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m0srael · 3 years

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For @hp-fearfest’s day 2 prompt: From Beyond the Grave. Thanks 4 the beta @corvuscrowned. CW: spooky vibes and graphic depictions of corpses.

(on Ao3 | T | 2.5k)

Making a Family Makes a Home

“Happy anniversary, love,” Harry pants into Draco’s wet, open mouth. He thinks he can make out the chirping of morning birds over their slowing breaths, and the warm lamplight in the room is slowly being suffused with cool grey from the dawning sun. They hadn’t slept at all that night.

Harry has never felt happier. He’s loved Draco for so long, and now, finally, he’s allowed to show him. The fact that Draco loves him back makes him feel incandescent, like he’s flying.

Draco hums tiredly in response, hands stilling in Harry’s hair. “‘Spose we can tell everyone to settle their bets on whether we’d make it to a year or not. I think Longbottom is the only one who went in our favor.”

Harry laughs gently and captures his boyfriend’s kiss-swollen lips in his teeth. “Fancy shocking everyone even more?”

“Always.”

“Let’s move in together…” Harry whispers into the dip between Draco’s collar bones, where sweat has pooled and started to dry. He darts the tip of his tongue out to capture the salty tang.

Draco goes stiff underneath him and says nothing.

Harry pulls back to gauge his expression. It’s firm, unreadable. “It’s just, we’ve been dating for a year and you’re here just as much—if not more—than you’re at home. We don’t have to stay here, we can find a place we both want to live, somewhere new. You talk all the time about how much you hate still living with your parents. We could… We could really start our life. Together. The way we want.”

Draco’s enigmatic expression breaks a little. “Oh, Harry, love. You know I want that. Of course I want to build a life with you. It’s just… I know I complain about mother and father, but they’re getting old. They need me. I’d… I’d worry about leaving them all alone in that big old Manor.”

“Yeah. I get that, I do. But…They have house elves, don’t they? To look after them? It’s not like you couldn’t visit whenever you want.”

“We couldn’t afford to pay the elves, after the trials. We had to let them go.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Well, I don’t want to pressure you into anything, so—”

“Harry. I… Want to. I do. Just. Let me think about it a little?”

“Yeah. Of course. Of course, love. Take all the time you need. I’ve already got more of you than I ever thought possible. I’m happy.”

“Sap.”

“You promised you weren’t going to pressure me, Harry,” Draco snaps as he drops their dinner plates into Harry’s sink with a clatter.

“I know, I know, and I don’t mean to. But we’ve been together for nearly three years, Draco, and you still refuse to even stay the night half the time you’re over here. Is it… Do you not love me anymore? Has something changed, have I—”

He watches the shutters fall behind Draco’s eyes, like they always do when they have this conversation. He’s tried so hard to respect Draco’s request for time and space, but lately it’s like a chasm has opened between them, and Harry doesn’t know how to bridge it. His gut reaction to the feeling of impending loss has always been to hold tighter, to grasp and pull. He knows how suffocating that can be for some people, but he can’t help it.

Draco sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Harry, no, of course not. I love you more every day, you know that. It’s just... not that easy. My parents—”

“Oh, sod your bloody parents!” Harry bites back, sharper than he intended. “I mean—I’m sorry—but I feel like you’re sacrificing your own happiness for them. Again! I know you love them, but after everything they’ve put you through. Everything they asked of you. You deserve the chance to make your own choices and live your own life, Draco.”

“I… I know that. I do. I just feel so guilty, sometimes…”

“Look. We can look into some care homes, maybe. Neville says his Nan loves her community. Or—” Harry raises a hand to cut off Draco’s interjection, “—we can interview some live-in Healers. I can help you, you won’t have to do it alone.”

Draco’s face twists into an ugly frown. “No. How dare you—I’m not dumping my parents into some disgusting care home to be ignored and overlooked by overworked nurses. And I’m certainly not allowing a stranger into my home, Harry! Haven’t you heard of elder abuse? How could I do something like that to them?”

“Your home…”

“What?”

“You just called the Manor your home. I thought… I’d hoped you considered this your home.”

“Oh...well I—”

“Forget it. Look, I just need some space. I don’t want to say something in anger that I’ll regret later. Your feelings are valid, I just...feel a little hurt right now, to be honest. I’m going to Ron and Hermione’s for the night. Feel free to stay. Or not. Merlin knows you never do.”

“Harry—” Draco pleads as Harry turns toward the Floo.

“What do you want, Potter? I’m terribly busy.”

“Pansy, you don’t have a job.”

“And?”

“Nevermind, look. It’s about Draco…”

“Isn’t it always?”

“Please, Pansy. You know I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t serious. I...need your help.”

Pansy sighs, settling herself and her glass of scotch on the chaise in front of her fireplace, which Harry had just tumbled out of unannounced several minutes earlier.

“Fine. Make it quick.”

“Right. Well. Draco won’t move in with me.”

“Mm,” she hums, taking a drag on the cigarette in her other hand. “Sounds normal to me. I don’t see why anyone would want to live with you.”

“Fuck’s sake—” Harry hisses, beginning to pace across the hearthrug. “I know you don’t like me, you wish Draco were with someone else, whatever—can you please just take this seriously for like, one second. Please.”

Pansy exhales an exasperated cloud of spicy smoke into Harry’s face and sits up straight.

“Potter. Draco’s relationship with his parents is… complicated.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Pansy eyes him sharply over the rim of her rocks glass for a long moment. “No, I don’t think you do, really. Not the whole of it, at least.”

Harry throws his hands up, frustrated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

A series of emotions passes over Pansy’s face as she eyes him. Amusement, then scorn, then sadness, and finally pity.

“Pansy,” Harry says, slumping down onto the chaise next to her and letting his head fall into his hands. “I love him so much. I…want to marry him. But, I can’t if he won’t be honest with me about why he won’t live with me. I’ve done the best I can so far, but I can’t envision a future where my husband won’t even stay the night with me, let alone share a house with me. And I definitely can’t envision a future where we move into the Manor together.” He shivers involuntarily.

“No, I don’t think that would do anybody any good. Harry… I can’t say any more. I know, I’m sorry, but I just can’t. If you really need to know why Draco won’t move in with you, and he won’t explain it himself, you need to go see them. Lucius and Narcissa. I think you’ll find your answers there. I just hope you’re prepared for them.”

“He’s never asked me to go home with him. I haven’t… I haven’t been to the Manor since the War.”

“Mmhm,” Pansy hums, lips pursed condescendingly.

Harry stands and takes a palm full of Floo powder, gut twisting and thoughts racing.

“Harry—” Pansy says, stopping him as the flames flare green. “If you really love him—”

“Pans—”

“—You’ll let this go. You won’t go to the Manor.”

“I don’t… I don’t think I can do that, Pansy.”

Pansy draws her worried eyebrows down between her liquor-glassy eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Harry never received a reply to his owl to Lucius and Narcissa asking if it’d be alright to visit that afternoon. He isn’t surprised; he knows there’s no love lost between them even now, even after he’s been with their son for years.

He’d considered sending owl after owl until one of them responded—even if it was just to serve him with a restraining order. In the end, he knew he would never be at peace if he didn’t talk to them face to face. He needs to settle this once and for all, so he can move on. So he and Draco can move on, and move in, together.

After deciding that he’s given them enough warning, he apparates to Wiltshire.

When he lands outside the Manor, he’s confused. For a minute he thinks he’s apparated to the wrong location. The once-gleaming gates are rusted and bent, hanging from their hinges. Ivy creeps across the damp stone pillars and flagstones, eating into every fracture and crevice. The footpath beyond the gates is thickly overgrown with weeds and brambles, as though no one has walked it in years.

He pushes past the gates and begins fighting his way through the underbrush. His breath catches in his throat when he comes around the final bend in the path. There’s no way Draco has been living here for the last six years. There’s no way anyone has been living here in a long time.

The entire house seems to sag. The stone walls are covered in a thick layer of black muck. The same ivy that threads through the front gates has all-but consumed the lower half of the building, making it look as though the Manor is scrabbling up from the depths of the earth. All the windows Harry can see are coated in a thick layer of dusty grime; some are broken and grimace at him like mouths full of jagged, glass teeth. The once-resplendent gardens are now buried under thick snarls of thorns and wild, venomous tentacula that wave menacingly at Harry, welcoming him. To what, he doesn’t know.

Dread settles into the pit of his stomach like a heavy stone. His breathing becomes sharp and ragged, and he knows—beyond the shadow of a doubt—that something is very wrong.

When he finally picks his way up the crumbling front steps, he finds that the stately front door is cracked open. From the look of it, the lock fell from the moist, rotting old wood at some point.

He pushes the door open more fully and is hit with a wave of the thick, sickly-sweet scent of decay. His shocked brain finally jumpstarts into action. He jogs into the foyer, the clacking of his dress shoes muffled in the thick layer of dust on the floor. Despite the blood rushing in his ears and his short, wheezing breaths, he can hear the sounds of voices coming from a door down the hallway to his left. He recognizes one as Draco’s.

He moves quickly but cautiously toward the sound, pausing just outside the open door.

“Mother, I’ve told you a hundred times, you can’t have milk in your tea anymore. It upsets your stomach for days. Here, let me—”

“Oh, stop fussing, Draco. I’m an old lady I can do what I like,” comes Narcissa’s high-pitched, croaky voice.

Draco chuckles warmly, and Harry can hear the clink of teacup on saucer.

“So, Draco, my boy. How is your Mister Potter?” Lucius asks. Harry had forgotten how alike he and Draco sound, though Lucius’s voice is a touch deeper.

“Oh, well. Don’t tell him I told you, but I think he’s going to propose soon!” Draco replies, sounding genuinely pleased.

Harry’s stomach flips, despite his overwhelming unease.

“Oh, my love, that’s wonderful. I know you love him very much. Perhaps now you can invite him to come live with us? We’ve got more than enough room, you know,” Narcissa’s reedy voice cracks a little, and Draco clears his throat.

“Mother. No,” he responds sternly, almost shouting, “We’ve talked about this many times. You know I can’t bring him here. As much as I would love—” Draco sniffs wetly, as though he’s crying, “—to have all of my family together, he would never want that. He could never understand. He’s not...not like us.”

Draco sobs, then, and there’s a clatter of china as though he’s shoved his teacup away from himself.

Harry can’t take it anymore. He takes a deep breath, sets his shoulders, and moves around the doorframe to face them.

Draco glances up from the opposite side of the small table, startled. He looks like a rabbit caught in the gaze of a hungry dog--hunched and shivering, eyes wide and darting erratically. But then a smile cuts across his pale face. His pink lips curve up at the edges, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh, Harry. We were just talking about you. You’ve come just in time for tea. Sit.”

It’s then that Harry looks to Lucius and Narcissa, seated in chairs on either side of Draco.

Neither of them move, and it takes Harry longer than he’d like to realize that’s because they can’t.

Their bodies are stiff and cold-looking. Their skin is waxy and grey, and both of their skulls are swathed in wisps of white-blonde hair that looks to have been tacked on with a hasty sticking charm. Harry shifts one step to the right, enough to see that Lucius’s eyelids are gone and his eyes have been replaced with shiny, black marbles.

He cuts his eyes frantically over to Narcissa, whose ivory teeth look too huge in her face. Harry realizes on a wave of nausea that her lips have rotted, exposing fleshless gums.

“Yes, Harry dear, Draco has told us so much about you, please sit. There’s so much we need to talk about. To clear the air.”

A manic laugh rips from Harry’s throat as what he thought was Narcissa’s voice drips out of Draco’s mouth like the chime of discordant bells. He takes several stilted steps backward toward the door.

Draco shoots to his feet, a soft, pleading look on his beautiful face. He moves toward Harry carefully, extending pleading hands until he can grasp Harry’s shoulders.

Harry wants to scream. He wants to run away from that place and never look back. But here’s Draco, his Draco, jarringly pretty among all this rot. Draco places a soft kiss on Harry's trembling lips.

“Harry. Please. Join us.”

The snick of the door echoes in his ears as it’s spelled shut behind him.

#hpfearfest2021 #hpfearfest #hp fanfic #drarry fic rec #drarry fic #drarry #mosewrites

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qianoir · 3 years

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IT3D 1 - Hua Mulan

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: college students!WayV x Chinese fem!reader

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: non-idol au, college au

𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+ (Do not interact if you are under 18)

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: heavy cursing (censored), mentions of sex, nudity, love octogon, foreign humor, overbearing parents

♡ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.3k

𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭: @eggbutnotyolk @d1nne @fanficbitchwhowriteskpop @staysstrays

Preview < 1 < 2 < 3

"I've only been in New York City for 15 hours, Xuejiao. And it's huge! I don't know these streets you're telling me!" You shout, ignoring the side-eyes from the passerby city slickers that give New York it’s bad stereotype.

"You're going down 96th Street right? I told you to keep going down. It's a long a.ss street. You'll find the campus eventually- look for the dome!"

The connection breaks as Xuejiao finishes the call, "I gotta go now, I’m trying to get in my astrology professor’s pants after class!" The line goes silent and you huff, opening up GPS to lead you down the forsaken 96th Street. Distracted with directions, some guy crashes into you with his bike.

"What the hell!? Watch where you're going!" You yell picking up your fallen bag- which scattered all of my weeaboo s.hit.

"Maybe if you didn't stand in the middle of the street, you wouldn't have wrecked my bike! You're lucky you didn't get killed by a real car!" You looked up at the ignorant voice and found a young, orange-haired Asian boy. Maybe Chinese, like me?

"I wrecked your bike!? You're really unbelievable.." You placed everything back into the bag and took out your wallet. "Look, I don't have time for this. I'm sorry for damaging your tricycle, or whatever- here." You threw a fully punched Xing Fu Tang loyalty card at the kid’s dumbfounded face and walked off.

It's 9:57 AM, your o-chem class starts at 10 and you still can't find the campus. Why did my parents even make me leave Hong Kong? Because of the government, the pollution? Both countries are f.ucked. I choke there and I choke here.

Finally, I'm here.

You ran to the STEM building and up the stairs to land in a spacious lab room. You hurried to an empty seat near the top row. 9:59 AM.. Thank goodness.

In the midst of the lesson, the door opened to reveal the same clumsy jerk you had encountered a few minutes ago. He rushed to an empty seat, you going unnoticed by him.

Your first 50 minutes of college went by pretty quick. Nothing more than a syllabus review and a small question/answer session.

"I know it is the first day, but you are all in big kid school now, so I am assigning a semester project you will work on for all of this first term with a partner." Each array of your peers groaned at this announcement.

"You will use your knowledge from high school chemistry or an equivalent to complete it." The professor continued, "I will choose your partners and you are both expected to be responsible with it all semester."

"Remember your partner's name so that when I'm done, you can come down to get each other's contact information."

"Man Wol and Ji An.. Ha Jin and Hae Soo.."

The professor continued to call out names as you were caught up in texting Xuejiao about the kid who crashed into you earlier this morning being in your class, only half listening until you heard your name being called.

“Y/N and Yangyang.." Did I miss a racist joke or something? What the hell is a Yang Yang?

You kept texting Xuejiao, deciding to deal with it after class.

"I know it's a lot to take in on the first day, but on the bright side, you don't have to do the project," Some idiots celebrated, "but know that I will judge you harshly on it and I will be teaching at an Ivy League while you get kicked out of an Ivy League, never achieving your dreams." He fakes a sad face and the same idiots fuss.

"Now come meet your partners and have a good rest of your first day!" Your first professor dismissed the first class.

You put your phone in your pocket and stumbled to the bottom of the classroom, calling out for "Yangyang," the name feeling awkward as it rolled off your tongue.

"That's me." You spun around and were met with the trike guy from earlier.

"IT'S YOU!" You exclaimed in unison with him, the space between you two silencing for a second, before you spoke again.

"Oh my God I can't believe I got such a d!ck as a partner." You rolled your eyes with crossed arms.

"Hey! It takes two to d!ck!" Yangyang argues back. You stared at the fellow Asian boy in disgust and dismay.

"What the f.uck!?"

Both of you suddenly broke down laughing, your huddled classmates peeking at you with judgemental stares.

Yangyang calmed down and talked more comfortably with you, "Thanks for the boba by the way. I drank it deliciously.. before I dropped it because I crashed again."

