeper. 

The Luofu is as much a ship as it is a planet— a live ecosystem, adapted to fit the various immortals who call it home. The bowels of the Luofu are truthfully a combination of metal and plant matter— dirt and mechanical roots meant to hold the ground in one piece around you. Much of the organic matter of the ship is covered behind metal plating, lest risking a collapse.

Most of the damage you must tinker to fix occurs in the small, delicate panels that are placed in the walls every ten meters or so. They’re nondescript, mostly. Surrounded by a few various dials— a few circular meters are faded and out of use (relics from when the Luofu left its parent civilization, millenia ago), and a port to sync up a jade abacus to for more detailed readings.

Most of the data is slop to someone without training.

Even with training, your exhaustion is making the various numbers, symbols, and graphs feel like slop. 

The panel can be disconnected with a small, quill-looking tool (there’s only a small amount left on the Luofu, maybe twenty in total. The head of the tool is carved from an old, red stone, burnt in an old fire by a forgemaster long dead. You keep track of your handful diligently, lest you lose them without another smith to make them.) Once the utility panel is pried off, it reveals a suspended layer of liquid, far deeper than it looks. If you really tried, you probably could fit your entire arm in and still have depth.

Suspended in the liquid are the mechanisms that truly run the Luofu. It’s hard to describe how they fit together. It takes an affinity for quantum, a century (or three) of training, to make sense of how to parse together the ship's parts. The parts are various small machines, crystals, living ecosystems bound into balls and sustained by astrosynthesis beyond this world.

You’re used to the awe of it.

Along your waist, you carry several pots of stellar lubricant. The grease provides... some amount of slip when poking around in it yourself. It resonates with the quantum and allows you to see the stretches of energy that allow the ship to run as it does. Tender leylines, woven threads, songs and hymns that are of many familiar beats and melodies. 

Everything slips together as you pull yet another panel from a wall. The mechanisms sing out of tune, in dissonant chords, off-beat in the wrong time signature.

You dunk your hands into the lubricant, ignoring the slowly erupting burns on your forearms from over-exposure.

You shove your hands into the wall. You work. You fix. 

...

Not so long ago, you and Fu Xuan were not the only two Calibrator on the Xianzhou Alliance’s Luofu. There had been an apprentice in the Divination Commission who was studying, seeking mastery, just as you yourself had. They were more skilled than Lady Fu in the arts of calibration. You think they hailed from the Yaoqing. They were soft, gentle-hearted and young by the standards of Xianzhou natives.

So perhaps, this is why they became Marastruck in the mouth of one of the utility tunnels after seeing footage of the Divine Foresight being dragged unconscious and limp into the apothecary. Gingko leaves tearing their skin, an unholy sob turning to a shriek to cut the air. You were lucky the transformation occurred while you were above ground, and a patrol of Cloud Knights was nearby.

You’re probably lucky that you hadn’t (haven’t) succumbed to Mara. If you were a few centuries younger and less trained in the arts of meditation, you might have been swallowed up like the apprentice had been.

Jing Yuan, for all of his many games and schemes and tricks, radiates the air of someone almost infallible. He is not perfect; he has never been one for edges that are too manicured. He’s far more content dozing the afternoon away or taking a stroll through one of his gardens than hosting war-meetings. He prefers to wear plain clothes to the market in hopes he will not be recognized (though, he always is). 

But, he is strong and remarkably difficult to phase or bother in any setting. On more than one occasion, you’ve spent the evening trying to rile him up and get him to pounce, but the General is always content to watch your attempts with a lazy smile on his face. Content to sweetly watch you struggle in getting under his skin. He may be affected, but he is hard to break. If he does, it is with such grace that you wouldn’t have any idea he did break, and it feels as if you’ve somehow slipped, rather than him. He is cunning and sure-footed in a way that you can’t help but admire. 

You’re not the only one to feel that way.

(Though, you’re the only one who shares a bed with him. So.)

The Xianzhou has little place for legends, yet Jing Yuan is old enough and well-thought of enough to have become one. So, you cannot blame the apprentice for falling to Mara. Not when they, and the rest of the Luofu, saw a legend buckle at the knees. 

...

You were right about diagnostics being inaccurate. However, the reason was a mix of your two initial hypotheses. 

Parts of the diagnostic system, deep and low within the Luofu’s internal organs, had been damaged. Radiation leaks from the core of the ship, usually held back by sponges and filters, was drifting upward to damage any number of sensors and organic processes keeping the Luofu operational.

(All useless details really, none of it makes sense anymore. The ship is fucked. You must fix it.)

And you have been fixing it. 

You reek of stellar lubricant, skin stained pearly and glittery under the fluorescent lights that dot the tunnels. Your eyes ache; it’s gotten quite difficult to focus them. You’re lucky that there’s occasional spigots tapped into the walls, with some type of freshwater flowing from them, even if it does take awhile for any liquid to run. They probably haven’t been used in decades— maybe centuries. Most of the internals of the Luofu heal and repair on their own. 

A calibrator would only need to step-in in the case of a calamity.

Time has gotten slippery. Though you send up status reports (of varying quality) through your wrist-bound jade abacus, you can’t say it’s on a schedule. You do them when you have the mental fortitude to craft something acceptable for the Divination Commission to scoff at. 

You’re tired, maybe.

There are some mediary chambers between levels. Old, dust-covered rooms with a cot and some rations. Though you raid the ones you come across for emergency food stores, you don’t stay to sleep. You usually keel over on the metal flooring with your outermost robe thrown over you like a blanket. Your pillow is your own folded hands. 

It’s viciously uncomfortable, but you find sleeping difficult regardless. The offensively bright grow lights are sensitive to flesh life, and will not turn off in your presence. The floor is sometimes searingly warm, sometimes ice cold. If you stop working, your own thoughts threaten to swallow you whole. You only achieve sleep in brief moments, perhaps a few hours at a time, when you’re entirely spent. 

It is unpleasant sleep. A mix of recent horrors and faraway comforts.

(You initially heard from Fu Xuan what Jing Yuan had done.)

(Shortly after, footage was posted of the Divine Foresight, unconscious and being dragged across the Luofu for medical attention. Jing Yuan was entirely unresponsive and cradled in the arms of the Vidharayda’s... reawoken? Returned? (You stay out of Lizard Politics.) (Regardless, it still burns.))

(There’s chaos in the sounds captured on the video, the shocked, disbelieving voices.)

(You had turned off your phone (you have still yet to turn it back on) and dragged the apprentice to the tunnels. You ignored their crumbled expression and all of their disbelief. It would not serve either of you— anyone— in that moment. This was foolish of you.)

(You remember your apprentice and how their panic grew to Mara so quickly. How they looked sick to their stomach, braced against one of the entrances to the tunnels of the catacombs, clutching their skull. You urged them forward, begged them to hurry— that the diagnostics were grave. You could see the gnarled roots of the arbor already having penetrated some of the ancillary walls.)

(They looked so scared as they were swallowed by Mara. Eyes flashing scarlet, gingko leaves spilling from their mouth as they screamed. Flesh tearing to be healed wrong seconds later. Beautiful silk robes torn to shreds, body mutilated from the inside out.)

(They’d lunged at you, howling, and you’d barely side-stepped them. You ran to a patrol of Cloud Knights, overworked and clearly battleworn themselves and exhausted. Regardless, they took down your apprentice. Cut them at the back of the knees, called a Judge, dragged them off to the Hall of Karma.)

You dream of Jing Yuan often.

Sometimes, these dreams are awful.

Lady Fu had told you to visit him, prior to your initial descent into the catacombs. She said he was unconscious and battered. He would certainly recover; the General is particularly hearty. She urged you to see him in the Alchemy Commission. She said this as if Jing Yuan hadn’t just thrown himself in front of a being that rivaled some Aeons. She said this as if the Luofu wasn’t a few mechanical failures away from ceasing function and you were the only one aboard the Luofu able to stop it with any efficiency.

You dream of Jing Yuan being lanced through with his own guandao. You dream of him falling to the stone of Scalegorge Waterscape, eyes blooming red, and ginkgo leaves erupting from his shoulders. You dream of him mutilated beyond belief by beings so much more powerful than either of you. You dream of having to watch a patrol of Cloud Knights pin him to the ground as Mara consumes him.

Sometimes, the dreams are pleasant.

The worst are those where you think you have woken up in bed with him. Mimi purrs at the foot of his stupid, indulgently large bed. Your cheek is pressed to his chest, warm and alive and okay, and he rumbles some laugh when you seem confused. He asks if you’d like breakfast. A bath. You should go to the markets together, shouldn’t you?

You dream of his body next to yours. Well and whole and intertwined.

You prefer to be awake; it allows you to feel like you have some semblance of control over your own mind. 

Horrors crop up into the forefront of your mind without warning often. Staying focused on your repairs helps you. Grounding yourself in the sting of the lubricant over your skin keeps your thoughts closer to the material, rather than the intangible fears that threaten to swallow you whole. 

Leaving only you to your work. Fixing. 

You wipe sweat from your brow, uncaring of the grease that smears across your skin and clumps in your hair. The panel in front of you is being particularly fuzzy. The parts are old. The impact from the Arbors sudden growth had damaged the delicate nature of the mechanisms. 

So, you tinker away.

Quantum threading, weaving, unraveling, trying again. And again, and again.

Your head pounds.

...

At some point, when checking your jade abacus, the diagnostic percentages have stopped going down. They’re actually going up, steadily and on their own.

You don’t believe it at first, but after... a while of keeping an eye on it, it doesn’t appear to be a fluke. Functionality is hovering around thirty-three percent, unfailingly, and rising a percentage every day or so. The panels you check appear to be healing themselves as well, albeit slowly. Thin, vermillion tendrils snake around in the oil to poke and prod as you have. Albeit, it’s not enough, but it provides a kernel of respite nonetheless.

Coincidentally, you run out of stellar lubricant around this same time as well.

The only option (as you’ve already pilfered the stores you’ve come across) is to ascend back to the surface of the Luofu and fetch more from the Artisanship Commission. 

You feel delirious when you rise fully and stretch your arms above your head. Your hands knock into the metal ceiling as your back cracks in at least four different places. Your knees ache. Your legs have long since cramped up. You feel stiff down to your bones, but you separate from the feeling. You must, there’s more important things to worry about. 

Ascending the catacombs is difficult. You hadn’t... realized quite how deep you’d gone for repairs. It takes quite some time to climb the thin utility ladders and weave the correct path upwards. You’re slowed by gravity and your own lethargy. The exertion takes its toll quickly, but you ignore it. You have a task to complete. 

(Your body's slick with sweat. Your vision threatens to tunnel.)

Perhaps you’ll pick up some proper rations as well. The nutritional power you had pilfered from the tunnel’s stores probably isn’t meant to be consumed in the long term. 

You come to surface through a shrouded doorway in a residential neighborhood. It’s warm, temperate as the Luofu usually is. There’s a pleasant breeze and the smell of grass and water in the air. It’s a sharp contrast to the metallic tang of oil and lubricant that you’re slicked with.

You try to think little of it. Artisanship Commission. 

On your way, you get the occasional odd stare. A child points at you. You, perhaps, are covered in grime and attribute any gawking to that. Maybe? You’re due for a bath. Though with all the errands it appears you need to run, do you really have time for one? 

There’s a shop on the edge of the Artisanship Commission you duck into. The shopkeeper is speaking to another customer at the counter, but goes silent when you give him a friendly wave. You’re a regular here, after all. 

You grab as much of the lubricant as you can carry in your arms and place it on the counter, poking around in your pocket for your... phone. It’s probably out of battery.

“Could you put this on the Divination Commission’s tab?” You ask him. “It’s being used for official business.”

The shopkeeper is still looking at you, wide-eyed. Mouth hanging open. He stiffly nods and rings you up. 

Odd.

You think little of it. He slowly loads your jars into an old crate and hands it to you. 

“Be well.” You say on the way out. The shopkeeper does not reply. 

The interaction leaves you with a vague sense of unease. 

That feeling mounts the more you realize that people are looking at you, as you make your way to Aurum Alley for rations. One woman even tries to stop you, but you wave her off. You need to—

Get rations. Maybe take a shower. Descend again because there’s no way the systems can be sustained and heal fast enough on their own. You must work, you must toil.

And you mustn’t visit Jing Yuan.

Not yet. Not until you can forget how he looked, slack and half-dead in the arms of his men. Perhaps you should forget the face of the returned High Elder as well. You’ve— you’ve put together that he and Jing Yuan have some type of history. You know from the whisperings that the man saved Jing Yuan. 

(You can’t ever save him. You are not a fighter. You’re a well-paid mechanic.)

Rations.

You’re stopped before you ever are three steps into Aurum Alley by a group of Cloud Knights.

“Halt.” One of them says, raising her weapon. 

“... Pardon?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. The crate in your arms is too heavy for this. “Can I help you?”

“Please wait,” the tip of her guandao shines, “you are the Divination Commission’s Master Calibrator, correct?”

“... Yes?” You sigh. “I apologize, but I must get past you. I’m on official business. Supply run.” 

The Knight rotates her blade to the butt of it against your chest, applying light pressure. Holding you there, tucked between several buildings and fairly out of sight. Your stomach drops. 

“I can’t allow that.” 

“... Excuse me?”

You’re about ready to snap at the nervous-looking knight once more, but you’re interrupted. The sound of quick feet over stone stops behind you and frigid air begins to spill down your neck. You turn your head painfully over your shoulder. 

Yanqing, the fierce little thing, is poised behind you, spitting steam and frost. His gold eyes are angry, teeth bared. He looks exhausted. 

“You are being detained,” he says, angry and sharp.

“What?” You snap, turning to face him. He looks ready to raise his blade against you, hand twitching at his waist. That’s not your concern at this moment. “Yanqing— what are you—”

Yanqing’s eyes are shiny and wet.

Oh.

“You’re being detained by order of the Divine Foresight.” He says, voice unwavering despite the tears beading against his lower lashes. 

...

Yanqing seems like he’s seething as he leads you to one of Jing Yuan’s personal gardens. It’s on a terrace, high above most of the Luofu, far-away from any of the Commission's that may bother him when he is attempting to relax.

You know this garden well; it’s your favorite spot to relax in with Jing Yuan.

He leads you directly to Jing Yuan who is standing on an overlook, hand behind his back as he stares out over a roiling sea. The waves crash far below, the sound a mere echo. His shoulders are slack. He hardly looks angry. It’s rare that he ever does.

“General.” Yanqing says— he is angry. “I’ve brought them.”

“Oh?” Jing Yuan turns, a pleasant smile stretching across his face. “You found them?”

“Yes, in Aurum Alley.” Yanqing salutes and steps to the side.

You cross your arms and try not to cry.

Jing Yuan looks fine. He’s clearly in one piece. Whole. Whole. No visible injury, no new limp as he steps closer to you, examining you just as intently as you examine him. 

It’s a horrible relief to see him fine— even if you should scold him. If you had the energy, you would. You would rake him over the damn coals for endangering himself as he did. You will, later. Maybe. But for now—

“Am I done being detained?” You ask, malice in your voice. “I have work to do.”

“No hello?”

“Fine. Hello.”

“Hi,” Jing Yuan says more gently, beckoning you to a lovely looking pile of silk pillows and a thick mat. The perfect spot for a midday catnap. “I’m afraid I do intend to keep you for a bit longer. Sit, please.”

You don’t budge.

“Jing Yuan,” You say his name. Your voice doesn’t wobble, and you’re grateful for it. “I do not have time for this.”

He hums, “You do.”

“You must know the Luofu’s internals are shot.” He must, right? You need to get back. You need to keep fixing. “I do not have time for tea and a chat. Be forward with me, please.”

Jing Yuan, who has already sat down on the silks, looks up at you. He’s perfectly poised, relaxed like a big cat, but with sharp, watchful eyes. He’s choosing his words carefully, albeit quickly. 

“Did you know the Matrix of Prescience resumed function earlier today?” He tells you. “Early this morning, it awoke. Diviner Fu says the function is still minimal, but improving by the hour.”

There’s a wave of relief hearing that— at least the Divination Commission can resume somewhat normal activity. Fu Xuan is probably overjoyed. Maybe. You should check— you need to check. There may be calibrations to reconfigure on the surface. Aeons, there probably is and you’re foolish for not addressing those yet. You should. 

Jing Yuan says your name, gentle but unyielding, “Stay with me.”

“I’m— I’m glad the Matrix is working. But, there’s still much that needs to be addressed Jing Yuan. The Luofu’s fail safes— the vitality transmitters— the gamma diffusers—”

You feel overwhelmed and nauseous. You want to lay down and cry. You want to run away to the nearest hidden entrance to the tunnels and work. So badly do you want to flee, hide, and toil and fix this stupid ship.

(Because, you can’t look Jing Yuan in the eye for too long. He’s safe, but the memory of him half-dead is still living in your mind. It’s murky, but there. You need it to die. You need it to stop. You need—)

Jing Yuan takes your hands in his own. It shocks you out of your spiral as his thumbs graze your knuckles. It hurts. You wince without thinking to muffle it. Chemical abrasions and hives litter the skin of your hands. It tracks up your arms to your elbows, you see now. 

You flinch and try to pull away, but Jing Yuan keeps you there. Suspended.

“I had a meeting with the other Arbiter-Generals, just the other day.” Jing Yuan sounds wistful. “I was surprised to find out that every other ship in the Xianzhou Alliance’s fleet has at least four Master Calibrators. They were shocked to find the Luofu only having one.”

“That sounds embarrassing.”

“It was, perhaps,” Jing Yuan laughs in a good-natured way. “The other Generals were quite kind, and have sent a handful of Master Calibrators to the Luofu to assist with repairs. They’ll be here in the next day or so.”

“... Really?”

“Yes.” Jing Yuan sighs. “I’ll owe a favor or two, but it’s more than worth it.”

You don’t know what to think.

“I have to—”

“You’re actually being placed on a somewhat indefinite leave.” Jing Yuan then yanks you down into the pillows, to the thick mat, and into his arms. “I’m afraid I’ve missed you terribly. You’ve been incredibly difficult to track down.”

“I was just in the tunnels.” You try to push away from him. “Fu Xuan gave me this little tracker.” 

You tap the pendant on your chest.

“You went deep enough into the Luofu that this pendant only pinged your location every few days.” Jing Yuan raises you up, so you’re perched in his lap. You steady yourself on his chest. His living, breathing chest. “At one point, it didn’t register your vitals for a week.”

Jing Yuan says this quietly. It’s admission, given the tone of his voice. He sounds a bit stricken, almost pained. His brow is scrunched as he rubs up and down your shoulders.

“... A week?” 

“Indeed. You scared me quite badly, you know.”

Something in you aches. Guilt rises up your throat, but you don’t give yourself much time to examine it. Not yet. 

“You’re one to talk.” You murmur, hitting a fist against his chest angrily. “You threw yourself in front of a Lord Ravager?”

“A necessary blow that ensured victory.” Jing Yuan says simply. As if he is speaking about a feint during a sparring match, or a risky move in a star chess game. “A worthwhile opportunity, really—”

“You could have died.” You snap at him, finally looking at him down your nose, baring your teeth. You are tired and angry. It feels like you could swallow the sun and you would be fine with exploding. 

“I could have.” He hums. There’s more that he wants to say, you can tell. You can imagine what he could wax on about—

(“It would have been worth it if it guaranteed the Luofu’s safety.”

(“Am I not going to die already? I would think it be better to give my life for the safety of the people, rather than be decimated by Mara.”)

(“There are worse ways to die.”)

“You’re so foolish.” You want to cry. Maybe you are. Your head is pounding and your eyes hurt. “You can’t do that.”

“Ideally, I wouldn’t—”

“No, stop, just—” You grab his cheeks in your hands and bring your nose to press against his. You meet his eyes, gold and molten. “You cannot sacrifice yourself in such a way. I beg you to be selfish. If for no other reason than to give me a proper goodbye.”

(Jing Yuan had been distant in the days leading up to the Arbor’s reawakening. He’d been dodging your calls, ignoring pre-scheduled outings, and skimping on sleeping in your bed. When you’d seen the videos of his limp body and heard from Lady Fu that he was still unconscious, there was, perhaps, a moment where you believed that that was it. You wouldn’t get a goodbye. You’d only see a ragdolled corpse to mourn.)

What you’re asking of Jing Yuan is a siren song of Mara. You know this. To yearn is to suffer. To be attached is to suffer. To cling is to suffer. And suffering is to mara. You both know this. You dance with the stars and their weavings often enough to be suspended somewhat above other immortals— such things seem small in avenues of Aeons and destiny. 

Jing Yuan, however, is a master of separation. Meditation. He is quiet about the skills he’s cultivated. You notice them though— the way he measures his breathing, the conscious effort he makes to keep himself loose and slack. The way his memory is diced up, not from incensed Mara sprouts, but from missing pieces. Tragedies that have either been removed or blotted out from his own practice.

To save him from being swallowed by Mara.

And yet, you beg him to remember you. 

You almost retract, recoil, and run. This is too real. You have been in the General’s bed for who knows how long. It doesn’t matter that you have been his partner for the last several decades. You’ve never asked him to keep you in his thoughts— keep you like this. It has always felt too unfair of a thing to ask. 

“You,” You spit through tears, “Cannot leave me so cruelly. Not like that. Let me be precious to you, Jing Yuan, if only for a short time.”

There is no such thing as being endless without consequence, but perhaps the General can spare you his affections, truly, for a brief moment. Maybe it’s a pipedream. Maybe you’re delirious from lack of sleep and hunger and the high of feeling Jing Yuan solid and whole beneath you is simply too much.

Jing Yuan coaxes you to keep your head up when you try to duck into his neck. He buries a hand in your hand that quickly slides down to your nape. He holds a wide, warm palm there to steady you.

“Dear,” Jing Yuan strokes down your cheeks, rubbing away tears you can’t stop from falling. His smile is melancholy, his eyes crinkled at the corners with a broken smile. “I’m quite remissed. Have I not made it clear that I already think of you in such a way?”

You swallow.

“Probably not.”

“I apologize.”

“Don’t apologize— just— say it.” Not on his deathbed, or Mara-struck in chains and gnarled with Ginkgo leaves. 

Jing Yuan pauses, rubbing away tears from under your eyes and squeezing his hand that lingers on the back of your neck. He opens his mouth, flounders, then closes it. Then speaks.

“Beloved,” He begins and you’re already breaking. “I am sorry that I haven’t made it clear to you that you are dear to me. There are certain things that I cannot promise you as they are outside of my control as well as yours. But what I can assure you is that you are so incredibly dear to me. If I must continue to live as I do now, I would like to do so by your side. I apologize for not being forthright.”

“... So, no throwing yourself in front of Lord Ravagers?”

“... Sacrifices must be made.” Jing Yuan says, though his voice is, perhaps, more mournful. 

“You are not a sacrifice.” You swallow, the words burning you as well. “You are much more than just foder. You are— you’re dear to people. Dear to me. You are not to throw yourself in the line of fire as part of a convenient plan.” 

“I will not make you a promise that I cannot keep.” He is too duty-bound; it’s a practiced thing. You’ve heard he was once laze-about oaf who could barely handle a sword. You try to appeal to any remnants of that man.

“Then at least tell me.” You urge, beg. “Maybe there are other options you haven’t thought of. You get stuck in your head, you know.”

“Do I?” His smile turns mischievous and teasing.

“You—!” You headbutt him lightly and he rolls you into the silken blankets. 

The moment your back touches the softness below you, skull cushioned in the palm of Jing Yuan’s hand, you can feel exhaustion catching up with you.

“You must heed your own rules, love,” Jing Yuan tells you, covering your body with his. Silver hair falls in a veil around you. It’s like starlight. The memories of oil and machine parts feel far away. “No more running yourself ragged. Or hiding in the utility tunnels for a month.”

“... A month?” Your words slur. There’s no way you were down there for a month.

“Actually, a month and a week.” Jing Yuan says. His hand smooths over your front with a front. “You’ve lost weight. And as effortlessly radiant as you are, you do look quite poorly. I’m sure it’s nothing an indefinite, relaxing, extended, paid-leave can’t fix, hm?”

“Thas’ so long,” You say, your eyes rolling back into your head. You’re slipping.

“I know.” Jing Yuan kisses your forehead and remains there. “I missed you terribly.”

You want to say more. How desperately do you want to tell him, “I missed you too. I couldn’t stop thinking of you dying. I dreamed of your bed and warmth and wanted nothing more.” But your body is simply too tired. The... month of exhaustion catches up with you within the silks and you have to fight to keep your eyes open.

Jing Yuan hushes you when you whine, grabbing at him to drag him closer.

“Rest now.” He tells you. “You need it. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Jing Yuan holds you in the soft blankets, flush against downy pillows and the plush of his chest. One of his hands finds home around your waist, the other over the crown of your head. 

You are tugged down— not in the bowels of Xianzhou’s Luofu, but into the arms of a lover and the hold of a deep and inexorable sleep.

The next time you’re awake, you’re swathed in buttery linens and pleasantly warm. Your world is fuzzy and unfocused, and at first you think you are dreaming.

It’s simply too pleasant.

Your cheek is pressed against Jing Yuan’s bare chest. You can tell from the softness of your cheek squished against the softness of his pectoral, along with the bit of silver fuzz that tickles your nose. He smells like you remember— notes of cedar oils and herbs, mixing with the scent of his own stale sweat from whatever training he completes with Yanqing. 

It’s comforting and familiar. This is why it must be a dream.

So you cling to Jing Yuan. The arm thrown over his chest constricts. The leg you have loosely thrown over his own tangles and hooks him closer. You shimmy higher to press your nose to the underside of his jaw and inhale. 

Jing Yuan chuckles, a rumbling thing that’s hoarse with sleep, “Good morning to you too.”

You do not open your eyes. Rather, you squeeze them shut, and cling to the dream.

His hand glides up your back, finding home on your waist once more before giving you a squeeze, “You can sleep more, you have quite the deficit to make up for.”

You grumble. You’re practically on top of him, like it would prolong the pleasant illusion your mind is creating. 

Your own palm rests over his chest, and you pause. There’s a texture that’s new. Scar tissue beneath your finger tips that runs little rivers over his flesh. Jing Yuan’s breath hitches as you trace them. You pull away from the safety of his throat to peer down at his chest. New scars litter his chest, all connected webs of damage. The skin is puckered and freshly healed.

This is not a dream.

“Oh,” you say, softly. 

“I apologize. Your favorite canvas has been a bit marked up.” Jing Yuan sighs. 

“Jing Yuan.” You squeak and bat at his chest. “Don’t speak of your body and condition in such a way.”

“Why not? I so have missed your marks on me, you know. It’s been a lonely recovery period—”

“Jing. Yuan.” You tug at his hair playfully. “It is too early for you to be teasing me.”

“I don’t think it’s ever ‘too early’ for such things.” Jing Yuan laughs. “Besides, I think you quite like it.”

“Cruel man.”

“You wound me.” There’s no bite to either of your voices. Just something warm and underused. 

You press a kiss to his cheek and nudge your nose into the pudge of it, “Truly?”

“No.” Jing Yuan pulls you up by your waist, holding you flush to him as he turns to face you. You are chest to chest, nose to nose. “There’s no need to worry about the nips of a kitten, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You awful, awful man—” You say with a burgeoning smile that you can’t help but wear. 

Jing Yuan cups a large, warm palm against your jaw and presses his lips to yours. 

It’s indulgent, just like the ridiculously-sized bed you’re entangled in and the silken sleep pants you can feel him wearing. Your smile into it— you missed this. 

Why did you miss it—?

Oh. 

You pull away, eyes widening, “Jing Yuan, the ship. I have— repairs. I have to—”

He silences you with a quick kiss, racking his nails down your back and you gasp.

“The repairs are being taken care of by a few honored guests from the Xuling and Yuque. Diviner Fu is their point of contact and guide for the duration of their stay. They will be completing the remaining restoration while you enjoy your leave.”

“I mean—” You flounder, panic is bursting in your chest. “They can contact me— I know what needs to be fixed, I can at least make a list—?”

Jing Yuan hums, grip getting tighter around your hips. It’s a shadow of something you’ve seen in him before— it’s a bit possessive. 

“Once again, dear, you are on indefinite leave by order of the Seat of Divine Foresight by the Arbiter General himself.” He reminds you with a glint in his eye. “You needn’t make any lists or instructions for our guests. Diviner Fu is more than capable of directing them as necessary. Actually, I believe she’ll quite like it.”

“You’re pulling rank on me?” 

“As I have every right to do.” Jing Yuan doesn’t relent. More sweetly, he continues. “As your lover, I would also be much happier to see you recovering in bed than anywhere else.”

“… Are the gardens off limits?”

“No, though I’d recommend giving yourself a few days of minimal activity.” Jing Yuan frowns then. “I don’t believe you realize it, but you are quite weak at the moment.”

“... Really?”

“Lady Bailu’s cloudhymns are quite advanced these days.” He rubs a thumb below your eyes, over what must be a dark circle. “But, her skills mostly lie in healing flesh wounds and disease. You are malnourished, dehydrated, and... overall rundown.”

“... The Dragon Lady is going to give me an earful, isn’t she?”

“In time.” Jing Yuan laughs. He brings one of your hands up to his face to press his lips to your knuckles. No longer covered in burns and irritated hives, but still bearing light scarring. 

Neither you nor Jing Yuan escaped unscathed.

“Do I need to prepare?”

“Perhaps not as much as you think.” Jing Yuan hums, pulling the sheets over your heads. “She examined you while you were asleep a few times. She has already scolded you plenty, even if you don’t remember it.”

“Did I wake up at all?”

“Barely. It was almost concerning.” Jing Yuan tugs you closer and tucks your head under his chin. “I did manage to have you sip some water and give you a wipe down though. Admittedly, you do need a proper bath.”

You nearly moan. 

The idea of a bath is downright erotic. Though you don’t feel as greasy and as sticky as you could, given Jing Yuan had kindly gotten the worst of it off of you, the idea of being truly clean sounded pornographic.

Especially, given you were at Jing Yuan’s residence, and in addition to his indulgently large and comfortable bed, he also had an indulgently large and opulent self-heating bath. The idea of having a long soak and scrub has you burying your face into Jing Yuan chest and squeezing around his middle.

“I want it.” 

“A bath?” 

“Yes. And you. And a meal. Lots of things, actually.” Enough to make your head spin. It feels like your slowly waking mind is all out of sorts. 

“Let’s start with a meal and a bath, then.” Jing Yuan offers. “Perhaps after a nap?”

You don’t need to be persuaded. 

It’s a kinder sleep you sink into. Less bottomless and far warmer. Jing Yuan kisses you breathless and a bit stupid as you drift off, chuckling against your lips as you grumble and grouse at him, before being tugged down into sleep once more.

...

“How are you feeling?”

You ask Jing Yuan this as you give yourself a pre-bath rinse behind an ornate screen. The wet cloth clutched in your hands drips fat droplets of water onto the polished, glass tile beneath your feet. Soap clings to your body, falling into little rivulets, taking the worst of your grime down the nearby drain. Watching the iridescent bubbles distracts you from the weight of your own words.

You’ve been wanting to ask Jing Yuan this for—

(Weeks, probably, actually, in the time of the Xianzhou Alliance’s calendar. At least you since you saw him nearly lifeless in the grainy cell phone footage.)

Since you have woken and were sleepily led to Jing Yuan’s opulent, resplendent private baths, at least.

From the other side of the screen, Jing Yuan answers, “I feel fine, dear.”

“Physically?”

“I’ve had more than enough time to recover.” 

“... Mentally? All over, Jing Yuan.”

You hate asking this, but you know it’s necessary. You’re sure Jing Yuan is being monitored for Mara-onset symptoms; there’s no way he couldn’t be. You don’t see any obvious ones. But, Mara is the most extreme of afflictions. 

He laughs again, and you can feel him shaking his head like it can shake off your concern, “I assure you, I’m more than fine. Having to be responsible for so much paperwork again is painful, but doable.”

He’s dodging your question, albeit with less finesse than he normally would. 

“Would you blame me if I doubted that answer?”

“No, not at all.”

You sigh and rinse the last of the suds from your body. It’s tedious, this roundabout game with Jing Yuan, but he is rarely forthcoming with personal information. Whether that’s memories of his life before you entered it, political stratagem, or his own mental state— it’sall veiled. You’ve gotten more adept at playing his games, but you truthfully don’t know if you have the energy to try.

You rub your hand over your face. One thing at a time.

You pluck the robe Jing Yuan had supplied from the top of the screen and wrap yourself in the (thin, wispy, objectively indecent) garment. It’s not doing much to cover you at all, as the light, silken fabric clings to the wet curves of your body. You appreciate the attempt at modesty in the same way you appreciate Jing Yuan idling on the other side of the screen. 

You feel like a doe on uneven ground still. Jing Yuan probably expects this.

He guides you to the bath, steering into more light-hearted chatter. He tells you what Yanqing has been up to since he has resumed his office, once again asking for swords and seemingly training with a new vigor and intensity. He has been begging the General to spar with him all hours of the day. Or, call back his newfound friends from the Astral Express for a round or two. Qingzu will be taking a much-needed vacation in the coming weeks. Jing Yuan’s carmelias and bluebell astrums have begun to bloom. 