"That's what you get for being a pr!ck to me." You scoffed.

"Oh baby that wasn't being a pr!ck. That was simply getting you warmed up to want me." He tapped your chin to bop your head back while giving a creepy stare.

...

"You're a f.ucking crazy person."

"Like it or not, Mulan, you're stuck with me for an entire semester." He stuck his tongue out at you.

"Mulan?" You questioned.

"Yeah. You're a Chinese b!tch, right?" You glared at him, but had to nod ‘yes’ anyway.

"Cool. I'm Taiwanese.. I need to get to the other side of campus so give me your number so we can work out the details on the project. You wanna meet up at the library tonight?" You agreed and gave him your number.

"Great. See you tonight, Mulan." He winked and jumped out of the room.

Shaking your head at the ironic situation, you walked to the next class with a little over 10 minutes to spare, so you stopped for coffee at the Starbucks on campus.

The shop was pretty small and there weren't a lot of people inside. As you were about to enter, another Asian boy held the door open. "Thank you." You smiled, bowing your head in gratitude.

"Anything for a girl with such a charming smile. Can I buy you a coffee?" He asked.

"No, that's ok!" You replied, not wanting to inconvenience this guy- and besides, he might just be trying to get in my pants.

"Please I insist! Get anything you want!" You decided to take his offer because in the end, it’s free coffee. He was also pretty charming himself, and seemingly harmless.

"Could I get an iced Americano, please?" You ordered. "I'll have the same." The boy told the barista.

You both stood to the side of the bar, talking while the identical drinks were being made. "Thank you for paying, you really didn't have to." "No no it's really fine. I wanted to.. I'm Dejun Xiao by the way, I think I'm in your chemistry class. What's your name?"

"I'm Y/N." "Oh are you Chinese!?" You nodded. "I'm Chinese as well. Are you from China?" "I'm from Hong Kong." "That's so cool! I'm from Guangdong." "Oh nice, nice.." The drinks were handed to you and you walked out together, strolling into the center of the campus.

"What class do you have next?" Dejun asked, sipping at his coffee. You took out a crumpled paper to examine the schedule printed on it. "I have biochem next." "Oh we have the same class!" Dejun announced. "That's crazy! Are you premed?" You asked him. "No, I'm studying forensic science. I want to be a homicide detective.”

Wow this guy is impressive. "Wow, that's awesome.. I want to be a heart surgeon.”

“That’s so cool!” "Thank you." You laughed at his energy. The two of you walked in the direction of your next shared class, conversing and giggling with each other along the way.

You reached your next classroom and found empty seats next to one another. “You can call me Xiaojun, by the way. I think it’s cooler than Dejun.”

“If you have to say your name is cool, then it’s not cool.” Another Asian man walked up to your row.

"Hey man! You're in here, too?" Xiaojun asked. "Yeah! It was a lucky draw." Xiaojun then motioned over to you, "This is Y/N. She's my new.. friend?" He smiled at you, looking for confirmation. Returning his smile, "Yes I am. Nice to meet you." The other male shook your hand and introduced himself. "Nice to meet you, too. I'm Kun."

"She's from China, like us!" Kun was surprised. "Really? Why did you come to America?" "My parents made me." You shrugged. "Wow mine did, too." Kun chuckled and sat down in the row of you and Xiaojun.

I left China, but China came to me. Maybe this year is destined to be good..

To be continued…

𝘲𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘪𝘳

#wayv x reader #nct x reader #kun x reader #ten x reader #winwin x reader #lucas x reader #xiaojun x reader #hendery x reader #yangyang x reader #wayv imagines #wayv fluff #wayv smut #nct imagines #nct fluff #nct smut #nct angst #wayv angst

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ladyspaceradio · 3 years

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Population: Me + You

Summary: The last thing on Ryders mind was having kids. She didn’t even have a significant other, let alone a romantic interest. However when Tann proposes something to help the colonist with repopulation efforts, asking Ryder to be the forerunner of it, she wasn’t sure how to take it. But now she's got a missing Sage, a grumpy baby daddy, a convention that might change everything, oh and she has to figure out how to tell Evfra he's going to be a father!

Warning: NSFW SMUT

AO3 LINK

Chapter One

“I’m-I’m sorry can you repeat that?” Ryder sat there stunned, eyes unable to focus on the Asari doctor whose name she couldn’t remember.

Stepping closer, the doctor placed their hand on Ryder's shoulder. “You’re pregnant, congratulations.”

Ryder’s head tilted to the side, glazed eyes stared at the asari though she wasn’t exactly seeing her. “I’m...what?” She breathed, mind swirling in chaos not really able to grab on coherent thought. “Pregnant.” The asari spoke slower, softer, there was a frown marring her expression. She probably wondered why the human pathfinder wasn’t jumping for joy.

She’s gotten it wrong. Ryder clings to that thought. Because she couldn’t be pregnant. Not her. Because if she was-

Not possible.

“That's not possible.” Ryder sinks deeper into the bed, the white paper sheet crinkles under her. She takes note that the asari is young, not even having her matriarch marks yet.

“You would think,” The asari beamed. “Andromeda is full of surprises. We’re still looking into what exactly dissolved the blockers. Some think it's a bacteria, but I’ve been looking into those vaults. If they can make planets viable, just imagine what else they can make fertile!” Her excitement starts to dwindle as she studies Ryder’s pale face. “Erm, I’ll go get you a cup of water.”

“I can’t be pregnant.” Ryder slid off the table. Her feet feel light, and head lighter. Something turns in her stomach. “It’s not possible.” “Pathfinder,-” “Your tests are wrong.” She waved a hand. “I can’t be….” She shakes her head. The asari studies her. “If you need proof.” She opens the door to the hallway. “Follow me.”

Ryder stands in the mouth of the doorway, swaying. Her stomach twisted into knots. Lexi would probably say she’s in denial, some psychological trauma from her childhood. But then Lexi wouldn’t be lying to her.

“Come on.” The asari smiles, it seems false, twisted in Ryders opinion. Perhaps this was just another one of Tann’s tricks. He was the reason she was here to begin with.

He had contacted her, pestered and nagged her into this. Coming into the clinic to remove her blockers, to be a leading light for colonists to follow.

“They need comfort to know that it's safe.” Tann folded his spindly fingers, a smile stretched across his leathery skin. “It is your job to lead them down the path of the future.”

The future.

Her eyes dropped to the trashcan by the door, she just might vomit into the bag there.

“Pathfinder?” The asari dipped her head catching Ryders eye.

Lifting her chin she stepped forward into the dim hallways.

----3 weeks earlier-----

The humidity on Aya was a hell of a thing. Paradise that came with a price, already she could feel the droplets of water clinging to her skin. It wasn’t that it was hot, but rather misty. Sighing Ryder ran a hand over her deflated curls and eyed the surrounding Angara celebrating with pride. Their joy, while delightful to watch, gave her a splitting headache and rattled the teeth in her jaw from the burst of concentrated bioelectricity. This was the reason she chose to sit at the bar.

And because Evfra was currently nursing another cup of Taavum looking spiteful.

“Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating?” Ryder leans against the bar, her tall cup of Taavum, a lovely smelling angara beverage, cupped between her hands. She knows how potent this stuff can be and has no desire to get drunk tonight.

So she tilted her head down, letting the red curls cover her face as she studied the obviously displeased angara general who was hunched over his third glass of Taavum dissuading any of his soldiers from coming up and speaking with him.

“I am.” Short and concise, but his sour face made him look as if he’d been sucking on lemons and not being adored by his people over what they thought was the last Kett ground base on Voeld being defeated.

“Truly?” Ryder slides into the seat beside him, giving Roaan a small wave across the bar. “And is that true joy I hear ringing in your voice?” She puts her elbows on the counter, angling her body to look at him.

“It is...” He pauses looking at her, the dark blue of his iris look darker against the contrast of the white rofjinn wrapped and his broad shoulders. A gift from the initiative, one Evfra hadn’t enjoyed considering the small initiative logo stitched into the corner. He was likely to wear it tonight only for political gain, and destroy the offending material later.

A pity considering how handsome he looked in it.

“Hard.”

She blinks looking into his eyes and away from his physique. More than once Evfra had been a star player in some fantasies she had brewing in her subconscious. “What is hard?” Her voice is low and husky, she does not think he gets the innuendo.

“To believe this war is almost over.”

Almost

It’s been three years since she killed the Archon. In that time they’ve worked together to build alliance between their people, cultivate a culture of respect and peace, and fuck the kett up so hard they wouldn’t even think of coming back for fear of getting their asses kicked again.

“Hard to believe I slept over 600 years just to hear you bellyache about my cooking.” She tossed out, feeling a high as the slow releasing alcohol ran through her veins.

His face contorted in disgust. “Your food is bland, tasteless, and should have been used against the kett.”

“Hey now! I’ll have you know Prime Rib is a delicacy, you should be thanking me for sharing.” She huffed out a small laugh and nudged his foot beneath the counter. “Your people have a future Evfra, and it’s thanks to you.”

“Our people Ryder.” Evfra reaches over and touches her bare shoulder. She shivers at the power in the one hand that spans over half her back. “This is all possible because of you.”

She licks her lip, tapping the countertop. “And to think, in the beginning you stole all my credit-I’m kidding wipe that look off your face.” He’s not looking at her but rather something behind her.

Turning her head she surveyed the crowd of angara when her eyes landed on the odd couple drawing everyone attention.

Tilting her head to the side she watched Evfra observe the woman, who held the hand of a human male. It wouldn’t be such an odd sight except she was heavily pregnant. It seemed all the angara had taken notice. This was a rare sight considering there were delays on the repopulation efforts. Most to do with the fact that colonists wanted safety and security before starting a new family. Another part that so many families had been ripped apart by the war before.

The woman stopped and smiled at the man who touched his hand to her expansive stomach.

Ryder hummed softly and peered at Evfra’s face, noticing his eyes were slitted. He looked ready to shoot something. “Something wrong?” There was a noise of disgust that left his lips as he spoke. “Your people do not recluse during late stages of pregnancy?” He turned looking at Ryder, dragging his gaze down her face then form, settling on her stomach. Something fluttered inside her womb at the gaze.

Or it was the alcohol.

“Nah, we’re social butterflies.” She picked up her drink, sipping it, taking any excuse to not look at his face. “Not the same for your people, I’m guessing.” Now that she thinks about it she definitely never saw a pregnant angara.

At least she didn’t think so. She knew that the angara had pouches, and that pups were small.

“No.” He snarled, lips peeled back, his scar wrinkling under the expression. He turned back to the bar and downed the cup in front of him.

She waited to see if he said more he just stared at his hands. Silently brooding.

“I can’t imagine being cooped up.” Ryder swiveled in her chair grinning at the obviously happy pair making their way through the market. “I’d probably put a knife if anyone tried to cage me.”

Evfra snorted. “Like you did the Primus?” He offered.

She pursed her lips. “Wish I did more to her.” She muttered, taking a gulp of the drink. It had a heady salty taste that ended in a sweet tang.

Primus had been a Devil, far worse than the Archon since she had not desire to waste time gawking at the Remnant. She was pure evil, seeping a dark claws into Heleus seeking to erase everything but the Kett.

In the end it had been her pride that led to her demise. She had wanted to see Ryder die by her own hands, for the ‘glory of the Empire.’

But there had been no glory in her death as she choked on her own blood watching Ryder stand over her.

Taking another gulp of the drink, Abigail shook away the memory. Smacking her lips she looked at Evfra. “You ever just think about how you're getting older?” Eyes crinkle in the corner when his face delved into a sour expression.

“No.”

“L-I-A-R,” She sang angling her body towards him. “You think about it. I think about, we all think about it. Its like waking up one day going, huh my life's half over and what do I have to show for it? A whole lotta nuthin’” She slapped her palm on the table. “Sure I’m the savior of the galaxy but that jazz is worth what?” “Millions of lives.” Evfra offered, looking almost amused as she swayed in her chair.

“Exactly! And do you know how many of those lives I’ve had in my bed?” She threw her hands in the air, nearly knocking over her drink, if Evfra hadn’t grabbed it. “Not a one!” She sinks into the counter, both arms stretched out in front of her.

“Why would you want that many in your bed?” Evfra moves her cup to the other side of the bar.

“I don’t want a million dicks.” Ryder grumbled, lifting her head to glare at him. “I want one. One glorious dick to be my dick forever.”

“Perhaps you should speak with your doctor about this obsession-” He grunted and caught Ryders flailing hand as it smacked him in the chest.

She stares at her tiny hand in his massive one. Completely swallowed. She shivers at the heat radiating even through the glove.

“No one needs a Pathfinder anymore.” She murmurs looking up at him. “And what will I do then?”

They’re both silent for a moment before he sighs. “You find something else to occupy your time. Your nose is large enough to be in everyone's business.” He’d seen how she sought out even the little task to perform. Just the other day she stopped to show a recruit how to take apart a milky way gun.

“I have a beautiful nose.” She grunted looking at him, said nose wrinkled. Much to Evfra’s annoyance however her eyes began to mist over. “Why can’t anyone recognize that?” Her bottom lip jutted out starting to quiver.

Evfra cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with this situation. “Your nose is the right fit for your face.” He offered.

“Really?” Ryder squeaked looking up at him. “I thought it was too big.” She touched her face and sagged.

His hand touched her jaw, turning her to look at him. “You are perfect.”

Three words. Three simple words that came from the most unlikeliest of people.

Ryder stared at him even after he pulled his hand back and looked away. He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable from her silence or her staring.

“You're handsome.” She blurts as he starts to speak, her declaration silencing him. He turns to look at her, eyes roaming over her flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “You are drunk.” He decides with a sigh. “I will call the tempest and have Jaal fetch you.”

“I’m not drunk.” Ryder pushed her thick hair back. “I’m high on liquid courage.” She smiles at him, though she is inclined to think she might be drunk when her mouth continues to spew thoughts from her brain. “I always thought you were handsome. Scar really adds to the good looks.” She nibbles her lips looking at him now, eyes tracing along the scar.

How many times had she fantasized kissing those twin lines that defined his features. Oh how she pictured nibbling them down to his lips that looked so plump that she knew they would cradle her own against them.

Ryder shuddered leaning forward. He’s studying her expression when she reaches over, laying a hand on his muscular thigh.

“If you weren’t so walled off, Evfra, I’d almost suggest we hook up.” Ryder wiggles her brows.

He lets out a soft snorting chuff, his hand grabs hers and pulls it away before it could wander up to the crux of his thighs. “I think you’ve had enough.” He rasps in a husky tone, one that makes her thighs clench together as heat floods her core. “I will walk you back to your ship.” He slides out of the seat in a smooth motion that makes her head a bit dizzy.

“No thanks,” She jerks her arm out of his grip. “I don’t….I don’t want to go back there.” She curled an arm around her waist. “It’s lonely.”

They had come to Aya for more than this celebration, she’d come to say goodbye to Jaal as he and Avale were uniting their families and starting a life together. Just a few months prior Drack had left as well to be with Kesh and her second clutch of baby Krogan. Peebee had one foot out the door, Ryder could feel everyday she was itching for more than what the Tempest was doing. She knew that their time together wasn’t forever, but watching her family drift apart little by little was harder than she expected.

Evfra was silent as she slumped down in her seat, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “Let me crash at the resistance.” She grumbled.

“That isn’t something I can do.” He took hold of her arm again, and she allowed herself to be tugged out of the chair, though she misjudged the distance from her seat to the ground and landed directly into his chest with a soft ‘oomf.’

His hand settled on the back of her neck, the other holding her arm ran down to cup her hip. She looked up at him, breath caught in the back of her throat. She was pressed tightly to his chest, breast molding to the hard plains of his, nipples stiffening as she felt a knot of arousal bubbling in her stomach.

Gasping she watched his nose wiggle, eyes slitting as he bent his head. “You’re…”

She doesn’t think about it, in the future she’ll blame the alcohol running through her system, and the mix of Evfra’s heady scent, but she lunges, cutting off his words, smashing her mouth against his in a teeth clicking kiss that is more pain then pleasure.