You nod along, only half-there. 

Jing Yuan eases your robe off your shoulder as he speaks. His voice is low and a bit rough from his own nap. The broad planes of his palms and fingers smooth over your shoulders and peel the fabric down. His thumb worries the marred skin of your forearms.

“We’ll make sure your next meals are particularly hearty. These should heal up quickly, wouldn’t you say?” He coaxes. 

You nod, staring at the burns. They’ll be nothing but worn-looking scars in a matter of weeks. 

Your robe is slung over a cart, filled with a collection of luxurious bath oils and soaps. Jing Yuan only has a few indulgences— his sprawling, soft bed, his many gardens, and his opulent, resplendent private bath laid with emerald green glass tiles and a sunken tub that could’ve been counted as a pool given its size. You’re grateful for it— though you’ve only used it a handful of times. The General has a habit of taking quick showers, unless he has the better part of the day to lounge in the perfectly-warmed water.

You try not to linger on your own nakedness, though you can feel Jing Yuan surveying you. There must be bruises on your waist from the heavy belt you were wearing. Visible weight loss too. You busy yourself by untying the sash of Jing Yuan’s robe and pulling it from his shoulders. It had already been somewhat open, revealing the marred expanse of his chest. Thin, spidery scars that clearly stretched over most of his body.

Typically, Xianzhou Native bodies heal with little scarring. But, these wounds were carved by a Lord Ravager. You’re unsure if they will follow the same logic. 

You will love Jing Yuan, obviously, regardless of any lasting marks. But the thought still makes you sad— something in you aches. You trace the scars leading down from his chest to his softened tummy to the v of his hips. His cock is soft between his legs. It’s too dark in the bath to tell if the scars extend there as well. 

“You look troubled.” He says, pausing his stories.

“I worry for you, so much.” You tell him. 

Meeting his eyes is difficult. The honey-stone color of them looks darker in the dimly-lit chamber, but you can easily see the crease between his brow. There’s clear concern, perhaps a bit overwritten by his need to conceal his hand.

Perhaps he is too tired himself to be as careful as he usually is.

(Good. If there’s anyone who he can let his guard down around, Aeons, let it be you.)

Jing Yuan helps you into the tub. First, he enters, sliding into the steaming water with a shudder. He extends his hand to you as you take unsure steps onto the slick tiling. The water is the perfect temperature— not too hot, but pleasantly warm in a way that won’t lead to overheating. You hide your body under the water and sink up to your chin and sigh.

It feels heavenly.

Jing Yuan chuckles as you do and smoothes a hand over the top of your head. He’s already reaching for a few bottles on the nearby cart, pouring a few under the steady gurgle of water that flows from a wide tap. It’s entrancing to watch— equally as entrancing is the breadth of Jing Yuan’s shoulder, marred by the scarring. He’s beautiful in a way that makes your stomach knot.

You end up settled with your back pressed to his front, laid in his lap, almost dozing as he massages shampoo into your hair.

“I’m filthy, aren’t I?” You ask.

Jing Yuan hums, “I’ve never seen you this unkempt, no.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” He kisses the back of your soapy skull. “You needn’t apologize for anything. I’m not upset with you.”

“... Okay.” You concede. He goes back to dutifully washing your hair, then follows it with conditioner and securing your hair up and out of the water as necessary. His idle talk has stopped, the space filled by the running water and your own breath.

“May I wash yours?” You ask. 

“You still have your body, love.”

“I know,” You reply sheepishly. “At least let me get your conditioner in?”

Jing Yuan laughs, and coaxes you to turn with his big hands wrapped around your waist under the waist. You spin his lap, straddling him. It’s a precarious position, but you... missed it. Nudging yourself closer, you lean into him, chest to chest, and deflate.

He laughs, something rich and warm that radiates from his body into your own, “It really is hard work, bathing, isn’t it?”

“No,” You muffle your words into his collarbones. “Just give me a minute.”

“Of course,” His arms wrap firmly around your waist, locking you together. He’s hot— he runs like a furnace even when not in a toasty bath. There’s a bit of sweat dripping down his neck and you’re tempted to lick it away.

Maybe later, for now you bask.

You bask in the fact that Jing Yuan is here, warm and alive. You want to commit him to memory— better than you have. If it forsakes you to Mara in a few decades, you do not care. You had forgotten the softness of his chest, the curve of his waist and the point of his nose. The details of Jing Yuan had become so fuzzy in such a short time. You’re sure Lady Bailu would assert it had something to do with your ‘chronic sleep deprivation’, but you’re not sure if you agree with that potential diagnosis.

Spending too much time attuned to immaterial quantum fields erodes your psyche, probably. 

“So deep in thought.” Jing Yuan runs a head down your back. “Take a break to rinse, hm?”

“I haven’t gotten yours in yet, though?”

“We can take our time. Besides, I bathed this morning. This is all for pleasure.”

“... Pleasure, huh?”

Jing Yuan flashes you a grin burgeoning on mischievous, “Yes, pleasure, in whatever form that may come. Is that what’s plaguing you, dear?”

“No, not at all.” You sigh and lean back from him, cupping his cheeks. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Jing Yuan says. His cards are showing— his voice is straining, pitched in a way that indicates he’s sad in his chest. The thing between your ribs aches.

“I was worried.”

“So you have said.” Jing Yuan cajoles you down, slipping your head half in the water to rinse away your conditioner. He suspends you with a single arm. His musculature is obscene. 

“How could I not be?” You clench your jaw. “I saw videos of you being taken to the Alchemy Commission— you— you looked—”

Half-dead. 

Corpse-like. 

Steps from death’s door.

On your way to the grave.

Dead.

Jing Yuan calls your name, rubbing soothing little circles over the small of your waist, “I’m well now, dear.”

“But you almost weren’t.” Your voice breaks. You don’t mean for it to. You tuck yourself into his neck and hide.

You don’t want to cry, but you can feel something welling up from within your guts. It’s the thing you pushed down relentlessly in the bowels of the Luofu. As you tinkered and toiled in the depths of the ship, you never let this ache spill over, lest you drown. Whether that’s in Mara or a less permanent type of suffering, you do not know.

“But I am.” Jing Yuan assures you. “I am here now, aren’t I? Whole and in one piece.”

You know this. You know this. But— You drag your fingernails over his shoulder blades. Jing Yuan shudders as you do.

“It’s hard.”

“I know.” 

The hands around you squeeze hard enough to bruise.

“I thought you were going to keel over in the gardens when Yanqing first brought you to me.” Jing Yuan confesses. “I’d been pestering Lady Fu on the hour for any updates about your whereabouts and communications.”

“... I wasn’t communicating with anyone, though.”

“I know.” Jing Yuan has a thread of... contempt to it. “I wish you would have.”

“What could I have said?”

“I’m not sure,” Jing Yuan tangles a hand in your washed hair and tilts your face to meet his. “But, I’m sure you would’ve found the right words.”

He kisses you. Or you kiss him. Who’s to say.

You don’t have the right words— you may never. Certainly not in your mind or on your tongue now. The thing that rises in your throat is carnal and old and writhing— want. Verging on need. You struggle to keep the kiss chaste, closed lips pressed together after so long apart

Perhaps Jing Yuan has a similar depth that’s clawing at his insides. 

He tilts his head, dragging you closer. Close as can be. He kisses you in a silently desperate way. You accept his advances and tangle your hands in his hair. Tug him closer and closer and closer.

(Don’t go. Please don’t go. Not yet.)

(Not until we’re both split apart by gingko roots and dappled in noontime sunlight.)

You gasp his name as you break apart for breath, smoothing your thumbs down his cheekbones and jaw. His pupils are blown and desperate.

“Can I touch you?” He asks, always so polite.

“Please—” 

Jing Yuan kisses you again, deeper and pulling you into the depths of the bath. His hands trail down to your thighs, squeezing along the way. Calloused and wide, familiar. The feel of them is coming home, you hadn’t realized how much you missed this.

You keen against his lips and Jing Yuan laughs— the gall of that man.

His flips you easily, caging you against the edge of the pool. This way, he has height over you. He looms, casting a flickering shadow in the amber light of the beeswax candles scattered about. You swallow as you watch droplets of water slide down his throat, chest, tummy. His forearms make you feel dizzy.

“May I have you?” He asks, once again. “Not yet— but I don’t want to progress if you’re not feeling fit for it.”

“N-No,” You feel desperate, you sound desperate. Sensitive and clawing, the beast that you buried in the depths of the Luofu crawls out of your throat and wraps itself around you. Tears spring to your eyes. “Please? Just— be slow—”

Jing Yuan must see your eyes water. He softens.

He thumbs over the fragile skin beneath your eyes, as if wiping the stray tear could wipe away the dark circles punched there as well. 

“Of course.” He assures you and presses his lips to your forehead.

...

Jing Yuan takes ‘slow’ both seriously and literally. You are both grateful and horribly frustrated by this. You almost regret not telling Jing Yuan to simply bend you over the lip of the bath and fuck you senseless, though Jing Yuan probably would not have granted you that even if you had asked. He loves to savor when he can. Bedding you is no exception— even under more typical circumstances.

And these aren’t typical circumstances.

Perhaps you should’ve known Jing Yuan intended to break you apart and stitch you back together.

He doesn’t escalate things much further in the bath, despite petting down your sides and seeming to always have his lips on you. You wash his hair as you’d ask to, scratching at his scalp and relishing the almost-purr he lets out as he wraps himself around you. When you start to just barely grind in his lap (squirm, more than anything), he is quick to still you with an iron-like hold on your hips, pinning you down and over his thighs. 

“Not yet,” He tells you, nipping at your jaw. “Be patient.”

You huff. 

Jing Yuan takes charge of finishing washing you, using gentle touch and a soft cloth from your ankles to the crown of your head. His touch lingers, starting some low burning flame low in your gut that you have a feeling won’t be quenched for quite some time. 

It’s tortuous. It’s wonderful.

After you towel each other off, he leads you back to his rooms, only in the damp robes and undergarments he’d dutifully remembered to bring along. The silk clings to Jing Yuan’s bulk as he walks beside you. His hand is on your lower back. Little bugs chirp in the courtyard gardens you pass. There’s the gurgle of a fountain. The soft breeze that Luofu always keeps, even on the most temperate days of summer. It’s all so different from the acrid smell of lubricant and the ambient machine hum you had become so used to.

“I’m only on leave, not house arrest, correct?” You ask as you enter his wing, to his bedroom. 

He locks the door behind you as you step inside. 

“No, no house arrest.” Jing Yuan hums as he strips off his robe. You want to bite him. “You’re free to roam within reason.”

“Does ‘within reason’ include the nursery that outlander keeps in the Exalting Sanctum?” 

“Of course. Though I may assign you a chaperone.”

“Really? Would you send Yanqing with me for a quick run to grab a new shrub or two.”

Jing Yuan laughs, something rich and full that rolls over you like a fleeced quilt, “I figured that I would be your chaperone, dear. If you’d allow.”

“... You’re making this sound like a date, General.”

“Am I?” Jing Yuan smiles so honeyed, it makes something in your chest begin to crack. You lay your hands on his bare chest and hold your ear to his chest. He laughs when you do. “I’d like it if it was. If you’d have me.”

“Of course I would.”

You say it so simply.

You want to crawl into his body and live there, and break any spindly seedlings of Mara away with your own two hands.

Jing Yuan kisses you, walking you back into the door. His lips are soft, a bit chapped in a way that’s familiar and comforting. You run a hand up and down his chest, stopping to squish one of his ample pecs. You muffle a laugh into Jing Yuan’s lips as he stutters out a groan. Sweet, sweet man. 

“I missed you,” You tell him once more, hoping your words seep past the seam of his lips, down his throat and sink into his guts. 

Jing Yuan responds by pressing you into the door, using the warm line of his body to flatten you to the wood. His kiss verges on desperate, tongue insistent at the seam of your lips, hands tugging you close, close, closer. You yield to him, whining as his tongue licks into your mouth, the taste of him so familiar it makes you ache.

You tug at his hair and urge him closer, if that is possible.

His touch is searing as he breaks away, panting, eyes hot. Scalding. His hair is down, drying to a fluffy, untamed mane around his cheeks and shoulders. It’s charming. You thumb over his cheeks with a smile. He leans into your touch while giving you a soft smile.

“The reign you have over me.” He sighs. You don’t get a chance to question him— his thigh slots between your own and your breath catches with the contact.

You haven’t been touched in so long.

You cling to his shoulders and just barely grind on his thigh— as much as his hold on your waist will allow. Jing Yuan’s kisses trail from your lips to over your cheeks and down your throat. He stops at the juncture of your neck and shoulders, nosing into the spot.

“Such a lovely scent,” He hums.

“I-I bet I smelled horrible before, h-huh?” You laugh as he begins to worry a patch of skin. Tender and fragile, perfect for bruising.

“Hm, I wouldn’t say that.” His teeth graze your throat and your head falls back into the door with thud. Jing Yuan shields your skull with his hands a beat later. “You’d be surprised how many times we’ve shared a bed and you’ve reeked of your favorite brand of astral lubricant.”

“Jing Yuan!” You shriek with a laugh and bat at his shoulders. “You’re so cruel.”

“What, do you not like when I tease you?”

“Scoundrel.”

“I think you do like it.”

You missed bantering with him.

“I love you.” You tell him. He knows— you know this. Declarations of love are rare for the long-lived. At least so directly— to care so deeply is to damn yourself to a faster descent into Mara. Though, to live and deprive yourself of companionship and love is to be dead while living. There’s a tender balance between connection and detachment. Both you and Jing Yuan are intimately familiar with it and indulge together.

Jing Yuan bites down on your neck.

It hurts, enough that you jolt and squirm against his body. Jing Yuan holds you into place, sucking on the skin he’d sunk his teeth into. It’s higher on his neck than he’d usually mark you. 

(He’s leaving it to be seen. You are Jing Yuan’s, loved and held.)

(What a wretched man.)

By the time he pulls away, you’re panting. Tears have welled up on your lash line. It hurts and it hurts even more when Jing Yuan runs a high thumb over the quickly rising skin. You gasp and Jing Yuan catches your chin in the wide palm of his hand.

You meet his gaze, intense and lighting-vibrant. You’re panting with an open mouth. 

“How lovely.” And he presses a kiss to a corner of your mouth. 

Jing Yuan guides you to his ridiculously large bed (that could surely fit up to five bodies and a fully grown, white lion.) The sheets have been changed, though you have a feeling they’ll be dirtied again by the morning. 

It’s gentle, the way he hastens you higher up the mattress before giving you a light shove into a mound of pillows. You hook your legs around his waist, drawing him as close as he’ll allow. 

He massages the meat of your thighs. His gaze goes long, and a bit unfocused, though it's trained on you. 

(You wonder what he’s thinking. Jing Yuan is so careful, always so ginger and measured in his steps. Still, there’s a fire in him that you often overlook. It’s the part of him that keeps a lion as a housemate, raised a young boy into a champion, and... you suppose urged him to become the Luofu’s sacrificial lamb in the face of the Destruction.)

You gulp, throat bobbing. Perhaps, you know your General to be a docile, indolent man who prefers naps and board games too much else. Perhaps you have overlooked, or rather forgotten, that you once saw the Divine Foresight as a warlord, given what you’d read about him in the data banks during your studies on the Yuque. 

Jing Yuan’s hand drifts down your front. You’re still wearing your robe. Gentle touch peels it away, leaving you in just a pair of thin panties. They’re a soft, breathable fabric— the kind that will surely show your interest in the General. (You have a feeling Jing Yuan picked them out for that reason expressly.) 

Jing Yuan presses the pad of his thumb over your clit through the fabric. 

You aren’t expecting it, and arch your back with a squeak. His hand lays hot at the innermost part of your thigh, at the fragile skin where it meets your more sensitive parts. 

“I-I thought you said you’d go slow.” You squirm. 

“Of course.” Jing Yuan remains unmoving, applying just enough pressure to be maddening. “I intend to.” 

With how sensitive you are, you need him to be slow. Your body feels tender out of the bath— cooked and raw all at once. Your muscles still ache from your time in the tunnels and you feel... atrophied, if anything. 

Jing Yuan must know this, and you trust him to keep his word. 

He makes his way home between your thighs, laying over your front to kiss you once more. This is slow, every lick and nip thoughtful, every barely-there roll of his hips is intentional. You’re not sure where he finds the restraint. 

You pet through his hair, softening incrementally with each soft touch he gives you.

He pulls away, lips kiss-bruised and cheeks flushed. It’s cute to see the General so disheveled. He’d never look this out of it and starry-eyed outside of this shared bedroom. It makes you giddy. You smother his cheeks with kisses and let him muffle laughter into your skin. 

It’s all soul-splitting.

It’s good. The proximity is warm and inviting. You missed the richness of his bed, the scent of incense and the candles you stock the room with. You missed the roll of his muscles underneath your fingertips and the mirthful glint that flashes in his eyes whenever he thinks he has you on the ropes.

You were so scared of losing this.

It hits you in the chest, caving you in, breaking rib and bone. You were so scared— terrified that this dance you’ve become so adept at sharing with Jing Yuan would end before you were ready for it too. You know that you’ll both fall to Mara, it’s inevitable— but you don’t want it to happen yet. You’re not ready for the final flourish. You weren’t ready for Jing Yuan’s cradled, near lifeless body to be the dying gasp of the partnership you had.

You know it's foolish to think this way. Things— all things, are bigger than mortal minds. Paths cut by the stars, brushstrokes by Gods and Aeons that dictate the lives and destiny of all. You are one mind, one body, one tender spirit. You cannot fight against such forces. You will be crushed.

But, for now, you savor. Take each moment and be grateful even as it slips, honey-warm and molten, between your fingers to be replaced by another in the next instant, equally as lovely. Piled on each other. It is enough. 

You crush Jing Yuan to you, hard and fast enough that the wind is knocked out of him, “Please be more careful with yourself.”

I can’t lose you just yet.

“I will try.” His voice is a comforting curl over you. He strokes over your temples and forehead.

“N-No, you must.” 

You don’t know the words yet for what you want to tell him. The feelings are too large, too unmanageable. Maybe attuning to the Luofu’s quantum fields has rotted your brain. You’ve lost your words. 

With some cajoling, you flip Jing Yuan onto his back. 

Sitting up over his hips, you set upon his neck. First with soft kisses, just as he gave you, then with nips and stronger bites. Then a chomp below his jaw. His hips crest upwards, his hands spasming around your waist as he holds you steady. The sounds that leak from him make you want to crawl down his throat. 

You suck and bite at the mark until you’re satisfied, pulling away to see his pale skin bruising darker by the moment. You admire the popped blood vessels with what must be a dreamy expression on your face.

“Leaving your mark on me?” Jing Yuan asks, breathless and light. 

“It’s only fair.” You kiss his smile, sharing it, “Just as you did to me.”

Running your hands down his chest, you frown at the scars. 

“What if I joined the Cloud Knights?” You ask him. 

Jing Yuan looks a bit... surprised, “Why would you do that? Though, perhaps, giving up your position as Master Calibrator would be reasonable, given recent events.”

“No, no, it’s not that.” You watch the rise and fall of Jing Yuan’s chest with an ache in your own. “If I was stronger, I could protect you, couldn’t I?”

Tears well up in your eyes.

Jing Yuan opens his mouth to speak, you hear his inhale, but you cut him off, “I-If I was a fighter, or just a Diviner, couldn’t I help more? Could I— could I have stopped this? Or stop something horrible from happening in the future? I don’t want to see you hurt like this.”

It should be a bit funny, maybe, that you’re sitting on the waist of the half-hard Divine Foresight, in tears, asking him if you could protect him. A man treated as nearly infallible, a legend amongst people who so rarely have them. He has an eternal spirit gifted by an Aeon tied to his very being. 

And yet you, something of a mechanic and professional tinkerer, beg to protect him.

“Oh, [Name].” He says, mournful. 

You swallow down a sob and tears drip from your eyes to splatter on his chest. Your vision blurs and you rake your nails down his chest. More raised marks— yours struck on him this time. Jing Yuan winds a hand in your hair, strokes down your neck, tries to calm you but it's hard. You can’t catch yourself. 

“I’m s-sorry—” You tell him between gulps of air. You’re supposed to be being bed right now, fucked stupid and more brainless than you already are, but you’re crying and the panic welling up in your chest feels bottomless and vast. 

“No apologies,” Jing Yuan hushes you, rubbing away tears. “You’re alright. I understand.”

“You do?” You snort. It’s blotted out by a proper sob that you hide in Jing Yuan’s chest. 

“How could I not?” He rubs over your dark circles under your eyes, then the bruising around your hips. The softness around your waist that’s not as plump as it was a month ago. “Do you think I didn’t contend with traversing the tunnels myself and pulling you out by your scruff?”

“... You did?” 

He pauses. 

“Everyday.” Jing Yuan admits after a moment. Any admission from him is hard earned. 

“Oh.”

You blink, and cry all over again because you feel silly and foolish all over. He hushes you, petting over your cheeks, back, hips— anywhere he can reach. He’s good at soothing, knowing what strokes to provide and where. 

“Did you think I didn’t worry?”

“I—I don’t know,” You shake your head. “You had more important things to worry about, right? And— and you were recovering.”

“I asked to see you, you know.”

“... I was told.”

“What did you think that meant?”

“... I don’t know.” You don’t. “I just— I was being a coward. I was scared to see the extent of your injuries before the ship was repaired fully. I wanted— I wanted things to be okay. I didn’t want to go to the surface and see that Vidyadhara who saved you.” 

“... Dan Heng?”

“Sure.” Lizard. Fucker. 

“... You’re jealous?”

“No.” Oh, yes. Entirely. “I just— he got to carry you. I have to join the Cloud Knights and get strong enough to do so myself. It’s only fair. You’re mine, not some lizard’s.”

Jing Yuan looks startled, then his expression softens. 

You besmirch the not-quite outlander easily. You do not know him— you’ve heard whispers. Nothing from Jing Yuan, and you do not pry at his past (and he doesn’t pry at yours.) You know they have a connection from before your time on the Luofu. You don’t fully know its nature, but judging by the passing... grief that Jing Yuan wears, if only for a moment, you can guess. Infer.

(Something of lovers. Almost lovers. If nothing else, Jing Yuan cared for him very much.)

“You needn’t worry about Dan Heng, dear,” he gently. says. “Such things are in the past now. He has moved onto a different shore, and is quite happy on the Astral Express.”

“... He’s not coming to steal you?”

“No,” he laughs, looking mournful again. “I’m certain he has no interest in such things.”

He speaks so sadly. Not heartbroken, it’s not that fresh. He speaks through a wound with a type of melancholy that resonates in your chest like a minor chord. You resist the urge to say, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ 

“Do you wish he would?”

Jing Yuan pauses.

“No.” He shakes his head, “Not anymore. We have both grown.”

And he pets over your cheek before kissing you. You know he’s telling you the truth. 

...

Jing Yuan does not allow haste, and neither do you. Perhaps, you both are feeling fragile. You keep breaking each other open, only to help the other reassemble their pieces a moment later. 

Jing Yuan enjoys savoring physical contact, regardless of circumstance or propriety. He steals touches in public in a way that’s indulgent, but never overt. He licks into your mouth with the pace like cooling honey. Each does is meant to brand. You’re meant to feel it, feel him, for as long as the moment will allow. He savors you with hitches of his own breath, a desperation of his own bubbling under his surface. 

You can be a bit shy when he truly gluts himself this way. It’s so overt. It tears something in you, and reveals a squishy, softer center that you’re anxious to show anyone. Even a lover like Jing Yuan who has shown you time and time again there is nothing to fear, other than his own foolhardy decisions. 

Jing Yuan probably likes it when he gets to be this slow. Peeling back layer after layer of you, forcing you to luxuriate in the unfamiliar warmth, and be reminded that he is there and sturdy. 

Jing Yuan is laid between your thighs, your legs over his shoulder. His thick forearm is braced across your navel, your hand held in his. Your fingers are intertwined. His other hand pets at the back of your thighs as you shudder. 

You’re sensitive.

Jing Yuan eats your cunt with the pace of a man who has nothing to lose, no phases of the moon to observe, and something to prove. He laps at your center, squeezing your hand with each jolt of your hips against his mouth.

The stroke of his tongue is slow and unhurried. He’s enjoying himself, savoring your taste, humming and groaning when you inadvertently grind against his mouth. During a more routine fuck, Jing Yuan enjoys when you anchor yourself with a grip in his hair and fuck his face. Any impulse you could have to indulge in such a way tonight is quelled. His grip is unyielding on your hand. Your free hand is tangled in the sheets, occasionally shakily pushing Jing Yuan’s mane away from his forehead so you can watch him tongue fuck you with the pace of the lazy, sunbathing cat.

You drop your head to the nest of pillows behind you with a groan and throw your arm over your eyes.

Jing Yuan chuckles against your cunt and flicks his tongue over your clit. He sucks and you want to sob. He hasn’t let you built up to any release— it’s long form teasing, it’s torture. You can feel how wet you are between your thighs, sticky from your own slick and his saliva. You’re messy.

(This is how Jing Yuan prefers it anyways.)

Jing Yuan had made a point to tease you in your thin panties before putting his mouth on you at all. Stroking over the fabric, barely dipping his fingers under the thin, lace waistband. He kissed your covered pussy until you were almost tearing the sheets in your balled up fists. 

Jing Yuan still hasn’t put anything inside of you. You know it will be— tight. Jing Yuan has large hands and a proportionally large cock (that most Xianzhou Alliance gossip forums still undersize). Part of his slowness is necessary. 

The tip of a finger teases your hole and you kick at his back in surprise.

“F-Finally giving in?”

“I’m not giving in at all,” Jing Yuan pulls away from your cunt to speak, wet and sloppy around his mouth. Eyes half-lidded and so, so content. “I’ve never had anything other than the intention to open you on my tongue and my fingers. What gave you any other impression?”

“Bastard.”

He nips the apex of your thigh and you yip.

“Yours.”

You smile, stupid and a little love drunk, and stroke his hair, “Mine.”

Jing Yuan’s gaze darkens for a moment— something passes there. A thought you can’t read from him or glean anything from. The headiness of the moment temporarily breaks, and for an instant you think that something is wrong. You almost push yourself off the bed in a fit of concern—

But Jing Yuan begins the slow press of his finger into your cunt. 

You gasp and squirm, flinching almost. Jing Yuan bears his weight on your waist and keeps you in place as you do, intently watching your expression and parted, wet lips. You’re flayed. It’s just a finger, but it feels big. His fingers are big— a bit calloused, but softer than you’d think.

As he sinks the digit into you, you pant. He kisses your clit, encouraging you to open up for him, murmuring little words of praise that sit in your brain pleasantly but are hard to make distinct. You go slack into the mound of pillows as his mouth returns to your cunt, the single finger fully inside you, resting as you tremble. 

With a suck to your clit, he crooks the finger up.

It feels good. The spot is tender. Jing Yuan knows just where to apply pressure, the pace and angle are so, so good. He’s memorized this part of you. A month apart isn’t going to remove that knowledge. 

He teases you like this— never letting you rise too close to release. The roiling tendrils of arousal in your gut stay there, like stoked embers without tinder to light anew. You take it— you take what he gives you. You relish each touch, lick, and kiss.

“Jing Yuan—” You gasp his name as he removes the single finger to begin to stretch you with two.

Two is— it’s a lot. Normally, it wouldn’t be. Maybe, you’d beg for more, and beg for more faster. But now, two stings and aches on your insides. You claw at his hair and whine in the back of your throat. Jing Yuan hushes you and spits on his fingers, the extra bit of lubrication helping somewhat, but you’re tight and wound.

“Are you alright?” Jing Yuan asks as he massages the most sensitive spot in your cunt. He asks genuinely, not as a tease.

“‘S tight,” You squeeze out, wiggling your hips. 

“Am I being gentle enough?”

“Uh-huh,” You pet over his forehead. “Thank you?”

“Of course.” Jing Yuan chuckles. “Does it feel good?’

“Y-Yeah,” You whine as Jing Yuan curls his fingers, thumb pressed against your clit and rolling the pearl of itl. “I-It’s unfair.”

“What’s unfair?” 

“That you make me feel s-so good,” You don’t know how else to articulate it. The feral thing in your chest crawls over your body once more, and jerks your hips for more of his touch. You urge his fingers deep, wordlessly beg for more pressure against your cunt.

“You’re so sweet,” Jing Yuan coos, rising to his knees and taking one of your legs with him. Your middle falls open. It feels... vulnerable. You feel exposed and sliced. Your stomach churns for a moment. You nearly ask Jing Yuan to stop.

(Except, Jing Yuan has fucked you enough times to know that you don’t enjoy the physical vulnerability of your sensitive core. It sets you off. He knows that you prefer to cuddle with his massive hand against your belly. He knows you even wear clothes that provide some protection, billowing fabrics and belts. You’re a sensitive thing.)

He slides his broad hand over your belly, and presses down as he leisurely pumps his fingers in and out of your core. The pressure of it burns— scalds you and your arousal feels white hot. He’s prodding you from the inside and the outside, and you feel something bubbling up.

“You’re close,” Jing Yuan says with a catlike smile. “Would you like to come?”

“P-Please—”

Jing Yuan hums, slowing, almost ruining the impending crest, but clicks his tongue and continues. It’s a farce, a little game he’s playing, and much to your (enjoyed) frustration, you’re his other player.

“I would love to hear you beg,” Jing Yuan croons, leaning over your form, bending your leg at an angle that is unfair in all regards. “But, I’d also like to be kind tonight. I think you deserve it— you need it, don’t you?”

“I—” You do. His hand quickens and with his other, he braces behind one of your knees. He ducks down to retake his place between your thighs, eating your cunt with a persistence and vigor that has your eyes roll back in your head. He drills your insides with a deep, steady rhythm that. Maybe could get you pregnant.

Who's to say. 

“I’m—” You gasp, ready to beg regardless of what Jing Yuan wants or expects from you. You want to give him everything. 

“That’s it. Let go.” He beckons you and you break. 

Your orgasm slams into you. The teasing and playful edging made you sensitive and like a livewire. When you finally cum, you choke on your own breath, eyes rolling back into your head, and you shove your face into a pillow to muffle the half-sobbed moans that spill from your lips out of your control.

Jing Yuan continues his ministrations through it. Dutifully. Unyielding, even as you twitch with oversensitivity and wisps of exhaustion.

He gently lowers your trembling leg with a sweet smile. He pets you like a cat.

“You’re beautiful.” He says, softened in a way you only get to see. 

“Thank you.” Your words slur as he settles beside you, tucking next to you. 

He’s hard— so hard that there’s a wet patch on his bottoms from pooling pre. You can feel the length of him against your thigh, and you reach for him. You should really grab some oil—

Jing Yuan stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist. 

“Slow, remember?” He reminds you with a grin that is mischievous. “Let’s take a break, just for a moment.”

“Are you sure?” You look down. 

The bulge of him makes your mouth water. 

“Entirely.” He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a reverent kiss to your wrist. “How about a quick snack, hm? I can fetch some fruit to cut.” 

“... That would be nice.”

“Would you like peaches?”

“P-Please.” Your voice is watery and small. Jing Yuan looks smitten to hear the tone. “... Meldberries too? And apples?”

“Of course,” Jing Yuan looks happy. Relieved. Deflated in a way that makes you realize that he had been so tense before. Since you met him in the gardens, haggard and exhausted.

(You’re in his bed, sated and watery and being taken care of.)

“Can I come to the kitchen with you?” 

“Are you sure you can walk?” Jing Yuan teases, thumbing at your trembling inner thigh, littered with fresh bruises.

“I can now—” you huff, playfully indignant. “We should bring some back. For... later. When I can’t walk. Hopefully.”

“Hopefully?” Jing Yuan tilts his head, eyes half-lidded and amused. 

“Oh, don’t act so innocent!” You laugh and headbutt him lightly. If you had more energy, you’d play fight with him and ruffle the sheets up more than they already are. “I’m sure you’d like me immobile by the time you and your ridiculous cock are through with me.”

“... Ridiculous cock?” Jing Yuan can’t hide the laughter in his voice, or the flush on his cheeks. “So cruel.”

“I— I forgot how big it is.”

“I’m still covered, dearest.”

You gesture, panicked, below the covers to the bulge and still growing wet spot, “Your dick is close to the size of my forearm, Jing Yuan. I can see it without... seeing it.”

“You’re so complimentary.” He practically giggles. “So sweet. I had forgotten how sweet orgasm makes you. Or, is this your fatigue talking?”

“... Both? I missed you.” You say, using your un-held hand to pat Jing Yuan’s covered cock with a smile. “Missed this too.”

Jing Yuan almost squeaks at the unexpected contact. He apparently is just as sensitive as you. He hides his light blush in your neck, and you can’t help but laugh, and think about how sweet the peaches will be when cut by your lover’s hands and shared from the same plate.

...

Jing Yuan keeps his word. The early evening stretches into late evening, every touch and sensation coaxed and unhurried. Slow-stretched sugar, lest it shatters. 

In the kitchen, Jing Yuan cuts you a plate of peaches while you rest on his lap, watching the hypnotic carving of his knife with half-lidded eyes. He feeds you slices on a small fruit fork while sending off a message or two from his jade abacus. He carries half a dozen other fruits back to his bedroom and prods you for a more substantial meal order at some point. 

You finish off the last few slices while draped in his robe, dazed from your previous high. You feel— out of it. Raw and scraped out. Not much different from how you felt during your time in the utility tunnels, but instead of feverishly working, you’re in the warmly light room of your lover. His warm hand is splayed on the small of your back, rubbing little circles. 

You want to ask him:

“How do you do this?”

And Jing Yuan, mirthful, would say:

“Do what?”

And you would say:

“This.”

This: 

The way your mind resists fullness, empty by familiar nature. You’ve been cored, like the apple Jing Yuan dutifully cut and fed to you. Your thighs continue to shake. You’re bruised, marked, all his, in a way that cows and strokes the feral part of your mind still half-convinced this is all an elaborate illusion.

How could any of this be a fabrication? When Jing Yuan is so warm behind you, happy to bask in your presence while you bask in his. Jing Yuan’s contentment is infectious, it always is— but so quickly, he has stripped you of your ability to parry it. You can’t hold concern. You can barely hold your body upright. You want to fall into him, ask to take more, and hold him until you simply can’t anymore.

You do not ask Jing Yuan how he undoes you. Predicting the conversation seems— easy. Too easy. (Probably because calibrating a machine meant to sustain a civilization for weeks on end does damage that’s yet to be fully healed. Prediction is a symptom of overuse, divination a side effect. A cumbersome one.) You can imagine the way Jing Yuan would dance with his words, effortlessly sparring in a way that you simply couldn’t keep up with. You are already disarmed. You need his candor, and nothing is more honest than the General’s body.

“Come here.” Jing Yuan beckons you into the sheets to lay with him properly.

(It’s uncanny how he can predict your needs like a diviner himself.)

You follow his direction and let him tug you into his side. Your cheek rests over his chest, soft and a little rounder than it was when you first met him. He’s gained weight since then— which is good. He’s always been bulky under his uniform and regalia, toned muscle from centuries of training and sparring. But there wasn’t much else to him— he used to skip meals if it was too inconvenient to eat. If you were sharing a plate, he’d offer you a larger portion.

It was something so slightly self-deprecating. At first, you hadn’t noticed it. Jing Yuan is not a proud man, he is keen and clever in all regards— but his ego has stayed in check for as long as he’s been Arbiter-General. He commits this quiet act of self-harm, so miniscule that most wouldn’t bat an eye. His lack of appetite was a manifestation of some burden— as he will continue to live and slowly waste away, why should his body not as well?

You’d like to think you’d broken him of his destructive eating habits. Or, at least contributed. Warm meals, arm-in-arm snacking on street foods at night. Vendors are always happy to give the Divine Foresight a free treat, even if he offers them strales every time. He eats well around you, and you know it extends farther. He takes lunches with Yanqing at least once a week. There’s a stash of homemade honey oats and dried apricots stowed in his desk. 

You are glad he eats. That he is full. 

You appreciate the feel of him under your fingertips, how he has softened and grown a bit less worn during his own leave. He deserves a vacation. Maybe, you’ll sit on his cock and beg him to fucking retire with the promise you’ll be happy to stay that way for as long as he pleases if he does. Anything to keep him this lax and soft. You want to commit it to memory, but you still feel fuzzy.

“Enjoying yourself?” He laughs as he speaks, busying himself with the tacky skin on the nape of your neck. He pets you there.

“Yes.” You grab his chest, thumbing dangerously close to his nipple. “You feel nice.”

“I’m glad.” Jing Yuan says, tone curling and smitten. You feel drunk with it. He hums. “You seem a bit lost. May I guide you back here?”

“I don’t think I am.” You pout. “I’m here.”

“Are you sure?” 

“... Fairly sure.”

“May I try anyway?” Jing Yuan asks. “It would make me very happy too.”

There’s no harm to it, really.

“I’ll be good.” He adds and holds your wrist so tenderly in his palm. “I’ll be gentle with you.”

Jing Yuan drags the thin skin of your wrist over his lips, kissing the flesh as he does. It’s reverent, slow as he promised. He peeks up at you as he does, a curtain of his silver hair almost obscuring the warm gold of his eyes. There’s want there, so caramelized that it makes you ache. 

Jing Yuan rolls you, so that he’s above you, sitting over your hips. It’s— not too heavy. The weight of him is comforting if nothing else. The heat of him is grounding as he hovers over you, nosing at your jaw, nipping bruised skin. He licks the brutal bite he left earlier and you yip. You don’t have it in you to chastise him for it— you— you maybe like it too much to do so. 

Like this, it’s easier to notice how Jing Yuan wants. How his hand is sliding between over your sternum, between your breasts, down the soft line of your belly and navel, and back up again. It’s slow, radiating a yearning that sinks down into your organs heat from a hearth. He thumbs over the line of your throat and kisses you.

He’s more insistent now, licking into your mouth immediately, keeping his rhythm slow and actions drawn out. 

Jing Yuan pulls back just enough to speak, warm breath over your lips, “You’re doing so well.”

You feel warm in your cheeks and tug him closer. If only you burrow in his flesh bones, flush the marrow out to replace it with yourself. You’d do it if it meant keeping him upright for longer. 

“I’m right here.” Jing Yuan hushes you, gathering your wrists in one hand. You hadn’t realized desperate little keens were leaking from your throat, soaking the room. Jing Yuan doesn’t seem to mind. “No need to fuss. You’re alright.”

“You’re sure?” You ask, you feel out of your body. 

Jing Yuan knows this and he tethers you to him with a kiss and firm touch, “I’m sure. You trust me, don’t you?”

“So much,” you admit. 

Jing Yuan looks down at your softly, expression beginning to shatter. He is a difficult man to work with— he wears many faces, several hats, and speaks in riddles more often than not. To receive his honesty is— a fucking gift. You want to hold it in your hands and swallow it. His hair falls over his face as he peers down at you, thumbing over the lines of your throat.

“You’re so good.” He says gently, quiet. Like it’s a secret for the two of you. “You’d do anything I’d ask you to right now, wouldn’t you?”

You nod, then think about what he asked. You still would. Probably. Maybe give him some grief along the way, “As long as you’re not too mean about it.”

“Oh?” He teases. He teases, even now. Even when your core is exposed and you’re bare and he’s stalling despite being hard against your thigh. “You’re still so sweet when I’m a bit mean. I think you enjoy it.” 

A broken, nearly-pathetic noise drips from your lips. You clutch at his arms and try to bury your face in the sheets. Your face feels so warm, it's making you dizzy.

“No need to be shy,” he sounds smitten, a smile bleeding into his tone. He kisses you with it, again and again until you’re breathless and stupid once more. He pulls back until you’re nose to nose, hand drifting to the apex of your thighs. 

You squirm, bucking your hips, urging him closer. 

“Patience, love, I’ll give you what you need.” He tells you and kisses the corner of your mouth. You believe him.

Jing Yuan settles himself between your thighs, holding them open with his own. He is not a small man, and it leaves you very exposed. More exposed than you would like, and it makes something in you writhe. Jing Yuan hushes you, soothes you as he’s so good at doing as he drenches his fingers in oil.

(The first time you fucked, you did not do this step. Oil and any type of lubricant was skipped, and you paid the price the next morning with a bit of light bleeding and an ache that would send Jing Yuan to the Alchemy Commission to fetch some specialty painkillers. He was very apologetic the morning after, guilt-ridden even. At some point, he started carrying little vials on his person and insisting lubricant be used regardless of how impromptu of a lay it was.)

(That is all to say that Jing Yuan’s cock is huge and has the capability to break you.)

He presses a finger into you— it goes in easily, slides with the aid of lubricant and your own slick.

“Oh,” Jing Yuan breathes, gaze drifting from your parted lips to the finger he sinks into you. “You’re so wet.”

You want to be snarky. Of course you are, he’s already had you on his tongue earlier in the day— now, he’s been teasing you, playing with you, and being sweet with you. How could you not be? It’s the only natural response to your lover treating you in such a way.

However, you do not get a chance to show him any sass as he crooks his finger upwards and rubs the pad of his thumb in a familiar pattern, little circles over your clit. A gasping moan spills from your lips and Jing Yuan holds you down with his free hand on your hips. He pets you when you shake and yearn for more too quickly. 

“‘S okay?” You ask.

“Very.” Jing Yuan smiles, beaming, almost purring. “I’ll tell you if it isn’t.”

“Okay.” You nod, feeling wrung out already. Beads of sweat rise between your breasts and drip down your skin. 

Jing Yuan must notice too, as he ducks forward to lick a firm strip over your tacky skin, groaning as he does before moving to one of your nipples. He kisses around the bud, nips just enough to make you fuss, before wrapping his lips around it. He bites, sucks, and groans into you as he does. 

You pet through his hair, scrapping your nails down his neck and back. Marking him however you can.

Jing Yuan pulls away from you, panting, and kisses you hard on the mouth. It’s a clash, really. Harsher and more desperate than he usually would give you. He’s usually not this messy, but your teeth clack together awkwardly and you swallow around the discomfort. Jing Yuan is quick to correct himself, deepening the kiss more sweetly as if to apologize. 

He slips a second finger inside your cunt, next to the first, drenching your hole in slick and lube. It’s— messy. It is wet. The sound is obscene, even if Jing Yuan is being slow and gentle with your most delicate parts. Arousal pools in your gut, and want makes you feel like a sinking puddle, spreading out over the sheets like you’re going to absorb into Jing Yuan’s lavish mattress. 

You open up for him, relax with the contact and let him take care of you as he wishes.

He presses another finger into you— this one stings, despite the preparation and slick drenching you down your thighs and the sheets below you. He moves slowly, kissing your cheeks and hushing you when you whine. 

“I’ve got you,” He smiles, and drags his lips over your cheeks. It’s reassuring, and something blooms from the base of your spine up to your throat. He gives you playfully chomp over the apple of one and you let out a little laugh. It bubbles up out of you and Jing Yuan shares it with his own deeper one.

He fans out his fingers inside you, slowly, with each thrust. It’s measured, practiced. Despite the time apart. 

Jing Yuan is hard against your leg. You can feel him, though Jing Yuan is still wearing his own robe and silks which simply will not do. Tugging, you drag it off him, and push yourself half up. You attempt to reach for his cock, you want it— him. But Jing Yuan stills his fingers inside you, clicks his tongue, and knocks you back into the mattress with a gentle (albeit firm) shove.

“Not yet.” He scolds, though there’s no bark behind it. 

You frown. “But I want you.”

“And what if I want you too?” Jing Yuan asks.

It’s something he’s never raised directly before.

He’s made such a fact known, however. You know he wants you. Jing Yuan was happy to complete a number of courting gestures, prior to becoming something of an official couple. He keeps you close, he is kind to you, he even tells you a secret or two. He fucks you like he loves you and wants you close. He leaves marks all of you, from your neck, all the way down to even your ankles and calves on occasion. He shares drinks with you in his gardens, offers you a place in his bed and somewhere in his heart, even if you’re still (after decades) understanding where that is.

But, so rarely does he state that he wants you so plainly. 

Want is dangerous. Yearning and all. Yearning must be a passing emotion if one is to resist Mara. If anything, Mara is accumulated and rotting yearning. 

Jing Yuan has lived a long life due to how he copes with yearning. 

To admit to it— it is an act of vulnerability. To admit a weakness, a thing that could tear him full of undying roots and strike him down. It is the danger of the Divine Foresight finding a partner and becoming coupled. It invites such feelings. 

You had assumed Jing Yuan hadn’t entertained such notions directly. To give them time in his mind could bring rumination. Which— could easily go sour.

“... You want me?” 

Jing Yuan tilts his head cutely, “Yes, of course. Was that not obvious?”

“I inferred,” You feel sticky and sloppy as Jing Yuan withdraws his fingers. 

He climbs off the bed, only for a moment. He shucks off the last of his clothing, leaving him bare. Candle light casts shadows over the contours of him. His cock looks— painfully hard. As he climbs back into bed, it bobs, swollen and dark red at the head. Almost purpling. It’s slick with pre that is still beading from his slit.

“... Can I suck you off?” You ask, a bit entranced. “Please?”

“Not now,” He tells you with a laugh. “Later, if you ask me nicely again.”

“Okay.” You can do that. 

Jing Yuan huffs out another laugh with a shake of his head, “Insatiable thing.”

“I missed you.” You tell him. Your voice is watery. Your own admission.

Jing Yuan flips you by your midsection, coaxing you to raise your hips enough to sandwich a few silk pillows between your hips and the bed. His hands linger over the bruises on your hips, then slide down the swell of your ass to the backs of your thighs. He pets you until you’re relaxed, boneless.

He parts from you over for a moment, rummaging through a nearby cupboard for oil. You hear him slick his cock. The sound makes you squeeze your thighs together and bury your face in the sheets. 

Jing Yuan surprises you by pressing a finger into you from behind. A sound rips from your throat as he finds your sweet spots, adding another finger quickly, then a third. You’re drenched between your thighs, so slick you feel drunk. Jing Yuan positions your legs a little wider and settles between them. 

“D-Don’t aggravate your injury,” You remember, beginning to push yourself up. A moment of lucidity as you can sense Jing Yuan lining him up. “Not on my account.”

“I won’t.” He promises, running a hand down your back from tailbone to nape to coax you back against the mattress. He presses a kiss to the base of your spine. “Always so caring and diligent.”

“I—” You cut yourself off as the head of his cock teases your folds. Rubbing. “Jing Yuan—”

“I want you.” Jing Yuan tells you, doubling back, bumping against your clit as you moan. 

“Y-You can have me,” You want to see his face, rub his cheeks. “You do have me. You’re mine and I’m yours.”

Damning yourselves.

Can’t the General be selfish in lieu of his looming retirement? Can’t the Master Calibrator enjoy the company of others, and not the mechanical hum of a God Ship?

“I have you?” Jing Yuan asks, beginning to push into you.

You can’t reply— you can’t. Despite the prep, and oil, and arousal all together, it’s still tight. Jing Yuan is thick enough that it’s outlandish, and you’re feeling every inch of that girth as he enters you. You clutch your balled-up hands in the soft sheets near your head. You try to keep your breathing even but it’s hard. Jing Yuan pets down your sides, leaning over your back, whispering little words of praise and encouragement as you take him. 

“You’re so lovely. Look how well you’re doing.”

“You’re going to take all of me.”

“I’ll be gentle. I’ll be good to you.”

He is, and you don’t mean to cry, you don’t, but you do when he bottoms out, and you can feel him so, so deep, it’s in your throat. The heat of him inside you is searing. You’re changed. You’re being carved out by him anew, and he wants you. 

“You h-have me,” You tell him. You scrambled a hand behind you, shaking as you brace yourself against the bed. You manage to get a handful of his head and drag him down over your back. “Jing Yuan, please have me.”

You’ll beg for it; shame has been lost.

You want to stay here. In his bed. By his side. You want him to want the same with you. Not with old flames. You don’t want Jing Yuan to deny himself pleasure in the face of duty, as if the two cannot exist. As if rules cannot be bent or changed by the hand that rules them or the Calibrator who tweaks the vessel that you both live on. Things change. It is the nature of life and starshine.

Even with the Xianzhou Natives' lifetime, they are bound to grow, endlessly. 

Jing Yuan pauses above you, stills so deep in you. You’re worried for a moment you’ve crossed a line. That your desperation has spurred him away, rather than closer. It terrifies you. It grips you so hard that it feels like your heart could shatter to pieces.

(Your worry is misplaced.)

Jing Yuan lets out a shuddering sigh, pulling out almost completely. You panic (“no, no, no, don’t, ‘M sorry”) and nearly flip over to try and recover the situation. However— you’re mistaken.

He groans as he slams back into you, curling over your back, gathering you up in his arms, and rolling his hips. He’s scraping the insides of you. You’re raw. 

“N-No apologies,” His voice breaks. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Y—You offer me yourself so sweetly. I only feel guilty that—” 

He cuts himself off with another deep thrust that punches a broken sound out of you. Tears begin to drip down your cheeks.

“No guilt—”

“I feel guilty,” Jing Yuan punctuates his words with a cant of his hips that has you going slack in his arms, ragdolled by pleasure, “that you think you must beg to be had. I feel immensely guilty that you could have any doubt toward me as a lover.”

He guides you back down to the bed, steadying himself with a searing palm on the back of your neck and a hand leveraged on your lower back.

You really won’t be able to walk tomorrow. 

“I don’t doubt y-you like that.”

(It’s less about some nebulous insecurity you keep as his lover, and more about the solid knowledge that Jing Yuan is so careful with his connections. You cannot believe yourself to be the exception.)

(Sometimes, you doubt that he has any tether to anyone. Like he’s waiting to die. No matter how fond he is of you, that this will supersede it. It damns his well being. It damns the future. But, how steadfast does it make the present? You’d like to think its enough for him to keep you as company due to legitimate desire and care, rather than balming of some wound as your insecurities tell you it could be.)

In retrospect, you’ll feel foolish for thinking so little of Jing Yuan’s feelings toward you. 

He grabs you by your cheeks in one hand, craning your neck back to face him the best you can on your tummy. He levels his face with yours, nose to nose. Eyes alight. He looks... almost angry. Jaw tight, seated and still inside you to the hilt. You’re full— bursting at the seams, but you have enough lucidity to focus your vision and see how pained he looks. Pained and enraptured, loving and loved. He’s bound up with it, the same way that you are. 

“If I could, I would keep you in this bed. If not this bed, then the gardens I would follow you into your tunnels and learn the harmonies and chords you know, even if I couldn’t keep a tune. I would keep you full like this. I would cut you stone fruit whenever you’d like something sweet.”

It’s a declaration. It might as well be a proposal.

You don’t get a chance to reply. Your breath is knocked out of you, like every thought and fear and insecurity that you’ve been shouldering. Jing Yuan fucks you with the full force of his hips, thighs bracketed with your own. It hurts— barely. Enough that you’ll feel it for days and carry a limp for just as long. 

His pace is quick and deep. He’s not chasing— he’s creating. Marking a spot inside you that’s just for him. Only him. It makes you feel giddy and stupid and you laugh through the tears streaming down your cheeks. It’s— all a lot. Jing Yuan keeps you tucked so close, pressing you into the silks sheets. He breathes through his mouth, panting against the back of your neck , sucking more marks into the skin, darkening the preexisting ones. Claiming, in a way that feels different from the hickeys he had given you in the past. 

You sob as he tilts your hips up. He drills downward, hitting your sweet spot with each thrust. You’re— you’re going to explode. The friction of the pillows below your hips isn’t enough to come,but Jing Yuan drilling your insides is getting you close to something. It feels like a peak you’re not meant to climb, and you sob at the sensation. Like you’re free falling.

Jing Yuan holds you closer, wrapping an arm around your midsection, and the feeling disappears.

He sneaks a hand to your cunt. First he feels where you’re joined. The sticky, sloppy mess of pre, slick and lube that you’ve made. You’ll need another bath. Maybe two. He runs gentle fingers along the seam of your cunt, where he’s slowed his thrusts so he can feel where you’re practically tethered together. 

“Taking me so well,” Jing Yuan is breathless. He rubs your clit, bracing himself over your front, and fucks you so wonderfully that your vision begins to darken at the edges.

It’s unfair how quickly he gets you to your peak, touching you like this. He knows your body, and you squeeze down around him with a cry as you crest. Your cunt clamps down as the knots in your gut unfurl. You jolt back with the sensation, overwhelming and all consuming. Jing Yuan moans behind you, a beautiful sound you want to have so committed to memory so that even when you’re riddled with mara, you’ll remember the sound. 

Jing Yuan doesn’t chase his relief, he lays over your back like a blanket as you shake through the aftershocks of your orgasm and fucks you slow and deep. He only hastens when you let out a warbling little sound, something hurt from your bruised insides making themselves known.

He quiets you with a soft, dragged out whisper of praise. He thrusts harder— faster— and moments later there’s a gush of warmth in your guts that makes your eyes roll back into your head. You want to come again, and you can’t help the temptation to reach down and get off, just once— more.

Jing Yuan nearly growls as you do. He bats your hand away, flips you so you’re belly up. Your hips are raised on the mound of pillows and it hits you what he intends to do.

To have both of you.

He throws your legs over his shoulders. Your thighs shake around his cheeks as he gives them a quick kiss, before diving into his meal. He moans and groans into your cunt, out of breath from fucking you still, but no-less diligent. He fucks his cum back into your with a thick finger for a few thrust, just barely— you’ll be too sore and he knows it. 

He eats his release from your cunt. It’s— debauched. It’s so, so much and you can’t do anything other than writhe and tug at his hair. Your hips hurt, but you still find it in you to grind against his mouth. It’s— one of his favorite things. He likes to be used sometimes. This is one of his favorite flavors, when his tongue is inside of you and you drag him closer by his hair and let the friction bring you to orgasm, however long it takes.

You, truthfully, do not have much left in your body to chase this. 

Jing Yuan must know this, or he is feeling similarly— or both. Probably both. You’re too floaty and gone to tell. You’re still crying as he moves to your clit, licks and sucks until you fall apart on his tongue once more, full and sated with him. 

Both had by each other. 

You fall into the bed sheets as you finish, dragging a sweaty Jing Yuan closer. So close. He keeps you closer still, over his chest, cheek pillows on the swell of his pec (breast) and a dusting of silver hair. You’re shaking from the high— so is he. You feel like you’re going to fall into a million pieces.

(It reminds you, briefly, of how it felt when you first dropped into the utility tunnels, after the calibration apprentice went Mara-Struck. How you felt so— alone— gone. How fragile you felt sprinting through the tunnels with the knowledge that your world was being torn apart by forces beyond your control.)

(You felt small and helpless.)

The feeling is quickly extinguished— or maybe made to feel pleasurable. Jing Yuan practically purrs underneath you, petting you, stroking over your new bruises and marks. You keep a hand buried in his hair, petting over his cheeks. Staying lucid— is hard. The last thing you clearly remember was hopelessly fond, adoring, gold eyes, gazing back at you so lovingly, that they could remake you.

Perhaps, they already have.

It’s sometime later, in one of Jing Yuan’s gardens. This one is nestled, lush, in the large courtyard in the center of his home. A pond gurgles with the bubble of fat fish that swim near the surface of the water. You fed them earlier and they’re still looping, searching for an extra snack.

You lay some distance away from the pond on a blanket that Jing Yuan has designated as your ‘outside blanket’ as it is particularly large (tall enough for him to sprawl out on and more than wide enough to fit the both of you) and thick. Your head is pillowed on Jing Yuan’s arm as he is curled toward you, legs tangled with your own. It’s late afternoon, and the General is taking one of his beloved naps. You’ve taken to combing a hand through his hair, scratching along his scalp and behind his ear and contenting yourself with the little sighs and almost-purrs he lets you. 

It is good to rest.

Your leave has, overall, been quite restful. Mostly. Aside from the times that Jing Yuan cannot keep his hands of you and you end up fucking whereever is convenient before retiring to your (now shared) bedroom. The bouts leave you tired and worn, but in a satisfying way. Jing Yuan has been particularly dutiful and attentive post-fuck, always handing you chilled water to sip and offering a treat. Sometimes a fruit or a candy he has apparently been stashing away. He gives you as many kisses as you can bear, and you return the gesture as much as you’re able.

Jing Yuan has become... handiser. Needier. You’d say clingier, but as much as he tends to cling when he’s around his estate with you, it never feels overbearing. He indulges in closeness with you in a way that feels shameless in the best way. 

It’s the same in public. You’ve gone to the night markets, once or twice to indulge in street foods, and Jing Yuan is equally as touchy, albeit it’s more subtle. A hand on your lower back, standing behind you while he orders with an arm wrapped around your waist. You hold hands when you walk, or you loop an arm through his elbow if it's particularly crowded. He did these things before, but they seem more... necessary. Like he has to keep you close. The contact he shares with you is firmer. Richer, even. He’s always been intentional with you, it's his nature, but now his actions have taken on a different shape. Intentionally showing want, rather than showing closeness.

It creates both a softness and an edge to him that you are thoroughly enjoying.

There’s softness in how lax he is next to you, dozing the afternoon away after completing the bare minimum of work for the day. His cheeks are rounder, and a bit rosy. It’s warm today. It’s the softness of skinship, how you’re both seeking out each other’s barest parts, even if it's only for a moment or two of skin-to-skin contact. It’s how his care is so explicit these days. 

The edge of it is how the General is anxious, perhaps. It’s a possessive flavor that Jing Yuan has, perhaps, always has, but is simply more apparent now. His touches in public flaunt the fact that you’re clearly a couple, nevermind what gossip magazines and street whisperers will say. It’s the consistent marks he leaves on you— those visible hickeys on your neck, down to the dark, sore ones he leaves on your inner thighs and the softness of your stomach. It’s the way he commissioned a set of earrings, one for each of you to wear. 

(He had looked a bit melancholy, just for a moment, when he first presented you with them. Like a memory had surfaced but then was quickly let go and set adrift in favor of the present.)

The set is crafted with gold connected with a flat, rectangle of stone that dangles down from it. The stone is red, inlaid with gold veins. Some alloy that was probably mined on an asteroid— a rarity. They’re beautiful. You hardly know what to say when you receive yours; Jing Yuan had presented you the gift while already wearing his. 

Marking each other as each other’s. 

It’s brazen— and you like it. The beast of feeling that tore you to shreds in the utility tunnels feels far away, lately. Your extended leave has been good and you’re... grateful Jing Yuan has been quite official (and strict) about keeping you away from work.

You run the pad of your thumb under his eye. The skin is delicate, wrinkled just the slightest. It’s a tragedy, for many reasons, that you both are long-lived and cursed with Abundance. You’d like to see the crow’s feet Jing Yuan would have, if his skin did not keep itself so elastic and young.

Apparently awake, Jing Yuan grabs your wrist and brings it to his lip. He sets upon you with a lazy smile. His eyes open, just halfway, and he looks at you, so adoring.

“Are your thoughts entertaining?” Jing Yuan asks, gentle as he holds you closer. “You seem quite lost in them.”

You hum, kissing his jaw with a drag of your lips, “Not lost. Just reflecting.”

Jing Yuan hums himself, nosing into your temple. Then your hairline, where he leaves a line of kisses in his wake. You shudder with the feather-light feeling.

“Would you like to share?” Jing Yuan asks. “Or, perhaps take a rest with me? Though I am very appreciative of the head massage, I do believe you could use a rest. Unless you wish to take a stroll, and turn in early?”

“A stroll sounds lovely in a bit. I don’t mind sharing, though,” you answer. 

Jing Yuan smiles against your skin. You wish it could brand you, “I’m listening, whenever you’d like.”

You gather your words for a moment. It takes— a second. A long one. The Dragon Lady says that you’re experiencing some lasting effects from being attuned to the Quantum fields for too long in the wake of the Stellaron Crisis. She seemed confident your impairments would heal but your mind is that of a mortal. It will take time.

Jing Yuan is ever patient with you.

“I suppose I’m grateful,” You tell him. “I am glad I have a space in your life, and I am grateful that you show it to me in the ways that you do. I would be— very sad, if I was not by your side, I think.”

It is a simple way to put something much larger.

Jing Yuan seems to understand regardless.

He takes a deep breath, then squeezes you to his chest. It forces the air from your lungs in a way that makes you light-headed.

“How kind are you.” Jing Yuan sighs, nuzzling into your hair. “To think of me so sweetly, without prompting. I’m very fortunate to have you as a lover. I hope you know that.”

“I try to remind myself.”

“Do I need to remind you more myself?” Jing Yuan asks, his smile turning a bit mischievous. He rolls himself over you, caging you. “I’m happy to.”

“You’ll spoil me!” You laugh and bat at his chest, slipping your arms over his shoulders, locking your hands behind his neck.

“I quite like having you spoiled.” Jing Yuan contends with a cute tilt of his head. “I should resolve to spoil you more, actually. Do you have any ideas on how to do so? I’m happy to listen.”

“Jing Yuan—” You huff with an uncontainable grin. Your heart is going to burst from your chest. You would let it. You’d let Jing Yuan take its place. You practically already have. 

“I think,” Jing Yuan whispers in your ear, breath warm and sweet. “I ought to keep you in bed for the afternoon, perhaps pause the plan for a stroll until later in the evening. Starfire flies have been gathering in one of the gardens near the Exalting Sanctum— what do you say to a post-coital jaunt?”

“I mean—” You flush and bump your nose into his cheek, like a cat giving ample affection. “I don’t think I’ll be properly spoiled if I can still walk after you’re through with me.”

“So, I’ll carry you? That’s doable.”

“No— I mean— You can—” 

“I’m teasing you,” Jing Yuan murmurs with a tone so sweet and warm, you could melt into the soft blanket and soil below you. “Whatever you’d like. We can decide along the way.”

You smile.

“Yeah,” Your chest feels tight and warm and lovely all at once. Jing Yuan pulls away, and the earring that twins your own dangles, catching the falling sun in its veins of gold. “I’d like to decide along the way with you.”

It means more than this instance, it’s encompassing. To be long-lived and coupled is to tread the shallows of what could be Mara. To wear the mark of another is to dare to swim closer to the roiling beast of Abundance that none of the Xianzhou Natives can truly outrun.

But you think that, perhaps, you and Jing Yuan will be alright until that day, whenever it may be. You will spoil each other, hold each other, and take your steps while extending a patient hand to the other if they’d like to take it. You’ll listen to echoes together and learn to forget them. You’ll harmonize with stardust and Jing Yuan will play his games of many dimensional chess until he (hopefully soon) retires.

The smile that grows on your face is warm like a hearth, honeyed like a spiced tea, and kind. It splits the both of you open, and Jing Yuan kisses you like he can’t help but to do anything else. You don’t lose your grin, and you give it to him against his lips, laughing together as you share breath.

It’s sweet and lovely, you think, as Jing Yuan touches your foreheads together. You have this, and you’ll be happy to have this for as long as Fate and Aeons allow. You think that Jing Yuan will be happy too— with a coveted smile so kind given to you and a bed, shared. 

You bask in it— this. The gardens and the heat of him and the warmth in your chest, for however long you’re given. 

[ectologia]

I gently request a Dabi fic wherein he's been letting his little sister crash at his place and decides to pimp her out to Shiggy. Please, thank you, your writing is amazing ❤️ ❤️

BUSY EARNIN’

TOMURA SHIGARAKI + FEMALE READER + DABI

WARNING: DUBCON/NONCON, THEMES OF INCEST, SEX-BUYING, HUMILIATION, CREAMPIE, PROFANITY

The recital of your name ushers you downstairs. Your feet tip-toe down the rickety steps while you refrain from gliding your hand along the splintered wood of the bannister.

You bound along until you recognise your big brother, slouched against his patchwork sofa with his knees spread and a cigarette pinched between his fingers.

“Hey, you.” The subtle flick and curl of the ashen digits lulls you closer, close enough until you’re able to see the sizeable stacks of green bills piled up and snapped together with tight rubber bands lain across his coffee table.

You shift, curious as you notice the lean figure hunched next to Dabi, counting through another hand full of cash and muttering. He’s frantic as his fingers work on shuffling through the paper, his eyes are an unsettling blood red surrounded by rings of black and flaking skin, while his hair sits nestled beneath the shadow of his hood, only the stormy ice blue of his fringe peeking out.

“What’s all this?” You lilt, pointing a finger at the stacked paper.

Dabi all but hums, parting his lips as a whispy stream of smoke escapes the ruptured seam. “What you owe me.”

You draw back immediately, confused. “What?..”

He laughs, a deep, hoarse chuckle. Lowering the cigarette from his teeth to address you properly. “You heard me kid. You gotta earn your keep, you know? Ain’t shit free in life.”

You splutter, furrowing your brows. “B—but, wait, what do you mean I owe you that?” You gesture to the wads of cash sat waiting atop the wooden surface.

And just like that, the last few pages of money are slapped down onto the table. “That’s all of it, Dabi.” Shigaraki croaks, bobbing his foot up and down in anxious waiting.

Dabi shifts through the bank notes before giving a satisfied tut, settling back into the plush concave of his couch and taking another drag. “Thanks, Shigs. She’s all yours.”

You retreat backwards as his bent form extends into a looming shadow the moment he stands, taking a stride towards you.

“Wait! Dabi, what’s going on?” You squeal the moment your hands are seized, pulling and tugging until you’re bent against the wall at an angle.

He clicks his tongue, crossing an ankle over his leg. “I just told you. You’re paying me back, kid. Eatin’ my food, drinking my water. All that shit. You didn’t think you’d be crashing at my place on my dime, did you?” His chuckle is grim and dark as he pours over your hurt expression. “That’s cute. I’m a nice guy but I ain’t no saint, family’s still gotta’ pay their dues.”

You’re jolted about to Shigaraki’s liking until you’re positioned over the coffee table. A big hand pushes your cheek down into the hard surface while the other handles your hips, raising your ass up into the air. “Dabi! No, please stop! Tell him to stop!”