Evfra hisses, hand on her neck tangles with her hair, pulling her head back. Her lip is busted and bleeding, eyes glazed. Ryder sucked in a breath, her last bit of dignity began to shrivel as her hazy mind grasped at the lingering sanity pointing out she just kissed Evfra De Tershaav and likely ruined any type of friendship they have built over the past 4 years.

“Evfra,” She twisted in his hold, hands pushing on his chest. “I’m-“

Her wobbly tone cut off as he bend his head, brushing his mouth against her nose, down her cheek, and ghosted over her lips. “You are too impatient, Ryder.” His husky tone sent a thrill down her spine that settled in her stomach.

She tilted her head back trying to catch his mouth. She mewled softly when he pulled away.

“Not here.” He tugged her into his side tucking her against him, chuffing softly.

He doesn’t seem to mind her wandering hands this time. In fact she can hear the faintest sound of a purr thrumming deep in his chest. She almost calls him a pussy she’s willing to stroke when he suddenly tugs her off the main road and presses her up against the wall.

Massive hands span over her hips as he dips his head towards hers. Letting out a sigh as their lips touch, he takes control keeping her head tilted with a fist in her fiery hair. He laps at the seam of her lips, but doesn’t go deeper despite her wiggling and whimpers of protest.

“I’m starting to think you enjoy torturing me.” She gasp fingers curling around the straps laying against his chest. Her body’s pressed against his, hips grinding into his front. She makes needy keens in the back of her throat.

“Are you always this impatient Ryder?” He chuckles against her skin, lips igniting a fire beneath them.

“Call me Abigail, Evfra.” She panted against his mouth. She hadn’t the will power to extract herself from those delectable lips. Oh how she pictured kissing him! The reality blew all those lusty fantasies away. She made a wanton noise in the back of her throat as he nibbled her bottom lip.

“Ahbee-gal” He purrs against her ear. The reverberating sound of his voice sends twings of pleasure down her spine, settling at her contracting core. He inhales deeply, chuckling at her reaction. “I’m going to ravish you.”

“Oh god yes!” She mewls digging her fingers into his rofjinn, tugging to bring him back to her.

He laughs, a deep throat thrum that she’s never heard before. If she had been more clear headed and less horny she would try desprately to remember the sound. Though that isn’t what is keeping her focus at the moment while ehr hands trail southward. Not that they get very far when the wall behind her suddenly disappears.

Letting out a small wail, she nearly tumbles down to her ass if Evfra hadn’t snatched her waist.

“Rude!” She huffed, craning her neck back to stare at the room behind her. Not that she can see much through the dim interior lighting. What she can see is a spare room filled with only the essentials.

Of course her mind isn’t on the surrounding area long when a hot mouth presses to her shoulder sucking the the flesh there.

“Clothing off.” She mewls hands tugging at his shirt trying to magic it off him with each tug. Why did angara clothing have so many buckles! Ryder begins to pout at the sight, muttering dark words about forbidden treasures being locked away.

Chuffing in amusement he gently extracts her hands. “Let me.” His fingers make dizzly fast work of all the buckles and clasps.

Hands free she starts work on her own clothing, while following Evfra as he tugs off his Rofjinn. Of course wanting to be naked soon as possible she attempts to take the shirt off without properly unbuttoning it first.

Ryder stumbled into the bedroom door, her arms caught up in the sleeves as she tried to rip off the blouse she wore. She could hear Evfra huffing at her. Grinning she shimmied out of her shirt and tossed it onto the floor and wiggled a brow at him.

“I would say your seduction talents needs some work.” He stated dryly folding the rofjinn and setting it aside.

Licking her bottom lip she greedily drank in the sight of him shirtless, taking in his broad chest to his tampered waist. She especially appreciated the hard muscles that moved beneath his deep blue skin. Letting out a groan she moved toward him, hands out stretched to touch his skin.

Catching her small hand by the wrist, Evfra let out a soft chuffing sound. “What happed to undressing?” He lifted her wrist and kissed the racing pulse beating beneath the skin.

“I got caught up wanting to touch this perfection.” She whispered, swallowing back the saliva that built in her mouth.

“Mmm.” He nips her skin before letting her go. “Are all humans so easily distracted or is it just you?”

She let out an indignant huff. “Oh no it’s just me when there’s a particularly inviting male….” She steps closer, hands on his stomach stroking up and down grinning as his muscles contracted at the touch. “Needing to be stroked.”

He had scars across his skin, faded blue colors, almost white. She couldn’t resist leaning in and licking the one across his ribs. He let out a shuddering purr and yanked her into his chest.

“Abigail.” Her name is a deep groan that leaves his mouth.

And then he was kissing her again. Tongue sliding against her own, tangling together as his palmed her heavy breast. The skin of his palm sends electrical current through her breast, making her nipples stiffen and pleasure rock down to the clenching of her core.

Abigail moans against his mouth, enjoying the feeling of his touch too much to even notice when it became skin to skin contact. Until he breaks their kiss to pull away the tattered remains of her bra off her body.

“Did you just he-man my bra off?” She spread her fingers against his chest, using his imposing unmoving form to steady herself. She thinks the alcohol has hit her system. She feels all warm and tingling. There’s a heat that starts in her stomach and pulses down.

“I am unsure of your word,” He presses his mouth to her throat sucking on the skin there. “But yes, I did just rip that flimsy fabric.” He licked at the hollow of her throat, paying special attention to her jumping pulse. “I will buy you another, better, one.”

“Mmm.” She tilted her head back, fuzzy brain can’t really focus on his words only on the sensation of his mouth making a path up her throat to her jaw, then his breath ghosted against her ear.

“Hold onto me.” He lifted her hands to his shoulders. And before her bogged mind could grasp his order he hefted her up, with one arm, wrapped around her ass.

Squealing she hooked her thighs around those slim hips, pressing her heated core against his side. Her eyes rolled back at the sensation of his hip brushing against the wet crux between her thighs.

Silencing her soft mewling noises he dropped her to the bed suddenly making a shriek leave her lips as she bounced against the mattress. Propping herself up on her elbows Abigail huffed at him, glaring up at his smirk. “Evf-”

Suddenly bending he grabbed the legs of her pants and yanked. Dragging them off her hips, along with her underwear. Which was left dangling of her ankle as he tossed her pants aside. They were less than flattering being the initiative issued clothing. A bland cotton cloth that as Liam described it, were ‘whitie tighties.’

If she had known the night would have gone differently she would have gotten her her red thong-

These thoughts abruptly disintegrated as Evfra lifts her ankle, looping a finger through one of the leg holes and holds the pair of plain undies up.

He drank in her scent with huffing breathes, large hands gripping the thin strip of clothing covering her soaked core. He growled as she let out a soft noise of disapproval.

With a fangy smirk he lifted the soaked cloth to his nose. “Sweeter than pairpo.” Evfra purred, licking the panties then dropping them to finish ridding himself of his own pants.

Abigail's eyes were glued to the movements, watching the fabric slide down his hips, lower and lower until Evfra was completely revealed to her.

Lips parted in surprise, she stared at his cock. It was a darker blue and violet color, speckled with white across the underside of the shaft. He was thick and similar to a human male: if you didn’t count the fluttering ridges, the tapered head and bulbous base. The thing that shocked her and had her inching up the bed was that is was writhing against his stomach as if it had a mind of its own.

Abigail didn't get to study him much before he grabbed her ankles and pulled her forward to the edge of the bed.

Kissing each ankle Evfra placed the on his elbow, spreading her wide open for him like a flower blooming in spring. His eyes glued to her flushed skin. Pupils dilated, lips curled upward, he made a low snarling sound.

Abigail flushed shifted against the bed feeling utterly vulnerable being spread before him like a feast. Which is how he was looking at her. She could even see him drag his tongue across his lower lip.

“I must look alien to you.” She whispered self-conscious of her nudity. She curled an arm over her breast and sucked on her bottom lip.

“You are….” He swallowed audibly, drawing his gaze from her pink cunt to her eyes. “Beautiful.” He purred, kneeling between her thighs. “I have never seen anything close to you.”

“I’ve been curious,” his tone has taken a raspier note. The ‘r’s of his words dragged out in a sound that makes her shiver. Warm hands drag along her thighs. Her muscles quiver in anticipation as he settled between her parted legs and inhales.

Mewling she arches into him, head tossing back and forth in frustration. She wants him to touch her-why wasn’t he touching her.

“Your kinds coupling is violent,” He strokes a hand down her skin. Petting her with the lightest touches on her stomach, hips, arms. But no where she WANTS him to touch.

There is a tiny thought that wonders at what he’s seen to make such a judgement but it’s swept away in the tidal wave of arousal beneath his gentle touches.

“Please!” Ryder keens softly her own hands trail up her body cupping the gentle slopes of her breast.

He watches her but does nothing to end her torment as he speaks with slow decisive touch’s over her skin. “Your softer than any Angara I’ve been with.” As if to emphasize this point he groped the fat of her hips. She sighs as the touch, undulating beneath him. “I will not take you as your people do.” He bends tongue drags across the divot of her hip bone up the planes of her stomach.

“Don’t care!” She cries out pinching her nipple watching him taste her skin with small licks traveling up her body. Everything throbs at the sight. She can feel herself spasm with need, a yearning to feel him slip between her thighs, to fill her to the edge of pain. To fuck her into this mattress till she can no longer move.

“Evfra!”

He smirks leaning over her. “Responsive.” He stops her hands gathering both wrist. “Much better then the vids.” He murmurs softly against the swell of her breast. She’s holding her breath, nearly vibrating with wanton need.

A small thought bubbles in the back of her mind, that she’s edging the point of no return. That this was going to be a bad idea that spirals into a pit of despair if she didn’t stop. But that little bubble popped the moment his tongue sweeps out against her pert nipple.

Crying out she arches into him, hands twist in the hold that has them. “Sensitive.” He growled lapping at the pink nub, circling it with the tip of his blunt tongue. Her toes curl at the feeling, his tongue had a texture to them and seemed to vibrate against the peak of her breast.

He nibbled down the slope of her puffy breast, switching to lavish the other with attention.

“I like how soft you are.” He growls squeezing and molding the breast to the palm of his hand. “How incredibly soft.” His mouth seals of the taunt peak, making her arch up into the sucking of his hot mouth.

He’s making a wet slurping sound while he suckles the peak of her nipple. His hand spanning her ribs moves down her side, cupping her rear that is pressed against his clavicle bone, which she’s been rutting unconsciously again.

She let out a moan as his finger slid along her cunt. He let out a rumble, seemingly surprised at how wet she was. Abandoning her breast with gentle kisses he travels down her stomach. Stopping to lavish attention to each of her small scars, freckles, and stretch marks. He grins at her as he nibbles her hip bone.

“Your scent is driving me wild.” He noses her red curls purring when she jerks against his hold. “It always drives me wild.” He lets out huffs parting her lips and stares at the pink clutch dripping with arousal. “I have longed to taste.”

“E-evfra.” Abigail wiggles in his hold, mind hazy with arousal. She mewls, trembling in anticipation. He seems to be taking his time savoring her scent that has her flushing with embarrassment. That doesn’t last long when he opens his mouth and licks along her slit with a decisive stroke.

She mewls softly, hips jerking against his mouth. His spans a hand against her stomach, keeping her in place while his tongue makes feather soft touches across her cunt. It was light and gentle touches that were driving her wildly mad.

Thighs kept spread with his shoulders, he had full control of her body. She let out a deep cry, body shuddering. “Evfra!” She grabs his sheets jerking up into his mouth, trying to grind into him.

He lets out a purr, vibrating that tongue against her clit that sends her spiralling down. Eyes rolling back as a slow building orgasm trickles into her system. Every muscle in her body quivers beneath the slow lazy licks of his tongue. Gasping, her knees fall open, hips ground up into his mouth. Rocking in time with his broad strokes.

“Evfra, Evfra evfra.” She chants feeling the burn of overstimulation but she can’t stop rocking into him, can’t stop the second orgasm building as he audibly gulps at her cream. She lets out a sharp yelp when he presses a thick, blunt, finger into her weeping entrance.

“Look at how you grasp me.” He purrs. “Greedy.” He sinks his finger deeper into her swollen, pink, clutch. Cooing at the way she grips his digit. Like a hungry mouth suckling him back in.

Moaning, her head tossed side to side as he filled her up, opening her wide with slick wet noises as he moved his finger inside of her. It had been a long dry season since she last been with a man. At the moment she couldn’t even remember it, only what Evfra was doing to her body as he shifted pulling her hips higher.

Nibbling her outer lip he thrust his finger deeper, both groaning as he did. “So soft.” He rasped. “How can any male leave this body.” His eyes met hers. “I’m going to make you sing for me.”

Singing wasn’t what she felt her throat was doing. Opera more like it as she shrieked at the powerful orgasm that made her body arch and clench. She practically bowed off the bed while her vision went dark. All the while she could feel him still working his finger deeper into her cunt while loudly licking up the cum dripping out of her.

“Stars.” He rasped looking at her flushed body and shaking limbs.

Abigail certainly felt like she saw stars as she went limp against the mattress. Her body jerked against him as he withdrew his finger. Drowsiness edged into her consciousness as she stretched languid.

Of course two orgasms later and Evfra was nowhere near done with her. He chuckled as he kissed up her body, saying hello to the girls before he was fully looming over Ryder.

“I hope you aren’t about to fall asleep.” He nudged his nose against her chin, urging her thighs to wrap around his waist.

“Mmm.” Ryder cracked an eye open suddenly far more awake as something rolled against her sensitive lips. Breath hitched when he nudged her entrance with the head of his cock.

“Oh!” SHe gasped as the odd sensation of being filled by something that wasn’t entirely human.

Thighs quivering against his hips, she attempted to roll away from the burrowing entity that was Evfra’s cock, only to feel the first set of ridges slip into her and go completely still. She was instantly melting into a puddle of pleasure as they rowed against the walls of her. Especially tickling her g-spot. Making her clench around him with a groan.

Scar wrinkled he closed his eyes holding her hips, soft a mewling noise left his throat. “Stars.” He looked down at her then, eyes slitted. “The way you grip me…” He rubbed the mark he left on her skin, breathing hard.

Drool was dribbling out of her mouth while she gazed up at Evfra, hips rolling against the thick cock. Toes curling, heels digging into his back to spur him on. But Evfra seemed determined to drive her mad. He moved in a slow pace, until he was completely sheathed within her warmth.

“Tight.” He growled against her skin, he was making many marks against her collarbone, sinking his fangs into the yielding skin. Ryders own nails were clawing at his back as she felt the bulbous base popping into her cunt.

“Evfra!” She cried so sweetly, tears leaking out of her eyes as he began to pull out of her at the same slow pace. He could feel her climax as he pushed in, feeling the way her walls clenched and pulsed, beckoning him to seed her.

How he thought of her swollen with his child, like the human he saw before. His lips peeled back in the though as he pulled her hips flush against his, sinking into her depths. A hand span up between the valley of her bouncing breast and lay over her vunerable throat.

She gasped, tilting her head back giving his hand more room as he cupped her throat, thumb stroking over her racing pulse. She murmured how she couldn’t give him another one. But she would-oh she would cum again on his cock, and he would fill her womb with his seed. And once she was limp beneath him he would slide down her body to taste their coupling, coax yet another orgasm from her.

Maybe then he would let her rest, but he would spend the night between her thighs.

“You’re a treasure.” He bent over her, hips gliding along her thighs, sticking to the steady pace. Those ridges rubbed against her walls. He can feel the tells of his own climax coming as the ridges began to row, seeking to interlock with a female angara’s grooves. They would become thicker as he climaxed, ensure that none of his seed escaped.

He watched as Abigail’s green eyes widen at the feeling, her wet lips parting with a soft ‘Oh!’ as a shudder rocks her body. She orgam’s against him, he can feel her soak him as a wordless cry escapes her. He growls bending down to capture her lips, sinking deep into her cunt as spurts of his seed coat her womb.

-----Present-----

She chewed on her nail, biting into the skin but not breaking it.

How did one tell the grumpy resistance leader that his one night stand led to a new life?

She hadn’t even seen Evfra since then. Much less spoke to him. Her hands threaded together behind her head as she let out a low sigh staring at the screen of the empty email. Twice she started typing, both started with an apology neither made past the second sentence. She wanted to be a coward, send him an email, throw the proverbial ball at him and wait.