Your big brother winces at your shrill squeaks, squinting at the gritty nails clawing at your delicate flesh. He snaps his fingers, leaning forward. “Yo, Shiggy. Be careful, yeah? She’s still a virgin so she’s gonna be a lil’ skittish.”

He’s met with a harsh grunt, beady red eyes squinting up at him. “Shut the fuck up, makin’ my dick go soft with all your yappin’. I paid for her, so I’ll fuck her how I want, yeah?”

Your big brother huffs a sigh, sitting back against the cushions as he watches Shigaraki tear at your clothes. Your shirt is scrunched just above the meat of your tits as two hands reach down to tug and twist at your pebbled nipples. He tuts, palming at the doughy flesh. “Fuck, your sister’s kinda hot, man.”

Dabi hums in agreement, taking another puff of his cigarette as he rubs his hard-on through the rough denim of his jeans. “You should see her pussy.”

Shigaraki halts, lifting up to eye his friend. “You’ve seen your sister’s twat?” A broad smile curls onto both pairs of lips as they sneer at each-other. “You’re a freak.” He snickers.

The flimsy pair of panties concealing your pudgy mound are slid down past your ankles. Dabi scoffs as the skimpy garment is tossed at his face with a chuckle, the scent of your pussy encasing him for a split second. “A lil’ trinket for big brother Dabi.” Shigaraki grins.

“Please Dabi! I’ll pay you back! I don’t want him t—”

You’re cut off with a whine. “Awh, you don’t want me?” Shigaraki pouts, squeezing and jiggling your ass-cheeks. “That’s just hurt my feelings, babe. Looks like I’m gonna have to fuck you extra extra hard now.”

You gasp as Shigaraki spits a fat wad of saliva into your asshole, bringing two cold fingers down to smear and spread the sticky substance all the way across your slit. He dips the calloused pads into your folds, searching for the little bundle of nerves that has you twitching. The moment your hips flinch he’s cooing, rubbing harsh lines into your hooded clit. “Oh yeah, get that cunny nice and wet, hm?” Your mouth gapes and your jaw slackens, shuddering upon his abuse. “Yeah? You like me rubbing that clit? Getting your little pussy masturbated? Just like that?”

He chuckles at the small hand grasping his wrist, pleading for some type of relief. He retracts, wiping his soiled fingers into the back of your head before knotting them in between your mussed locks, tugging your neck back in a painful arch.

A flicker of hope ignites once you see your brother lean forward with a smile. You keen, reaching out for him. “Da—”

“Shh..” Before you can finish, a thick cloud of musky smoke cuts you off. He purses his lips into a snide grin as he blows the ash right into your spluttering, teary face.

The two laugh at your blushed cheeks and bloated lips as you cough, whimpering every time Shigaraki rubs at your swollen seed.

“I want you to look at him.” Your chin is held up by a pale hand, angling you to meet the bulging tent in your brother’s pants. “Look at your big brother while I rape you.”

At this you crack, breaking down into a plethora of blubbering cries. Shigaraki seems satisfied with your shell-like expression and takes the opportunity to stretch his fat mushroom-tip through the taught flesh of your pussyhole, sighing out a grunt as he does. “Fuck yeah.” He wastes no time in gathering the reins of your hair, jutting into you from behind with a broad smile. “Oh yeah, take—that—dick—baby—take it!” He punctuates every word with a thrust, pushing and pulling you along as he rides your ass.

Dabi can’t help but slip his vacant hand down the waistband of his boxers, fisting his fat, dribbling cock while he watches you get molested. It turns him the fuck on. He croons, hissing through the thin space of his teeth biting down on his cigarette. “Mm, look at you, getting used like a little piece of rape-meat. Should’ve done this ages ago lil’ sis.”

You’re practically foaming at the mouth, the only way you’re able to stay upright is by the massive hands groping at your titties. Shigaraki snarls and howls behind you like a beast, raping your pussy faster and faster with his sweaty uncut dick until a vision of black begins to seep past your field of view. A pierced brow quirks upwards as Dabi watches your eyes shift to a ghostly white.

Shigaraki growls, slowing his hips to exchange his frantic rutting into pounding your pussy with deep, lethargic, hurtful thrusts, knocking your hips painfully into the edge of the table. Your cries are smeared into the wood, your whole body rocking as your knee is lifted to spread you open further.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Your ears twitch at the sound of Shigaraki’s voice. He hunches, slamming a fist down dangerously close to your head as he jutts his dick and balls into your slit at a rapid pace. “Fu—agh!”

The room drops to an eery silence as Shigaraki groans and shivers above you, swaying his hips side to side to ensure he’s pumped your battered womb full of his hot, creamy jizz.

The moment he retreats, your body is dragged along with him until your clenching pussy unhooks itself from his throbbing tip, ropes and ropes of sticky white cum following his retraction.

“Damn. That was good.” Shigaraki huffs, catching his breath while he stands proud and bare above you and Dabi, two hands bent on his hips while his flaccid member hangs lowly between his legs, bobbing and swinging.

“Glad I could help.” Dabi grins, slapping a wad of cash against his palm triumphantly.

[lexluvswriting]

ꔫ L'autunno.

☆ Ch: 1 [next page]

-> Pairing: Eris x ballet dancer!fem!reader.

-> Content Warning/CW: x fem!reader (she/her), slow-burn, rivals to lovers, tinkle of angst on occasion, fluff, non-specified identity Summer Court!reader, regarding canon ACOTAR time: after defeat of Hybern. live, laugh, love 2 lesbian mothers!!

-> Trigger Warnings/TW: Eris Vanserra, mentions of racism, mentions of discrimination, mentions of forced removal from homes (cant think of the name rn), Beron Vanserra is a massive cunt.

W/C: 2.8k

╰┈➤ Lex's note: omg eris fic is here grahhh!!! the title for this comes from Vivaldi's Four Seasons Concerto album, which i do listen to while writing this, yes yes. Eris has is a massive dick, but i'd like to hope he's a massive dick for a reason that will (hopefully) be revealed better. Hopefully, reader holds him accountable & gives him a run for his money!! (you will). While reader is fem for this fic, there's no specified identity (except being from Summer Court). There are a few referrals to racism using the Courts of Prythian & the fae, so if this feels triggering or hurtful, please let me know if it feels like it's written badly/insincerely! i'm merely basing such references off of personal & researched experiences. TYSM for reading, please enjoy <3

A violin filled the studio, wafting around like a strong scent- hypnotic as you inhaled deeply, eyes shut to steel yourself and count in before your arms swung up and out, fingers and feet pointed within your ballet shoes as you began to dance. Careful, calculated steps sent you spinning around the room- the perfect prima of your time. A prime example for those who dream to even come close to your level.

In a room of fire, your movements were fluid. In a room of embers, you were a tidal wave. Your body poise and malleable as you stretched yourself alluringly to those who watched as you swayed for the sweet symphony of violins. Eyes watched you from a concealed viewing platform high above- russet spheres simmering with a flame of interest that was bound to end in a fiery mess.

“Her. I want her to perform for the Equinox.”

“She’s quite the star, isn’t she?” Your mentor nodded, eyes twinkling with pride, before he wore his favourite facade- an arrogant smirk on his lips as he inspected his manicured nails. Eris’ face was impassive, yet any trained, or similarly minded individual would see the need for greed in his russet eyes as he glared down at you, pupils flaring possessively.

“She’s my starlet, young Lord. I cannot let her perform without any… payment. She will be put through harsh training- stretching, extension of her muscles, and her diet will be limited- to ensure she is tamed and perfect for the Lord’s family. I know the Lady of Autumn thoroughly enjoys the…” He trailed off nervously as Eris held up a silencing hand, the young heir fixing him with a cold stare- despite the fire in his veins.

“Spare me. Your pocket will be stuffed accordingly. But I warn you,” With one hand he grabbed the collar of the weaker male’s shirt with a predatory grace,

 She must be perfect, or else we won’t have her, and the only old you’ll see is the Vanserra signet ring imprinted in your cheek.” His hand clenched accordingly, the Vanserra signet ring- the emblem of the Autumn Court banners carved in the pure gold, making Gustav still and nod compliantly. The heir dismissively waved for a servant to hand your instructor a list before storming out- ignoring your dancing figure.

--- ⋆⁺₊✧˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆ ---

“Wrong! When we kick, our leg must come out-”

A cold hand clamped around your calf, another hand pushing just above your knee, the joint loose like a hinge. Your face was impassive- unmoving even as a small ‘pop’ echoed from somewhere in your knee. One of the junior dancers recoiled visibly, hiding her face behind her hands as a cluster of them watched you be used like a demonstration doll for your instructor.

“Stiff! Strong! Not flabby and weak. We are not caterpillars- we are butterflies. We are not brutish fires, we are?”

“Dancing flames.” The dancers replied in a drone of young feminine voices, with a few meek boys who looked like they were on the verge of clawing their eyes out. Gustav was being a right pain in the ass as always, but today he seemed more sharpened. Another lecture, another scolding, but it was always,

“For the better! I do this for your own good, my dears! When the Equinox arises and we are in front of your esteemed Lord, I know his lordship would enjoy seeing his dancers disciplined. Lean and poise. Controlled.”

The cold hand that held your leg squeezed once in warning- ‘I’m talking about you too’, before letting go, as your instructor sighed with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“That is why we dance the way we dance, and why I speak the way I do. Now leave me! And warm down appropriately or I will personally see to it that the muscles you take for granted will tear.” A curl of the lip in a low, warning snarl, before he waved with a sweeter disposition. 

“Adequate work today, my dears!” Footsteps echoed as the younger dancers left first, whispers filling the halls as they eagerly complained about their instructor. The older ones bid polite greetings of farewell as they followed, until you were the last to leave. The prima. Gus liked to call you the ‘Summer jewel in the Autumn box’.

“Ah, ah, ah! I mean it, my jewel. No going off and doing your own thing.” You pause. His voice carried a weariness of someone twice his age, before he covered it up with his usual airy arrogance, “The Lord will be hosting important families at this gathering. Something big is on the horizon and I know he will be watching you closely.”

Ah, yes. Kicking out all the non-fae and those who hail from other courts. The nationalist prick seemed to have no lost winks of sleep as he commanded his soldiers to haul families out in the night, dispatching them at random borders with no cares for the creatures that lurked with a taste for fae flesh.

“I’m aware, Gus. No sudden movements, no flashy shows of skill, Mother forbid I reveal I’m not some worthless foreigner with no talent.” You mocked mirthlessly, earning a sigh of defeat. 

“Wait a moment.” He roused, and the fingers that curled around your bag strap tightened slightly, your pointed ears twitching at the tone of his voice. But you slowly turned, a scowl on your unimpressed face as you nodded airly.

“You were selected personally to perform for the Vanserra family. Something about honouring the magic in the Autumn Court territory with dance and such.”

You paused, mind blanking, yet your demeanour remained even, “And you’re looking at me like that, why?”

He winced, knowing how keen you were to snap at any male- or anyone, really, who rubbed you up the wrong way.

“They left a list of… expectations. As in, mandatory requirements or they won’t let you perform. They expect you to be… um… Be polite, and uh, as he put it, ‘socially acceptable’. Speak in turn and only when spoken to-”

“He?” You snapped, visibly unimpressed and ready to pull out completely. What kind of prick-

“I don’t let you anywhere near me on a good day, Gustav. What in the Cauldron makes you think I’ll just-”

“They’re offering coffers of gold. The Equinox… well, after Amarantha… they need to regenerate the magic of the Autumn Court specifically, so they want to use the Equinox.”

You cringed at the mention of that sick tyrant, yet you weren’t going to just roll over and lie down because someone jingled a purse of gold. “What of the Spring Court and Calanmai?”

“I didn’t ask, because I know my place. And don’t start. I didn’t exactly feel like getting ripped a new one by the son of the Autumn Lord, [Y/N]-”

“Son? As in, Eris Vanserra? That oaf- that misogynistic, foul-mouthed, mentally decayed pig was here? And he spoke to you about me?” You snarled, lip curling back as you advanced forward slowly like a fox- a wolf, eyes narrowed.

“He’s offering coffers on behalf of his father, [Y/N]! Enough for you to be paid out well, and then some for the studio.” Damn right he put you first on the pay list, otherwise he wouldn’t have a damned head. Though, you personally couldn’t give a flying fuck about the Vanserra coffers. You wanted nothing of it, as tempting as it might have sounded.

“Get Nerissa to do it.”

“He wanted you-”

“I thought the family wanted me.”

“I… oh, fuck it- Fine! Eris came here alone! Came here alone, saw you, insisted on you with this list in mind and he said either you or no one at all.”

You or no one. You or nothing. You made a retch of disgust, laughing at the mental image. Who did he think he was? “Then I will snap my leg in half and shatter my bones into teeny tiny pieces for good measure.”

“[Y/N]-”

“I will swan dive off the nearest staircase.”

“No.”

“I’m not performing personally for a good-for-nothing family that are backwards in everything they do.” You reaffirmed, shaking your head, but Gustav stepped forward.

“[Y/N].”

“They singled out the non-Autumn Court dancer to perform for them. What powers do I possess to help the court that doesn’t even want us? A ‘summery breeze’? A ‘foreigner’s’ complexion? Absolutely not-”

“Please. We…” Silence, before a sigh. A sigh that made you glare silently. “I received a letter last night from the building owner. I’ve been falling behind on payments, and Beron’s financiers are… hungry- they see this old building and want to knock it down for something else. Something miserable and drab.”

You frowned, blinking at your instructor. Well, fuck. Your shared silence was long- his pleading, hopeful silence swirled like smoke with your prideful refusal, that melted like wax the longer it lingered.

“... Fine. But only because I enjoy this damned studio.”

--- ⋆⁺₊✧˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆ ---

Your life was, what you thought at least, a mixed bag. You were brought up in an orphanage- housing mostly Autumn children, all who seemed to smell the ‘impostor’ blood in your bones, weeding you out as an odd one out. Your appearance led the governess of the orphanage to believe you hailed from the Summer Court- as did russet and teal muslin you were wrapped in. You repurposed the seemingly sentimental piece of fabric into a scarf- letting it rest around your neck currently, as you walked down the path of the bustling town.

You were lucky to be recognised for your artistic performative abilities, earning a grant to allow you to perform in the Autumn Court’s national dance academy, as well as live in one the apartments they provided. Two old ladies next door adopted you as their honorary daughter, and you were grateful for their familial company, even if there was no blood relation. One of them, Ordelia, even pushed you to study at the grand scholar’s library, using her former connections to grant you access to all the education you could need.

It wasn’t wonderful. But it could be worse. At least you were making it on your own, sort of.

“Afternoon little doe! Will you come for dinner? Delia-dearest made pumpkin and feta soup the way you like it!” ‘Madame’ Primrose, one of your makeshift mothers, waved to you from her balcony, and you offered a small wave.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid. I’m on a strict diet of greens and grains.” You pat your stomach with a sympathetic wince- greens and grains. Like a bloody farm animal. The silver haired fae seemed to nod sympathetically and wave a hand.

“You’re always welcome, dearie.” 

You stopped for a moment, looking at an old fae sitting on the corner of the little road, a vendor selling flowers. The sun was dipping behind the horizon, staining the sky pink amidst the grey from the overcast weather that settled. You smiled at the older male who offered you a bouquet of lavender stalks and crocus bulbs.

Pretty.

Your eyes widened slightly as you beheld the bouquet, cradling it against your arm while you fished out payment. As you dropped some coins into his hand, a scream made you both look to one of the older complexes, where a woman was pulled out by some Autumn Court guards with two wailing children behind her. Any passersby walked quicker, ducking their heads, and when you looked back at the old male you realised he had been watching you. He gave you a nod, as if you’d know what it meant, and you swallowed before walking past, your head lower than before.

Beauty was hard to come by in the Autumn court, no matter how colourful it looked.

--- ⋆⁺₊✧˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆ ---

“Oh, it’s nasty business, it really is. My darling Ordelia was telling me how shameful he is- that Beron Vanserra. Nasty business. I remember his father- he wasn’t much better, but certainly more handsome.” You had succumbed to the dinner with your neighbour-mothers, though your portion of soup was smaller, as the sprouts and stalks you miserably chewed filled most of your stomach.

“You know, I could have married Beron.”

Your eyes widened, hand shooting up to cover your mouth as you didn't know whether to choke or chortle. “Primrose!” Ordelia huffed,

“I could have, you know! But I wasn’t interested in a man with no morals.” ‘Madame’ Primrose sighed wistfully, and you laughed softly behind your mouth while her wife rolled her eyes. While Ordelia had raven hair in a tight, disciplined bun, Primrose wore hers in a loose braid that cosied on her shoulder- her silver hair glistening in the gentle faelight of the small dining room you all sat in.

“You know, I hear that Lord Vanserra is looking for some pretty girls to match his sons. The heir will be attending the Equinox alone, can you believe it?” Primrose hummed, thriving off the gossip, but Ordelia watched you with a knowing stare- amused at the soft snort you let out.

“How fares the paper? Arwen mentioned that you were hitting some brilliant points. Politics might be your strong suit, should you grow tired of glamorous costumes and fast dances.” The Autumn-born female brought up your most recent studies, a ghost of a smile on her lips as she heard her wife scoff.

At a first glance, you used to wonder how they could possibly be mated. Ordelia, with her firm, reserved rigidness and disciplined personality, and Primrose- a Spring Court fae who was gossipy and eclectic, always buzzing with something to share. Ordelia was a former scholar for Beron’s family before she retired, while Primrose was the prima ballerina of her time, moving to Autumn in search of a grander role where she met her mate. Their love-story made you sigh a little every time you heard it, but you shook your head of distractions as you answered Ordelia.

“It’s um… definitely going. I feel a little foolish writing it but every time I hear about another family getting kicked out, I get even angrier, and determined to write more. Although… um, Gustav spoke to me about… performing a solo dance for the Vanserras. A part of the Equinox celebration-”

Primrose gaped at that, as if she had been asked to dance herself, “Oh, little dove! Well, what did you say? You worked for that position- I’ll tell you that for free! I can’t fit on my fingers the times I had to remedy your torn muscles. Did you say yes? Did you accept?” 

Ordelia nodded, taking a thoughtful sip of her soup before chuckling softly. “I would not be surprised if your radiance catches the heir’s eye. You’d be a different splash compared to the other dames he usually parades around on his arm. I think you’d certainly give him a run for his father’s money.”

“Ordelia dearest! What makes you think our little summer shell would even consider him?” Primrose voiced the disdain etched on your face, and you joked dryly, “I didn’t think you believed in fate and whatnot.” The Autumn female scoffed softly, shaking her head, “I don’t believe in fate, or destiny. I believe in the laws of attraction. You are everything his family lack, thus making you a match. Opposites attract.” You glanced at Primrose, and both of you made a childish noise of disgust as you shuddered, shaking your head as you finished off your meal.

“I’d rather have a kelpie as a bedside companion than Eris Vanserra.” You muttered, before taking all three plates to be cleaned. Laughter sounded softly behind you, and as you felt a small smile curl on your face, you abhorred the idea of being anywhere near the Lord of the Autumn Court and his family.

--- ⋆⁺₊✧˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆ ---

After bidding your goodnights, you retired to your own apartment, basking happily in the moonlight that shone through the silent space. Peace and quiet. The best way to finish off a bleak day. Your calendar stared you in the face, the Equinox marked in an angry scribble of orange ink. ‘End of the week!!’

What a day. You rubbed your face, feeling a stirring in your stomach as you thought about the Autumn Court. You glanced at the daily paper slid under your door, seeing Eris’ face on the front page- his smug, arrogant, wicked, slightly crooked, unnecessarily charming grin staring you in the face, making your stomach tug. ‘Eugh. Imagine being fated to that beast?’ You’d rather eat glass.

You looked at the paper, baring your teeth at the male’s face before ripping it off and crumpling it up. A swift kick sent it across the small apartment, under your couch, and stayed there for a while as you grumbled softly. You got ready for bed eagerly, excited for the day to be over, only to reach under the small sofa it had rolled under and pick it up again, making a face at it before leaving it on the small table.

╰┈➤ Lex's note 2: i think that's all for now!! readers, pls let me know how we feel about this!!! (privately, in comments, on inbox, i don't mind)!! also in search for a beta reader [i draft everything on google docs, don't hurt me] (T-T)

[autistichalsin]

bloody claws in the dark

Please note: this is a trauma vent story, which is to say it's based on my own experiences as a survivor projected onto the character. This may not be as in character as what I typically write and due to the personal nature it might be uncomfortable for some to read. This is doubly so because this is extremely dark and deals with revenge fantasies. Please keep this in mind before reading. Thank you.

Summary: in his mind, he's killed his captors a thousand times.

In the real world, they died once. Quick, but probably painful, knowing Drow. Quick, and painful, and out of his sight, while he was busy escaping.

He doesn’t regret escaping. Not for a moment. He wasn’t going to let them be the reason he died. It brings a smug satisfaction, really, thinking about the fact that their worthless stupid pet bear, ugly darthiir outlived them. Got to see them die.

But it isn’t enough satisfaction. Isn’t enough that they died, or even that they died violently.

And that is where the split begins.

Halsin doesn’t normally think about revenge like this. Or at least, he hadn’t before. He had a big heart, so others said. He wasn’t always sure, though he tried his best to make it true. But whether he was or wasn’t good enough to be good, revenge was certainly on his mind now. 

In his mind, they haven’t died once. They’ve died thousands of times, all at his hand. He sees it when he closes his eyes. When he meditates, when ghosts of memories spring unbidden into his mind, when he sees chains or hears a bear’s roar that sounds just enough like his own.

He sees it, then. Sees it so painfully real that his jaw aches from clenching. He roars, sometimes silently, sometimes out loud; sometimes with an elf’s snarl and sometimes the mighty, warning snarl of a bear, not even having realized he had wildshaped.

It was worse in bear form. Then, he’d have to fear losing control. That his thoughts would turn real before he could stop it. The bear controlled his body more than himself, after all.

But in elf form he could close his eyes, grit his teeth, and growl. He’d see that bedchamber again. See their hideous infuriating laughing faces, hear their voices, that damned laughter.

His hand would clench, his breath speeding. Oh bear, what’s the matter? You can’t pretend you didn’t want this. I felt so sorry for you, you know, so worked up and so needy-

A cry of frustration. He’d fall to his knees, the anger spiking, spiking. Their voices would grow louder. Their faces clearer. He’d feel it. Lips on his. Tongues on his neck, lapping, making him shake, marking him, making him shiver in disgust and nausea grow in his belly-

And finally, when he couldn’t handle it anymore, would come the new images. Another death to add to the collection of ones he’d created in his mind.

Bear claws would tear their throats. They’d gasp and choke, the sound of blood sliding into their lungs and gurgling in the air.

He’d break free of the chains, and wrap them around their throats. Sometimes the deaths are quick. Other times he lets them faint and wake as many times as he wants. Makes sure he sees it register in their eyes that they’ve finally lost control of their pet bear. That their pet bear is going to kill them, but only when he decides.

Other times he has a knife. He’s never fast with the knife. He slides it inside of that man's stomach first, because stomach wounds are the slowest and most painful way to die. He chops off the man’s cock and balls, and then shoves them down the man’s throat. Lets the man choke to death on them, sometimes. Other times he makes him swallow it, and then stabs, again and again and again. But shallow. Not frenzied, controlled, because he’s in his elf form, and an elven hunter is methodical with their tools. He knows where to stab, where not to, what arteries will grant too fast a passing. He kills the man slow and painful while his matriarch watches, bound as Halsin always was, helpless to stop it.

And then comes her turn. He savors her screams, her cries as he stabs her too. He lies her on the man’s body, lets their blood mingle in a mockery of the bond they claimed to share. He stabs through her palm. Stabs through her and into his body. He breaks her wrist, savors the crunch of bone and the agonized wails. What is this, Mistress? He snarls at her, lip upturned. Couldn’t control your pet bear anymore?

And he stabs, and stabs, and stabs, the red covers it all. Until he can’t breathe, can’t stand, and his knife falls from his hand. Until his vision blurs, the red and the tears obstructing everything else, and he shakes with it. Trembles like a leaf falling from a dying oak.

In those moments he thinks maybe he is dying, the way his heart pounds, but he always seems to come back to himself eventually and his heart seems to calm.

And then there comes the strangest part. He feels angry and calm at the same time, after those deaths, somehow furious and yet detached from it. So overwhelmed with��feeling that he can’t feel anymore, and yet he can, he does, it builds up inside him all over again and makes him want to kill kill slaughter them all again. Like a cycle he can’t stop, like the storm that stops and leaves a false, unnatural calm before resuming, as turbulent as ever.

And then come more deaths for his captors. More relished screams, more blood.

Until he comes back to himself, exhausted, entire body aching. Not satisfied, never satisfied, because it will never be real, and yet close to sated, having lived this fantasy for a while. He closes his eyes.

But then comes the reality, crashing back into him again. He never killed them. He never made them finally fear him the way he feared them. He never did anything but run, run, run.

Reality, clarity, all returns to him and with it is a new horror. Oakfather preserve me, fist over his heart, hand shaking with the motions, what is happening to me because how could he, how could he think such a thing? He isn’t supposed to want to torture someone, even them, isn’t he?

But that’s just what he thought of, again and again, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. Those feelings.

And then comes the bear. His only safe place, his only solace. He does’t have to control the bear. The bear can maim, kill, and it’s accepted that it’s just his nature. The bear isn’t good or evil, gentle or cruel.

He runs. Sometimes he hides. Hides from the other Druids- first his peers, and then, one awful day, his subordinates. Lets them think whatever they want, that he’s weak, running, hiding. An Archdruid who can’t control his wildshape? The new recruits ask, eying him with suspicion, even derision.

He cares not.

He gives himself over to the bear, until he is ready to be an elf again. Lets the bear have his violent side, his emotional side, his hurt.

And for his elf form, he leaves nothing. He leaves the crushing sadness and loneliness, the darkness.

One of his selves is nothing, is emptiness and pain, and the other is rage revenge fear pain.

He curls up in a cave in the Grove, sometimes alone, and sometimes with another cave bear- there are so many over the years- at his side. He never tells a soul what he’s done in his mind, for that would require telling them why he did it. He tells them a half-truth instead. That he can’t tame the beast. It’s true enough, even if the bear isn’t his only beast.

He has many beasts inside him. A caged one. A rabid one. A calm one. A reliable, caring one. An escaped pet.

None of them are happy beasts, but they keep him steady enough to keep him from being a monster beast. They let him keep those thoughts inside, limited to his memories of his captors and their endless deaths instead of someone real.

Maybe one day, someone will hear his pained roars, even the muted ones, and remove the proverbial thorn in his paw instead of fleeing. Maybe then, one day he’ll stop seeing his captors. Or maybe he’ll at least be satisfied by the deaths he creates in his mind.

He hopes.

[run2yoongi]

daisy | myg

pairing: cat dad!yoongi x vet!reader

genre: strangers (kinda) to lovers, fluff, comfort, one shot, cat lover yoongi.

summary: a late, winter night at the vet clinic brings you closer to your regular client, a cat-loving min yoongi and his feline companion, daisy. when he was unable to stand seeing another stray cat spend the holidays on the cold streets, he agrees to take her in. you didn't anticipate that helping the new cat-dad would help you feel a little less alone these holidays, too.

note: wc is 3.1k! i might to a part two for this one, so if you enjoy it please send an ask let me know :) not proofread yet! this is dedicated to all the people who get a bit sad on the holidays. here for u if u ever need

masterlist

this was the best part of your job, you thought to yourself as you picked up one of the three newly delivered kittens to give them a gentle wipe-over. only a few days old, they hadn't even opened their eyes yet, but knowing that they'd be going home to a warm and safe home instead of back onto the snow-laden streets where their mother had been found brought you incredible relief.

the doorbell sang out, and you hoped that the emergency foster family had finally arrived. luckily, you'd met them before and knew they were the kind to come in for regular checkups, it brought you comfort that you'd likely be able to see the newborns grow up over the next few months as they came in. you wandered out to reception to see them checking in, but your gaze rested on someone else entirely.

the doorbell sang out, and you hoped that the emergency foster family had finally arrived. luckily, you'd met them before and knew they were the kind to come in for regular checkups, it brought you comfort that you'd likely be able to see the newborns grow up over the next few months as they came in. you wandered out to reception to see them checking in, but your gaze rested on someone else entirely.

the doorbell sang out, and you hoped that the emergency foster family had finally arrived. luckily, you'd met them before and knew they were the kind to come in for regular checkups, it brought you comfort that you'd likely be able to see the newborns grow up over the next few months as they came in. you wandered out to reception to see them checking in, but your gaze rested on someone else entirely.

ah, he's here again.

"i think she got into a fight," he mumbled to the receptionist, adjusting his grasp on the pet carrier. mister min, as you'd come to know him from his records, had managed to charm one of the more notorious strays in your area into living with him. she was an old, rugged short hair bombay who had likely been abandoned as she grew older and more temperamental. somehow, she'd managed to find her new home with the young man, making him a frequent visitor in your clinic.

lucky cat, you thought.

you joined the receptionist behind the counter, looking over her shoulder as she entered him into the system. "mister min, let's have a look." you smiled at him, gesturing for him to place the carrier on the bench. he obliged, smiling his hello to you.

"i think daisy gets a little territorial when strays come for the food i leave out," he mumbled quietly, finicking with the carrier door. looking over him, you noted the faint pink tinge on his nose and cheeks from the cold on his otherwise flawless skin. his lips seemed soft and full respite the harsh winds outside. his dark hair was underneath a beanie, strands pushed to the side around his warm eyes. you looked down at daisy, silently agreeing that you'd probably get territorial over him, too.

the latch fell free and you bent your knees to see daisy, curled up and eyeing you skeptically from inside the carrier. other than a reddening scratch to her ear, she looked like a perfectly healthy, well-cared-for old cat. leaps and bounds from when mister min had first come in with her.

"did you want to come in while i check, sir?" you offered, glancing back up to your visitor, whose plush pink lips had fallen into a concerned frown. he nodded, following you as you collected the cat carrier and slid open the door to the examination room. he stood attentively at the metal high-table, watching as you pulled daisy from the cage earning a defiant meow. you saw the corners of his lips quirk up, an adoring look in his eyes.

maybe this was the best part of your job, you reconsidered.

shifting your attention to the cat, you gently examined her for any other wounds or scratches hidden by her fur. her reflexes seemed fine, and she didn't appear in any pain- but that wasn't always an indicator that everything was okay. you petted her soft coat as you lifted one of her claws. "hmmm, daisy seems alright, i'd be more concerned for the other cat, to be honest." you hummed. daisy looked like she'd seen a fight or two over her years, and her claws seemed sharp enough to defend herself if need be.

mister min sighed in relief, the tension in his shoulders finally dropping. "i'm just going to disinfect her ear, we might have to give her some shots just in case," you explained, stroking the grumpy cat who was already wandering back to their carer.

"as for the strays, i'd move the food somewhere she can't see. she might just be a little jealous." you smiled, looking back at him as he grinned proudly at daisy, giving her a soft chin scratch, beaming like she was the sweetest thing on earth.

as you were fetching the disinfectant and cotton swabs, an idea suddenly crept upon you. "is daisy normally okay with other cats?" you asked over your shoulder.

"i think so, she normally ignores them if they manage to get into the house. it's just boy cats, i think." he answered softly. you nodded, feeling a level of understanding with the grumpy, boy-hating cat. "well, at least you don't have to worry about her running off with a boyfriend." you chuckled, turning back to press the disinfectant wipe over daisy's scratch, earning a warning growl from the cat.

"we had a stray in today, pregnant." you continued, calming daisy with soothing strokes as she hissed while you cleaned up the shallow cut. "the kittens are okay, but the mother has nowhere to go." you confessed, attempting to keep the worry out of your voice. you could feel him watching you, softly shaking his head in disbelief. "i even considered taking her with me, but my apartment..." you trailed off, realising you were divulging a little too much information.

"where is she now?" he asked, concern lacing his tone. you didn't know much about the customer in front of you, but you knew his soft spot. stray cats. just as you'd expected- he was eager to help in any way he could. you promised you'd show him the strays after daisy was safe to go, assuring him that she was safely nestled in some blankets with her kittens in the next room over.

giving daisy her shots was a feat and a half, you'd ended up needing yoongi to hold her in place while the overnight receptionist held her head still so she didn't bite you or hurt herself as you inserted the needle. after that though, mister min was looking at you expectantly, eager to see the new kittens and their mother.

"ah," he let out a delighted gasp as he entered the room, slowly making his way over to the family. the mother immediately lifted her head to look at him, accepting his offer to sniff his hand before resting her head again, seemingly approving of whatever cat dad energy he had enough to let him pat her.

you stood behind him, overwhelmed by the precious sight. you almost reached for your phone to take a photo to immortalise the moment before realising that it might come off as wholly inappropriate. "can't believe they have to be separated," he mumbled to himself, cooing over how the little babies were wriggling around their mother for warmth. you hummed in agreement, it was a very rare for foster carers to take the whole family- you weren't expecting it, but a part of you had hoped that the kittens would be able to grow up with their mother- knowing it was what was best for their development, their best chance of survival. their mother had yet to produce milk for its kittens though, and you knew that without proper care- they'd likely become weak within a matter of days. despite this, you cursed the fact that your clinic wouldn't allow you to keep strays, even short-term. they had to go to a shelter or a foster family- and all the city shelters were closed down for the holidays.

almost on queue, the receptionist entered the room, desk phone in hand and extended it to you- a worried look on her face. "the foster carers are here," she whispered, eyes noticing the young man who was now sitting on the floor, looking over the cats.

from his spot, squatting on the floor, the man looked up at you with pleading eyes, not wanting the kittens to be taken from him. you couldn't help the smile from spreading across your face at his childish expression, like a boy who's favourite toy was being taken away. "you can stay with mum, if you'd like." you offered, preparing a transfer box to place the kittens in.

"where will she go?" he asked quietly, watching as you picked up the tiny kittens to place them on a soft blanket in the box. you rolled your head to the side, wondering if it was too direct to ask what you were thinking. "well, i'll keep her here as long as i can. the policy is that we need to let her go back to where she was found, though." you spoke slowly, examining his face as he pouted at your words. "unless, someone can take her in." you added coyly, not breaking eye contact.

his eyes widened, realisation washing over his features. "i mean, if daisy is okay with it i-" he paused, realising how he sounded. "what about the kittens?" he asked. you sighed, looking over their wriggling forms. "they'll go to a family with a wet nurse. it's an emergency foster situation, the best we could do. we'll see how they take." you explained slowly, attempting to soothe your client just as much as yourself.

"could we introduce them?" he stood from his squatting position, his impressive height catching you off guard as he suddenly towered over you. if his face wasn't so soft and sweet, you might have been intimidated.

you nodded, eyes filled with delight as hope swelled in your chest. "i just have to cover the hand off for these babies, make sure the wet nurse takes to them." you explained, raising the box with the kittens to your face. "and then we can do just that. do you mind staying for a little bit? i know it's late.". he shook his head at you, a smile forming on his lips as he waved off your comments.

"i don't mind," he spoke softly, glancing down to the mother sleeping softly on the pile of blankets that you'd set down for her. "just wish we could keep them all together." he mumbled as you exited, your heart sinking with guilt ever so slightly.

the hand-off had gone smoothly, the kitten's foster family had already brought along some warm water bottles and cat milk for the babies along with the wet nurse, so you were able to send them off confidently. however, you did advise them to come back every few weeks to track their progress, for entirely professional reasons of course. you'd hoped the kittens would be reunited with their mother soon, if all went well.

your gaze kept getting caught on daisy's dad in the waiting room, though. in fact, you'd caught him staring at you a handful of times as you went over the documentation with your other clients, explaining how to introduce their older foster cats to the new kittens at home.

you dismissed it as impatience or just an eagerness to introduce daisy to the mother cat, but regardless, a gentle wave of butterflies erupted every time you caught his glistening, brown eyes on you. in a lot of ways, he was quite feline-like himself. quietly, patiently watching as you went about your tasks.

you slapped your hands on your thighs and mouthed an 'okay' to yourself, exhaustion beginning to get the best of you as you reached hour 10 of your shift. truthfully, you were meant to leave a few hours ago, but you'd wanted to wait until the kittens were handed off safely before leaving the overnight vet technician in charge.

for your cat-loving client though, you would happily stay back. especially if it meant the stray mother cat would be going to a comfortable home tonight. "ready?" you asked from across the waiting room. his ears perked up and he swiftly stood up, it seemed like you'd snapped him out of a daydream even though he was looking right at you.

he nodded, picking up daisy in her carrier and bringing her into the room with the unnamed stray. "daisy, this is your new friend." he whispered to his cat as he set the cage down in front of the sleeping mother. i guess he's already made his mind up, you thought to yourself. you'd advised to keep the carrier door closed incase things went sour, but as daisy tentatively approached the cage door, you heard a soft mewl that was anything but threatening.

the stray picked her head up at the noise, suddenly alert. she still looked quite frazzled after giving birth to three babies in quick succession but she was still curious about the caged cat, approaching the carrier slowly and cautiously before sitting down right in front of the door.

your attention was caught by a muted, excited noise of adoration coming from daisy's carer, once against catching you off guard. "so far, so good." you spoke, keeping your eyes on his delighted face, his eyes forming two crescents as the stray let out an inquisitive mrrp at the older street-cat.

"i think they like each other," he said, relieved. you wondered if he had some telepathic link with cats that you weren't able to tap into, despite your degree in veterinary science. "should we let daisy out?" he turned to you excitedly. you nodded and he eagerly released the carrier's latch, swinging it open as the stray stepped aside to peer into the cage.

the two of you watched, side by side, as daisy inched out of her carrier, sniffing at the stray tentatively. "will you be open over the holidays?" he asked you quietly, eyes not drifting away from the two cats. "ah, yes. if anything goes wrong, if you take her, i'll be working." you replied softly.

"it would be cruel for her to be alone at this time of year." he mumbled to himself. it seemed like he was already sold, mentally planning his life with his new companion. suppressing the sad wave of feeling that bubbled to the surface after realising that you would likely be the only one in the room alone on the holidays, you took a deep breath and centred your thoughts.

"i can let you borrow some supplies and a carrier from the clinic if you'd like to take her tonight." you offered, glancing up at his smitten expression as the cats brushed their faces against each other affectionately. maybe they'd known each other in another life, you wondered. he accepted and you'd helped him load everything into his car, shivering as the icy winds swept past your face and crept under your clothes. he hesitated before ducking into his car, unspoken words at the tip of his tongue before simply smiling his farewell and driving off into the night.

-

quite frankly, you hadn't been able to keep him off your mind. the phone would ring and you would eavesdrop as the receptionist took the client's name, hoping that it would be him. luckily, despite it being christmas night, it had been busy- the clinic hardly ever empty throughout your shift, allowing you to focus on other things besides him and his polite smile before he'd left with daisy and the stray that night.

you were mere moments from clocking out, handover to the overnight vet had gone well and you were just saying your goodbyes to the receptionist when the door bell rang out, catching your attention. your stomach tied in knots when you saw him- lips pink and puffy from the cruel winds that had been sweeping through the city. "hi," he greeted you as you stood, stunned at the sight of him, the length of his wavy hair tucked into a cashmere scarf.

"i wasn't sure you'd still be here," he mumbled, shuffling his shoes over the doormat to get rid of any traces of snow that had followed him in. "i was just about to leave- is everything okay?" you asked, regaining your composure. your eyes landed on the carried resting underneath his arm, empty. "just wanted to return this." he walked closer to you and you felt the bubbling of butterflies begin to take hold in your stomach. he moved like a model, collected and composed. part of you wondered if that was his job, or if he was a famous movie star that you'd been too ignorant to know of.

you took the carrier from him, nodding your thanks and placed it on the receptionist's desk, turning to face him once again. you couldn't look away from his face, silently grateful for the harsh weather that had made his cheeks along with the tip of his nose shiny and pink. "the cats are doing great, they're already sleeping together." he added, lingering in front of you. his tone was quiet enough that the receptionist couldn't make out his words, and you wondered what the point of keeping your conversation so private was.

"that's good to hear, i'm glad the mum isn't too distressed without her kittens." you replied, sincerely relieved. "have you picked a name?". he hummed, shifting his weight between his feet and shook his head. "not yet, i didn't want to get too attached in case..." his voice trailed off, you nodded in understanding.

"actually," he paused and glanced at your eyes sheepishly. the pale pink hue on his cheeks began to grow into a warmer red blush. "i was wondering if you were free- if you'd like to come and see them.". your eyes widened and you noticed your heart skipping a beat. "no pressure, of course- i mean, it's christmas so i understand if you-"

"that'd be nice, mister min." you interrupted him, too excited to wait for him to finish his sentence. "yoongi," he corrected softly, a delighted spark in his eye. "you can call me by my name.".

as you walked out of the clinic together, you were overcome by the cold, snow falling onto your eyelashes as you made your way to his car. you felt the warmth of his hand envelop your palm, a soft and comforting touch that made your heart swell. glancing down, you squeezed his hand, eyes catching the smile that had spread across his lips.

suddenly, you felt the cold around you turn to warmth, your beating heart aflame with the knowledge that now, you wouldn't be alone on christmas.

[fe-fictions]

waiii happy new year! love love love your works, ive been a huge fan of urs since 2016 and its my first time sending in a prompt im so excited ajdjjqnss!!!!!!!😭❤️❤️

could i request some lonqu hurt comfort??!?! maybe something to do with self sacrifice....like robin pleading the enemy to let go of him when theyre both captured hehe! thanks so much >_<

(Finally finished this one and I'm thrilled to put it out !! Nothing like a stressed out Lonk U V U )

You didn’t know how you got into this situation. Neither you nor your husband. It was a simple reconnaissance mission, venturing a few miles into enemy territory in an attempt to figure out what they were plotting.

It was already risky since you were short-staffed, and with your exceptional analytical abilities, you’d be able to figure out what was going on the fastest.

Lon’qu wasn’t going to let you go in by yourself, and he definitely didn’t trust Gaius with your safety; he might be sneakier, but he was much more laissez-faire with the lives of others than he was comfortable with.

And so it was just the two of you. Lon’qu had stuck to your side the entire time, watching for threats while you took down hastily scribbled, imperative notes. But all it took was one silent assassin that was able to go undetected…and suddenly, you were both bound and forced to your knees.  

“Well, well…whatever do we have here?” Orton’s voice was more than recognizable; the slimey rat that had escaped your justice when you first rescued Maribelle, not long ago.

You struggled against your restraints, recognizing the unmistakable bloodlust in the bastard’s eyes.

“I’m sure Lord Gangrel will be quite pleased with the little rabbit caught in our snare. This one is new, though.”

He eyed your husband, “Bring along some cannon fodder?”

“Leave him alone. He’s got nothing to do with me or any of this.” You glared at him, earning a glance from Lon’qu. What were you talking about?

“I doubt that very much, Tactician. There must be some reason he’s tagged along with you all the way out here…far from safety.”

He brandished his polearm, the tip pointed inches from Lon’qu’s face. The blood in your veins burned hotter.

“A soldier, assigned to me for protection. Nothing more. I’m the one you want, not him.”

“Robin-”

“Let him go, and I’ll come willingly.” You demanded, not skipping a beat. Lon’qu’s expression was difficult to read. But the fear that flashed in his eyes was immediate, and impossible for you to miss.

Orton laughed, turning the spear to you, instead.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to negotiate, girl. But I respect the attempt.”

He nodded to one of the soldiers behind you both, and immediately there was a painful yank on your arms, forcing you back from Lon’qu.

“Hey!!” He barked out, ready to lunge in spite of his predicament. Instead he was pulled the opposite direction, separating the two of you.

“You know what I think?” Orton mused, spinning the weapon in his hands. “I think he’s more important than ‘some soldier’. I think he’s a lot stronger than you’re pretending he is.”

“Leave him be, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’m Chrom’s right-hand; there's more than enough that I can give him.”

“Really? You’d sell out the crown over one paltry soldier?” He narrowed his eyes at Lon’qu, who fought so very hard not to let your facade be for nothing.

He was glaring sharply at you, pleading with you not to make a foolish deal.

“It is a captain’s duty to protect her soldiers; no matter how small.” You spoke with conviction,  “Surely you can understand that, as an honorable military man, yourself?”

“I’d be lying if I said Milord felt similarly about the lesser of our ranks, but…I cannot say no to such an alluring deal. Leave that one, boys- the mountain lions will get to him before anyone else does. Take her away.”

“Stop! Damn you-!!” Lon’qu roared, fighting against his restraints. He was only pulled further away. His arms twisted painfully behind him, dragged further and further away from his wife. 

You could only watch as he was flung from your view, sent crashing down the ravine into and out of sight. It was scafrier when you couldn’t hear him.

It took everything in your power not to try and reach him. To fight back and rescue him.

“Now then, Tactician; I believe I was promised some answers.”

The paralyzing fear was the only thing that kept you from lashing out; the swirl of endless emotions was stalling your mind. All you could do was stare at the ravine, getting further away with every drag across the dirt.

You hoped Lon’qu’s head would pop up, revealing him waiting for you and preparing to save you from your enemies,

But no such surprises would occur.

You still stared after that empty place, waiting with baited breath for the man to appear who would not return.

At least…not right away.

But there was nothing you could do but wait and pray that he hadn’t died after that nasty throw. There wasn’t much else available to you.

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

“You promised to give me what I wanted. Why do you insist on silence?” Orton was growing tired of your disobedience.

He had you tied to the pole of some ratty tent, interrogating you without  a hint of mirth in his eyes.

“You promised not to hurt my soldier, but you condemned him to death anyways. What right do you have to ask me questions?”  You spat, earning a click of his tongue and a slap across your face.

Enough of this arrogance!! You are in no position to hold such arrogance- you do not have the upper hand, woman!”

You fought hard not to focus on the stinging pain in your cheek; he’d drawn blood and all but numbed the side of your face.

Who knew those bastards could pack such a wallop?

“I can only tell you…what I know…which is very little. The Fire Emblem is a sacred artifact to the royal family, and it is hidden somewhere that none can find, unless Exalt Emmeryn reveals-!!”

You were cut off by another strike, this one sending you headfirst into the ground. The ringing in your ears grew louder, your vision clouded and blurry. That definitely wasn’t a good sign.

“If you don’t stop playing foolish games, then you’re going back in a casket. I planned to deliver the head tactician to King Gangrel in one piece, but if he knew how infuriating you are, he’d have you brought to him in pieces!!”

The man spat at your feet, stalking away to try and regain himself.

You did make an effort to focus on his words, but it was so very difficult. After a few deep breaths and a number of colorful expletives left his mouth, Orton stopped his pacing and returned his focus on you.

Maybe it’s because you were tired of looking at him, but you found yourself looking past him and at the guards by the tent entrance as his ugly boots came back into view.

“I’ve been more than patient with you, wench- but I’m running out of options on how to deal with you, and you’re running out of time.”

There was a sudden shift in the colors of the bushes behind a guard. A bright blue and red appeared behind the green.

You blinked, brow furrowing in an attempt to focus your vision. A pair of hands had shot out from the leaves and grabbed the man, mouth covered so as not to allow a shout. The other guard and Orton…didn’t notice.

You must have been hallucinating. 

“I want the location of the Emblem.” He spoke again, louder and closer than before. He hadn’t noticed that one of the soldiers had disappeared.

Your gaze flicked to the other man standing just the opposite, confused by the fact he was now standing alone.

Within an instant, a dart stuck into his neck, and he crumpled. A shadowy figure caught him, dragging him away.

You couldn’t even think to react to what you were seeing. Orton’s hand was on your face, grip tight and painful on your jaw to force you to look at him.

“You’re not getting away. Stop looking outside.” He grinned viciously, “The only chance you’re getting out of here alive is if you give me what I want.”

He stared down at you, grinning wickedly. His grip was so tight it felt like he was going to crack your bones.

“Now…tell me. Where is the Fire-”

The tip of a blade broke through his armor, silencing him with a wet choke. Your eyes widened, staring in shock at the sword mere inches from your own body.

“W-what…did you…”

He crumpled to the ground when the sword was pulled from his chest. When he fell away, Lon’qu stood over him, raging fury in his eyes.

“Oh my gods-” You gasped, stunned at what you were seeing. “L-Lon’qu?”

“I’m here.” He closed the distance between you, throwing the blood from his sword before cutting away your bindings. 

As soon as you were free of the ropes your arms were flung around his neck. Lon’qu grunted from the impact, welcoming the embrace all the same.

He squeezed you close, his face pressed to your neck. 

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m-” You were suddenly jerked back, Lon’qu holding you an arm’s length away to search you over. “Wait, w-why are you asking about me? They threw you down a ravine!!”

“Shepherds found me. They were on our trail when they realized we weren’t in the headcount.” He nodded his head back, and you were able to make out the shapes of Gaius and Cordelia, the few who passed by the tent to secure whatever camp the Plegians had brought you to.

“So you’re okay?”

“I am. But...” He nodded, but the sharp glare in his eyes had yet to dissipate. “I can’t believe you.”

“What?”

“How could you do that?” He glowered, his grip tightening on your arms. “How could you give yourself up like that? The hells is wrong with you?!”

“I wanted to protect you.” He scoffed at your response, harsh and bitter. “If I knew he was going to try and kill you anyways, I-I never would have-”

“It doesn’t matter. You bargained your life, when you know damn well that I-!”

“Lon’qu, we couldn’t find her in the camp! Did you- oh!! Oh, thank the gods!!” Your husband was cut off at the sound of Chrom’s voice, the prince thrilled to see you were here. 

The Myrmidon spared you one last glower, before he pulled back, letting Chrom and Lissa flurry past him. 

You bit your lip, trying to fight the urge to press the argument. He looked deeply upset, and you didn’t want to cut it off before it could be resolved. There was nothing worse than letting him stew in his hurt.

“It’s okay, Robin!! We’re here now! Lon’qu led the  way, and the whole camp’s cleared out! Though we’ll need to do something about that body…”

“We’ll worry about Orton and the rest later. Lissa, can you heal her quickly?” Chrom asked his sister, who already had the stave pulled out and glowing.

“You got it! Just hang tight for a second Robin, we’ll get you out of here in no time!”

It wasn’t yourself that had your mind occupied. It was the fact that Lon’qu stormed out of the tent without looking back that had your focus.

Lissa gave you a pitying look, the healing glow of the stave some comfort.

“Sorry, Robin. I/…we tried really hard to keep him calm. But he’s been angry since the second we found him.”

“Not angry.” Chrom sighed , following the man’s storm from the tent. “Scared.”

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

When everyone made it back to camp, many of your dear friends who had been so terribly worried were awash with relief.

There was a mild swarm, a million questions being flung at you, but you were simply glad to be back in the arms of your friends.

You did your best to answer as many questions as you could,, but it didn’t take long for your patience to run thin.

Sure, you were healed and feeling far better physically, but there was a deeply hurt man on the far side of camp that you needed to speak to. It was clear what your decision had done created a much bigger issue than anticipated.

So you took a deep breath, steeled yourself, and made your way over to your shared tent. You could hear the sound of steel being sharpened against a whetstone, but little else.

Lon’qu was absolutely steaming. You would tease him and categorize it as sulking, but you figured it best not to try your luck.

Not when there was a serious issue to resolve.

Wordlessly, you entered the tent, making sure to latch it shut behind you. He was kind enough not to lock you out, at least.

“Lon’qu…” He did not stop his work when you called him, his back to you. “We need to talk.”

He did not answer. The stone ground against the blade harder.

“Please, love, I…I’m sorry I hurt you. But I need you to understand why I made that decision. I was trying to protect you.”

This seemed to slow the grinding. He still did not look at you. With a deep breath, you crossed the tent, coming to sit behind him.

Tentatively, your hand touched his back. He did not recoil, which was an improvement; at least he was receptive.

“If they knew you were my husband, they would’ve used you against me. If I let them carry on, they would’ve killed you in cold blood as a simple guard. I…I just…I didn’t think they’d toss you into the ravine like that. I thought you’d be safe.”

Lon’qu shook his head, his grip tightening on the sword. “They’re the enemy. Why the hells would they keep their word?? Surely you knew better than to trust them.”

“It was all I had to ensure your safety. W-when they threw you over the ledge, I…I saw it. I thought that it was over…I t-thought they killed you.”

Lon’qu’s shoulders braced against your touch, feeling your forehead touch his back. You were leaning fully into him, trying desperately not to cry.

“I-it was my fault that you were…that you were in danger in the first place. If I’d been more v-vigilant, I wouldn’t have put you at risk. I wanted to protect you, Lon’qu…please…please understand.”

He sighed, turning slowly and taking your hands into his and pulling you away from his body. He looked at you directly, but the bitter sting wasn’t present in his glare anymore.

“I don’t blame you for this. It wasn’t your fault we were ambushed. I’m upset because you bargained your life for mine. You are not worth less than I am. You have no right to sacrifice yourself for me.”

“I have every right, as your wife.” You argued, squeezing his hands, “And even in that, I failed you. I thought…”

“Robin...” He squeezed your hands, “I understood your intent. But if I’d lost you in that moment, I wouldn’t have forgiven myself, either. Your right to protect me reflects on me, too. It’s my duty to keep you safe. You know my past. Do you really think that I would be okay with you giving your life for mine?”

“It…it didn’t phase me in that moment. What mattered more was making sure that my husband would still be here.”

“You think I would be different? If I was in the same situation, I wouldn’t put my life in front of yours?” Lon’qu was staring into your very soul; trying desperately to make sure you understood what he was feeling. “After everything I’ve been through- what I’ve suffered- you would have me relive it again?”

“No.” You leaned closer, holding his hands to your chest. “No, I wouldn’t. And I’m so sorry that I put that fear in your heart, again. I just want to protect you, because I love you.”

Lon’qu nodded, his gaze falling to the ground. You released his hands so you might wrap your arms around his shoulders, drawing him into your embrace.

“I love you so much, I can’t bear the thought of losing you. And I know you would’ve done the same for me. We have to look out for each other…and we can’t always be safe. But I swear to you, I don’t want to throw my life away. I want to share it with you, more than anything.”

Slowly, finally, he returned your embrace, squeezing you tightly for fear of you ever slipping through his fingers again.

He hated feeling this way- that fear would consume him when it came to you. How badly he didn’t want to lose you. 

His face pressed against your neck, all but engulfing you in his arms like a shroud that cloaked your whole body. 

“I love you, too.”

He felt the slightest tremors in response to his words. How your fingers curled into his tunic, clinging to him with just as much force.

You were everything to each other, reminded and reassured through the tears that slipped from your eyes as feverish kisses connected over and over again.

There were promises to be more cautious with your lives, to find ways to protect one another without putting yourselves in mortal danger…and at the very least, employ some stealth training with Gaius so you could sneak around without “foolishly” (Gaius teased) getting caught again.

Which was a fair argument, if you were being honest.

[omniblades-and-stars]

6 pairing of your choice?

Ok listen I think I just needed something soft and thoughtful and then I did way too much. Sorry? Anyways, this is everyone's reminder that I cut my teeth on writing Dragon Age fanfic.

From this ask meme here.

bound and undone

some things get easy with time

It wasn’t unusual for him to wake in the small hours of the morning, when the sun was just a whisper of pink on the horizon and the birds still had the grace to be quiet, and find himself alone. Valethen was taken to walking in the woods on her own when they traveled, she claimed it was a Dalish thing, but Thom knew the truth. She needed the solitude.

He’d asked her once, what she got up to when she wandered away when most folk, Maker-fearing or not, had the good sense to sleep for a couple hours more. She simply offered a demure smile and said, “We all have our secrets, Thom. Please allow me mine.” The smile didn’t reach her eyes.

That is what she always said when their conversations edged to close to home, to Cyrion. Valethen had told him as much as she was willing about her husband from long before she’d ever gone to the ill-fated Conclave. And how she still harbored guilt that she had been unable to save his life.

Thom was many things, a fool chief among them, but he was not the sort to pry about where he wasn’t wanted. It bothered him not at all that Val liked to walk among the trees and speak to her husband’s memory when she couldn’t go back to sleep. Everyone had their way of praying. And she’d had her gods snatched right out from beneath her previously sure feet. It would have been a matter of cruelty to deny her the one connection to her life before, the one thing that truly mattered to her. Furthermore, it was his firm belief that he had no right to interfere with her rituals.

No, her need for solitude didn’t bother him. But on that morning, wiping the sleep from heavy eyes, he couldn’t shake a deep feeling that something was wrong. He sat up quickly, taking note of anything in the tent that might have been out of place. But everything was just as it should have been.

He had one boot about half on his foot when he heard again what must have woken him, and worried him so.

The subdued but very distinct sound of a woman crying.

His boots forgotten, Thom rushed from the tent with newfound purpose. Valethen was stoic, some even accused her (wrongly) of being cold, and he had only ever seen her cry once: when Solas took her arm and shattered her already fragile heart, disappearing to leave her to pick up all of the pieces on her own. Again.

Thom didn’t have far to look, a blessing for his bare feet on a cold morning. Valethen sat in front of the fire, restoked and burning low. She cradled her face in her hand, soaked raven-dark hair, shot through with grey, clung to her back, and a small looking glass lay abandoned at her feet.

If she heard him approach, she made no effort to greet him, or hide that she was crying until he kneeled before her, the fire warm at his back.

Valethen took in a deep shuddering breath before saying, quite pitifully, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” Her jewel green eyes were rimmed red and fresh tears slid over sun-darkened cheeks.

“What troubles you, Val?” Thom asked while wiping a tear away with the pad of his thumb. He rested his other hand gently on her knee.

“It is quite possibly the stupidest thing I have ever cried over,” Val mumbled darkly in reply.

“I don’t believe it’s possible for you to cry over anything that is not worth crying over. Tell me.”

Val chewed on her lip, made a heroic effort to gather her composure, only to drop it entirely. “It’s my hair,” she sobbed and choked on a fresh wave of tears. “I haven’t been able to braid it since I lost my arm. I thought I might be able to figure it out with it wet, but …” her voice trailed away and she cast her eyes down to the mirror by her bare feet.

She had lost so much of herself already. To see her shattered and pulled apart in this way sat heavy and burning in his chest.

Valethen looked at him with tired, questing eyes. She held her breath as though she waited for him to laugh, or chide her for being ridiculous.

Thom leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her tear-soaked cheek. He felt her sigh, releasing the defensive wall she frequently erected in front of her heart to the gentle breeze. “If it’s a braid you want, Val, then a braid you’ll get,” he said softly with his forehead pressed to hers.

He was rewarded by the small smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth, the sparkle in her eyes as she pulled her head back to regard him with mock suspicion. “Thom Rainier, if you are about to tell me that you were once a hair stylist at a premier Orlesian salon, I shall have to send you away. That is a secret that is a bridge too far!” There was a hint of musical laughter hidden in her words, barely audible beneath her breath still hitched with tears.

“We all have our secrets, Val,” he teased with a cocked eyebrow. When she snorted and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, he added, “Sadly, I have never braided anything a day in my life. I make no promises as to the quality of my craftsmanship.” Thom stood and helped Valethen to shift so that she was sitting in the spot where he had just been kneeling. He settled in on the canvas stool behind her. “How have you been out here without anything on your feet? I half expect you wouldn’t feel your own toes by now.”

“Ancient elven secrets,” Valethen answered with a shrug. After a second or two of pointed silence, indicated that he wasn’t buying the lie she was selling, Val cupped her hand and breathed into it, speaking quiet words which seemed to form into a golden, glowing mass in the palm of her hand. She placed her hand on the ground next to her, and Thom felt the earth beneath his feet begin to warm. “I can cast a fireball large enough to rival one of Cullen’s trebuchet projectiles. I think I could keep my feet warm for a couple of hours.”

“All of that time freezing my bits off in the mountains, and here you had the solution in the palm of your devious little hands,” he groused playfully as he carefully separated her hair into three separate strands. “I know you heard us complaining.”

“If only any of you had thought to ask me to warm your socks for you.”

A comfortable silence fell over them as Thom worked to tame Valethen’s hair into something that sort of resembled the neat braid he had always seen her wearing before. Valethen hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin on top of them. “He used to call me “Little Halla,” she whispered to the embers remaining on the fire. “Cyrion, I mean.”

“Halla are majestic creatures,” Thom reasoned, careful not to say too much, afraid that one wrong word would have her sewing herself up in her shroud of secrets and memories. The pieces of her she rarely spoke out loud for fear that the wind would take them away forever.

Valethen shook her head lightly. “Halla are temperamental animals. Beautiful, to be certain. The halla-tenders all say that they will only carry our aravels when asked kindly. And even then, if they are unhappy, they’ll refuse.” She lifted her hand to offer Thom the leather chord hanging between her fingers. “Cyrion, may his soul be at rest, called me such because I am hopelessly stubborn. It was his little joke.”

He couldn’t help but agree. Valethen was quite stubborn, though he might have compared her to an ornery mule, but that was far less poetic and far more likely to end with him knocked flat on his ass by one of Val’s great earthen projectiles for saying so. Thom settled on saying, “He was a wise man, then. You miss him.”

“His memory has always walked with me, but old wounds are torn open with new.” Valethen sighed, straightening her shoulders before saying, “I can almost hear him chastising me because I still haven’t learned to ask for help when I need it. Even a halla knows to tell the tender when it’s ill or in pain. I’m afraid I’m more like a particularly recalcitrant cat, who hides its wounds until they fester and can’t be hidden any longer.”

Thom squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, “Cat or halla, I don’t think anyone could rightly blame you for it, all things considered.” He draped the finished braid over her shoulder for her to inspect.

Valethen tenderly picked up the braid, looking over what she could see and feeling the rest of it to the back of her head. It was uneven, the pattern skipped here and there. Overall, a terrible braid. “Oh, it’s positively awful,” she said with a laugh. “Thank you, Thom. I feel much better.”

Thom smiled before pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Next time, you need only ask.”

“I will try."

[uh-niran-really]

Lifeweaver x Reader (Angst)

TW: Death, Grief, Loss, Child Loss

Prompt: ‘This house wasn’t the same to him anymore’

Lifeweaver

This house wasn’t the same to him anymore. All the joy and life had been sucked away along with the departure of his special flower. He paces around the house glancing at spaced that held so many memories. Happy memories, sad memories, memories of you..

Flashbacks run through his mind and tears threaten to spill. He’s angry, distraught, heart broken. If only he’d been quicker you’d still be here, with him. His mistake cost him the love of his life. It hadn’t been his fault, but he’ll never see it that way. Someone had come out of nowhere attacking him from above. He could see you needed help. He wanted to help. He panicked. He did what any sane person would do and thought of the attacker.

“N-niran…”

He looked up and saw you standing there, immobilised, and ready to fall at any given moment. His body filled with fear. He watched as you slowly dropped to your knees before falling on the hard ground. He was there in an instant, bio-light ready to heal you.

“Stay with me beautiful.. come on.. open those gorgeous eyes of yours…”

He didn’t want to think about losing you. He couldn’t bring himself to give it thought. Others watched on in heartbreak as he frantically tried to save you. They all knew it was futile. The shot that killed you was fatal. You knew that. They knew that. Niran… knew that. He held your hand tightly begging you to come back to him. Begging to hear your laugh one last time. He wasn’t much of a religious man, but in that moment he begged to whatever entity he could.

“Take me… Take me instead… please… I-I can’t… my heart can’t take this… FUCK!!! WHY WON’T YOU TAKE ME! SPARE HER!! YOU CAN’T!!” He screamed into the sky, tears spilling from his eyes. “You can’t… you can’t take her from me…”

The others tried to comfort him. Ana placed her hand on his shoulder to console him but he shrugged her off, opting to bury his face in your chest as he screamed a feral gut wrenching scream. There he stayed for what felt like an eternity. He couldn’t leave you, wouldn’t leave you. You were his and he was yours. His loyalty knew no bounds. He would die for you. That sudden realisation made him clutch his chest and hyperventilate. He would die for you, except he panicked and saved himself from the assassination attempt. If only he focused on life gripping you closer. He surely would have died, but you’d be safer. Ana or one of the other medics would have sight on you. You would have killed his attacker. He knew this.. He just… panicked. And it cost him everything.

He blinked tears from his eyes as he looked at your picture on the fireplace. You both loved to sit in front of the fire reading books and exchanging sweet passionate kisses. Now he could barely stand to look at it. But something caught his eye. Something he wished he never saw. A small box with a neatly wrapped bow. He slowly paced over and plucked it from where it sat. It was labeled with neat pretty writing and read: “To my Bua, Niran”

His heart panged. Had you left him a gift. What was the occasion. Your anniversary wasn’t for a while and he knew that you didn’t tend to plan in advance. He placed the box back where it came from and turned to leave the room. He didn’t want the heartbreak. He didn’t want to think about it. Yet his love for you was raw and passionate. He knew he couldn’t resist. He took a deep breath and grabbed the box again holding it delicately in his hands.

“What did you gift me sweetness…?”

He considered leaving the box again. Throwing it in a box and locking it away. He wanted to so badly. He knew he couldn’t however.

With a swift yet soft tug of the bow, the ribbon fell away and allowed him access to the contents of the box. With one last glance to your picture, he sighed and opened the box.

A small note read

Surprise my love! We’re pregnant!

Niran dropped the box watching as it hit the floor. A small object fell out from the box landing a few feet away. Two pink lines as clear as day. Pregnant.

“Preg- pregnant.. she was… no…”

“Niran…? Are you in there?”

He froze. Fear consuming him. He felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room. His best friend Satya stood across the room from him. He couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t want to be here anymore. He just wanted to be with you and his child.

“Niran..?”

“We were expecting our first child together Satya…”

He heard as she gasped. Seconds passed before she ran across the room hugging him tightly as he dropped to his knees, a rough and guttural sob escaping his lips. Satya held him close stroking his unkempt hair. Niran was in a bad way. She didn’t need confirmation to see that.