Turning in her chair she pulled out the glossy black and white photo. Though it was hard to discern what exactly the picture was, she could make out the small pea like blobs in the photo as her children.

Multiple...

She shuddered, a sour taste filled her mouth, her stomach rolled. Taking gulping breathes she warded off the nausea. Apparently the Doctor, Y’lusia, Sara remembered her name after leaving, said she was in 10 weeks along. Funny considering she’d slept with Evfra 3 weeks ago. But Ryder hadn’t said a word, just numbly taken the photo.

Y’lusia informed her that she would be sending the file over to Lexi, who was her main doctor, but thought it best for her to set up another appointment at the clinic to see a specialist. She wouldn’t be returning to that clinic, Ryder thinks with a bitter expression.

It was a shame Lexi was attending the Nexus seminars at the moment, and Harry was acting at the Tempest replacement.

Gave her plenty of time to avoid, ignore, this predicament a little longer.

::Ryder, Director Tann wishes to speak with you.:: SAM popped up at his router, to the left of her elbow. She let out a low noise of discomfort thinking about talking to him.

“Any way I can put him off?” She leaned back into the chair, putting the ultrasound photo into a draw where it was to be forgotten for a time. ::I can tell him you are occupied with personal matters.:: SAM offered.

“Uuuugh no,” She stood and pulled her hair back into a bun. “It will only make matters worse.” She stood and looked at the Orb. “How do I look?” ::Like Abigail Ryder.::

She snorted softly. “Remind me to have Jaal teach you some sauve lessons SAM.’ She took a few breaths shaking her hands out. “Maybe I should change.” She glanced down at her sweat stained sleepshirt. She hadn’t bothered dressing, as there was no one needing her attention. They’d just gone to Eos, dropping Peebee off.

It had been a sad, and regretfully sober, party for Ryder. While Peebee bounced around the remaining tempest crew wishing them good tidings, Abigail had been preoccupied with thoughts of what her future was now going to look like.

Groaning she tugged her shirt off and ambled over to her messy wardrobe. She shifts and sniffs each article till she finds a decent one and tugs it on. It's here she glances at the mirror and frowns as the material stretches thin across her abdomen. A hand settles across the swelling between her hips.

Letting out a slow sigh she turns away from the mirror quickly and heads to the door.

She is lucky that she can play it all off on the removal of the blockers for the time being.

“Ryder,” Tann’s eyes blinked one just slower than the other. Abigail tilted her head to the side, was it old age? Perhaps he was having a silent seizure. She almost wanted to call a doctor just to end this meeting.

“Tann.” She says his name in a slow draw, blinking her eyes one just slower than the other.

“I see you have gone into the clinic, I will be setting up a meeting for you on Nexus, we’ll get this ball rolling. Addison will be in touch shortly, she’s eager to begin this campaign. The colonist need something to look towards.” His babbling seemed to cause the spiking ache behind her eyes. One that had her stomach turning. “Mmm.” Ryder replied, rubbing her temple. “I’ll be stopping at Aya first.” She had to speak with baby-babies-daddy about something.

Like the very impeding existence of being a baby daddy.

“That’s perfect! I’ll send the reporters there,” Her stomach drops as she tries to speak but Tann prattles on regardless of her protest. “Good scenery, the angara are good place to start. Being all about family as they are. It will be a good start, very good Ryder,” She wonders if good was the only vocabulary he knew when he waves his hand in a wide arch. “I will let Addison know. Tann out.”

Then he was gone, and she was left there, feeling bamboozled.

How did my life become this?

She sucked in a sharp breath a gurgle logged in the back of her throat and she stumbled away from the vid coms racing to the crosswalk where she jumped down and shoved Liam out of the way.

“Hey!” He hollered. “I have to piss.”

Ryder didn’t answer as she bent over the sink and vomited.

“Never mind.” He backed out of the bathroom and turned away.

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#Mass Effect #mass effect andromeda #mass effect evfra #evfra de tershaav #evfra x ryder #evfra #smut #unplanned pregnancy

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lunar-wandering · 3 years

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Peach Slices

the Sick!Wukong fanfic is finally done! this is the longest one shot i’ve ever written lol.

tagging @winterpower98 and @ninja-knox-ur-sox-off since you two seemed interested

read on ao3

Word Count: 5.4k

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When MK arrived at the temple to train, he could immediately tell that something was wrong. For one, Wukong wasn't hidden anywhere in an attempt to surprise him, which he had been doing lately to help him "hone his instincts". (Usually all that got him was a smack in the face with his own staff. MK would apologize each time, but Wukong would just wave it off.) Instead of hiding, Wukong was sitting in the middle of the courtyard, a few of the monkeys hanging out around him and hanging off of him. The second thing that was off was how the monkeys were looking at him, concerned. Upon noticing MK, they had immediately started to point him at Wukong, as though saying "something's up with him, please help him out.". The third thing that was off, was Wukong fur. It looked absolutely horrible, like he'd just rolled out of bed and hadn't brushed it, and had also been through like 5 fights.

That was concerning enough, but what really worried MK was the 4th thing.

Wukong hadn't noticed him yet.

Nevermind the other things being weird, Wukong not noticing him was just plain wrong. Wukong always noticed when MK arrived, even if he'd been distracted before.

Something was clearly up, and MK was going to find out what.

Deciding to use the fact that Wukong hadn't noticed him to his advantage, MK started slowly sneaking up behind him, making a shushing motion to the monkeys to let them know to be quiet. He had a suspicion about what was up, and honestly he kinda hoped that he was wrong.

Finally managing to make it to Wukong's side, MK slowly reached up-

And lightly pressed the back of his hand to Wukong's forehead.

Wukong yelped and jumped away in surprise at MK's "sudden" appearance, but the few seconds that MK's hand had been on Wukong's forehead was all he needed.

"Kid! I uh, didn't hear you come in-"

"You're sick." MK stated the facts, as Wukong looked at him in surprise. "Why didn't you call me to cancel training if you're sick? I could've just gone to spar with Red Son or Mei instead."

"I, wh-" Wukong sputtered for a moment, before he seemed to collect himself a little. "I'm not sick."

"Uh, your fever says other wise." MK replied, not certain what his mentor thought he would get out of denying his incredibly obvious condition.

"What fever? I'm perfectly fine." Wukong clearly lied, leaning against a nearby tree in an attempt to look cool. MK rolled his eyes and was about to respond when Wukong let out a sudden yelp, as the tree he was leaning against snapped and fell to the ground, causing him to stumble. There was a moment of silence as the two of them stared at the fallen tree.

"I totally meant to do that."

"Alright, that's it." MK said, setting his bag on the ground and walking over to Wukong. "Come on Monkey King, I'm taking you back to my apartment to keep an eye on you."

"That's really not necessary- hey! Put me down!" Wukong yelled as MK scooped him up, carrying him like a sack of potatoes. "Seriously, Kid, I'm fine!"

"If you were fine you'd have jumped away before I grabbed you." MK said. Wukong didn't seem to have a reasonable response for that, so MK started the long trek back to the noodle shop with only a few more complaints from the Monkey King.

---

At some point during the walk to the noodle shop, Wukong had fallen asleep. MK was kinda grateful for that actually, it meant he didn't have to deal with his mentor continuing to complain, and it meant that he was resting, which he honestly probably needed, based on how he looked.

MK avoided going in through the front door of the noodle shop, from what he could see, there were quite a few customers in there. If he went in with a passed out Monkey King on his back, it was sure to cause a commotion, and he.... really didn't want that, especially if all the noise would wake Wukong up. So, MK snuck around to the back of the shop, and used the fire escape to climb up to his apartment on the second floor.

Once inside, MK carefully set Wukong down on his bed, shaking some of the ache out of his arms as he did so. Wukong was heavy, and carrying him for over an hour had done MK's arms no favors.

Wukong curled up in the bed, and MK sighed, before going off in search of more blankets and pillows, and hopefully some medicine to bring Wukong's fever down. MK... wasn't actually sure when he last bought medicine. He might have to ask Mei to run out and buy him some, because there was no way he was going to leave-

Almost as soon as he thought that, MK's phone dinged, telling him he'd received a message from Pigsy.

'I know you're here.' It read, 'Heard you on the fire escape. If you aren't training, can you come back down and work for the next hour?'

'Cant.' MK sent back, 'Busy rn'.

'What on Earth could you be busy with?'

MK thought for a moment on how best to explain the situation, before figuring that a visual example was probably the best, and snapped a quick picture of Wukong and sent it to Pigsy.

The yelled "What the fuck!" was loud enough for MK to hear, and apparently Wukong heard it too, as he started to stir.

"Kid?" He asked, slowly sitting up, "W'as goin' on?"

"It's nothing Monkey King, go back to sleep-" MK was proven wrong however, as the two of them could hear a series of loud footsteps running up the stairs. Within seconds, Pigsy had burst into the room.

"MK." He said, "Would you please explain to me why Sun Wukong is in your bed."

"He's sick." MK said, glancing back at the monkey in question. Despite the rest he'd gotten on the way over, he was actually starting to look worse than before, as well as very confused. He hoped that his fever wasn't getting worse.

"Oh well that's plainly obvious." Pigsy said, "What I want to know, is why you brought him here instead of back to his mountain."

"I figured it'd be easier to look after him here? I kinda.... doubt that he has the materials needed to look after someone who's sick back at his house." MK explained. Pigsy sighed at the answer, suddenly looking incredibly resigned to the fact that he was going to have to deal with there being a sick monkey king directly above his noodle shop. Gods, this was going to be a pain....

"Zhu Bajie?" Wukong suddenly asked, drawing Pigsy and MK's attention back to him. "What....what are you doing here? You're... Dead."

MK and Pigsy stared at him in confusion.

"What on Earth is he going on about now?" Pigsy asked, and that was all it took for Wukong to start suddenly crying hysterically. MK panicked, rushing forwards and trying to calm him down, but not really knowing how. Pigsy stood back, shocked and confused at the sudden emotional outburst from the monkey.

Pigsy would've tried to help MK calm Wukong down, but there was a sudden yell from down in the noodle shop and, remembering that he had practically left said shop unattended, he was forced to turn and start back down the stairs. He gave MK a look of apology as he went, and mentally noted that he would have to make some kind of soup for the sick monkey.

...Did Wukong even eat soup?

As far as Pigsy remembered, the answer to that was no.

.....He'd have to ask Tang and Sandy to pick up a basket of peaches at the store.

---

Later, after Wukong had cried himself out and fallen back asleep, and Pigsy closed the shop for lunch, MK pulled Pigsy aside for a moment.

"So." Pigsy started, "What was all that stuff earlier about?"

"He. He kept saying things like 'he's supposed to be dead' and 'he doesn't remember me' while he was crying." MK said, "His fever's pretty high. I think it's made him delirious. And I think that. He thinks you're Zhu Bajie, one of the people who was with him during the Journey to the West."

Pigsy was silent for a brief moment.

"Kid....I'm about to tell you something that might.....upset you." He said. MK tilted his head, confused.

"What do you me-, oh my gods." Realization struck. "Are you kidding me?"

Pigsy gave no signs that he was kidding. MK stared in shock.

"You're Zhu Bajie??"

"Yes. Sandy and Tang are Wujing and Tripitaka too."

MK's shock quickly turned to anger.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell him?" He asked.

"I... I didn't tell you because I didn't think you needed to know." Pigsy said, "As for Wukong.... he was never there when we tried to go visit him over the years. We knew he was still alive, Heaven would've lost it's shit had he actually died, but we...figured that he was avoiding us. That he didn't want to interact with us, for some reason."

"Well clearly that is not the case, considering he apparently thinks you're dead!" MK shouted, ignoring Pigsy's hurried shushing. "Can you imagine how upsetting that must be for him?? Thinking that all the people he considers friends, maybe even family, are dead, or that they don't remember him? I want to cry just thinking of it!"

MK would have continued yelling, but a sudden thump and crash upstairs drew his attention. He paused for a moment, during which he and Pigsy both heard the quiet, slightly scared, "Kid?" from Wukong. MK sighed, moving to head back up the stairs, but not before giving Pigsy a glare.

"This isn't over. We will be talking about this later." He said, before disappearing up the stairs. Pigsy slumped against the counter.

"Jeez....." He muttered, "We really fucked up didn't we."

---

When he walked back into his apartment, MK was only slightly surprised to find it a mess, and Wukong missing from the bed. Clearly, Wukong had woken up while MK was downstairs, and, upon not seeing the kid anywhere in the general area, had panicked, probably assuming the worst. Worried for a brief moment, MK glanced at the window, breathing a sigh of relief to see that it was still locked the way it had been before. Good, so Wukong was still somewhere in the apartment.

Now where did he-

There was a sudden crash from the kitchen.

MK rushed to the kitchen, to find Wukong standing in front of the sink, bits and pieces of what used to be a cup on the floor. Wukong still looked dreadful, but he did look slightly better than before.

Slightly.

"Oh, Kid, there you are." Wukong said upon noticing him, "I was worried about you."

"Yeah, I uh, could tell." MK said, thinking back to the mess he'd caught a glance of in the living room. "What are you doing in the kitchen?"

"I wanted to get a drink?" Wukong said, "I'm sorry about your cup though... I can replace it-"

"After you go back to bed." MK said, "Monkey King, you still look awful."

"Do I?" Wukong asked, sighing when MK nodded his head yes. "Fine. But if I'm in your bed, where are you going to sleep?"

"On the couch." MK answered, and, upon seeing the look on Wukong's face, added, "Don't worry about it. I've slept on the couch multiple times before."

"If you say so kid..."

"I do say so. Now c'mon, back to bed."

It was definitely a good thing MK made Wukong get back in the bed, as Wukong was just slightly wobbly the entire walk back from the kitchen to the bedroom.

"Weren't you going to play games with Mei tonight?" Wukong asked, as MK dropped another blanket on top of him. "You can go play with her if you want. I'll be fine."

"Yeah, forgive me for not trusting you on that one." MK said, "Unless you don't remember your emotional outburst from earlier."

"I had an emotional outburst?"

"You- actually you know what, it's probably better that you don't know." MK replied, before quickly changing the subject. "I already messaged Mei by the way, told her what was up. She's going to pick up some medicine."

"Bold of you to assume that human medicine will work on me."

".....Will it?"

"I don't know. Haven't tried."

---

Red Son was peacefully walking down the street, rather quite enjoying his day, when suddenly, Mei ran by in a green rush, almost knocking him off his feet.

"Hey Dragon Girl!" He shouted, grabbing her attention, "Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"Monkey King's sick!" She said, "MK's asked me to get medicine-"

"Hold up. Sun Wukong is sick?" Red Son asked, looking straight up shocked when Mei nodded in response. "I... I must tell Mother and Father about this."

"You're not gonna like. Spring an attack on us while he's sick are you?" Mei asked, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. Red Son gasped, offended.

"Of course not! We are nothing if not honorable villains." He said, "I just think that... Mother and Father would want to know about this is all."

"Hm....Okay." Mei said, "But if I see even one hint of an attack, I will not hesitate to beat you up."

"...Duly noted."

---

Over the past few hours, Wukong had tried multiple times to get up and do things. The Monkey King, apparently, didn't know how to rest. MK had to keep practically dragging him back into the bed before he broke things on accident, which, unfortunately, was happening a lot. 3 glasses, 2 plates, one vase, and one coffee table had been destroyed before MK got the bright idea to set up his laptop and stream the Monkey King Animated Series for Wukong to watch. That, at least, managed to get him to stay in bed while MK started trying to clean things up.

He had just finished sweeping up the last few pieces of the plates when the doorbell rang.

MK set down the broom and opened the door to see Mei, with one arm carrying two bowls of noodles, and her other arm holding two small baskets of peaches and a box of medicine.

"Hey MK." She said, giving him a smile.

"Come right on in Mei, here, let me take that for you." MK said, taking the peach baskets and the medicine box out of Mei's hand so that she could use both of them to carry the noodle bowls. He set the peaches and medicine down on the kitchen counter as Mei set the bowls down on the table. The two of them sat down to eat.

"So uh, what with the peaches and the noodles?" MK asked.

"Well, I remembered you said that Monkey King liked peaches, so I figured I'd pick some up for him while I was at the store." She said, "Turns out, Tang and Sandy had the same idea. Pigsy sent the peaches and the noodles up. Said something about you probably not wanting to see him right now."