“I’m so…sorry… Niran…”

Niran stared off in no where particular. This house wasn’t the same to him anymore. He loathed it.

“Get off me…”

He gently grabbed her shoulders and pushed her away, much to her dismay.

“I’m here for you Bua..”

Bua.. his nickname.. it felt wrong coming from Satya’s lips. She had always called him that but now all he could hear was you. Your sweet voice. He replayed the sound in his mind over and over, recalling every time he had heard you say it. His heart thumped in his chest, threatening to escape its cage. He felt sick and dizzy. His head spun and his vision blurred with tears. He dry heaved and clutched his chest. His expression scared the Indian women.

“Nir-“

He couldn’t stop himself.

“Get out!” He blurted out. “Get out Satya!”

With a heavy heart she muttered her apology’s and left. She wasn’t sure what she did but she felt guilt.

Niran’s condition worsened. He didn’t understand why this was happening to him. Why someone so beautiful.. so special.. was ripped away from him. He was crazed.. His love for you made him dizzy. He couldn’t take the pain. He just wanted it to stop. Maybe he would just end it all.

“Y/N… forgive me my love… I’m so.. so.. sorry.. beautiful..”

His hand pulsed with light as he produced on last rose. Placing it on the table along with a note for someone to find. He didn’t care anymore. Nothing else mattered anymore. He reached into his pocket pulling out a crumpled document. There in bold letters, the name of your killer. Organisation? Talon. He knew it was a suicide mission but nothing else mattered to him anymore because….

Well….

This house wasn’t the same to him anymore..

[another-corpo-rat]

❛ do you really think you’re in a position to give orders? ❜ - for vic and adam please <3

ty so much for the prompt Bunny 💕 prompt list is here for anyone who wants to do this themselves <3

and oml im so sorry for how long this one took me to get to - i was fumbling for ideas for a lot longer than i care to admit, until the want for Vic to bully Adam a lil came about

❛ do you really think you’re in a position to give orders? ❜ Adam Smasher/OC Set during the '20s

It’s quite the sight; Adam Smasher bound and snarling. Synthetic muscle straining against rope – industrial strength, more a sturdy cabling truthfully: the sort used to secure minotaurs and tow basilisks, because she’s not an idiot.

Gemini frame or not, Victoria doesn’t doubt he’d have pulled himself free from any other sort, no matter how expertly tied the knots or quality the thread. Nothing organic could restrain the man and even synthetics were questionable, no, it had to be metal for him and that feels more than fitting.

“You just gonna fucking stare at me all night?”

She could, and would be more than happy to, even in the Gemini he was worth admiring. Especially now with his arms bounds behind him, working with the straight back of the chair to push his chest forward and the thick cabling pressing just below his pectorals, drawing her eye and the urge to bite.

Her eyes follow the needless flex of his muscle downwards to where his thighs tremble minutely, almost subtle as he tries to work against her efforts. The rope holds, but the legs of the chair groan in protest. She’d think he be comfortable there at least, with his habit of spreading his knees as wide as he can.

Standing between those spread legs, her fingers thread through thick locks of blonde hair. Soft, natural feeling to have fooled her once before. “You do make a pretty picture.”

“Aw, you’re making me blush. But if you don’t ride my dick—” Her fingers tighten into a curl, yanking his head back. It quietens him, slackens his jaw as surprise catches his tongue between its teeth.

“Do you really think,” she says soft and low, a gentle croon as she nips against the exposed column of his throat, “you’re in a position to give orders?”

His chest heaves with a needless breath, tongue swiping across his lips to wet them while a muscle twitches at their corner. The smile splits his face, a teeth-baring grin that wouldn’t look amiss with a splattering of blood. “I think I’m gonna fuck you hollow then throw you to the gutter.”

She hums and barely spares a thought towards the apparent threat. It was mild in the grand scheme of things, hardly even worth noting beyond the pleasant bite in that southern drawl and the needy twitch of his neglected cock. Pinching a nipple between the sharp point of nails, she’s much more interested in that; the sharp hiss of a breath, how his body arches into the sting. He raises his chin a little higher, the bob of his Adam’s apple prominent and tempting. An invitation she readily accepts, sinking her teeth into his neck.

The texture was familiar, disappointingly perfect in the imitation of skin. No tell of the metal frame beneath, no bitter tang waiting to greet her and sit on her tongue for days after, making every meal taste like him.

No sweat, no musk. Nothing beyond the days old lingering of a vaguely spiced, certainly cheap cologne and the smoky air of cigars. Nothing distinctly him. She never thought she’d find Adam lacking in any capacity, and she’ll continue with that; placing the blame solely at the feet of the Gemini’s manufacturers instead.

“Buttercup,” he tries, voice a little raspier than usual. Needier.

She eases, tongue lathering over where she had bit, thumb ghosting over where she nipped, and waits. It’s a tenderness he’s never extended to her; always keener to press his handprint into bruising skin, and she doubts he sees it as anything more than mockery veiled in affection now.

“Fine.” A bite of a word, sharper than her teeth because she won’t allow it to be otherwise. A hand braces against his shoulder, fingers curling, nails digging in as she finally straddles him.

A shared sound of relief as his cock slides into her is caught between their lips, soundly silenced.

[keeper-of-all-the-random-things]

Prince of the Sea

Day 8 for @promptsforyourwhumpfic Two Weeks of Whump

This is part of a larger thing I am working on. I started at the beginning, and haven't shared anything yet, but today's prompt felt perfect for this.

Note: the term 'boy/boys' is used rather liberally, but everyone is an adult. Elliot and Aidan are just younger than the other people.

CW: multiple whumpees, held hostage, restraints (rope), creepy whumper, multiple whumpers, manhandling, drowning, mer whump (sort of). Feels like there should be more, but I can't think of them. Please let me know if I missed anything.

#####

“One of you is a royal worth a lot of money.  The other is a magical fish.”  Marin rolled her eyes.  “Only one of you is important to me, but Captain says we need you both, so you’re safe for now.”

One of you is royal … they didn’t know, then.  Elliot glanced at Aidan.  He had forgotten the other boy was still wearing Elliot’s clothes.  But … a magical fish?

Aidan followed Marin’s movements, eyes wide.

A magical fish.  A Magical Fish.  What did she mean by that?

“I have better things to do than determine which of you is supposedly a mythical creature,” Marin said, interrupting Elliot’s thoughts.  “You will answer to Berkley now.  I’ll return later for a report.”

She left, leaving the boys with her right hand.  While Marin was intimidating, Berkley was terrifying.  He didn’t say much, but he circled Elliot and Aidan with dark curiosity behind his eyes.

Berkley clapped once, startling the boys.  “Let’s get started.  Marin expects results.”

He hauled them up by the back of their shirts and sent them stumbling up the stairs to the main deck.  Berkley’s loyal men cheered upon their arrival.  They separated Elliot from Aidan and passed the boys between each other like some ball sport.

“Enough,” Berkley bellowed.  Everyone turned to him.  “Captain wants to find a mer.”

There were a few derisive chuckles.  They cut off at a sharp look from Berkley.

“He wants a mer,” he continued, “we’ll give him one.  You know what to do.  Go!”

Elliot was pulled into motion again.  Two crew members wrestled him to the ground.  He thrashed but could do little against them with his arms tied behind him.  Another crew member arrived with two lengths of rope that they secured tightly around Elliot’s knees and ankles.

Elliot fought uselessly under their hands.

A few feet over, Aidan struggled under the same treatment.

When they were both bound, the boys were dragged over to the railing, and Elliot caught onto Berkley’s plan.

“Who’s first,” Berkley jeered.

Elliot was not above begging, but his pleas were lost in his throat.

“No takers?  Let’s start with freckles then.”  Berkley snapped in Aidan’s direction, and the crew started lifting him up.

Aidan looked at Elliot in silent panic.

“No,” Elliot croaked.  Then louder, “No, don’t!”

Berkley grinned.  “Hold, boys.  We have a volunteer.”

The men dropped Aidan back on the deck.  He shook his head at Elliot.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Elliot chanted to Aidan and to himself.

Berkley grabbed his arm and laughed.  “Swim little fishy, swim.”

Elliot’s breath came in short bursts as he was hurled over the railing, and he almost forgot to breathe deep before hitting the water.

He is twelve again, stormy waves crashing over his head.  He tumbles, and the surface is lost to him.  Icy water fills his lungs.  The ship burns like a star a million miles away. 

He sinks, and he mourns.  For himself.  For Penny.  For Aidan …

Aidan …

Elliot was awake, pushing desperately for the surface.  He resisted the urge to scream away precious air as the knotted rope thickened and tightened around his limbs.  He needed to get back to the ship.

The water pressed down on him, and he gave in, screaming himself into darkness.

#####

“ – the hell is going on here!”

Elliot came to as he coughed up sea water.  His legs were mercifully free, though his arms were still bound behind him.  He spotted Aidan kneeling nearby, legs also free from rope.  Elliot sagged in relief.

Marin paced the deck, glaring daggers at each of Berkley’s men.

“What if that one is the prince,” she said, quiet words filled with menace.  “Are you eager to start a war with the largest country this side of the world?”

“We’re sorry, ma’am,” Berkley said, not sounding sorry at all.

“You’re sorry?”  Marin advanced.

Berkley stepped back until he hit the rail.

Marin poked his chest.  “I should throw you over.  If this boy ends up in the sick room, or, heaven forbid, if he dies, you will be the first one I offer over to the king.”

Berkley had the sense to look cowed.  He nodded.

Marin backed away.  “That goes for all of you,” she said, sweeping the crowd.  “Now, get out of my sight.”

[druidgroves]

Chapter 04: Accentuate the Positive

Fandom: Fallout 4 Words: 6,316 Characters: Georgia Tate (Canon-Divergent Sole Survivor), Piper Wright, RJ MacCready Notes: chapter four is finally here ! enjoy :)

read on ao3 ch. 01 / ch. 02 / ch. 03

When MacCready showed up in front of Publick Occurrences the next morning, the marketplace hadn’t even opened yet, and he was surprised to see Piper and her mini-me waiting outside next to the Boss. The younger girl looked tired, like she’d just been woken up, and was leaning onto Dogmeat, who had his head in her lap as she idly stroked his fur. Piper was the first to spot him though, as the Boss had her back turned, poking through her pack sat on the printing press behind them. He watched as the reporter nudged her with her elbow, making her look up and give him an approving smile when she caught his eye. She likes it punctual, he thought and filed that detail away.

“Mornin’, Mac,” the Boss said (when did she start calling him that?), fixing the straps on her pack before shouldering it on. “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied, flicking up his collar again as a breeze blew in over the Upper Stands. He bunched his scarf up as well for good measure.

The Boss turned to Piper, who, like her sister, looked to be a little sleepy. Despite that, the Boss pulled her into a hug that went unprotested and said, “Thanks for everything, Piper. When I said I couldn’t have gotten Mr. Valentine out without you, I meant it.”

“I’ll save a copy of the next issue just for you, Blue,” she replied as she pulled away. “Oh, and let me know about your interview. It’s ready to go whenever you are.”

Mac caught the way the Boss stiffened a little at Piper’s words and he wondered what kind of interview she gave. Probably something about the Minutemen? Thinking it over for a moment, it made him realize something. When they had been talking together at Power Noodles the night before, when he asked how she got to be General, he never got a straight answer out of her.

“Just keep holdin’ onto it for a little while. Please,” the Boss muttered to Piper, the volume of her voice intentionally lowered. She was quick to move past it though. “I told Mr. Valentine I wouldn’t be back this way for at least another month, so when I’m back in town we can talk then. Hopefully I’ll have some new stories for you.”

“You stay safe out there, Georgia,” Piper said, dropping the usual nickname as she gave a squeeze to the Boss’ shoulder. Then, she cut her eyes to Mac, making him flinch. “Watch her back for me, will ya?”

“It’s what I’m paid to do,” he said, earning a narrowed look from the woman.

They both watched as the Boss bent down, knees popping, to talk to Piper’s sister.

“Sorry, Nat, but Dogmeat’s gotta come with us this time,” she said and the hound’s ears perked up at the mention of his name. “But I bet it was nice havin’ him around, right?”

“You bet, lady,” Nat said with the hint of a tired grin before it gave way to a yawn. She looked up at Piper. “We should get a dog.”

Piper grimaced a little.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, though Mac could tell she wasn’t too fond of the idea.

“Well, see y’all in a month,” the Boss said, waving to the two of them before giving a sharp two-note whistle–different from the one she’d done yesterday–making Dogmeat bound up from where he’d been to start trotting happily at her side. Mac joined them, and then they were off.

----------

“How,” Mac shouted later over the roar of gunfire, “How did Daisy manage to talk you into this?!”

“It’s a long story!” the Boss shouted back, leveling her hunting rifle at a super mutant shoving its way through the door of the library’s main hall. She was stood on top of a table, using a bookshelf leaned up against it as cover. She shot twice, hitting the mutant in one of its knees and watching it fall before aiming at another.

She failed to finish the first one off however, but before Mac could do anything about it, one of the library’s many protectrons caught the brute with a few laser rounds to the face.

There were mutant and robot corpses alike scattered around the various piles of old furniture—tables, chairs, rotting bookshelves, and busted terminals, all acting as pretty good cover against the onslaught. He’d even managed to find a nice sniper’s nest next to a turret placed by the last few unlucky souls to die there, surrounded by sandbags and elevated enough to see above the entire room (the lack of tall, imposing bookshelves made this even easier). He’d probably have one hell of a headache later being that close to the turret fire, but it was preferable to being vulnerable and out in the open.

He continued to pick off the mutants pouring through the doors, wondering just how many were holed up in the subway entrance he knew to be underneath the building. While the bullets flew, Dogmeat ran around the room, distracting the super mutants enough for he and the Boss to pop off a few clean shots each. He had questioned her about the safety of the dog going with them, but she insisted he could be pretty useful in a fight, especially in close quarters. To her credit, she had been right, because Dogmeat chased one of the mutants from behind a pile of tables it had used as cover and straight into Mac’s crosshairs. He pulled the trigger after a steadying breath and the mutant went down in two shots.

From her spot in the room, the Boss had mostly relied on the protectrons and Mac’s covering fire, though she was able to do decent damage with well aimed shots to their chests. It did enough that it was short work for the robots to clean up behind her. At one point however, a particularly hardy mutant managed to push through the laserfire and came right up on the Boss’ cover, where she had just popped back up from reloading her rifle. Mac watched as she panicked and yelped, but in a flash of self preservation, kicked the bookshelf away from her to land on the mutant before it could reach over and grab at her. The stunt knocked the mutant into another bookshelf behind it, and in one swift motion Mac was popping a bullet right between the eyes where it landed.

A minute after that, the library was quiet of gunfire and full of dead super mutants. When nothing else could be heard after that, Mac almost jumped when the Boss broke the silence.

“Mighty fine shootin’ there, Tex,” she drawled, nodding towards the mutant they’d taken down together before jumping off the table she’d been standing on. “That one almost got close enough for me to smell its breath.”

Mac let a little bit of pride wash over him at her words, satisfied with the review. He stood up by the now quietly humming turret and safetied his sniper rifle before settling it on his shoulder.

“I aim to please,” he said, leaving his cover and meeting her halfway. “Did you get hit at all?”

The Boss did a quick scan of her own body before she shook her head. “Nope. What about you?”

“I’m good, but there’s probably still some holed up in the station,” he said, ready to finish the job. “How do you wanna hit ‘em? There’s gotta be a last line of defense down there.”

She nodded in agreement, “We’ll have to hit ‘em hard. No tellin’ how many are down there, though.”

“Good thing we have those grenades from that trap we almost tripped,” he remembered suddenly. There had been a tripwire near the main entrance with three grenades waiting to be set off and the Boss had spotted them just in time. “We could throw those at them, catch them by surprise, and then we finish them off?” 

“Good idea, let’s go,” she said, then whistled for Dogmeat before they made their way to the entrance of Copley Station down below.

They slipped through the double doors silently, making their steps as light and quiet as they could. Dogmeat walked closely behind, crouched low. Mac had one of the grenades on him while the Boss had the other two, her gun slung over her shoulder by an old strip of leather. She held up one of her hands to stop their descent down the stairs as the rough voices of super mutants echoed off the station walls. He could make out at least two of them, maybe three. Then, a soft beeping noise underneath it all.

His eyes met the hers, an immediate understanding between them. Suicider.

“If you can get a lucky shot, we may not have to use the grenades at all,” the Boss whispered, nodding to his rifle.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” he whispered back, hands falling into the worn grooves of his rifle where they fit perfectly. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

She nodded, then slowly began to creep down the stairs again. The further they went, the stronger the smell of rotting meat, blood, and viscera became and Mac could see the Boss was doing everything she could not to gag. He simply pulled his scarf over his nose and followed behind her.

The bottom of the stairs gave way to the station’s platform and Mac could hear the super mutant’s faint shuffling and the ever present beeping down the tunnel's left side. The Boss moved quickly but softly, finding cover behind a pillar, Dogmeat low at her feet. She poked her head out just enough to see how far away the mutants were before motioning him over to the pillar across from hers.

“Three of ‘em with one of their hounds, but the one with the nuke is close to the train,” she whispered again as he leaned his head out just enough to see where she was talking about. He spotted the suicider immediately and the brute had his back to him, pacing up and down the platform. Mac ducked back behind his cover and tilted his chin up at the Boss.

“Easy shot,” he said. “You ready?”

“Be my guest,” she replied, bracing herself against her own pillar and reaching down to take Dogmeat’s collar in her hand. Mac leaned out from cover, lifting his scope to line up the shot.

Mac waited until the super mutant turned around to start walking their way again, put the mini nuke in his crosshairs, and took a breath. In that split second between inhaling and exhaling, he pulled the trigger and the group of mutants were blown apart like so much meat, the explosion charing their green skin. Even from their position on the other end of the platform, he could feel the heat of the bomb warm the part of his face uncovered by his scarf, ears slightly ringing. Just like that, the Boston Public Library was cleared of super mutants.

“Nice job, Hotshot. Now that that’s taken care of, though, let's get back upstairs, this smell is startin’ to make my eyes water,” the Boss said, voice muffled by the hand now over her mouth. “Besides, I wanna see what kinda books the library still has left.”

Mac followed her back to the main hall of the library. She took her pack off and tossed it onto a nearby table before making a beeline to one of the shelves pressed against the wall. Most of the books on it were still intact, if a little faded and slightly moldy. Mac watched as she fawned over some of the titles and began piling as many as she could in her arms.

“Crazy that some of these survived two hundred years,” he heard her say, though he could barely see her over the stack of books in her arms. “Surprisin’ no one’s taken ‘em for themselves.”

“Not a lot of profit in hitting a library,” Mac shrugged, leaning against the table where she’d dropped her pack. Dogmeat trotted over to sit by him as the Boss dropped the stack of books beside him, wiping her hands on the denim of her jeans.

“Good thing, too, because now they’re all mine,” she grinned and went back for more.

Mac tilted his head to get a better look at the titles on the spines. He saw Complete Electrical Engineering Formulas and Principles, American Machinist Handbook, and Timber Construction Manual, Second Edition amongst her choices and he looked back at her, confusion clear on his face.

“A bit of light reading?” he asked, holding up a dusty copy of The Civil Engineer’s Reference Book. The Boss laughed, loud and bright, and shook her head.

“God, no, too much technical jargon I have no hope of understandin’,” she said, putting another stack of books on the table beside him. “I’m more of a fiction gal myself, but these are useful.”

“Only if anyone can understand them,” Mac said, opening the book in his hand to a random page and making a face at the complex diagrams and vocabulary. He was definitely more of a comics guy.

“I know a guy who’d blow through these no problem, so that won’t be much of an issue,” she said, taking the book from his hand and setting it on the table. “C’mon, help me out here. I wanna go through everything.”

“Everything? Boss, this place is huge.”

“It’s only–” He watched as she pulled the left sleeve of her jacket back to uncover her PipBoy. “Ha! It’s not even noon yet. We have all the time in the world to go through this place.”

Mac groaned. “Do we have to?”

“If you really don’t want to, I won’t make you, but the alternative is sittin’ around bored for the next however long. Your choice,” she shrugged, and turned back around to start going through the shelves again. The way she said it let Mac know she was dead serious. She really was intent on going through as much of the library as she could. Mac had famously idle hands that almost always got up to something whenever they weren’t occupied (usually nothing good), and he wasn’t about to sit around bored for any length of time. He sighed.

“Just tell me what to look for.”

----------

Hours later, the two of them together had managed to salvage quite a few books, separated into large piles around the main hall by genre. Some of them were almost as tall as Mac himself as he walked between them to the corner the Boss had tucked herself into.

He’d gone off to check the entrances, taking the grenades they had and resetting the tripwire from earlier (sure, they had the protectrons walking around, but you could never be too careful). When he came back, the Boss was sat hunched over one of the few working terminals they hadn’t stripped the innards from, resting her chin on her knee as she read through the entries. Dogmeat was posted up in his usual spot at her feet, eyes closed but still alert, his ears flicking towards the sound of his boots on the floor.

“Looks like I had a similar idea to the people who got here before us,” the Boss said as he approached. “They were tryin’ to preserve as much as they could on some holotapes, but the mutants took ‘em out before they could finish.”

“Good for us, though, right?”

The Boss shrugged, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth as she continued to read through the terminal. “Yeah, but it doesn’t make it any less…I dunno, sad. What they were doin’ was a good thing. They didn’t deserve to go out like that, y’know?”

Mac didn’t quite know what to say. He’d never really been good with handling feelings, be it his own or other’s. Besides, he’d seen too much death in his personal life to be phased by the wasteland taking its due.

When he didn’t answer, she barreled on. “Found a key to the data room, though. ‘All I ask is that the person reading this does the right thing. Help us protect the information stored on the computers‘,” she read from the terminal, holding up the key in question and nodding towards the locked metal doors behind him. Then she turned to face him, “I have a plan for all this.”

Mac started to sense a theme with her. “I think that could be your catchphrase.”

That got a smile out of her.

“As soon as I’m able, I’m gonna send some of my Minutemen to take back as much information outta here as they can. All these books and holotapes will make buildin’ up new settlements a breeze,” she said, entirely earnest. There was conviction behind her words, and for a moment he wondered why he ever doubted she could be the General. She believed in her little militia and he could tell she probably didn’t have plans for it to stay very little for very long. It was…kind of inspiring, if Mac was being honest with himself. He probably needed to stop doubting her.

“So what you’re telling me is we don’t have to lug around a bunch of heavy books like pack brahmin?”

“Maybe two or three,” she said with a playful smile, spinning the key around her finger by the keyring, “or five. And then there’s all that valuable scrap from those broken terminals…”

Mac threw his head back in a groan, “Really?”

“Where there’s scraps there’s caps, Mac,” she said, her voice lilting as she did.

He laughed, “Okay, that’s a pretty good point. Plus it rhymes.”

“It’s kinda like a mnemonic learnin’ strategy,” she said, powering down the terminal and tucking the key into the pocket of her jacket.

“A nemo-what?”

She laughed, but not condescendingly. “Mnemonic learnin’ strategy,” she repeated again. “They’re supposed to help you remember things by usin’ stuff like rhymin’ or short acronyms. You know, ‘righty-tighty, lefty-loosey’, or Roy G. Biv to remember the color order of a rainbow.”

He still couldn’t help but stare at her, both understanding her explanation but wondering why the hell she knew it at all. That wasn’t really something most people cared to learn about while fighting to live their lives out in the wasteland, and he didn’t know enough about Vault-Tec’s educational standards to wonder if she’d learned it before coming out.

“They must’ve had one heck of a library in whatever vault you walked out of,” he said after a moment, shaking his head a little in amusement. “Probably explains why you took that job from Daisy, too. You two must really like books.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “The actual contents of this place were just a bonus, had nothin’ to do with why I took the job.”

“Why’d you take it, then?” he asked. “Daisy’s been trying to get someone to do it for months, even tried convincing me.”

“That night I hired you, I talked with Daisy beforehand,” she started, hands in her lap as she faced him. “We got to talkin’ and we hit it off, she was real nice. Anyways, I asked her if she knew any good mercs. I had Piper with me after that business you heard about with Mr. Valentine–”

“You’ll have to tell me about that at some point,” he said, still insanely curious as to that whole story.

“You can read all about it in the Publick,” the Boss smirked, then continued, “Anyways, Piper was eager to get back to Diamond City, and I didn’t exactly want to be runnin’ around blind, so it seemed like a smart idea, hirin’ someone to watch my back. But Daisy said she might know of a merc if I could do a favor for her, and then told me about the library job. I said I’d consider it, that if I liked the merc she told me about, the job was as good as done. She told me your name, said you were really in need of some work, and that you were one hell of a shot. I figured I’d take my chances and well, here we are.”

“Any reason you decided to take a chance on some random Goodneighbor gun for hire and not run around with one of your Minutemen?” he asked, curious to her reasoning.

“Before I met Piper, I did, actually. His name’s Preston. I was…new to the Commonwealth when I met him, and in exchange for helpin’ him with rebuilding the Minutemen, he’d get me to Diamond City,” she told him. “We got a bit off track after a while, ended up takin’ back the Castle somewhere in there. But I made it to the city eventually.”

“So that’s how you made General, right? Taking back the Castle?”

She snorted, “Nope. When I said I helped him rebuild the Minutemen, I mean literally rebuild. He was the last one before I said I’d help him. What happened at Quincy was…oh, boy, rough. He made me General faster than you can blink.”

Mac couldn’t help the pang of guilt that shot through his stomach. Yeah, sure, he wasn’t with the Gunners when they massacred Quincy, tearing apart the community without much thought other than getting what they wanted, but he had been willing enough to put up with their type of depravity at one point, for enough caps. He twisted his fist into the fabric of his duster, trying to will the memories of his past away.

“So why’d you need to go to Diamond City so bad?” he asked before his mouth could stop him, to try and change the subject before his feelings gnawed on him like a mongrel on a bone, and he instantly knew he’d asked too much. He’d poked a nerve, prodded at something she wanted to keep well protected and it showed on her face. Her usual smile had been replaced by a complete brick wall. Great fucking job, MacCready.

“It doesn’t matter,” the Boss said, standing up abruptly and almost tripping over Dogmeat in the process. Mac realized it was the most closed off the Boss had been since they’d met, when at all other times she was apparently happy to joke and chatter. She walked past him where he’d been leaning on the wall, Dogmeat whining at her heels.

She stopped, checked her PipBoy and spoke without looking at him, “It’s gettin’ late and I don’t want to travel in the dark. The protectrons should be good enough security. We should get some sleep, I like an early start.”

“Yeah,” he said a little distantly, unable to come up with much else.

Wordlessly, she took her pack and found a place to set up her bed roll. He did the same in the now awkward silence, keeping the Boss at a far enough distance that it wasn’t even more awkward, but close enough that if something did manage to get past the grenades and protectrons, they weren’t entirely caught off guard. He couldn’t help but watch her out of the corner of his eye, though, trying to gauge the energy between them. He watched as she took off her jacket, a marked and faded denim thing with a fluffy white interior, then her PipBoy, wrapping the jacket around it before stuffing it into her half open pack. She sat her cowboy hat on top and her glasses next to her bed roll before sliding inside. When she was comfortable, Dogmeat settled into the crook of her bent legs. She didn’t look his way once.

They had seemed to be getting along pretty well before he opened his big fucking mouth, which had been something of a necessary relief for him. He was so used to just shutting up and following the caps, didn’t matter if the person hiring him was a conversationalist or even nice. He hadn’t found much camaraderie in the Gunners, either, but he wasn’t about to touch anything else in his mind concerning them for the rest of the night, unless he wanted that sinking feeling in his gut to return. Mac didn’t know why the whole situation with the Boss seemed to bother him, but it did. He resigned the feeling to being worried about their contract being called off (leave it to him to relate it all back to caps in the end).

Mac turned to look at her again after getting settled in his own sleeping bag. Her back was to him, but Dogmeat’s big brown eyes blinked at him instead, looking sad.

He sighed, pulling his sleeping bag up, and rolled over.

----------

Mac awoke the next morning with a start, nearly jumping out of his skin as Dogmeat’s slobbery tongue licked half his face.

“Dogmeat, down, boy. That wasn’t what I meant when I said to go wake Mac up.”

The dog jumped off his chest, but still poked Mac’s shoulder with his nose, trying to get him up. Mac gently pushed him away while simultaneously wiping off his face with his sleeve, sitting up in his bed roll.

“Not my favorite alarm clock,” he muttered, instinctively reaching for his hat.

“Sorry about that,” the Boss apologized, rolling up her own sleeping bag. She was already dressed and her pack looked a little bulkier than he’d last seen it, more…book shaped. A pile of four more books sat beside it. “Up and at ‘em, Mac. The sooner we get back to Goodneighbor, the sooner we get paid.”

Mac tensed a little. She sounded different than she did before they tucked in for the night, no longer guarded and stiff. Now, she sounded chipper and eager to beat the pavement. Maybe things were okay between them.

“You’re the first person to sound happy about going to Goodneighbor,” he said, testing the waters with a little bit of good-natured ribbing as he stretched and lifted himself from his sleeping bag.

He heard her snort as she strapped her sleeping bag to her pack, “Don’t let the Mayor hear you say that. But c’mon, get a move on. We’re headed out to a settlement called County Crossin’ soon as we’re done in Goodneighbor. If we make good time, we might be able to get there before dark.”

“What’s out there?” he asked, rolling up his sleeping bag.

“Don’t know yet. Preston, that Minutemen I told you I traveled with for a while? He marked some places for me that he’d heard askin’ for help at one point or another, so we’ll see when we get there,” she explained, throwing her pack over her shoulders and picking up her pile of books. “If anything, it’ll be another opportunity to persuade someone to fly the Minutemen’s flag.”

Mac distractedly strapped his sleeping bag in place as they talked, “What’s so important about that? Flying the flag I mean.”

“Well, not literally, we don’t have the time to make ‘em. But to start, it’d be another settlement allied to the Minutemen. Which means one less tile of hostile land in the Commonwealth,” the Boss began, and he could tell she was about to explain her big picture by the tone of her voice. “Which means traders and supply lines can travel the roads without losin’ their goods or their lives. Which means settlements start getting bigger. Which means, tile by tile, all that dangerous land gets turned into a safe new Commonwealth, protected by the Minutemen.”

“Should’ve known you’d have your reasons,” he said with a shake of his head. Her goal, while noble, was a little lofty in his opinion. That was a big ask, getting the Commonwealth to work together like that. He’d heard stories of how the CPG Massacre went down. “Sounds pretty ambitious.”

The Boss shrugged, unbothered, “I have a–”

“–A plan, yeah, I should’ve guessed.”

She grinned, shining her teeth at him as she said, “You’re catchin’ on! Look at you go.”

He chuckled, opening up his pack to make sure it was in order. His journal, some extra clothes, ammo, a few comics, and the Boss’ ten millimeter pistol she’d handed to him the day before sat on top. He took it out, holding it out to her. “Hey, Boss, your pistol.”

She walked over, balancing her pile of books in one arm as she took the gun. As it left his grasp, her eyes darted to his open pack. An almost mischievous smile appeared on her face as she holstered the pistol, her eyes going from his pack to the books in her arms.

“Hey, Mac…now that you’ve got all that free room in your pack since you gave me my gun back–”

“Absolutely not.”

She huffed, jutting out her bottom lip, “Aw, c’mon! Please? It’s just four more books!”

Mac looked up at her and shook his head. “Nope, not your pack brahmin. You paid me to shoot, remember? Besides, you said we were going outside the city. Why make our packs heavier for all that walking?”

“Ugh, fine, you’re right,” the Boss sighed, staring wistfully at her books. He could barely make out the titles from his angle, but the cover illustrations were bright and colorful underneath all their dust and grime. “They’ll all end up in the same place eventually, I guess.”

She stacked the books into one of her meticulous piles and then hunted for an old scrap of paper, pulling a pen from one of the outer pockets of her pack and sat down to write. Mac focused on getting his things together, and by the time he was done, the Boss had ceased her scribbling, holding up a thick, folded letter.

“When we’re back in Goodneighbor, we’re gonna get paid, recheck supplies, and then I gotta send this off with any traders goin’ the way of the Castle,” she explained, flicking the letter twice with her fingers. “It’s got the key to the data room and instructions on how to get in without triggering all the protectrons and turrets.”

Mac was still surprised they managed to get in without triggering them. He didn’t think the Boss pretending to be a centuries-long-dead library employee would actually work, but it did.

“Hey,” he said after a moment, “how’d you know that ID code that got us in?”

She snorted, “‘One, two, three, four, five, six’ isn’t really that hard a code to crack. Lots of old terminals with hackable passwords, but hey, that’s Admin for you. Now hup, two, Mac, we’re burnin’ daylight here.”

Mac didn’t quite know what she meant by that, but closed his pack and strapped it firmly to his back, and after that, they were off.

According to the Boss’ PipBoy, it wasn’t even ten o’clock when they rolled back into Goodneighbor, and that was after their little shootout with some raiders that had moved into the super mutant den she and Piper had cleared out some days ago. The town was hardly awake, a handful of drifters and traders and the flickering neon signs above Kill or Be Killed and Daisy’s Discounts the only signs of life. The way the Boss strolled over to Daisy’s made her the brightest damn thing in Goodneighbor, with her smiling face and eager eyes. He couldn’t help but step in her light as he followed.