"I wouldn't say that I wouldn't want to see him." MK said, "Just that me and him are...going to have a conversation later. It's nothing you need to worry about, I promise."

The look Mei gave him was skeptical, but when MK didn't retract his statement, she sighed and decided to move on.

"Sooo....How's Monkey King doing?" She asked.

"He's doing.... better than he was this morning I guess." MK said, fiddling with his chopsticks. "He still isn't near what I'd deem healthy, but I'm pretty sure his fever has gone down a bit. I set things up so he could watch the Monkey King Animated Series on my laptop so that he'd stop trying to get up and do things. I should probably give him the medicine before I go to bed."

"So, basically, what I'm taking away from this, is that you're Mother Henning the Monkey King." Mei said, laughter in her voice. MK was about to respond, argue that he was not being a Mother Hen, he was just concerned, when there was a thump outside, and then a knock on the balcony door. MK gave Mei a questioning glance, wondering if she knew anything about who could possibly be on his balcony, but she just shrugged, clearly as confused as he was. Sighing, MK stood up and walked over to the balcony door. On his way, a quick glance into his bedroom showed that Wukong had fallen asleep again, the laptop still running. He'd have to turn it off to save the battery, as well as wake Wukong later to give him some food and medicine, but another knock on the door meant he was going to have to see who had decided to come visit him first.

He opened up the door, only to come face to face with Red Son, who was holding a basket of peaches and looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here.

"...What are you doing here?" MK asked, briefly wondering if he should summon his staff, just in case. But then again, Red Son didn't seem like he wanted to attack at the moment, so...

"Dragon Girl happened to inform me that Wukong is sick." Red Son said, "I told my parents, as I figured they should know, and they practically demanded that I bring this here. So.... take it."

With that said, Red Son practically shoved the peach basket into MK's hands. MK sighed as he looked at its contents.

"At this rate, my apartment is going to be both destroyed and full of peaches." He said. Red Son quirked an eyebrow.

"Okay, I was going to just leave, but now I'm curious. Why would your little apartment be both destroyed and filled with peaches Noodle Boy?" He asked.

"For one, Monkey King keeps getting up and trying to do things, but keeps accidentally destroying stuff." MK explained, "Secondly, everyone seems to be bringing peaches, though I'm not entirely sure why-"

"It's because literally the only thing we know that he likes to eat is peaches." Mei interrupted, appearing beside MK after having grown tired of waiting in the kitchen. "That doesn't leave us with many food options."

"I mean, I think he enjoys other fruits too?" MK said, sounding uncertain. "But yeah, either way, I think I'm going to be overrun with peaches."

"Well, at least not everything in the basket is a peach." Red Son commented, "There's a box of tea in there too."

MK took out the tea box and after a few seconds of inspecting it, snorted out a little laugh.

"The tea is peach flavored too." He said.

"Of course it is." Red Son sighed. "Well...whatever. See you around later Noodle Boy, Dragon Girl."

And with that, Red Son disappeared in a flash of flames. MK closed the balcony door, bringing the peach basket into the kitchen to set it beside the others.

"You think we can trust that they didn't poison those?" Mei asked. MK gave the peaches a glance.

"They......probably didn't. Just to be safe though, I think I'll give Monkey King the ones you and Pigsy gave me first."

----

By the time Mei left, it was 10:30 PM. MK walked back into his bedroom carrying a small plate of sliced up peaches, as well as a dose of medicine and a glass of water. He set them down on top of his bedside table, and then reached over and paused the episode of Monkey King the Animated Series that was playing on his laptop. He carefully picked up said laptop and brought it over to the wall to plug it in. With that done, he went back to the bed and gently shook his mentor awake.

"Mmmn....Kid?" Wukong slurred, clearly not 100% awake.

"Yeah, it's me." MK said, "I"ve got some peach slices for you to eat, and some medicine to take."

Wukong accepted the peach slices and medicine surprisingly easily, taking the medicine before starting to eat.

"Y'know..." MK said, "Earlier, you mentioned that you'd never tried medicine before. So like, what do you normally do when you're sick?"

"Go to sleep for 3 days and don't wake up until it's all over." Wukong mumbled around a piece of peach. MK gave him a deadpan look.

"Monkey King that's a coma." He said. Wukong snorted in response.

"It's only a coma if I can't wake up."

"No, I'm pretty sure sleeping for 3 days straight is genuinely considered a coma."

"Whatever." Wukong mumbled, yawning. He'd finished the peaches. MK sighed as Wukong flopped back down onto the bed, rolling over so that his back was facing him. MK silently pulled the blankets over top of the Monkey King, quietly amused at how Wukong's tail didn't quite fit in under them, and was left dangling off the side of the bed, swinging back and forth.

"Goodnight Monkey King." MK said.

" 'Night, kid." Wukong responded, and with that, MK turned off the light and left the room, leaving Wukong under what was at this point a practical mountain of blankets, alone.

---

MK woke up.

It was dark out, no sign of the sun at all. One quick glance at the clock in the living room revealed the time to be 3 AM. MK usually didn't have any problems sleeping, so what could've woken-

He saw something move in the corner of his eye.

Still half asleep, MK jumped off the couch, summoning the staff into his hand as he whirled around-

Only to be confronted with nothing but shadows.

....Huh.

Must've just been his eyes playing tricks on him.

Leaning his staff up against the wall, MK leaned down to pick up his stuffed monkey, (which had fallen off the couch when he'd jumped up), when he heard it.

A small whimper, from his bedroom.

Oh.

So that's what had woken him up.

Holding his stuffie in his arms, MK walked over to his bedroom, activating his golden vision in order to see better in the dark.

What he saw was pretty much what he should've expected.

Wukong had kicked off most of his blankets, and was partially curled up, shaking, with his tail thrashing wildly.

He was having a nightmare. Or, well, it was probably a fever dream in this case, but still. MK had to wake him up. He knelt down by the bed and gently shook Wukong's shoulder.

"Monkey King?" He said, "Monkey King, wake up."

No response.

".....C'mon, Wukong wake up."

Hearing his actual name seemed to rouse him.

".....Kid?" He asked. There were leftover tears in the corners of his eyes.

"Yeah it's me." MK said, softly, "You okay?"

"M'fine."

"Do you wanna talk about it?" MK asked. Wukong curled up a little more.

"It's nothing you'd understand, kid." He mumbled. MK supposed that made sense. Wukong had been alive for a long time after all, there was sure to be no end to things he had seen, or knows, that MK could never hope to comprehend.

"...Okay." MK said. "Do you just wanna go back to sleep."

All he got in response in a nod.

Now, as stated, MK knew that Wukong didn't want to talk about... whatever his nightmare had been about. But MK couldn't just leave without doing something to help.

...He looked at his stuffie.

"...Monkey King?" A hum, Wukong was listening. MK held up his stuffed monkey. "I think I'm gonna leave this little guy here with you."

Now that got Wukong to sit up a little, tail fluffing up a bit in surprise.

"...Don't you always sleep with him though?" Wukong asked, as MK placed the stuffie into his arms. "Kid, you don't have to-"

"It's fine." MK said, giving his mentor a smile. "I've slept without him before, I'll be fine. Besides, I think you need his services more than I do tonight."

Wukong couldn't seem to come up with any sort of argument for that, so he simply laid back down in the bed, pulling the blankets up over his head and curling up around the little stuffed monkey. Job done, MK left the room, going into the kitchen to get a glass of water before heading back to bed.

....Huh. That was weird.

Was there one more peach basket than there'd been before?

MK narrowed his eyes at it for a moment, before shrugging it off, figuring he must've just miscounted the amount of peach baskets Mei had brought, and went back to the couch to sleep, leaving the peach basket with the purple bow undisturbed.

---

The next day was mostly uneventful. True to his statement of typically just sleeping the sickness off, Wukong slept for most of the day, only waking up when MK woke him to get him to eat, drink, or have a dose of medicine. MK would be concerned about this, but it did seem that the sleep was actively doing Wukong some good, he was starting to look much better, so MK let it be.

There was other matters he had to take care of.

When Pigsy closed the shop for lunch, he nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned to see MK standing behind him, glaring.

"Uh, MK, what's up?" He asked, awkwardly. MK just kept glaring.

"Call over Tang and Sandy, now." MK said, before sitting down at one of the tables to wait. "It's about time we had that talk."

It took an unsurprisingly short amount of time for Tang and Sandy to arrive. MK waited until they were all seated.

"So." He started, but he was interrupted by Pigsy.

"Look, MK, I know we should've told you about who we were-"

"Oh! Oh you definitely should have." MK said, "I can't believe you guys just didn't tell me that you were on the Journey to the West. But that's not important right now. What's important, is that there is a sick Monkey King in my apartment who thinks you guys are dead, and I would like an explanation as to why."

"Well," Tang started, "We haven't seen him in over 300 years-"

"I told you two we should've left a note that one time." Sandy mumbled, calmly petting Mo. Pigsy sighed.

"Look kid, we tried to interact with him, believe me we did!" He said, "But every time we tried he either wasn't around or had just left. It is ridiculously hard to catch the damn monkey when he doesn't want to be caught."

MK nodded slowly.

"....Okay." He said, "I... suppose that makes sense."

He stood up.

"Tomorrow, if Monkey King is feeling better, which I'm guessing he will, you guys will be having a talk with him." MK said, walking away from the table to go back up the stairs to his apartment. He paused on the first step, turning slightly to say over his shoulder, "Just to be clear by the way. I'm still mad at you. Expect a 1 week business period before I forgive you."

"....Yeah that's fair." Tang said.

And with that, MK went back up the stairs, leaving the three immortals to anxiously contemplate how the next day's conversation would go.

---

As MK had guessed, Wukong was feeling a lot better the next day. He was actually awake, and the fever had definitely gone down, at least as far as MK could tell. Overall, he seemed to be doing a lot better.

...Which meant it was time for a conversation MK wasn't entirely sure would end well.

"Monkey King, I need you to stay right here, okay?" MK said, gesturing at the couch Wukong was currently sitting on. Wukong let out a confused laugh.

"Might I ask as to why?" He said.

"You'll see."

"...Okay then?"

MK turned to go down the stairs, to get the other three members of this conversation, before pausing, suddenly thinking of something he remembered hearing in one of the stories about the Journey to the West. Turning, he grabbed a paint brush from his desk, dipped it in some white paint, and proceeded to draw a circle around the couch where Wukong sat. Wukong watched him do this in barely contained amusement.

"You will stay here." MK said, just for emphasis, as he finished the circle.

"I heard you the first time, kid." Wukong said, laughter in his voice. MK gave him an 'I'm watching you' look, before finally going down the stairs. Wukong, true to his word, stayed inside the circle.

...When MK came back up the stairs with his friends Pigsy, Tang, and Sandy though, Wukong kinda wished he'd just left after he woke up like he'd planned. Those three just reminded him too much.... of them.

MK, seeing the look on Wukong's face, sighed.

"Okay, let's just get this over with, because I doubt there's any way to do this gently." He said, "Monkey King, these three are Pigsy, Tang, and Sandy, and they are also the ones who were with you on the Journey to the West. And before you ask, yes, they do remember you."

Wukong's mind stopped as those words registered in his brain.

The Monkey King went a whole minute without speaking, during which Tang shifted from foot to foot nervously, Pigsy pointedly didn't look him in the eyes, Sandy patiently continued to pet his cat, and MK just looked entirely done with the whole situation.

"Uh, MK?" Tang eventually said, "I think you might've broken him."

That one sentence was enough to break Wukong's stupor.

".....Is it really them?" He asked, sounding like he was on the verge of breaking down into tears. Pigsy gave a gruff sigh, but didn't respond, so MK rolled his eyes, and casually shoved Pigsy next to the couch.

"....Yes, it's us you dumb monkey." Pigsy said, and that was all it took for Wukong to break down crying jumping off the couch and tackle hugging Pigsy to the ground, tail swinging. Tang immediately went to Pigsy's rescue, trying to pry Wukong off of him before Wukong could accidentally suffocate him, but ended up also getting dragged into the hug by the monkey. Sandy didn't hesitate to join the hug himself, squeezing the other three as tight as possible, before setting them down gently onto the couch. MK figured he'd better leave the four of them alone for a moment, and went into the kitchen to make them some tea.

"Where have you guys been?" Wukong finally asked, laying on top of Pigsy and Tang's laps, his tail curled around Sandy's arm. "I thought you all were dead."

"So we've heard." Pigsy mumbled, before speaking louder. "Truthfully, Wukong, we did try to interact with you these past 300 years, but we just never could seem to find you. So we stopped trying."

"Why?" Wukong asked.

"We kinda... thought you might be upset with us?" Tang said, "We figured you were avoiding us on purpose, and that you'd come and interact with us again once you'd calmed down a bit."

"Why wouldn't you try harder to find me, to ask what was wrong?"

"Would you want to deal with you while you're mad?" Pigsy asked.

"....Touché." Wukong said, and there was a moment of silence between the four of them, in which Sandy's cat crawled unto Wukong's chest, and Wukong started petting it.

"..You know." He said, "I'm really glad you guys are alive. Being alone... wasn't really all that fun."

"We're glad you're doing okay too, you damn monkey." Pigsy said.

It was at this point that MK came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray with five cups of peach tea, and a plate of peach slices.

"You guys done with the emotional experience?" He asked, setting the tray down on the coffee table. "Because I've got a ton of peaches that aren't going to eat themselves."

"Ooh! Don't mind if I do!" Wukong said, quickly picking up the plate of peach slices to hoard them all to himself, which got him a light smack on the head from Pigsy, telling him to share his food, or he'd get out the rake.

Wukong just laughed in response.

He didn't care.

He had his family back.

#Monkie Kid #fanfic #my writing #its midnight as im posting this lol

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defensefilms · 3 years

Text

European Super League Is Everything You Hate About Modern Sports

“A wolf should be beaten first, so that the other wolves will smell it’s blood and know what might happen to them and so never come again”- The Heart Gently Weeps by Wu-Tang

I don’t talk about soccer/football much on this blog. I mostly save that for Flex Files TV and this is a topic we’ve talked about on our Youtube channel.

On Saturday the 17th of April, a news story broke that the top teams in European football were planning to break away and start their own competition to replace the annually contested UEFA Champion’s League.

They essentially want to eliminate the little guy. They are essentially trying to monopolize the sport and divide the pie amongst only the elite teams in European football.

The teams named as co-conspirators in this treason are AC Milan, Inter Milan, Juventus FC, FC Barcelona, Real Madrid, Atletico Madrid, Manchester United, Manchester City, Liverpool FC, Arsenal FC, Chelsea FC and Tottenham Hotspur.

What do I believe should be done?

First and foremost, there must be punishment. Severe punishment.

I want FIFA, UEFA and all the world’s top football associations to collaborate and crush this act of greed, insolence and rebellion. I want them to do what parents used to do back in the day. Which is just lay in the cut and wait until you watching tv or sleeping, and then proceed to hand out beat downs.

A three year transfer ban for all the teams involved would do the trick. A lot of the teams named have ageing squads so forcing them to sit three seasons with the same players, would teach them a lesson and restore the balance of power in each of the various leagues they play in.

Then you need to limit their exposure by giving them live television broadcast times that are out of left field. Want to watch Real Madrid live in the three next years? Prepare to stay up until 1AM at the earliest.

Another way is to start opening the avenues for players to do business ventures independently of the clubs that they play for. This would change the business landscape but would hurt the big clubs the most, especially at the beginning. You’d also likely have to talk to jersey manufacturers like Nike and Adidas to implement it well but all you’d be doing is creating a revenue stream that the clubs won’t be allowed to share in.

If you think about it, corona virus is a perfect excuse to hit the big teams live game attendance as well. Big teams draw bigger crowds don’t they? Shouldn’t there be heavier restrictions on them because of this? Start limiting how many fans the likes of Liverpool and City can have in their venues. Only you allow the smaller clubs to sell more tickets to the same fans. So the likes of Leicester City, Napoli FC, Valencia can sell more tickets because they don’t have the same capacity but they’re selling to more fans than they would otherwise.

You get the drift. Start hitting them where it hurts. Start taking away the things that allowed them to become the major conglomerates they’ve become.

Heads have got to roll, gentleman. Preferably roll on to the end of a pike that should be placed at the entrance of every football venue, for fans in attendance to throw rotting vegetables at.

I grew up with this sport. The idea that some owners in suits and ties, living in the ivory towers somewhere, think that they have the right to alter and change this game because they can and because their greedy enough to do it, is a low-down, dirty, filthy, shame.

What should be happening is a mob-justice, French Revolution style ting but the veneer of civility, modernity and money, allow people to get away with things.

Let me address Manchester United, before I jet.

I’ve rooted for this team since I was 13 and you know, this team hasn’t given me much to celebrate lately. We were once a symbol of excellence. We were once the standard bearers of the entire sport. We were once the most revered football culture in the world.

Now look at us.

Docile. Greedy. Incompetent. Scheming, Backstabbing. Manipulative.

We once stood front and center of the sport. The one team you could always trust to raise the bar in a big game.

Now we’re defined by boardroom meetings where guys with bald spots try to influence and bend an entire sport to their will, and our ownership is right there trying to do the same thing.

The Glazer family are the worst thing that ever happened to Man United. Their influence is the single biggest thing behind Manchester United becoming the annual, season-long comedy show we’ve turned in to. I wasn’t surprised at all that we were involved. Our ownership are not high integrity people and it shows in how they run the football club.

Make no mistake the Glazers are the failsons of football ownership. The team they inherited (they bought the club in the 00′s) was in such a great place as far as on-field results and they have completely wasted it away. One dumb executive decision and coaching hire after another.

See anyone can buy a football club. Believe it or not, there is no shortage of people who would be willing to take on the financial risk of a team like Man United, especially when you look at how commercially viable the team already is and how many revenue streams they have built over the last three decades.

Billionaires have pulled off the trick of making you think they are special. They’re not.

This is what this once-great sporting institution has devolved into. An abomination/golem slowly devouring itself and now clutching at everything else around it, including the league that helped make them the television draw that they are and the money they’ve made along with it.

Former Manchester United right-back and now Sky Sports pundit/presenter, Gary Neville, had a heartfelt speech live on-air on Saturday afternoon that definitely put my feelings across.

Football fans feel betrayed by this and we have every right to feel that way.

#football #treason #super league #european super league #the end of football #disgusted #soccer #esl #manchester united #man united #gary neville #sky sports

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sabraeal · 3 years

Text

Not Necessarily a Virtue

[Read on AO3]

Obiyuki AU Bingo 2021 Practical Magic AU

There hadn’t been a plan when Obi picked up the phone.

All it had taken was one rogue text-- another case assigned to his social worker, one that was enough of an emergency that it his behavioral issues seem tame in comparison. Her chair rattles when she stans, its plastic back hitting the filing cabinets with a metallic tang, but her hands tremble more.

“This will be just a minute,” she says, smile plastered tight to her face. And then she leaves him there alone, his file open on her desk, flaws left out for the world to see.

It doesn’t bothered him. There’s no point, not when he already knows: he’s trouble with a capital-T, each failed family drawing him closer and closer to being unplaceable. Some people have a face only a mother could love, but Obi-- Obi has that for his personality. Though considering how each of his six almost-moms signed him away with a sigh of relief, walking out the plate glass doors without even a glance back, maybe he has the sort of personality that makes people reconsider whether they could be a mother.

So here he is again, freshly abandoned, back in the sterile halls of social services for the seventh time without a place to call home. He’s not even twelve.

Not that these people aren’t trying to change that-- he’s not some cat left at the shelter, free to a good home. Unless Kerry or Janine or the girl at the desk he didn’t get to read the name tag of wanted to sleep on their couch, they have to find someone to take him for the night. And he knows from experience, there’s always a family that believes they can change him. A young couple who thought all problem children needed was just a little extra love. By the time Kerry came back, there’d be good news waiting, a miracle crafted by three people who didn’t want to miss the Masked Singer finale. They’d pack him into the back of a car and ship him off to a new place to fail. Because no matter how many homes they tried to make for him, it’d never change how he felt.

Obi had tried, at first. He was just a little kid, wanting to be loved, but every home he went to itched like hives in his head, a constant buzz that set his teeth on edge and made him do anything, try anything to leave. He belonged somewhere else, somewhere not here, and he knew it like he knew Kerry’s other case had overdosed on a bottle of sleeping pills in his foster mother’s cabinet-- with an inexplicable certainty.

He waits thirty seconds after she leaves before he slides off the the plastic seat she’d put him in. They love these things, oddly shaped and in primary colors that make the little kids giddy, but Obi hates them. He’s undersized, and putting him in these kiddie rooms always makes people treat him like he’s eight instead of eleven, asking him about Blue’s Clues.

But that’s not why he gets up, not entirely. There’s a buzzing in the back of his brain, a knowing, and it makes him stand, his hand straying to the glass door. He can’t see anything outside, at least not anything besides more kiddie chairs and offices, but he steps out nonetheless. He steps out and, unerringly, turns to face the girl waiting for him down the hall.

“It’s you.” Her tawny hair stresses the elastic she’s trapped it in, too thick. It’s not one of those hair ones either, but one of those thick rubber bands they use on the produce in grocery store. It hurts; he knows because it’s common sense, but also because he just...Knows. Their eyes meet, and even though he doesn’t her name, they’ve known each other forever.

His mouth is dry when he asks, “Do you know me?”

“I saw you in a dream.” She takes a step toward him, her sneakers scuffed and worn, just like his. “You’re Obi. I’m Torou.”

He doesn’t know this girl. There’s a hundred ways she could get his name; one of them is sitting on a desk behind him right now. But when she looks up at him with eyes he’s only ever seen in the mirror, he holds out his hand. “Come here.”

His heart pounds with each mincing squeak of her sneakers on the tile. She’s taking too long and she’s coming too fast; each terrible second convinces him he’s making a mistake at the same time he’s doing what he was always meant to do. By the time she slips her hand into his, he’s trembling, but it doesn’t matter because they both are and this--

This is right. And he knows exactly what to do.

It’s holding her hand that he picks up the phone. He fucks it up the first time-- he gets that gross digital buzz before he notices the sticker beneath the speaker, informing him 9 dials out-- but the second one his fingers guide him, releasing the number he has no reason to know. A number he has no reason to believe will work, that could have just come from the weird recesses of his mind but--

But he’s not surprised when a man picks up. “Who is this? Do you know what time--?”

“We’re here,” Obi says, and it shouldn’t be enough, but it is. “Come pick us up.”

A specter arrives on the front walk at noon.

Obi knows by the hush in the office. Or really the weight of it-- it’s been quiet like this since last night, since he and Torou sat down on the big bean bag couch in the waiting room, and Obi announced they wouldn’t be letting go. His case worker had crouched in front of them, that sweet smile plastered to her lips, and told him that they’d only have to be separated for a night. But he’d known-- the way he always did-- that every word was a lie. His fingers tightened in her grip, narrowing his eyes until the woman shivered, and that was that.

Kerry stayed with them, of course; she’d slept in her office, under a blanket it’s clear she’s never used and had only just discovered wasn’t comfortable no matter how many Sesame Street characters were on it. They’d been tucked under another by a younger girl with trembling hands, her eyes darting between them as she smoothed out its edges. He’d heard them through the walls this morning while the rest of the office filtered in-- government buildings like this were always cutting corners, leaving things like this paper thin, stuff that would go up like tissue in a fire.

Do you think they’re twins? one asked. Trembling hands, he guesses, since her voice does as well, like a chihuahua in a sweater. I’ve heard about this happening with twins. They look and just know.

Can’t be, we have their birth certificates, says another. Kerry, probably; she might be a liar, but she’s one of the only people in this place that has her head screwed on right, too. Two different sets of parents.

And the man they called last night? This one is stern; their manager maybe. He’s not really sure how this all works; he’s not even twelve, and he can only just know so much. Who is he?

There’s a heavy pause. I...I don’t know.

So when he arrives, dressed like an undertaker and holding an umbrella beneath the bright New Mexico sky, the whole place goes quiet. When he walks it’s stiff, like it took a hundred volts to get him up off the table and he’s only just gotten used to the idea. Obi casts a look down at Torou, at where her hand is white knuckled in his, and thinks about how he knows things, and wonders just what she might be able to do.

The man enters, umbrella folding in a single neat motion, before he says. “I am Lata Forenzo. I believe you have my...niblings.”

Niblings, Obi learns, is like siblings, only sideways.

“It was a simplification,” Lata says, his voice a deep, hesitant gravel. He casts a speculative look at the taxi driver, adjusting the gloves on his hands. “Niece and nephew is an unwieldy phrase, and time, after all, is of the essence.”

“Is it?” Torou’s eyes are wide, and for the first time since last night, her hand leaves his, gripping on to the cloth at Lata’s knee. “Is there something after us? Those bugs, they’re not--”

“No.” Obi’s known his uncle for barely more than a half hour, but he knows he isn’t a tactile person. Even still, Lata looks down at Torou, his not-gold eyes somehow softer, and puts two fingers over the bones at the back of her hand. “But it is time to bring you home.”

Home is an island. It takes the whole night to fly in, and when they land the sun is just barely scratching the sky. Even still, there’s no stopping; Lata bundles them straight into a cab, shushing them before they can make much more than a peep.

“We’ll be home soon,” he says, and the next time he wakes them, salt stings Obi’s nose, and he’s being carried over a threshold.

“Are we here?” he slurs. The house is weird-- angular, really, with a hall so narrow he could kick out a leg and stop them up like a cork. He nearly does, just to be cussed, but he catches Torou still wrapped up in her blanket, lolling on the couch, and says instead, “Can you let me down?”

Lata hesitates, fingers stiff where they wrap around his knees and shoulders, but he nods.

Obi’s feet-- just wearing socks now, somehow-- press on the floor, and he knows: he’s home.

“Oh,” he breathes, hands flying out to steady himself. “Oh.”

When he looks up, Torou’s eyes meet his, round and wide. “I felt that.”

Her own feet swing down-- bare-- and the moment she touches the wide old planks--

“Oh.” Lata braces himself against the wall, the sound bitter on his lips. “So it’s true. There will always be two.”

They aren’t his words, Obi knows, but they’re important. They’ve got that feel, the same as when Torou said she dreamed of him. The sort that are going to be life-changing, one way or another.

But Obi’s had enough of that today. Enough of it for a lifetime. He glances over at Torou, and she nods. “Can we go outside?”

Lata blinks, eyes pulling from the wallpaper to fix on him. After a long moment, he says, “You know where the door is.”

Obi does, somehow, and when he opens it--

It’s paradise.

Home has rules too, loads of them. It’s quiet time from nine to eight, though Lata doesn’t much care if they’re sleeping, so long as they’re in bed. Teeth have to be brushed twice a day-- he’d glowered when Obi said he had good teeth and only needed the once, standing over him for a week morning and night to see the rule stuck. There’s only one dessert after dinner; Obi balked at that one, until he’d learned that a limit on quantity wasn’t the same thing as size. He and Torou find three old sundae dishes in the cabinet and pile them high with ice cream and every topping they can find, and when they slap Lata’s down in front of him, cheeks bulging with their own towers of sweets, all he’d does is give them that small, reluctant twitch of a smile and dig in.

They have to make their beds and pick up after themselves-- this house has treated us well, Lata tells them, it’s only right we take care of it in return-- and they have to tell him if they plan to play in the yard; but in return their sheets are always clean, and dinner’s promptly at six. When they come back in, sweaty and exhausted from the summer heat, there’s always a bowl of fruit waiting for them and cold drinks.

He’d known, in the way he always does, that this couldn’t last. So when summer’s heat began to cool, he’s not surprised to see Lata waiting on for them on the veranda, mouth pulled into an even grimmer line.

“It’s time,” he says, “for a Family Meeting.”

“School,” Lata says with the sort of relish and derision only a professor like him can summon up, “is starting. Which means there are new rules.”

Fingers brush at Obi’s, and when he reaches out, Torou’s fingers knit in his. He knows what rules these will be-- his parents had them to, the only ones they’d ever made. His mother had gotten down on her knees the night before kindergarten, nails digging into his shoulders, and used a voice so dark, so unlike her, he’d dreamed of button eyes staring into his for a week. His father had tossed out their Coraline DVD after that.

“Forenzos,” Lata starts, already sounding weary, “look after each other. So you’ll walk together, both ways, and if one of you gets into trouble--” he fixes them both with a stern look-- “I expect both of you to run.”

Obi stares. “What?”

“You’ll come back right after school, unless we have previously discussed plans,” Lata continues. “You’re far too young for...cellular phones, so I expect that if you make plans with friends, you will discuss them with me the night previous, or you will come home first and ask permission. Not,” he murmurs, just barely audible, “that I expect you’ll have much trouble with that.”

“Is that...” Obi’s jaw works. “Is that all?”

“I expect you to keep up your grades.” Lata’s brow furrows, taking them in, as if he’d never once questioned whether or not they would be stellar students. As if most people don’t look at the both of them and see future high school flunk outs. “If they are slipping, I’m afraid I’ll have to limit your free time until we are able to bring them back to an acceptable level. Homework is to be done at the table, and once you are done, your time is yours until dinner.”

Torou’s hand squeezes his. “We?”

Lata blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You said ‘we.’“ She clear her throat, eyelashes fluttering with nerves. “If our grades are bad, you said we would, uh, fix them.”

“Of course.” His mouth pulls at the corners, annoyed. “How could I possibly ask you to rectify such a thing on your own? You’re already doing the best you can, if you still struggle, then it’s clearly something we both-- oh my,” he murmurs mildly, “she’s leaking.”

“Sorry,” she sobs, pink burning on her cheeks, the way it never did on his. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no.” Lata flails out, yanking a tissue from the box, shoving it into her hand. “I just...hope that you find this all fair. I was always quite good at school, but my sisters--” he glances at them, wary-- “varied. I hope I can only...encourage you to your best.”

“But what about...” Obi snaps his teeth around the words. If he doesn’t ask, then it won’t become a rule, and his uncle can’t be disappointed when he breaks it.

The pictures on the wall prove that they’re family, that Lata truly is his mom’s brother, even if they don’t share much more than a hair color. But Obi’s never seen it, the way he does in pictures of Torou’s mom, where there’s a flick of the hand or a cock of a hip that says they spent their childhood together, inextricably intertwined forever in ways they would never understand.

But Lata raises a brow now, and he sees it, that small thread that ties him to his mom, that says brother. “About...?”

“The other stuff,” Torou blurts out, coughing down a sniff. “He wants to know what we...”

Her words peter out too, like she can’t figure out what to do with them. He can’t stop knowing, and she can’t stop dreaming, and the thought of having to pretend they can is...tiring this time, in a way it never was in the system.

His mouth wraps around the words with a curious sort of wonder. “Other stuff?”

“You know,” she mutters, so small. “The weird stuff.”

Lata jolts in his chair, spine as straight as a poker. His hands press flat against his knees, and when he looks at them, the gray in his eyes in thunderous.

“This is the most important rule,” he tells them, voice oddly resonant, “you must follow it. Promise me.”

Obi’s heart sinks into his stomach, but he nods, fingers squeezing Torou’s tighter.

Lata’s hand presses heavy on his shoulder, leather flexing over cotton. “Don’t ever hide yourselves. Not for anything. Not for anyone.” Obi dares to look up, and Lata’s gaze is waiting to catch him. “Being...normal is not necessarily a virtue. There is no shame in being who you are, none at all.”

Or what you are, he doesn’t say, but his eyes do, loud and clear. He doesn’t say what that is either, but--

Obi knows. Just like he always does.

And if he didn’t, well-- he would have found out soon enough.

It’s a small island; small enough that K-12 are all squeezed into one school, though Lata tells them that by the time they go to senior high, they might have built another. It’s still not small enough for Torou and him to be in the same class, so he drops her off at the door with promises to find her at lunch and moseys down to his own. It puts him a little behind schedule, the school bell ringing on his heels, and when he steps in--

The room goes silent. Twenty pairs of eyes stare at him, round and wide, not a single person daring to do much more than breathe.

“Forenzo,” the teacher says, faint. “You must be...the Forenzo boy.”