The Boss stepped into the store before him with Dogmeat on her heels, so he couldn’t see Daisy’s face as she said, “You’re back. How’d it go at the library? Get rid of those super mutants?”

“Consider your overdue book fee waived, Ms. Daisy,” the Boss shined as Mac stepped in behind her. Daisy looked pleased, and waved at him when she caught his eye.

“Pretty generous considering it was two hundred years passed due,” she said with a rough laugh. “And it’s nice to see you brought MacCready with you. I could tell he was itching to get outta the Third Rail.”

Mac rolled his eyes affectionately, his soft spot for the old ghoul fanning away any real upset towards her. “Thanks for pointing her my way, Daisy.”

“Hotshot over here came in pretty clutch, actually,” the Boss said, giving him an approving look. When her eyes fell onto him, it made him stand up a little straighter, made him realize she was two inches taller than he was. “He’s pretty nifty with that sniper rifle, ain’t he?”

The ghoul laughed again, nodding in agreement and threw Mac a wink. “One of the best. And hey, I know it was an odd request, but thanks for making the library a safer place. We gotta keep some old buildings sacred, you know?”

“I completely agree,” the Boss beamed, and Daisy bent down to grab payment for the job. She came back up from behind the counter with two pouches of caps, and Mac watched the money change hands before the Boss shoved the pouches into the pockets of her jacket.

She thanked Daisy with a smile, then turned to him, an eyebrow raised, “How’re you doin’ on supplies? Stimpaks, ammo, food for the road?”

Mac paused, going through his mental checklist of everything in his pack. It wouldn’t hurt to get more ammo, especially since they wouldn’t be coming back to Boston proper for a while. Another stimpak or two, a bottle of Rad-X, and maybe some Med-X wouldn’t hurt to have.

“Could use a couple things if we’re gonna be on the road a while,” he replied after a moment, and as soon as the confirmation left his mouth, a pouch of caps was hitting him in the chest. He just barely caught one of the bags Daisy had given her before it fell to the ground.

“Here, take your half and get us whatever you think we’ll need and I’ll cover bullets,” she said, giving a wave to Daisy over her shoulder as she passed him, completely missing the dumbfounded look on his face. He felt like he was short-circuiting, but she barreled on, Dogmeat prancing around her feet. “Then I gotta find a trader to send that letter with and then we can hit the road. Hey, you use .308’s, too, right? Maybe I can smooth talk K-L-E0 into a bulk discount since we both do–”

“Wait, wait, wait, slow down,” Mac finally said as he followed her out of Daisy’s store, his brain finally catching up, “what do you mean ‘my half’?”

The Boss stopped and turned around to look at him, head cocked to the side. She pointed to the pouch of caps still in his hand. “That’s your half of the library job. Hundred for me, hundred for you.”

“What?” he asked, still not sure he heard her right. Maybe he needed to get his ears checked, because the Boss wasn’t making any damn sense. “We’ve barely been working together for what, three days? I thought you said weekly pay?”

“And you’ll get that at the end of the week?” she said, sounding just as confused as he did. Dogmeat whined in sympathy. “I mean, if you would rather wait to get it later in a lump sum, that’s fine, but I’d figure I’d just give it to you now. Save us the trouble.”

“I just–” Mac sighed, nostrils flaring in frustration. “This wasn’t mentioned in our contract.”

“Are you tellin’ me you don’t want the caps?”

He immediately tucked the caps into his duster. “I didn’t say that. I just wanna know if this is gonna be a regular thing.”

The Boss shrugged. “You get out what you put in, on top of the weekly pay for watchin’ my back. If there’s a job you don’t wanna do, I won’t force you, but I got a feelin’ you’re not the type to let caps pass you by like that.”

“You’d be right,” Mac nodded, the weight of the caps pressed against his chest starting to become more tangible. One hundred and fifty caps when she hired him, another hundred three days in, and then whatever his weekly paycheck would be. He didn’t even care how much that one would be, because he was flush with more caps than he’d seen in the last month and a half. He made a mental note to set aside whatever caps he didn’t spend on resupplying to send with Daisy’s caravan for Duncan’s caretakers. Hopefully there would be more to follow.

Once he and the Boss agreed on what supplies to buy (stimpaks, Med-X, dried rations, water, “whatever else he saw fit” as she put it, but surprisingly no Rad-X; she already had a full bottle), she went next to Kill or Be Killed with Dogmeat while he browsed Daisy’s shelves. As he did, he caught snatches of her talking to K-L-E0 through the holes in the walls on Daisy’s side. If he heard correctly, the conversation was leaning heavily in the Boss’ favor. Smirking to himself, he put three stimpaks on the counter and continued down his list.

As he was poking through what little Daisy had in the way of general medical supplies (his own kit needed a re-up), the Boss said her goodbyes to the assaultron and went off to find a trader. With the amount of terminal scrap he had from the library plus his tidy new sum of caps, Mac was able to come out with a good amount left for Duncan after. Daisy gave him a knowing look when he took to the dinky little table and chairs she had pushed against the wall and pulled out his journal.

Mac started the letter off the same way he always did: Hey there, kiddo. It’s Dad…

First he told Duncan he missed him. Always, that he missed him. He thought about him every damn dang day. Then, he asked how he was doing (he’d have to wait for a reply to come back for that one). After that, he started writing about getting a job with the Boss, what Dogmeat was like, the super mutants in the library, and how “your Dad’s still the best shot in the Capital Wasteland” even though he was stuck in the Commonwealth. He told him he loved him, that his mama was watching over him and loved him so much. Said he would send more caps again soon. He didn’t mention anything about looking for the cure, however. He still needed every cap he could get to hire his own crew to sweep through Med-Tek, but that was leagues away. Hopefully with the Boss, though, that plan would come to fruition.

Mac tried to end the letter on a happy note, leaving a doodle of Dogmeat biting the leg off a super mutant on the back before signing it. He tore the page carefully out of his journal, folding it tightly and putting it inside the pouch of caps the Boss had given him.

“Hey, Daisy, when’s your next caravan come in?” he asked, walking up to the counter again.

“End of the week,” she replied. “Sending a letter home?”

Mac shook his head and held out the pouch, setting a few more loose caps on the counter for the payment, “More than that this time. Make sure this gets to the Capital safe, yeah?”

The old ghoul smiled, taking the caps and the letter from him and tucking it into what he knew to be her own payment for the caravan. Extra safe. “I always do, MacCready,” she said, then nodded her head past his shoulder. “Looks like your General’s excited.”

Mac turned, and sure enough the Boss was strolling back into Daisy’s store with a pep in her step. She was chewing on something, a burlap sack in her hand that Dogmeat was incessantly sniffing at.

“Good news!” she said, swallowing and pushing Dogmeat’s nose away. “Found a trader goin’ near the Castle. And he was sellin’ radstag jerky! How lucky are we? You ready to head out?”

Mac cut his eyes to Daisy, and she breathed an amused laugh through the gap of her nose, “She seems a little too peppy for your speed.”

“You get used to it. See you around, Daisy,” he said, mirroring her laugh before turning back to the Boss. “Yeah, Boss. I’m ready.”

[ajwinter-is-a-nerd]

Le Chat et Le Serpent - Chapter 3

Please note that the entirety of this story is a ****TRIGGER WARNING***** - mentions of child abuse, graphic violence, alcohol use, mental health, suicide, suicidal ideation, self-harm - basically a constant blow of pain towards the characters - as well as some "steamier" moments.

Chapter 3: A Late Birthday Card

You?

Plagg was thankful that Viperion, the only holder who knew Chat’s identity, was one of the few Miraculous' they had gotten back. 

Luka had been in mid call when he saw Plagg zooming towards him without his holder. “Ladybug, something’s wrong, I need to go.” Viperion abruptly ended the call, leaving Ladybug in a panic. 

“What are you waiting for? Let’s go!” Plagg yelled before he had reached Viperion. Seeing Plagg meant that something had gone seriously wrong with Adrien. Leaping from building to building Viperion hoped for an explanation, but Plagg was too flustered to speak. 

Plagg had lost countless holders earlier than their time. But this one was different. He cared for Adrien in a way unique from all the others. Adrien didn’t take the Kwami for granted, or become obsessed with the power to the point of self destruction, he treated Plagg like family. There was no way he was giving him up. 

Bursting through the door, Viperion fought to wade through his shock. Gabriel was shaking on all fours as the missing Miraculouses floated beside him. Nathalie’s knees slipped in blood as she struggled to hold Adrien. 

“Here, let me,” Viperion leaned to pick up Adrien, who's mouth sputtered blood upon the shift. 

“I didn’t know who else to call! He can’t be found here!” Nathalie wailed. 

Shooting his eyes to Gabriel, his vision began to blur. The Miraculous' were connected to him. He had willingly tried to kill his son. After all these years of torture, he finally went to finish the job. A gurgle broke Viperion's rage, he could find Gabriel after, right now, he needed to save Adrien. 

Before Viperion reached the sliding hospital doors, medical staff had begun to run towards him, Adrien’s wounds harrowingly evident. As the light shone over Adrien, his green eyes contrasted the red that smeared across his face. 

“You?” Adrien cryptically questioned with a brief moment of consciousness.  

A Late Birthday Card

“You probably won’t be interested, but Rose needs to see her doctor again today,” Juleka mumbled to Luka. 

Luka’s eyes greyed, after all this time, how could Juleka think he didn’t care for Rose? “What’s going on, is she okay?” 

“Just a regular check-up,” the lingering in her voice alerted Luka that there was mischief behind her words. 

“I thought you might be open to driving…” 

Raising his eyebrow, he responded with caution. “Of course, anything I can do to help.” 

“Good, we were worried about how close her room was to Adrien’s,” her eyes bounded up to watch his reaction. She loved how the mere mention of Adrien’s name sent him into a tizzy. Her mischievous grin gleamed as Luka nearly somersaulted trying to put his shoes on. 

“Really, you’re going like that?” Juleka sniggered, gesturing to all of him. 

“Wh-what do you mean?” His calm demeanor had been officially eradicated by the possibility of seeing the PrettyBoy. 

“Okay guys, let’s go!” Rose squeaked, holding her jacket by the door. 

As Juleka went to put her arm around the bubblegum blonde, Luka followed frantically. “What do you mean? What’s wrong? Is there something on my face?” 

Approaching the car, Rose snickered, “you’re so mean Jules!” 

While he opened the car door for Juleka and Rose, he stole a moment to scan his outfit. Rose leaned in before she sat next to Juleka, “sweetie, your shoes are on the wrong feet.” Juleka began cackling in the back. 

-

Nathalie struggled to orient herself as she limped through the hospital. Even the simple task of reading signs was difficult, her mind too cloudy with the possibility of catastrophe. She had gone through great lengths to ensure that Adrien had not found out about his father's fate until she deemed it was safe(r). She knew that there were too many uncontrolled variables throughout the hospital, and she could not wait any longer to tell him.

Gabriel would have appreciated her thoroughness. 

Bile raised in her throat at the loaded thought. She had reported Gabriel missing shortly after Adrien was admitted to the hospital. He wasn’t declared dead until weeks after, which aided to hide his villainous identity. Until they had found the weapon in his hand, his search was treated as a missing civilian in relation to the Papillion battle. His body was found in the observatory once the stench had begun to emanate. 

She rubbed the gift she had brought for Adrien, hoping that it would bring some solace to the news of his father. Even though Gabriel had told her that he mentioned her in his note to Adrien, she didn’t know if Adrien would ever accept to be in the same room as her again. After all, she had attacked him on her own numerous times (as Mayura vs Chat Noir). Though her own conscience had begun to falter during the battle for the Miraculous, she always felt like Adrien was her family. She couldn’t fathom the pain he must endure knowing that the two people in the world that were there to help him grow, who helped him with his homework, who put Band-Aids on his scraped knees, had actively worked to destroy him. 

“Nathalie?” Luka’s calm voice sent a shiver down Nathalie’s back. 

“Hello, Luka,” she dipped her head. Her and Gabriel had learned Luka’s identity when Queen Bee had been Akumatized, but she wasn’t certain that he had made the connection. 

“Why are you here?” His wording suggested that he did. She clung to the memory of Adrien’s blood over her arms as Viperion entered the manor. As he stood before her, she clung to hope that he would one day see below her mask of regrets. 

“This,” Nathalie tapped the box. 

“Have you told him yet?” 

She swiftly shook her head. The shame she carried burned through her face as she fought back tears. 

“He needs to know Nathalie.” 

Meekly, she waved the letter from Gabriel. 

“You’re telling him in a letter?” Luka sighed. 

“I - I don’t know yet. He might hate me, what if I make things worse? If 'you know who' suddenly takes his place, it could put him in jeopardy.” 

Luka had wanted an excuse to see Adrien, but this was not what he imagined when he finally got to revisit the boy who relentlessly took over his dreams. He might never be able to separate Luka’s face from the burden of bad news. Sighing, he realised that this was news that no one deserved to deal with alone. “I can bring it to him.” Nearly immediately he regretted his words. 

Nathalie’s bottom lip trembled as she peered up towards the towering man, “are you sure that’s a good idea?” 

“It’s better than you dropping it and running away.” Venom dripped from his denunciatory words. 

“I understand,” she responded wearily, succumbing to her shame.

-

Luka’s feet turned to cement as he stood before Adrien’s door. The weight of the gift pulled on his soul. A soft voice crept from its hiding place within Luka’s unzipped sweater, “just breathe Luka, you’re doing the right thing.” 

“Probably can’t call for a second chance for this, hey?” Luka whispered back. 

The green Kwami shook his head. 

Barley knocking, Luka announced himself, “hey, is it okay if I come in?” 

Out of habit, Plagg jumped into hiding. Adrien gave a simple “yes” to hide the panic that was began to battle its way out at the sound of Luka's voice. In an attempt to prolong the loss of control over his heart, he did not watch Luka step in. He kept spinning his ring to avoid the overbearing thoughts that Luka kept seeing him at his most vulnerable; and now, he was in Adrien’s private hospital room, with no one to break the tension. 

Recognizing the visitor, Plagg flew from his hiding place. “Ooo you brought a gift!” 

Adrien’s eyes snapped up to the black gift wrapped in a bright green ribbon. Well that’s thematic. 

“Oh, it’s not from me.” Luka slightly pushed the gift away, as if increasing the space between himself and the box would somehow differentiate himself from the gift. 

“Perhaps we should give our holders a moment,” Sass suggested to Plagg, who had started to pry at the box. 

“But it’s just wrapped so beautifully, and the smell…” Plagg’s voice trailed as his nose began to raise. 

“Plagg!” Sass hissed. 

Irritated by everyone’s lack of infatuation with the gift, Plagg gripped the present from where the ribbons met. Akin to a drone drop, he let it fall on Adrien’s lap. The entire interaction had frozen Adrien’s mouth agape. Growling, Plagg returned to Luka’s eyeline. “I hate this gushy stuff.” 

Adrien’s heart monitor echoed the same panic as Luka, but it was quickly abated by Plagg hugging Luka’s face. “Thanks for saving him.” 

“Wha…?” Adrien struggled to finish his word as he succumbed to his bewilderment. 

Plagg, exasperated from fluff, darted back to the gift. “Yeah, Luka saved you, get over it and open your present!” 

Caressing the perfectly tied silk bow, Adrien wondered if that was the only reason he had taken an interest in him. It would explain how he knew his identity. “Thank you,” He mumbled. 

“The gift is from Nathalie.” 

“Oh, you two know each other?” Unease built within his throat at the thought of Luka being in cahoots with Nathalie and Gabriel. 

“No, I only really talked to her twice. Today being the second.” 

The first being the day that you somehow saved me. 

“She,” Luka continued with lowered eyes, “she was the one who sent for help, and I was the one who answered.” 

“Oh,” Adrien was aware that Luka knew, but the confirmation that he had witnessed Adrien’s most traumatic moment was overwhelming nonetheless. 

Adrien lifted the card, immediately recognizing his father’s penmanship. “Did she say anything about him?” He flicked the card up to Luka, the only information available was Adrien’s name elegantly scripted on the front. 

“That’s from Gabriel?” Luka pulled the letter closer, confused. He had assumed Nathalie had used the letter to write what she couldn’t gather the strength to say to his face.

“Why do you seem surprised? It’s not like he would visit.” The truth extended beyond Papillion. Prior to this, the only reason Gabriel would visit would have been to tell Adrien how disappointed he is about missing modelling shoots. 

“Maybe your answer will be in here.” Luka handed back the envelope. 

“PLEASE open the present first!” Plagg pulled at the ribbon.

“Fine, Plagg!” Though his volume sounded irritated, his tone was softened by a gentle laugh. 

Luka watched Adrien’s heart rate rise as he read the note on top, constantly waiting for the ball to drop. 

Happy Birthday

To the strongest man I know.

You may be 18 now, but you have been an adult for far longer than you should have been. 

Love,

Nathalie.

“What do you think it’s going to be Plagg?” Adrien asked, ribbing his impatient Kwami. 

“Argh, just open it or I’ll destroy the paper myself!” 

“But it could be a bomb, a feather, or a stinky sock? A stinky sock would explain the smell.” 

Luka chuckled at their playfulness, inadvertently reminding Adrien that he was there. In an attempt to get Luka closer, Adrien patted the bed for him to sit. Without a second thought, Luka stepped out of his shoes and pulled himself onto the bed. Realising the boldness of his move he stuttered as he offered to grab his shoes, but was waved off by Adrien. 

“The closer you are, the easier you can help me if there does happen to be a weapon in here,” Adrien teased. 

Luka contentedly narrowed the space between them. He found a practised calming response as he mirrored Adrien’s position. Luka often spent time on his own bed with his legs crossed in the very same “easy pose” to re-centre himself. Sass instinctually sat upon Luka’s knee, setting himself inches away from the gift that was causing Plagg to flip. 

“At least it looks bigger than a pen,” Luka gently joked, remembering Adrien’s friends speak about the dreaded yearly Agreste industry pen. 

“IT’S NOT A WEAPON, OR A PEN! PLEASE!” Plagg bounced. 

“Must be a stinky sock, then,” Adrien announced as he pulled back the wrapping paper. 

As soon as he removed the lid, he understood Plagg’s reaction to the gift. The familiar smell of cheese struck him as he saw the ribboned wheel of camembert. He wasn’t sure if Nathalie knew it was for Plagg, or if she just assumed that Adrien had really loved cheese from the amount that went missing from the fridge. Plagg didn’t even bother removing the ribbon before he started gorging himself. Having a mouth full gave him an excuse to stay silent; he had no idea what to say to Adrien. He had seen a lot of shit, but this was a whole different bag.

Adrien’s attention was immediately pulled to another small red gift box within. He assumed that, before the battle, this was his original gift. Pulling back the paper, he found a dark brown leather box, which opened to a gorgeous handcrafted watch with exposed gears. He still felt compelled to check for any tracking devices or other Gabriel signatures. As he inspected the watch he was taken away by its exquisite craftsmanship. Feeling satisfied, he strapped it around his wrist.

The additional gifts further proved his watch theory. Within the box sat: a new phone and SIM card, a few books of puzzles, and enough snacks to make a kid hit the roof. He graciously offered a bag of mini Oreos to Luka as he continued to flip through the assorted treats. Through the crinkling of bags, a bit of white seemed to flash from the bottom of the box. Pushing his hand past the piles of treats, he pulled at the paper - an unlabeled envelope. Still trepidatious, he carefully opened it, as if the speed at which he opened the seal would reduce any danger the envelope could hold.

This must be the moment , Luka thought to himself, gently squeezing Adrien’s knee. 

“Well that’s certainly better than a pen.” Plagg momentarily lifted his head out of the hole he had created in the camembert. 

Luka’s face contorted in horror. “Plagg!” He scorned. 

Adrien’s dry fingers trembled at the contents of the letter. “No, he, he’s right, this is way better than a pen.” 

Gaping at Adrien, Luka questioned whether he really knew anything about the man behind the mask. Trying to break the feeling of how small he felt in Luka’s gaze, Adrien revealed the contents of the envelope. 

The envelope contained registration and insurance under Adrien’s name. Forgetting to breathe, he pulled up the circular black key with a winged symbol. 

Still shaking, Adrien grabbed the key from Luka’s fingers and held it to his chest. “I have a car!” 

Yeah, nothing takes the sting off of a father shooting himself in the head like a nice set of car keys. 

Setting aside Nathalie’s gifts, Adrien ran his finger along his father’s envelope seal. Luka went to resume his hold on Adrien’s knee, only to realise it never left. 

“My father… he used to care.” Adrien began, not ready to open the letter. Luka instinctively leaned closer as Adrien continued to let Luka see through his cracks. “When I was younger, he would even come out on bike rides with me, can you imagine Gabriel Agreste on a bike?” He laughed through his tears. “My mother used to talk about running away, but I couldn’t imagine leaving him, I could never let go of the man he used to be."

His tears turned to sobs. Not wanting Luka to see his distorted face, he pushed his forehead against Luka’s shoulder.

Luka gingerly rested his chin on Adrien’s golden hair, “it’s okay to be sad. He was one of, if not the, most important person in your life.” His sobs turned to heaves as he struggled for breath. A violent violin contrasted with a morose piano sung from Adrien's heart. 

After Adrien had been able to compose himself to wipe some of the fluids off his face, he muttered a genuine apology. Luka pulled his chin up with a single finger so that he could stare into Adrien’s brilliant emerald eyes. The jewels were magnified under glistening tears. “Don’t apologise. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.” 

The violin began to calm, but the piano still played strong. Catching Luka by surprise, Adrien tugged at the blanket underneath. “You’re pulling it too tight,” he sniffled with an edge of humour. “This whole comforting me thing will be easier if you’re underneath the blanket.” 

With a single nod, Luka slid under the blanket. Carefully avoiding the various cords that strung around Adrien, Luka pulled him in closer. 

Adrien inhaled deeply, allowing himself to become lost in Luka’s warmth and alluring cologne. He sank deeply into Luka’s chest, so enveloped in the moment, he hadn’t noticed the teeth of Luka’s hoodie were scratching at his face. 

Prior to this, Luka had been at an advantage. Adrien’s heartbeat was literally on display, whereas his anxious skips had been hidden under his layers. With Adrien’s hand on his side, and cheek pressed against his chest, Luka could not hide the way he made his heart race. Luka had dreamed about this since Adrien first stepped on his boat, he wouldn’t hand just anyone his guitar, afterall. Marinette had won his heart, but Adrien’s tune continued to claw through. Beyond being absolutely gorgeous, he was incredibly down to earth, caring, and nerdy in the best of ways. Even from afar, Luka joined the team in unbridled fury towards Gabriel’s possessiveness. Part of leaving Marinette meant giving up on ever being with Adrien. He knew their identities, he knew that they would be a far better paying than Luka with either of them. When he used to dream about this moment, he imagined them cuddling under the stars to the tune of a violin, or at least in his cozy bed. 

Adrien’s head shifted further into Luka’s hold. Stifling a satisfied shudder, Luka decided that the comfort of Adrien’s strong heartbeat electronically emanating through the room would suffice in lieu of a violin. 

The darkness within Adrien was lifted in Luka’s strong arms. Adrien hadn’t believed this moment would ever happen. Every time he tried to ask Luka to spend time with him, or confess his feelings, he became so nervous that his head began to throb. As he continued to crumble further into Luka’s intoxicating breaths, he wanted to tell him all the times he tried, all the times he desperately wanted to link his fingers within his. He wanted to tell him how he thought he was perfection personified. For the first time, though, Adrien’s words weren’t lost from nervousness. His favourite trait about Luka was his calming nature, but he underestimated how cataclysmic the difference was once he was in his arms. 

Eyeing the heart monitor, Luka brushed a soft kiss on Adrien’s forehead. It gave Luka a great sense of satisfaction seeing Adrien’s heart skip a beat, but Adrien’s nuzzle told him more than the blipping green line could. 

-

“Excuse me?” Nurse Jacquie poked Luka.

Luka’s eyes darted open, the ferocity almost pushed the Nurse off balance. Calming herself, she put a finger to her mouth for him to stay quiet, and motioned toward a cord hanging out of Adrien. The nurse knew it needed to be checked, but she did not want to wake the Agreste boy, this was the first night in his long stay that he had slept without a nightmare. Keeping Adrien as close as possible Luka angled the arm she needed so that she could ensure that his infection had gone down. 

Barely noticing the nurse leaving, Luka admired Adrien in his arms. Waking up to Adrien was not how he imagined his day going. His ears began to perk as he noticed Adrien's heart monitor was beating in sync with his own. Relishing in the moment, he lightly kissed Adrien’s head once more. 

Even with everything this man had been through, and with cords jumping out of him, he was easily the most attractive man in Paris. His shoulders and chest pushed back against the unflattering nightgown. Granted, he may be biased, since one of Adrien’s imperfectly perfect hands rested upon his side. Looking closer, he noticed that Gabriel’s letter was slightly pressed between them, it must have drifted from Adrien’s hand as he slept. Manoeuvring to catch a better glimpse, Adrien began to stir. 

In an all too human way, Adrien smacked his lips together as he started breaking through the threshold of his dreams. The room seemed to light up as Adrien’s eyes opened.

“Hey, you’re still here.” He croaked.

“Of course,” Luka once again raised Adrien's chin. “There’s nowhere else I want to be right now.” 

“Well… that might change once we see what’s behind door one,” Adrien lifted up the letter. 

Instinctively, Luka sat up, helping Adrien do the same. To his surprise, Adrien shifted to the side to lean against his chest. Allowing his arms to surround Adrien, he supportively pressed his jaw against his temple.

Taking a deep inhale, Adrien opened up the envelope. 

March 3, 2024

Dear Adrien…

[laedback-taurus]

Just Say the Word

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader Word Count: 2.3k Warnings: Mentions of SA (didn't go into detail) and murder, swearing as usual A/n: thank you so much for all the love on my pieces! 'Best Present ever" has over 600 notes now and I can't believe it. Also thanks so much for this request, I really enjoyed writing this.

Request: Hi! I was wondering if you could do a Tommy imagine where the reader and Tommy are just friends (childhood friends), but love each other secretly, and the reader either gets hurt or SA/raped, doesn't matter, and Tommy is there to comfort her and gets revenge on the men. Please and thank you!

Tommy’s night goes from bad to horrible when you enter the Garrison. The sight of you sends him into a rage but he still wanted to be there and comfort you before asking for your permission to kill a man.

Tommy’s day had been a tiring one, mountains of paperwork, a troublesome family meeting, a business deal gone wrong and worst of all, he hadn’t seen you all day. He had finally retired for the night and met his family at The Garrison, Ada had told him that she’d invited you along but so far there had been no sight of you, Tommy wasn’t worried, you were probably just caught up.

You and Tommy had grown up together, being neighbours of the same age meant that you were in a way, bound to be friends. Your mothers would always say that you and Tommy were meant to be, that one day you’d be married but as a little girl you always screwed your nose up at the idea, at that age, boys were gross. But then Tommy Shelby grew into a man and suddenly the idea didn’t seem so gross to you anymore, in fact you no longer screwed your nose up at the idea, your heart would skip a beat instead. Funny enough Tommy had felt the same way, he would groan whenever his mother teased him about you, it’s not that he didn’t like you but thinking about girls in that way made him feel a sense of unease. But then you grew into a woman, a lovely woman who cared for him deeply, something he didn’t think he deserved. The older the two of you got, the more he noticed your differing behaviour with himself and his brothers, you were kind and cared for his brothers, but you took extra time with Tommy, you check in on him frequently, going out of your way to stop by and see him, which he enjoyed.

These days it was obvious how the two of you felt about each other, the way Tommy’s hand would linger on your lower back whenever other men were present and the way you would rest your head on his shoulder and snuggled into him slightly in the presence of other women. Pretty much everyone knew that you belonged to each other, even if the two of you couldn’t see it and if someone didn’t know and tried anything with the other, they soon found out.

Tommy and his brothers had were resting against the bar while Polly and the girls sat at a near by table, they chose a more public setting tonight, not feeling the need for privacy. Tommy’s eyes kept glancing to the entry of the Garrison, expecting you to walk in any minute with the pretty smile that he desperately needed to see after the day he had. He really did believe that your presence would make this dreadful day a bit more bearable but when his eyes glanced to the door one more time, all hope of that left him. You stood in the doorway, staring at him with red rimmed eyes, in a helpless motion you leant onto the doorframe to hold yourself up, that’s when Tommy noticed the state you were in and his heart all but stopped. Your makeup was smudged across your face, your mascara mixing with your tears as they left black streaks down your cheeks. Your hair had been undone; your usually neat strands were knotted. Then his gaze travelled to your dress, it was torn on the bottom, the hem that once rested on your knees was now frayed around your thighs and one of your sleeves was missing entirely resulting you having to hold that side up to not expose yourself. Tommy rushed to you without a second thought, throwing his jacket around you before he pulled you into his arms, the place you felt safest.

“Tommy” You whispered out, a plea to him to help you, to make it all better.

And just like that, Tommy Shelby was ready to kill someone.

You were currently sat in the sitting room of the Shelby home, Ada and Polly had helped clean you up and given you some fresh clothes to change into, you had opted to keep Tommy’s jacket wrapped tightly around you, it made you feel safe when he wasn’t around. He was only in the next room talking to Polly, about what happened to you. You had told Polly what had happened when she was brushing your hair after your bath.

You had set off for the garrison not long after Ada had popped by to tell you that everyone was meeting there for some drinks, if only you had gone with her. You were taking a well known short cut through a back ally when you were suddenly grabbed, you couldn’t remember much from the attack, you mind had chosen to spare you the horrid memory by blocking it out, but you do remember the feeling of his hands roaming your body, the sound of tearing fabric and the stench of his breath but most importantly you remember his face when he forced you to look at him. He was a worker for Tommy, you had bumped into him once when searching for Tommy, you had apologised and given him a sweet smile which the bastard had taken as an invitation. The last thing you could remember was watching him walk away, doing up his pants as he did, leaving you broken on the cold ground. The only thing you could think about in that moment was to get to Tommy, he would make it all better, he always did.

Tommy entered the room and approached you where you sat on one of the chairs. He knelt down in front of you, looking hesitant as he hands gently reached for your trembling ones, you never wanted him to think that you’d be afraid of him, so you reached out and grabbed his hands instead, he was your safety, you were always safe with him, you knew that.

“Polly told me some of what happened” He started, making you instantly drop your head, you didn’t want him to think any less of you over this, the thought of that alone caused silent tears to drop from your eyes, landing in the back of your hands that lay in Tommy’s, he noticed right away.

“It’s alright love, your safe now, you’re with me and I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, okay?” He spoke gently, dipping his head slightly to try and see your face. He couldn’t stand that he let this happen, his sweet and kind girl had been taken advantage of and he couldn’t do anything. The sight of you in the entryway of the garrison kept creeping into his head and he couldn’t stop the rage building in him, he wanted to end the fucker that laid his unworthy hands on you, but he wouldn’t without your permission.

“I’m so sorry love” He whispered, his shoulders dropping slightly, his eyes locked on your hands with a distant look in them. This made you look up at him, your brow frowned as you looked at him in disbelief.

“You have nothing to be sorry for Tommy” You stated, he shouldn’t feel guilty over something he couldn’t control, he didn’t respond, still stuck in his thoughts.

“Please don’t think any less of me” You couldn’t stop the plea before it left your lips. His head shot up at that.

“Don’t you ever say that Y/n” He warned “Nothing could ever make me think less of you and the fact that someone made you feel that way breaks my heart” You didn’t know what to say, you just looked back at him with wet eyes.

He looked at you for a moment, his eyes holding their gaze on yours, how you loved those beautiful blue eyes. With slow and careful movement, he released your hands and placed his softly of your cheeks, wiping your hot tears with his thumbs before resting his forehead on yours. You closed your eyes and melted into the comfort of his close presence, breathing in his scent, one that brought you comfort apposed to the one earlier that brought you dread.

“Say the word and I’ll kill him” He whispered, your chest tightening from the statement, he wanted to kill for you? He wanted revenge on the man that much that he would take his life? For you?

You took a deep breath, keeping your eyes closed you responded “Please”

That was all Tommy needed, he pulled away from you and strode into the other room, you quickly got up and followed him, removing his coat as you did and handing it to him when you entered the room.

“John, Arthur” He addressed his brothers who quickly stood from their spots at the table with Ada, Polly, and Esme. He didn’t need to say anymore, they could see it in their brothers’ eyes that a man was going to die tonight. They were about to leave when you called out to Tommy, he stopped and turned back to look at you, you don’t know what it was, but something made you decided that this was it. You rushed to him, pushed yourself up onto your toes and brought your lips to his. Tommy was shocked at first but quickly responded, wrapping his arms around your waist as you draped yours around his neck. You poured everything into the kiss, your trust in him, your admiration for him and your love for him and he felt it all. He pulled away and smiled at you, you returned his smile, completely forgetting about the events from early that evening for a moment.