“Yeah.” He grips at his shoulder. “Obi.”

“You can take your seat...at the back,” she says, before hurrying to the board, eager to put her back to him.

“I thought my mom said all the Forenzos died,” a boy whispers as he passes. “Except the old man, of course.”

“No, they just left,” says the one next to them. “Chased out. Because they’re, you know...”

Obi does; he always had, even before he had a word for it.

“I don’t think a boy can be a witch,” a girl says, thoughtless and thoughtful at the same time. “They’re wizards, or something.”

“Warlocks,” scoffs another. “Don’t you know anything? And they do blood magic with little girls--”

Obi grits his teeth, eyes forward. There’s two empty chairs in the back, one in the corner by the window, and the other next to it, and he steers toward that one-- window seats always get him in trouble--

And the boy next to it scoots away, fear bright in his eyes. Obi looks back at the teacher, but she’s writing her name on the board real slow, like she’s hoping this might solve itself.

Fine, he can take a hint. He takes the window, sliding in behind the desk. The girl in front of him scoots forward too, making sure her chair doesn’t touch his desktop, and he sighs. At least they’re all getting this out of the way first.

A bag drops, right next to his seat.

“Ms Kino!” There’s a girl there, smaller than everyone else, though her voice makes her twice as tall. In the morning sun, her hair burns bright like the horizon. “Can I change my seat?”

“Shirayuki?” The teacher blinks back at them, and Obi could swear she breaks into a cold sweat. “Shirayuki, I’m not sure that’s--”

“I can’t see the board from over there,” she says, every syllable digging in its heels. “There’s glare. Because I’m so small.”

Ms Kino squints back at her, and really-- there’s no denying how small she is, at least a head below Obi and he’s nothing to write home about either. “If you’re sure...”

“Great.” She drops into her seat with a thump as loud as thunder, setting out her notebook and pencil with the sort of purposeful efficiency that says there’s no doubt she’s here to stay.

Obi slips his out of his backpack too, so quiet so the other kids will stop looking at him like he’s going to set the place on fire, but he hears, “You’re new, right?”

He looks down, and there’s the girl, smiling across the aisle. “Yeah. I’m--”

“Obi, I heard.” She leans toward him. “I’m--”

“Shirayuki.” His mouth twitches. “I also heard.”

Her smile stretches towards a grin. “You know, Ms Kino likes group projects.”

He blinks. “Does she?”

She nods. “Would you like a partner?”

“She hasn’t assigned one yet,” he says, a little lost.

“She will,” this Shirayuki says, confident. The way he is, when he knows.

He nods, slow. “All right, so for the next one.”

“To start.” She fixes him with a look he can’t get out from under. “Are you eating lunch with someone?”

“Ah, yeah.” He feels guilty about it now, for some reason. “My um. Cousin.”

She brightens. “Great. I’ll show you guys the best place to sit.”

He’s been adopted, he realizes, like the way the cats around the house aren’t. And this girl means to keep him.

For once in his very short life, Obi doesn’t mind knowing. Just like he always does.

#obiyukibingo21 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #practical magic au #ans #there is so much to be written for this fic and i desperately want to write all of it #like honestly consider this a teaser for a fic i COULD write #one that would involve shirayuki obi and torou being childhood friends #and obi casting a spell of forgetting #and later shirayuki finding obi and torou again #after they have possibly murdered the resurrected then killed again torou's ex #and obi trying to hide that secret at the same time he's trying to keep shirayuki from remembering #while also desperately wanting her to remember because sure this Zen guy seems rich and nice but ALSO MAYBE YOU COULD LOVE ME???#like the notes i have for this potential multichap are CRAZY i wish to UNLEASH them #also LATA/GARRACK #and also Lata ruminating on love and loss and the complicatedness of inherited trauma #but uhhhhh with magic you know how it be

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captaincravatthecapricious · 3 years

Text

Broken Ribs- Prompt Fill

What if the Hunters broke Jon's ribs in America? In other words, Jon does not have fun on an airplane.

cws: nausea, injury, disassociation, hospital mention, fainting

I am still accepting bingo prompts, send me a prompt, a character, and let me know if you want a fic or a drawing (crossed out prompts are filled, starred ones are ones I have asks for)! Card by the wonderful @celosiaa! Enjoy!

The air of the airport is oppressive. Close and loud with the pain lancing through Jon’s chest. Bustling people, ridiculously wide expanses of space all somehow abandoned and bustling at the same time.

It’s hot. He’s too hot.

Shoulder straps of his bag digging into his back, bracing against the weight, crushing ribs that crunch sickeningly as he jogs on hole ridden legs, shoes with worn down soles skidding, only grasping purchase with the help of his cane.

He can’t miss his next plane. He can’t. He needs to get back home… or rather the Institute. He doesn’t really have a home anymore, does he? Not his flat, certainly, and not with Georgie.

Just one more flight. A long one, but at least there will be no more running to catch planes, inconveniently at opposite ends of massive American airports.

Airports are already weird, empty spaces where everything is big and loud and expensive and sleepy all at once. Places where time has no meaning at all, and everyone is in both business dress and pajamas, sometimes at the same time. But adding the whole American thing to it… is odd. It’s not that it makes that much of a difference, every airport is actually very similar, but there is still something about the tang of ‘Rugged American Individualism’ that makes his skin crawl.

Or maybe that’s the lack of sleep, and the lack of a proper shower in… too long. He hates this. He hates this. He can’t stand the feeling of grit on his skin…. not since Prentiss, not since the circus. Between traveling and being followed and kidnaped again and now traveling some more… he’s sweaty and grimy and he wants to tear his skin off, or at the very least scrub it raw. Cut his nails to the quick, wash his hair a dozen times, scrub himself again for an hour under as hot water as he can stand for as long as his useless legs will hold him up.

He gets to his gate as the plane is boarding. Barely in time.

They take his cane at the front and he wants to cry. Limping to his seat in the very back, vision getting spotty with pain. He Really should have someone look at his ribs, they haven’t been right since the kidnapping. Just the universe’s punching bag, isn’t he? Kicked in the ribs by hunters. He hadn't even Done anything. (Well... he has now, but he hadn't at that point!

He just about collapses in his seat.

Middle seat. Shit.

Christ he's dizzy. Wouldn't be surprised if he's running a fever from the pain. His body sending all sorts of signals of distress: thirsty, nauseous, tired, shaky, panicked that he needs something or he'll pass out or cry, or.... or... or.... he doesn't know.

There is a tap on his shoulder. Window seat passenger wants to get through. Jon carefully eases himself to his feet. Trying very hard not to wince, or puke, or pass out. He limps his way up just far enough that Window Seat can get through. Just.

His ribs crunch as he sits again. He tries to covertly wipe the thin sheet of sweat from his forehead. A poor effort to detract from the attention his pallor and limp are surely getting him.

He sits absolutely still. His nose itches, but no... moving to scratch it would hurt too much. He just... won't move. The whole flight, ideally. But surely his bladder and bad leg will have other ideas about that. Jon sighs as shallowly as possible. Breathing hurts.

He drifts out of consciousness for a while. Isle Seat arrives at some point. The plane starts taxiing. Jon doesn't remember the pieces, but they occur.

He does notice the plane taking off. The acceleration of the plane. The stomach dropping climb. And all Jon can think of is falling. Aching chest tighter with panic.

The smell of tea made too dark and with too much lemon. What would have been a pleasant and soothing voice if he hadn't been plummeting with the acceleration of -9.81 meters per second per second without even the comfort of air resistance. Oxygen moving by too fast to snag a breath. He could have been falling for seconds, minutes, days, weeks, years, and it would have made no difference. Hitting the ground would have even been a comfort at that point.

He's gasping. Chest crunching under the strain of his breathing through the vice grip of terror.

He orders himself to take a very shallow, very measured breath. The plane is leveling out, and he doesn't want to attract any more attention.

Luckily he has always been good about deflecting attention. Had a panic attack in the middle of a maths class in secondary school, and not a soul noticed. Window Seat is staring out the window in fascination as the houses get ever smaller and are eaten up by the cloud cover. Isle Seat is napping.

Jon is very very very glad that he hasn't run out of dramamine yet or ...he would be a lot more not okay than he already is. He is out of pain meds. Unfortunately.

Should have bought some in America. You can get big bottles there. Big bottles. And God knows he needs them.

He clasps his hands tightly and try to pull his breathing into a careful and shallow rhythm.

He is drifting again when Window Seat lowers their armrest. It strikes him on the way down. Brushes him, really. He bites down a yelp. He curls protectively around his ribs, which causes them to crunch again. That Really isn't healthy sounding. Spots dance across his vision again.

He isn't sure how much time passes before Window Seat makes to get up. He almost doesn't have the energy to stand.

He's seeing spots again, and he doesn't know how he will manage to let Window Seat back in.

The seat in front of him has lowered their seat. Jon, in the back row can't tilt his back. Christ it hurts. It all hurts. The turbulence, the standing and sitting for Window Seat, the drinks cart making far too many rounds. He doesn't get anything. Can't stomach the snacks or the provided dinner, barely manages a couple sips from his own water bottle. He knows his leg would thank him if he got up and moved around, but the thought of standing is too much. The movie that he tried to watch was too grating and it just added to how Loud the plane is. Almost as loud as his hammering heart and the aching of his chest. He can't do it. He can't do it. He can't do it.

He bites back a scream when Window Seat orders another drink. The flight attendant jostling his ribs again, passing over the beverage. This has to be the third or forth time. How many drinks can one passenger need? How many more before Window Seat will need the loo again, dragging Jon to his aching feet again?

Jon bites back tears. He was awoken by Window Seat again. He'd apparently fallen asleep on Isle Seat. ...Or maybe passed out. Jon doesn't know. He's too dizzy. He doesn't look at Isle Seat. He wants to apologize, but the thought of speaking sounds too painful. He clings to control of his breathing. Shallow breaths. Slow, shallow breaths. Don't make the ribs worse, don't make the pain worse.

Jon doesn't remember letting Window Seat back in. He possibly remembers standing? Possibly remembers black spots eating through his vision? And then he's face down on his grimy tray table. A face full of the novel he picked up in the airport on his trip Before getting his ribs busted. He's pretty sure he passed out and hand't fallen asleep, but he can't be certain.

The flight attendant is shaking him awake, and Jon tries to hide the tears of pain that causes. Yes, yes, he knows. Tray tables needs to be folded away before they land.

Getting off the plane is hard. Window Seat is anxiously out of their seat and getting their luggage, meaning that Jon has to decide if he would rather sit back down, only to have to stand again when the way was finally clear, or he'd have to stand without his cane , bent at an awkward angle. All after digging under his seat for his bag. He thinks keeping it under his seat is easier on his ribs than getting it into and out of the overhead compartment... but he doesn't know. He is fighting unconsciousness again.

The plane is too hot. Too loud. His head hurts. His ribs hurt. Sick with pain, and shaky with hungry and dehydration. He isn't sure that food wouldn't make him feel worse, however. He skipped provided breakfast as well.

At least he can't remember much of the flight. Probably a blessing.

He finally limps to the front of the plane. He almost cries with relief when he is handed back his cane. He's so tired. So tired.

At least he doesn't need to get any luggage. All he has is is backpack and cane. And a text from Elias saying Daisy is already there to pick him up.

Right.

Best not to keep her waiting.

He doesn't think he can survive any more aggression. Not for a while.

He's too tired to even panic about being alone with her.

She shakes him roughly when she spots him. Demands to know why it took him so long, why he didn't text. All but shoves him into the car. That's more than he can take. He passes out. Cane clattering to the pavement, head striking the wheel with the force of his momentum.

When he comes to, he is being carried. He hurts too badly to move, feels too sick to think. He moans into the chest of whoever is carrying him. Doesn't even have it in him to start in fear when he realizes the only one with biceps that big and fair is Daisy.

They are going down a flight of stairs. He wonders vaguely if she's going to kill him... but then realizes he might take that as a mercy right about now.

Except she doesn't kill him. She's taken him to the Archives. He can hear Martin.

"Daisy! Jon! Daisy, what did you do! What did you do to him?"

Him... Jon? He tries to ask what the fuss is about, but only manages another moan.

"I didn't break him. Your problem now." She grunts that out, and plops Jon into Martin's lap. At least he thinks... after he possibly blacks out again.

Martin is patting his face. Martin is patting his face. "Hey, Jon? Can you open your eyes for me?" Jon tries. And fails. Eyelids too heavy. "Jon, what's wrong?"

"Hurts," he whispers.

"Hurts where?" Martin is cupping his face. Jon starts crying.

He can't respond.

"Jon can I take you to hospital? Please?”

“Ribs..."

"Jon, please?"

Jon doesn't want to go to the hospital, he just wants to sleep. Possibly just sleep right there and never move again. Martin is warm and soft and smells nice and is quiet. But he doesn't have energy to argue. He makes a noncommittal sound. "Stay?"

"Yeah, of course. I'll call us a cab, yeah? Get you checked out, then... you could come to mine, if you like?"

Jon really doesn't have the energy to respond, so he just... gives it up and closes his eyes. Letting himself drift and not worry about getting carried. Maybe if he's lucky he'll either sleep or disassociate long enough that he doesn't have to actually think about the hospital. Maybe he'll come back to himself on Martin's couch. He even lets himself hope that maybe someone will take the initiative and clean him up first. The idea of other hands on him would ordinarily be horrifying, but he's just too tired to care. For now... he'll just sleep.

#the magnus archives #tma #magnuspod #fanficiton #cw nausea #cw fainting #cw hospital #cw injury #cw broken ribs #cane user jon #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #daisy tonner #my writing #my words #fic #my art #whump

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kitkat1003 · 3 years

Text

Where the Sea Meets Earth

Ao3 Link

Summary:

Tang's life has fallen into a steady, comfortable routine, one he feels no need to change.

So he doesn’t.

Until he has to.

Note: Hi! Lowkey used an idea from @ninja-knox-ur-sox-off when it came to Pigsy's rival. They make great content, give them a look! As always, shout out to my beta reader, @imnotcameraready, the most kind and patient editor out there. She edited this all in one night, the mad lad. Send love her way!! She goes by UncrownedKing on Ao3, check out her stuff! Anyway, have fun!

Tang’s routine is simple. Get up, watch Pigsy make breakfast. Steal an egg or two that Pigsy definitely didn’t make in preparation for such thievery. Follow Pigsy around as the noodle shop is set up for the morning. Listen to the hiss of oil in a hot wok, water bubbling in a tall pot, knife against the wooden cutting board, each slice precise with practice.

Admire the way Pigsy’s arms bulge with muscle as he lifts heavy boxes of spices, meat and vegetables. Watch the sweat on his brow build up as he tosses the ingredients in the wok, stirs the broth, sticks a pinkie in before pulling it out to taste the concoction, tilting his head to the side in thought every time before reaching for a different spice—

Chuckle when MK scrambles down the stairs, a second before being late. Wave back when MK greets him enthusiastically. Listen to Pigsy bark orders. Watch MK vanish out the store door, listen to the sound of the delivery cart starting up. Wait for the customers to come in.

Sometimes, between the breakfast and lunch rush, he will vanish into the town. He’ll peruse the shelves of a bookstore, maybe get a book or two. Then, he’ll come back to the restaurant and watch Pigsy work until closing, with the occasional interruption from MK or Mei. Pigsy will make dinner, and they’ll eat while watching TV before ending the night, asleep next to each other.

It’s a steady routine, one Tang feels no need to change.

So he doesn’t.

Routines are brought on by repeated motions and consistent action. He finds himself considering them more and more, these days. Tang follows the lines back, through time, to trace where each routine began, as Pigsy yells at MK to get going.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He lives off a trust fund from his late parents, as well as a few checks from his work in historic preservation. His family has passed down the stories of old for years, and he knows them well and by heart, because at 18 his memories had come flooding in, and suddenly he was older than time itself and yet just old enough to have sake enough that creating books and speaking on historical inaccuracies is easy to turn into a living.

A few years ago, he gave it up because it hadn’t seemed important to bother anymore after his parents died. The next year he’d wasted time coasting through town after town, sharing random tales for a meal, trying to forget that he was alone, until….

Two years ago, he watched Pigsy throw a customer out of his shop, threatening the unruly guest within an inch of his life, and thought Well then. Something interesting.