“Be careful” You pleaded, the last thing you wanted was for him to get hurt.

“I will” He responded, “I’ll make him pay for thinking he could lay his hands on a Shelby’s woman” He let you go before turning to join his brothers.

“I’ll be waiting for you” You called out as they left.

“Come on darling, let’s get you a much-needed drink” Polly said, leading you away from the door.

It had been a few hours since the Shelby men had left, Polly had told you to try and get some rest in Tommy’s bed, she assured that he wouldn’t mind so you did just that. You had tried for some time to get to sleep but every time you tried your mind would jump back to your attack, so you decided to sit up in bed and just wait for Tommy. You were thinking about getting up to find a book when the door slowly crept open.

“You’re still up?” Tommy asked softly as he entered his room, shutting the door quietly behind him. You didn’t realise how much you really needed him until he was standing in front of you so without answering you climbed out of bed and wrapped your arms around his torso, burying your face in his chest, you felt him wrap his arms around your upper body, pulling you close.

“Is it done?” You asked, voice muffled by his chest.

“It’s done” He confirmed, planting a sweet kiss to your hair.

“Thank you, Tommy,” you said as he rested his chin atop your head.

“No need to thank me love, I’d do anything for you” He confessed, you lifted your head from his chest and looked up at him, causing him to look down at you.

“Tommy…I need to tell you something that I feel is obvious now but, I want you to know that…” You hesitated for a moment, what if all of this was just Tommy being a good friend, what if the kiss was just him taking pity on you for your situation. Tommy could tell what you were thinking just by the look on your face, and he didn’t like it one bit, he had to put a stop to it. He dipped his head and caught your lips in a sweet kiss, making your thoughts cease immediately. He pulled away and once again rested his forehead on yours.

“I love you Y/n, I have for years, ever since you’d follow me around as a little girl, no matter how many times I told you to bugger off, you never did and I’m so glad you didn’t” He confessed, making you laugh at the memory, Tommy’s heart warmed at the sound, he’d missed it all day and was afraid he wouldn’t hear it for some time.

“You’ve always played hard to get Tommy, but I was determined” You teased, making him smile “I love you too” You confessed.

“No one is going to hurt you again; you’re my girl and I’ll protect you no matter the cost” he declared.

“I know you will” You placed a sweet kiss on his cheek “but can you protect me from my thoughts tonight?” You asked quietly, Tommy had asked you the same thing when he had come back from France, you held him for many nights to keep the horrid memories away and now it was his turn to do the same.

“Of course I can”

The next day word spread fast, and Tommy knew for fact that everyone knew you were his, no one would mess with you again, the body strung up the alley proved that.

[st4rbwrry]

any last words?

━━━━━━━━ eren yeager.

⤷ shinigami!eren, dark content, mentions of murder, death note use, size kink, body worship, god complex!reader, brat taming, titty sucking, foreplay, vaguely inspired by death note.

⤷ taglist; @gabzlovesu @erentoes @dejwrites @sintiva @ceeriusly-dumb @k1nkyb7tch

“Stop levitating, it���s killing my eyes!” A bang fills the quiet room as you slam your hand down into you notebook, groaning and kicking your legs with agitation. God, if only you could put his stupid fucking name in this book all your problems would go away.

The dark shinigami in the corner of your room continues to does as he pleases, floating midair with his legs crossed pretzel-style while strumming his black painted nails over his guitar, an item he carried no matter where he went. His red eyes boar into the top of your poofy Afro, rolling his eyes. If there’s anyone who should be annoyed, it’s him. Dealing with such a prissy, hot-headed girl who let the power of this demonic notebook take hold of her. There’s a few times where he’s thought about ending your life; it’d finally relieve this never ending migraine.

It’s just a phase, he thinks. Once you’re endowed you’ll change your ways, your mindset perhaps. Eren thinks you’re in too deep. that you’re becoming a person you didn’t want to be. Killing those who made the world rot. It was your original goal, and at first it was good plan—Until you let it consume you and go after the people who wronged you in life. Enemies, bullies, racist assholes, men. Your ill-intent made the shinigami clutch his obsidian chain around his neck, afraid of you, which is ironical.

You’re going insane. It’s a little sad to watch considering his fondness of you, appearance wise. You’re a pretty thing, a human so dulcet and bound to him until your last dying breath. Times running out, in fact. The glowing numbers floating above your frame to symbolize the last of your days taunting him. Very little. He’s still pondering whether he wants to tell you or not. You haven’t obtained the eyes yet, dreading letting you.

“You’re still mad I see,” his deep voice tickles your skin like heat, huffing childishly in your spot, peaking up at him through your glasses as he stares down at you, floating above the fireplace. You’re crouched on the ground with your thighs spread, angrily sketching in your journal, disturbing gore-like imagery of your shinigami, or Eren, as he goes by.

Eren rests his guitar on a shelf nearby, leaning his elbow on his raised knee, slanted crimson eyes monitoring you silently. Crackles from the fireplace sing in the air, warming your skin, your fingers painted in black and red from the oil pastels you used. Your Afro covers most of your face, Eren unable to see your eyes like he wanted. He admits it’s his favorite part of you to admire. You may be a crazy person, but your looks made it harder to hate you.

“I know you killed those girls to spite me,” Eren twirls the rings covered on each of his fingers.

You pull down your shirt after you shift in your spot, the material long enough to shield your ass. Thigh high striped socks tight on your skin. “Fuck you.”

Eren inhales deeply, trying to hold back his tongue. He’d make you cry otherwise. “All because of what? Because you can’t have my eyes? Cry about it, baby. I don’t care. You’re already fucked up enough.”

“Says the shinigami.”

Eren throws his head back, cracking his neck before standing on the floor, heavy leather boots crinkling the pages in your journal, ruining your art. He purposely skids his feet over the paper, tearing them as you growl and stand to your feet.

“You’re such a dick!” You scream, raising your hand to strike him until your hand completely goes through him, becoming invisible.

He smirks. “Can’t touch me unless I allow it.”

“Why are you testing me? I don’t understand you. The death note is mine. I’m the fucking owner,” you step to his face, a scowl on yours as he ups his chin. “It’s my fucking book. I’m the god. You should obey me! Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Sweetheart, you’re nothing without it. The only reason you have the power that you do is because of me. And let’s get something straight, it was my book before yours. Stop acting like a little bitch and step back.”

“It’s mine now. Give me your eyes.”

“You’re smart enough to know there’s consequences that follows if you do obtain them,” Eren shakes his head, staring at the wall as he tapped his foot anxiously on the ground. It was hard to read him, his facial expressions void. You could never tell whether he was happy, sad, or worried. He wore a straight face like a mask.

You heard legends about shinigami’s, knowing they were giant, ugly creatures. But the first time you saw him, you were starstruck, fascinated by his beauty. He wasn’t scary at all, well, maybe a little. He wears all black, his hair a chestnut color thrown into a half bun, the strands dangling on the sides of his forehead endlessly attractive. Various rings, chains on his jeans and rockstar boots. There’s a lip ring on the right corner of his mouth, a piercing on his tongue and numerous dark tats on either side of his neck. His eyes are what really intrigued you; red, like a vampire. The fangs in his mouth added to that. Although they aren’t eerily long, they’re small and pointy, like normal canines. Truly a beautiful demon.

“At least tell me why,” you fold your arms, toning down your aggression. You tend to be that way a lot. He knows this is because of past trauma.

“If I give you my eyes, I have to gain something in return,” his tone his small, as if he’s fearful. You swallow.

“Tell me.”

His eyes shut briefly. “Once the shinigami eyes are yours, I’ll have to take 20 years off your lifespan. And if you remember, I can see yours.”

The reaction he gets from you is merely normal, shrugging and scoffing as if it was nothing. One things for sure, you weren’t afraid of death. You were death. “That’s it? Tuh, and I thought I had to lose an eye or some shit.”

“That’s it?” He furrows his brows. “That’s your response to your life being cut short?”

“Don’t act so surprised,” you scrunch your face at him with confusion. “My life’s been nothing but shit. What else do I have to live for? Having the death note has been the happiest I’ve ever been and I’m living only for it. When I have the eyes, oh my god!—”

Eren watches vacantly as you hold your hands on either side of your face, mouth and eyes wide as a sadistic laugh emerges from you, downright evil, menacing—not human. “It’ll be fucking hell! I can rule this fucking world. Burn it to the ground if I want to. Make every last pathetic being suffer.”

“To prove what?”

“I,” your face inches closer to his own, eyes flickering back and forth between his lips and eyes, a smirk on your lips as you run your tongue over your plump lips. “Am. God.”

Eren grabs your throat after your lips lock with his, kissing him momentarily and laughing in his mouth before pulling away, bouncing on your toes like a child in your spot and giggling. You broke the barrier. You were able to touch him without absorbing through him, meaning he allowed you to do so.

“You let me touch you.” It’s a mindfuck, that’s what it is. To have this death note in your possession and be able to create the world you wanted—all while this angelic specimen hovered over you each and every day. Recently you’ve been noticing his sudden admiration of you. Watching you more than usual, calling you pet names like sweetheart, pretty, baby, princess. Lecturing you so you don’t do things that could get yourself hurt, or worse, killed.

“I don’t want you to be like this. Stick to your original plan; making the world a better place. Killing innocent people shouldn’t satisfy you. Your life is precious. Stop pretending like you can’t change it for the better.”

His hand remains around your throat, loosening his grip to run his black painted fingers over your collarbone, trailing up to your cheek he gently caresses, drawing himself closer until you’re breathing the same air. For a split second you felt your heart skip a beat, doe eyes wide and curious.

“You’re more human than me, Eren. You care for me.”

Eren stays silent, heart clenching with a pain he never thought he could feel. You’re changing him. Then again, he never wanted to be this way. To be a shinigami who takes the life of humans in order to survive. That’s why he stopped, letting his lifespan drain. Only reason he’s in this position now is because he was an idiot and dropped his death note in the human realm where an inquisitive girl like you found it. He’s been with you for a few months now, and it was enough to make him develop an embarrassing attachment.

“Not so smart after all,” his heavy hands smooth up the sides of your thighs, your teeth unexpectedly digging into your lips as you watch him, squeezing your flesh in his hands while your arms stayed pressed to your chest, not sure what to do. They don’t stay for long, Eren pulling your shirt up your ass and over your tits he molded in his big hands, red irises glinting with lust the moment you release a whimper, flicking his thumbs over the barbells pierced into your nipples.

“Can’t believe you,” you pant, shifting in your spot. He stares you down, never stopping.

“Why?”

“You were plotting on me the whole time,” you roll your eyes playfully. “Don’t tell me all those songs you played were for me.”

His tall frame bends to latch his mouth over your brown areoles, gasping and tangling your fingers into his soft hair, Eren shutting his eyes and slowly sucking your skin, smelling you, feeling on you. Shinigami are never to engage in sexual intercourse with humans. It’s a deadbolt law that’ll fuck him over when he’s back. But he didn’t care. It’s worth it knowing he can finally satisfy that ache he has for you.

“Maybe,” he sucks harder, gently smacking your ass to urge another noise from you, pleasing him so far. He breaks contact momentarily, getting his fingers wet before strumming them between your slit, your lack of underwear questioning.

“I heard people who play guitar are good with their fingers,” your thighs entrap his tatted wrist, grinding against his fingers coated in your slick. Wet so easily.

“Guess you’ll find out, huh?” You squeal when he slaps at your clit a few times, thighs trembling ridiculously it’s nearly embarrassing. He barely touched you, and here you were, a dripping fucking mess. You can admit you’ve daydreamed about this a few times, dozing off with your pen between your lips at your desk while he studied you, wondering what you were thinking of the more you gnawed on the object.

Eren likes the way you panic when he picks you up like a feather, arm cupped under your ass as he walks towards the bed he lays you down on. Your arms cuddle yourself making your tits press together, head to the side as you held your sock covered thighs to your stomach, enthralled by his being. You weren’t expecting for him to pull off all his clothing, fascinated by the extended tattoos, toned abs, and muscular arms. His shirt accidentally yanked off the tie keeping his hair together, closing your legs once his hair cascades down his face, long and brushing his shoulders. Shit.

His jewelry remains on, swallowing nervously as he climbs above you, chains dangling in your face and cock resting on your stomach, glaring between both of you to see.

“It’s pretty, ain’t it?” He whispers, shifting his hips back to brush it onto your pussy, whining and spreading your legs.

“Mhm,” you nod, widening your mouth the instant he kisses you, mind going blank within those few seconds. He breathes into your mouth, sloshing his tongue heatedly with yours, circling, sucking, biting, French kissing the fuck out of you. His tongue is freakishly long, lips so soft you’re suffering inside. The metal ball on his tongue has you soaked.

Eren smirks from the way your hips jolt as he traces your skin, reaching in between and strumming your soppy clit like his guitar; gracefully. You cry out, clutching his wrist as he rubs circles harshly, but slow. In love with the way your chest heaves and you hide your face in your hair, pupils blown to show him how turned on you were.

“You trust me, right?” He whispers in your ear, kissing behind the shell of it as he takes his cock in hand, replacing his fingers with the tip, rushing it side to side against your clit as you moan and grasp his thick thigh.

“Trust you,” you suck on your lips, Eren slapping the head on your pussy a few times before hiking your legs up onto his shoulders, leaning over you with your thighs grazing your chest, slipping inside with ease, very cautiously to make sure he doesn’t hurt you. You hiss from his size, so small beneath him, cock burying you til he’s disappeared.

Eren turns his head and cusses under his breath, shushing you the more feeble moans broke from you. Fuck, he hasn’t felt this in years. Your pussy was like the gates to heaven. Warm, wet as fuck, and tight around his cock just the way he liked, pulling him in deeper the more you raised your hips and begged for him to move. Eren keeps you pinned down as he fucks, shallow strokes to ease you into it, literally restraining himself from murdering your pussy.

“I think you’re more of an angel than a god, princess. So easily enraptured by something apart of what you supposedly hate,” he talks to keep himself level-headed, scoffing deviously at your white-turned eyes, scratching at his torso, slightly pushing him away each time he sank deeper, your arousal painting his sharp abdomen. “You like me, don’t you?”

“My pussy likes you,” you counter, his brow raising.

“Who said that was a bad thing?” He tongues his inner cheek, sitting up before he fixes you to where he wants you, holding your back to his chest as he lays behind you. You hold your leg up for him, giving him the easier route to slide right back in, Eren laying your legs straight, rough hand clutching your chin, wide hand covering half your face.

His jaw slacks as he moans along with you, clawing at his thigh behind you as he fucked you hard, ass clapping back onto him, crying into your pretty cloud-like hair that smelt like citrus. He’s brutal with his thrusts, beating your pussy in anger, rouse, annoyance, stress, sadness—any emotion he’s felt for you throughout your time together merges into the pace of his hips.

“Babe,” A choked cry makes him chuckle behind you, breathing through his nose pressed to your cheek. “Ooo, shit, you’re in my stomach, ‘Ren.”

“Yeah,” he taunts, kissing your temple, rolling his hips until you’re slapping your hand on his body, scratching and crying as your pussy flutters and you’re trembling. Until those oh-so angelic symphonies of yours are all he could hear. Panting, whining, moaning his name even if part of you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “You like me, don’t you, baby?”

“I want my eyes,” you manage to demand, his glare eerie, having a small feeling that ulterior motive still lingered. You’re using him so he’d feed into your wish.

“You’re too reckless, you’ll die,” he scowls.

“I. Don’t. Care,” you break carefully so he understood that you were serious, and that if him trying to fuck you meant that you’d forget about it, he’s entirely wrong. “I need them. It’ll be the last thing I ask from you. Please ‘Ren.”

Eren clenched his jaw, cussing madly. “Stubborn fuckin’ woman. Fine. I’ll give them to you.”

You smile viciously, figuring he wouldn’t pick back up until he got his answer. “I like you, asshole.”

“Be sweet to me.”

You almost cry in frustration, grinding you ass back and pouting. “You know I like you.”

It could be a lie, or it could’ve been the truth. He didn’t care, as long as he heard the words it was enough closure.

“Mmm,” Eren hums, squeezing your face in his hand harder, whimpering as he fucked you harder, clenching around his dick from his pretty sounds. He moaned loud by your ear, hissing, whining, praising you, sounding utterly submissive all while fucking you the way he did. “Fuck.”

“Fuck,” you respond, slamming your ass back to match his strokes, turning your face to kiss him, Eren moaning and sucking on your lips, mumbling ‘fuck’ again to follow. You don’t need to tell him you’re cumming for him to know, feeling it all too well, your breathing stopping midst it all, coming down hard before a prolong scream fills the air, Eren holding you close as his eyes roll back and he’s at his high too.

His heartbeat is prominent against your skin, hair sticking to his forehead you brush away before giving him his final kiss, his face straight with drought, eyes dead once again. He pulls out, switching you around and hugging you close, wrapping your legs around him to cuddle. If there was a visual of how he felt on the inside, it’d be glass shards, shattered onto a ground of nothingness.

It’s really unfortunate you die at dawn.

☽ visual. visual. visual.

© 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐞, 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞.

[therealvalkyrie]

exactly the spring

Pairing/setting: Ushijima Wakatoshi x Fem!Reader, college!AU

Summary: Reserved biology student Ushijima finds himself falling in love when you, an adorably disorganized art student, wander into the greenhouse.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: fluff, kissing

AN: Hi!! So, the inspiration for this one sprang from the beautiful, sexi brain of Emme ( @doinmybesthere ) way back in MARCH ahem anyway, it's done! I hope it's just as soft and intimate as you envisioned<33 Also, big shoutout to my beautiful friends Arobi ( @daqueenobooty ) and Cee ( @spacelabrathor ) for being wonderful betas and giving me such kind comments:) I hope you enjoy, and as always don't be shy about leaving comments or coming to chat! Be kind to yourselves and others.  ~valkyrie

p.s. check out this amazing art that @/54prowl made of plant boy ushi!! :D

Plants don’t talk back, Ushijima learned as a toddler. He’d babble to them in nonsensical phrases as his mother worked in the garden, and they’d only sway in the wind and listen, waxy under his chubby fingers.

A volleyball doesn’t talk back, either, not even through its bounces and echoes on hands and hard surfaces. It doesn’t listen as easily as plants, but can be herded and shaped like putty into a winning thing if you touch it right. This, Ushijima learned at his father’s hand and carried with him through childhood and adolescence.

The joy and puzzlement of you is that you do both. You listen so intently and openly with your steady eyes and soft body as the words pour out of him. And then, you reply. With your clear voice and new perspective, you offer something new. You offer companionship.

It was the second week of spring semester that you wandered into the greenhouse, eyes lit by the sun and sketchbook under one arm. Ushijima was repotting a large fern, dirt up to his elbows as he kneeled on the floor. He barely gave you a second glance, preoccupied with nestling the plant’s root system comfortably.

You settled a short distance away, crossing your legs to sit on the tile floor in front of an orange tree to sketch its still-closed flower buds with charcoal pencils. He kept working as you did, the sun sliding across glass, shadows shifting into the early evening of winter. When the sun was threatening to set over the city skyline — even with the greenhouse where it sits on the roof of the biology building — he turned to tell you he was closing up, only to find you gone. In your place, sitting on the wooden table that held newly planted basil and sage, was a drawing.

It was a single branch, detailed in shades of charcoal down to the last dewdrop. At the bottom, looping handwriting scrawled, “thank you for the peace.”

That night, he tacked it up above his desk in his dorm next to the postcard from Tendō and hoped you’d come back.

And you do, a couple of days later, on a Saturday. He looks up from where he’s filling in the logbook, this time, catching your gaze and holding it for a moment before you break away to survey the room. Today, he thinks you looked breathtaking. You’re wearing a long, flowing skirt and a sweater that makes him want to feel how soft it is, and how soft you are in it, and by the time his brain catches up with his thoughts, he’s been staring too long and your eyes have wandered back to him. It’s raining, today — it never really snows in this city, he’s learned — and shadowy droplets play across your face as they drip down the greenhouse’s arched glass ceiling, highlighting the curve of your cheekbone and making your eyes glow softly.

He clears his throat and looks back to the thick spiral-bound book on the table before him. Sometimes, when he meets people for the first time, he knows he can come across as intimidating. That worked out for him in high school and on the volleyball court, but in his adulthood, it’s been more of a hindrance than a help. It makes it… difficult to make friends here, where he doesn’t already know anyone.

And the last thing he wants is to scare you away. The last thing he wants is to break the peace you’ve apparently found here.

Which is why he barely dares to breathe when he looks up to find you approaching him where he’s perched on a sturdy wooden stool.

“Hi,” you smile and lilt, and god if it isn’t the most beautiful word Ushijima’s ever heard, if it isn’t the prettiest smile he’s seen.

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t want to scare you away.

“Uhm,” you start again, when the silence makes it clear he’s waiting for you to speak, “I have an art assignment,” you start digging around in your shoulder bag as you speak, “to draw a, um, what’s it called?”

“I don’t know.”

You pause in your rifling and pin him with such a sunny smile it makes his knee start bouncing. And you laugh, too, which officially replaces your “hi” as the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Ha, you’re funny,” you resume digging, “it was um, pretty leafy and... tropical, I think? Oh! Here.” Triumphantly, you produce a wrinkled paper from your bag. It’s the first imperfect thing Ushijima’s found out about you, that you’re shit at keeping your belongings organized, and he files it away for later reference. You hold the paper in front of your face and squint slightly to read in the shifting light. “Canna indica.”

Canna indica, native to tropical climates, notable as a minor food crop for South American Native populations for thousands of years.

“And I was told that you have it, here, in the greenhouse.”

Ushijima nods and finds himself relieved that this is what you’re asking him. Plants, he can do.

“We do. Would you like me to show you?”

“Yes, please,” you also sound relieved, like he’s provided the solution to every problem you’ve ever had.

He unfolds himself from the stool, setting down his pen as he goes. You take a step back and look up at him mildly, as though you hadn’t realized quite how huge he is.

“This way,” he indicates, leading you deeper into the maze that is the biology department’s greenhouse. The winding path back to the tropical room gives him a moment to sink back into the earthy peace of being here, even if now there’s someone sharing that peace.

The temperature change from the warm main greenhouse to the balmy tropical room prompts Ushijima to shed his flannel outer layer, hanging it on the nail hammered by the door while you step in behind him.

“Whew,” you exhale, shrugging off your soft cardigan as well, “it’s hot in here.”

Ushijima hums in agreement and tries not to look too hard at the patch of skin revealed by your cropped tank top. Canna indica isn’t too far into the room, so he just gently moves past draping leaves and ceramic pots.

“Here,” he stops, holding back leaves for you. He stops breathing again when you duck under his arm and end up so close in the narrow aisle that he can smell your shampoo. The moment passes, and he can breathe again when you breeze past him and squat down to peer at the bright, waxy red leaves of your subject.

“Beautiful,” you murmur, and he silently agrees.

You’re leaning so close to the plant he’s afraid you might topple over when you make a noise of realization and sit back on your butt to rifle through your bag once again. Ushijima knows he should probably leave you to it, but he’s glad he waited just an extra minute when you pull out a pair of glasses and pop them on your face. Adorably.

“That’s better.” You’re looking back at canna indica, now, at a normal distance.

He’s figured you’ve forgotten he’s there when you start to pull out pastels from your seemingly bottomless bag, so he turns to leave you.

A soft, “hey,” calls him back to you, however, and he’s met by your face glowing eerily in the shifting rain-light. “Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome.”

When he locks up that afternoon, he finds another charcoal drawing waiting for him on the table near the door, this time of his favorite agapanthus africanus. No note, this time, but he attaches all the sounds he heard from you today in its place. He also finds your cardigan forgotten next to where you were sitting and carefully folds it for when you come back.

The drawing joins the orange branch on his wall-- an odd starter garden, he thinks, but all the more precious because it came from you.

The next time he sees you isn’t in the greenhouse, but instead at a cafe a couple of blocks away, two weeks later. He’s walking past, gym bag slung over his shoulder, when he hears your laugh ring out across the outdoor seating area. His eyes find you, head tipped back in sending peals of mirth into the lively spring air. It’s the first truly warm day of the season, though you and your companion are the only patrons sitting outside, and the sun catches on your glasses sat atop your head.

Your friend says something apparently hilarious, because your giggles redouble, and an honest-to-god snort pushes out of your nose. Ushijima catalogues it in his ever-growing list of sounds you make, and pauses at the crosswalk, halfway turned back to keep one eye on you and one on the light. If you were alone, he might’ve approached you and told you that he still has your sweater in the greenhouse, waiting on a shelf between succulents, but he doesn’t want to interrupt your— date?

He isn’t sure, but the person sat there with you seems like someone you might date. Clearly also an art student, judging by the carefully disheveled blue hair and combat boots. Are you the type to date someone with blue hair? Unlikely, he decides. You seem too… bright. Too floaty to be so concerned with looking like you don’t care how you look.

Ushijima’s still debating whether you find blue hair attractive when the crosswalk light begins its countdown and he starts across the street. And he almost makes it all the way across, too, when a voice calls—

“Wait! Hey!”

He turns partially because it sounds urgent enough that it might be an emergency, and his grandmother would roll in her grave if he remained a bystander to some horrific accident. But it’s you, standing up from your seat and waving him back over. He glances at the crosswalk countdown, which lights up red as it ticks from four to three, then turns and jogs back towards you, waving a hand apologetically to the cars waiting at the light. You meet him at the metal fence around the cafe seating area, and now that you’re standing, he can see you’re wearing a yellow sundress that cuts off at your calves and drapes over your hips like the fabric was spun from pure light.

“Hello.” Ushijima talks first this time because if he doesn’t refocus his brain on something else he knows he won’t be able to stop staring.

“Hi! Sorry about that, uh, and I’m sure you have places to be, but, um, did I leave my cardigan at the greenhouse? I can’t find it, and I know I have a tendency to forget things, so,” you finish with a laugh, one hand fiddling with the rings on the other.

“Yes, you did. I put it on a shelf in case you came back.”

“Oh! That’s great!” You sound relieved, and Ushijima’s suddenly very grateful he didn’t take it down to the bio department’s lost and found like they’re technically supposed to. “Is there maybe a time I can come pick it up? When you’ll be there?”

“I’ll be there all day tomorrow, opening at nine.” 

He can’t tell if he sounds a little too eager, and he’s about to soften his meaning by telling you that they’re open today, too, and anyone can hand you a sweater, but you’re already smiling big and sunny and telling him,

“I’ll see you at nine, then. Do you drink coffee?”

He doesn’t; his coaches have always told him that caffeine can only harm his athletic performance.

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I’ll see you at nine, with coffee.”

Ushijima says goodbye and turns to wait at the crosswalk again while you swirl your way back to your seat and pick up your conversation with your friend. He can feel two pairs of eyes on him as he crosses the street, red numbers blinking down from ten, and can’t help but turn to look back as he steps onto the opposite sidewalk. Where your friend tactfully looks down into their cup of tea, you catch his eye with yours and wave. He lifts his hand halfway in a goodbye before an eighteen-wheeler stops at the intersection and blocks you from him.

Ushijima’s normal work attire is typical of an average agricultural biology student accustomed to being up to their elbows in dirt every day: practical cargo shorts, dirt-stained but sturdy sneakers, a “plant dad” t-shirt (a gift from Tendō when they’d said their goodbyes and gone away to college), and a soft cotton flannel. He’s usually satisfied with this for his shift at the greenhouse, expecting to be mud-covered at least up to his wrists by the end of the day.

But today… Today, he pauses in the dorm bathroom to scrub his face raw, and he clips and shapes his nails like his mother used to do for him every Saturday. He normally only does it before tournaments, now, and it calms his nerves to feel prepared for a Big Event, even if that event is only handing you your gently pilled cashmere cardigan and receiving a coffee he won’t drink in return.

The air that morning is heady with spring, earthy and alive, reminding Ushijima of lying beneath the hedge along his mother’s garden to pass notes to the girl next door. He was seven and she was nine, so naturally she knew everything he didn’t. She knew about the planets and why worms live in dirt and how to spell the word “catastrophe,” and Ushijima would’ve bet his whole weekly allowance that she was the coolest person in the world, if he knew what betting was. (She did, and once bet him half an ice cream sandwich that he couldn’t climb the oak tree in his backyard all the way to the top. He did, and then twisted his ankle on the way down, and she brought him an ice cream sandwich every day for a week as an apology.) She was all shiny, long black hair and dark eyes and fast words, nothing like the spring blooming around him.

You, on the other hand, are exactly the spring.

He stops at his favorite pastry place on the way to work to pick up two fresh cream donuts. The line is just dwindling from the height of the morning rush, so he manages to make it to the biology building just five minutes before he normally does.

Morning sun sends rainbows through the automatic misting spray as Ushijima unlocks the greenhouse door, letting a burst of humidity out into the rest of the building. The spiral-bound log book is there on the desk, a thick parchment bookmark sticking out from where whoever closed last night marked the page. 

Ushijima places his backpack and pastry bag on the desk and reaches to hang his key on its hook just when there’s a knock on the door.

“I know I’m early,” you start, edging your way into the room with a paper coffee cup in each hand. “But I saw it was already open, so...”

Ushijima smiles despite himself. In their second year Oikawa Tooru had told him that his smiles can be unnerving, but he can’t help it right now. You look so lovely today, in jeans and a silky tank top, with a certain morning tenderness in the way you hold yourself.

“It’s okay, come in. I just need to check the temperature controls and I’ll be done opening.”

“Sounds good,” you reply, smiling back.

As he makes his way to the temp controls on the Southern wall, you perch on the wooden stool and set down the coffee.

With his back turned to you for a moment, you allow yourself to slouch, planting two hands on the table and stretching your shoulders with a sigh. It’s earlier than you normally get out of bed, let alone actually leave your apartment, and you can already feel a quiet exhaustion setting into your bones.

But this is worth it, you remind yourself. Worth it to talk to the beautiful boy with broad shoulders and gentle hands.

He’d been unexpected. That first day in the greenhouse, you’d sat down with the intention to calm down from a tedious school day and nothing more. Your hands had moved of their own volition on that second drawing of the orange branch, scribbling out a hasty message that made your cheeks burn. But he was so present that day, in the corner of your eye but staying respectfully out of your space. And you’re not blind -- you saw the muscles under his shirt as he lifted an entire small tree in its pot. You saw the startling shade of green his eyes took on in the sun. You saw it all, and it drew you back, and now you’re here.

When he joins you back at the table, leaning back against it to face you, you stick out your hand and offer your name.

He looks at it for a moment, then back at you.

“I just, uh, realized we never properly introduced ourselves,” you explain, with a hesitant smile.

He smiles again and your heart thuds, then his big hand engulfs yours and he shakes it firmly.

“Wakatoshi. It’s nice to meet you.”

You learn in the following weeks of coming to the greenhouse that Wakatoshi doesn’t like coffee. But he does like tea and donuts, so that’s what you bring him on the mornings you can find it in you to wake up before nine. You sit with him in the greenhouse, talking and listening as he records data and waters plants and sits next to you on the quilt you’ve fallen into the habit of bringing. The occasional professor or student comes through, and you get to watch Wakatoshi show off his brains when he leaves you to help them.

There are several things you learn about him over those weeks. Number one: he never minces words. Two: he prefers grapefruit chapstick over anything else. And three: he kisses like it’s his last day on Earth.

You discover number three late one night when you decide to drop by after class, shooting him a text to make sure he’s still there. Today he’s closing instead of opening, and you missed spending your morning with him.

The city lights cast a different kind of glow at this time of night. They add a distance to everything that’s palpable as you drop your bag by the door.

“Toshi, are you here-- oh, hi.” You turn the corner to find him closing the door to the supply closet.

His cheekbones are highlighted briefly by a billboard outside flashing red.

“You should get some sleep.”

“I’m not tired. And I wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see me?”

He takes a step towards you and you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep your eyes on his. They’re leaf green and unreadable.

“Yeah, uh,” you wet your lips with your tongue, “is that okay?”

“Yes.” He pauses for a long time, then, watching you carefully in the neon glow of the exit sign. His hand shakes as it reaches up to push your glasses from your face onto your head.

Without them, he looks fuzzy and soft around the edges.

He says, “Can I kiss you?” and it feels like there’s a bird trapped in your ribcage.

“Yes. Kiss me.”

Wakatoshi kisses nothing like you expected, all tongues and teeth and heavy fingers in the dip of your waist. He growls when you gasp and mewl against him, sucking on your lower lip as your hands find purchase in his shirt. He kisses you so absolutely breathless that you think you might pass out. Your knees buckle and you pull away, gasping with your eyes closed for a moment until you come back to yourself.

“Are you alright, little one?”

The endearment makes your cheeks flush with heat and your eyes snap open.

“Yes, I’m alright. Please do it again.”

And so he does it again, and again, and again until you find yourself bringing him home with you on the last bus that goes towards your neighborhood. He’s standing in the aisle, one hand wrapped around a pole and the other wound around you, who’s standing in front of him. He keeps you steady as the bus rounds a corner.

That night, you bring the peace of the greenhouse into your home, and the only thing you find yourself wishing for is that it never leaves.