Tang had actually gone to the rival noodle shop first. It seemed a bit more inviting. Pigsy, for all his culinary achievements, is still very closed off, and his shop certainly reflects that. Sometimes, Tang wonders if Pigsy would get more customers if he’d change his attitude, but he never brings it up, because what would Pigsy’s Noodles be without Pigsy?

He watches from afar a few days, until the Pigsy’s rival shop owner not so subtly nudges him over, and the moment he walks in, he’s knocked to the ground by a very exuberant noodle delivery boy.

“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry—are you alright?” Tang sits himself upright to the sound of frantic apologies, seeing a kid no older than 18 fretting over him as if he’d been stabbed instead of simply knocked over.

“It’s fine,” he starts, a little annoyed but not rude enough to make the boy more panicked than he already looks to be.

“MK, what did you do?!” Comes the familiar gruff voice from the kitchen, and the boy—MK, Tang has gathered—helps him stand as the chef walks out of the kitchen, hands on his hips.

“I didn’t notice him coming in—I just knocked into him—it was an accident!” Tang worries, then, because MK seems scared, but those worries are swept away when the chef takes a deep breath and slowly, his stance relaxes.

“It’s fine, kid, just get those deliveries out, ‘kay?” his voice is so gentle, Tang remembers now he was taken aback. Now it feels so natural for Pigsy’s voice to be gentle. “I’ll take care of this.”

MK nods to that, jittery and anxious, and walks out with a forced slowness that Tang can tell is from worry and guilt. Once he’s left, Tang turns back to Pigsy, who lets out a breath and mutters something about how ‘this kid is gonna be the death of me’ before looking up at Tang with what Tang later learned is his customer service expression.

“Alright, c’mon in. Welcome to Pigsy’s Noodles, home of the longest noodles.”

At that, Tang has to snort. He saunters over to the barstools and sits as Pigsy goes back behind the counter, into the kitchen.

“I don’t know if long is the metric you want to brag about,” he snarks, settling easily.

Pigsy grunts in reply, already back to cooking.

Two minutes later, Tang gets a bowl of noodles placed in front of him.

“On the house,” Pigsy grouches, before Tang even thinks to reach into his coin purse. “For the trouble.”

“That doesn’t seem like a very sound business practice,” Tang laughs, taking a sip of the broth after it cools a little.

It was the best he had ever tasted.

“Don’t get any ideas about it.” Pigsy fidgets with his chef’s hat, face settling into a scowl, and yet Tang can tell it was all bluster with no substance.

He pulls a pair of chopsticks out of the free container, snaps them apart, and eats as customers flit in and out of the shop.

Despite the fact that he never stays in one place for too long, Tang finds himself sticking around more than just a few weeks, trailing through the streets and eventually finding himself back at the noodle shop. The noodles are delicious, cheap, and he finds the company of the chef a comfortable one.

Things get far more interesting when the delivery boy, MK, comes down late and gets an earful for it.

“Sorry—I stayed up late drawing the autobiography of Monkey King and I missed my alarm!” MK bows in apology, frantic, and Pigsy runs a hand over his face, pointing MK to a dirty table to clean.

MK gets to work quickly, but Tang turns to him with a curious expression.

“You like Monkey King?” he asks, and he hears Pigsy groan from the kitchen.

“Here we go,” Pigsy mutters, but he does nothing to stop MK from turning to face Tang with a wide, blinding smile on his face.

“Do I! He’s so cool, and strong, and handsome, and interesting! I’ve watched the animated series like, fifteen times!” he rushes up to Tang, pushing a very worn, bound together book.

Tang flips through it, more out of politeness than anything else, and finds himself pleasantly surprised by the intricacy of the sketches, the love poured into pages, notes on the stories themselves scrawled out next to the drawings.

“This is...surprisingly accurate,” He glances over at MK, who preens at the praise.

“Thanks! I’ve been drawing these, since, like, forever! It’s going to be Monkey King’s autobiography. Uh, unofficially, anyway,” MK rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. Tang pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“It’s always nice to see the younger generation so interested in history,” Tang grins with pride as he adds, “You know, I know essentially every Monkey King story. I even wrote an academic paper on them. Published.”

He watches MK’s excitement grow. “Really?! Oh my gosh, that’s so cool! Can you tell me one? Pretty please?!” He’s bouncing on his toes, and Tang can’t help but chuckle.

“I could tell you a tale or two,” he starts, watching as the shine in MK’s eyes grow. “But I need something in return. A bowl of noodles, perhaps?”

MK’s smile drops, and he fidgets.

“I don’t know if I have the money…” he mumbles, mostly to himself, and then he turns to Pigsy, a question in his eyes.

“No,” Pigsy says, immediately.

Tang has never seen someone use puppy dog eyes like a weapon before, but MK pulls them off like a pro.

MK’s hands are clasped together. “Please?”

“I got bills to pay, kid! I can’t be giving free meals to strangers!”

“Well, I’m hardly a stranger,” Tang teases, smile widening when Pigsy reddens. “We met yesterday, remember~?”

“Shut yer yap,” Pigsy grinds out, but Tang has seen Pigsy far angrier, from his reconnaissance days at the shop across the street, so he isn’t worried.

Pigsy turns back to MK, mouth clearly open to rebuff the kid, but MK’s puppy dog eyes have been turned up past 100%. Tang watches as Pigsy crumbles beneath their gaze.

“Fine,” he grits it out between clenched teeth. “But this is a one time thing! I don’t have time for freeloaders around here. And not now! I got ten orders to make, that you have to take out,” he points to MK, who is nodding his head so quickly his face becomes a blur.

“Okay! So, in like an hour, okay Mr.Tang?” he turns to Tang, who grins, calm as ever.

“I’ll be here,” he responds, voice even, and MK busies himself with cleaning up the tables before Pigsy hands him the orders.

When MK disappears, Pigsy sighs.

“You know, pretty sure it’s rude to use kids to get free food,” he says, and Tang can only chuckle again.

“I’m not sure what you mean. I’ve used my knowledge to score many a meal before, this is no different. You’d be surprised what people will give for an interesting story.”

Pigsy snorts, at that, and rolls his eyes.“You a good storyteller, at least?” he asks, and Tang puffs out his chest proudly.

“The best.” After all, his papers got him a pretty good amount of wealth, so he’d hope he’s good enough to earn that.

Pigsy turns back to his prep work, shaking his head, but Tang sees the barest hint of a smile, before Pigsy turns away.

Despite protests from Pigsy, Tang comes back the next day with another story and receives the same free bowl of noodles. He doesn’t get noodles every day, not stupid enough to think that Pigsy could afford to give him one daily, but he appears at the noodle shop every day regardless, if only to watch the hustle and bustle of the place, watch Pigsy work.

Pigsy works with practiced motions, not a single measuring cup or spoon appearing in his hand. Pinches, handfuls of colorful spices thrown in with fresh vegetables. Tang watches him string out the noodles from fresh made dough, dropping them in the broth, stirring, always test tasting, constantly adding something else, another pinch of spice, until he’s only somewhat satisfied.

It’s a familiar feeling. The need to constantly make better, the chase for perfection. Is it any wonder, then, that Pigsy’s shop thrives? Customers learn that deliveries are often better than eating in, because Pigsy’s attitude is abrasive and he’s loud in the kitchen. Regardless, he runs a big enough business and makes good money, enough to keep MK as an employee despite MK’s many missteps.

Tang learns, through snippets of conversations, that MK lives upstairs. Pigsy gave him the job and the room. MK doesn’t talk of his parents, or any of his family really, but he has a friend, Mei.

Mei is as loud as MK is, and she’s familiar in the same way Pigsy. These people he meets at the noodle shop who come for company just like he does, lives slotting into each other with ease. Talking to them is like picking up a conversation left off a thousand years ago, stumbling only for a second before falling into the familiar groove.

Tang slowly learns the group dynamic, learns that MK’s parents haven’t spoken to him since he was kicked out, that Mei stays as far away from her home as she can for as long as possible, that Pigsy has nothing to his name besides his shop and himself.

Sees the family, the foundation, centered around the little hole in the wall restaurant, and keeps himself rooted, just for a little while.

The shop is closed every third Sunday of the month. That is the only day that it is consistently closed. Pigsy works seven days a week, twelve hours a day, without fail, except for that third Sunday. Tang forgets, one month, and catches Pigsy heading out in the early morning.

“What, forgot you can’t steal food today?” Pigsy greets him with a frown that softens into something like a smile.

“Maybe I don’t come for the food,” is Tang’s snappy reply, and he watches with satisfaction as Pigsy pauses, thinks, and then turns a dusty rose color.

Turns out, Pigsy’s ears blush with his cheeks. “Anyway, going on a walk? I might join you,” he turns.

Pigsy stares at him, as if he can’t tell if Tang is serious or not, before he sticks his hands in his pockets and starts walking. “I’m going shopping. Don’t get in my way,” is the response, and Tang takes it for the acceptance of the company that it is, and catches up to Pigsy with ease, stepping in time with him.

The perks of having long legs.

Tang watches as Pigsy charges his way into the market, eyes sharp for the best ingredients, the ripest vegetables—or, the vegetables soon to be ripe, to save for the later weeks. He gets a practiced amount for every ingredient that goes into his food.

“Have to get the meat weekly, but the produce can last if I make it,” Pigsy explains, and Tang nods.

“That makes sense. I never notice a drop in quality, regardless of the week,” he comments.

Pigsy rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure anything tastes great to a freeloader,” he grumbles.

“I’ll have you know I have a refined palette,” Tang huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

Pigsy laughs then, raucous and loud, a sound Tang has never heard from him before. His heart pitter-patters quickly in his chest, and he thanks everything that his scarf hides his face and that Pigsy is short enough to not be able to spot his blush.

“Okay, wise guy,” Pigsy’s voice draws him back in. “You ever cooked yourself a meal before, then?” He elbows Tang gently, or as gentle as Pigsy is able to be, and Tang stumbles a bit before replying.

“Well…,” his voice alludes to the obvious answer, and Pigsy laughs at him all over again.

Tang decides he likes the sound.

A few months after Tang has cemented his spot at the noodle bar, Pigsy goes to usher him out of the shop one evening as he closes for the night and stops, right before heading up the stairs. He turns to Tang with an unplacable look.

“Where are you even staying?” Pigsy asks. “Not a resident, I think I’d’ve noticed a newcomer that was moving in.”

Tang shrugs at the thought. “Wherever.”

Typically, he’ll head out to a busy bar and ingratiate himself to someone, convince them to let him join their party, and sleep on a random couch. He’s always gone before anyone wakes up, to be sure he misses the questions that would come from the house’s inhabitants. If he can’t manage that, well, he’s not above sleeping on a bench somewhere. It isn’t cold out yet, so he doesn’t worry about it.

Tang very well could get an apartment, with the amount of money he has saved. He could, but then he’d be trapped.

He’d have to say that he’s settling down, that a place is going to become home. And no place has really been home, not since his parents died and he walked through empty hallways and empty rooms that once meant something and now meant nothing to anyone besides himself. He’d sold the house, stored the memories away, burned the rest and ran before the smoke cleared.

How could he stay, when there was nothing left? He’d settled in for the long hall, cemented himself as something soft like the earth, and then it had been ripped away from him like roots, tearing up the soil and leaving a mess in its wake.

So he became stone, and left without a word.

Pigsy stares at him, something almost like concern on his face. Tang watches Pigsy’s eyes glance up towards the stairs, and then back to him. Deliberating. Tang tilts his head to the side, ever curious about the concern. He knows Pigsy cares, and he knows Pigsy, beyond the gruff exterior, is pretty soft, but he’s surprised by this development. He didn’t think that care would be extended to, in Pigsy’s words, a freeloader.

Then, Pigsy sighs.

“I’ve got a couch, if you’re interested,” he says, and Tang

Tang just follows Pigsy up to his apartment. There’s a hallway at the top of the stairs, a door they pass by that Tang can hear pop music playing in.

“MK’s place,” Pigsy says, before Tang can ever ask the question.

They reach Pigsy’s apartment door, at the end of the hall, and head in.

It’s a cluttered space. Well, everything save for the kitchen is cluttered. The kitchen is pristine, so much so that the rest of the apartment pales in comparison. It’s not dirty, there’s no trash or dishes left out, but there are just random items, magazines, cookbooks strewn about the rest of the living space.

“Sorry about the mess.” Pigsy says as he pulls off his chef’s hat and coat, hanging it up by the door. He takes off his dress shoes, and pulls out a pair of slippers from a bin, putting them to walk on the carpet. He glances back at Tang expectantly. Tang pulls off his scarf and hangs it up.

“It’s no problem. I wasn’t an expected guest, I’m guessing?”

Tang takes off his shoes and pulls a pair of slippers from the bin. He isn’t surprised by the kitchen being clean, but he is a bit confused by the clutter. Pigsy takes care to keep his work space pristine, scrubbing it to sparking at the end of each work day. Perhaps this is a product of that, and Pigsy just is too tired to care as much in a space that is more his than it is his profession.

Somehow, that makes Tang concerned. He can’t pinpoint why.

Pigsy pulls off the random items from the couch, throwing them aside but scattering them further. He grunts in response to the rhetorical question.

“I’m gonna get a pillow and blanket. Don’t break anything.” Pigsy trudges off, and Tang looks at the clutter, and then at the perfectly good, half empty bookshelf.

By the time Pigsy gets back, Tang is sliding the last book onto the shelf. There’s still the other items that are less easy to categorize, but Tang would be remiss if he left perfectly good reading material to collect dust on the floor.

Pigsy opens his mouth to say something, and then abruptly closes it. He tosses the pillow and blanket on the couch.

“Uh...bathroom’s down the hall on your left. Night.”

Then, he vanishes into his room.

Tang finishes cleaning, and then goes to bed himself.

It becomes part of the routine. Pigsy never demands he come upstairs, but he never shuts the door on Tang, either, and Tang will never shoot down a free place to stay. Pigsy gets used to him, even. Sees Tang sitting on the couch, makes dinner, hands Tang a plate whatever it is and drops down on the couch to watch TV.

If it isn’t making fun of trash TV, Pigsy screams at cooking shows.

“You can’t just throw onion in it and expect it to work out!” he shouts.

Tang laughs. “Very bold from the guy who only serves one type of dish.”

Pigsy turns red. “I can make other food!” The argument is sound.

“I know,” Tang assures him, taking a bite of the steak salad Pigsy prepared. It’s the best he’s ever tasted. “You just choose not to, which I don’t understand. Why only noodles?”

The question throws Pigsy off guard, and Tang waits patiently for him to collect his thoughts. Finally, Pigsy sighs.

“They’re what I like to eat, I guess. Besides, if I made a full scale restaurant, I’d hafta get more cooks, hire waiters, ugh,” Pigsy looks disgusted just thinking about it. “The kitchen’s my place, I don’t trust any two bit cook to get it. I mean, just look at the ones on TV!”

He gestures to the television, as if Tang hasn’t been watching. Tang nods, glances at the screen anyway. “I like how the shop is. It’s small, but it’s good. Bigger doesn’t mean better.”

At that, Tang has to laugh. “You would think that,” he responds, and at Pigsy’s confused look, he gestures to Pigsy’s stature.

“Shut up,” Pigsy says with a blush. Tang can’t stop laughing, and Pigsy cracks a smile.

Living with Pigsy, Tang finds out, means dealing with all of Pigsy. This includes the moments where Pigsy can no longer keep a lid on his already hair-thin temper.

The clutter of the house suddenly makes sense when he comes up to the apartment to see Pigsy throwing books around the room, raging face red and pained and furious in a way Tang has never seen before.

“Bastards!” Pigsy shouts, voice hoarse.

He’s been clearly shouting for a while. His knuckles are bruised, and Tang spots a few dents in the wall.

“I’ll kill em! I-,” He freezes, upon seeing Tang standing by the door.

Tang watches as Pigsy reigns in his rage, somehow, forcing his shoulders to drop, standing up straight, letting out a breath. It looks painful.

“I see something’s bothering you,” Tang comments, direct and gentle as one can be when trying to talk to someone on the precipice of blind rage, as Pigsy breathes heavily.

“Leave.” Pigsy spits it out with a vitriol that is not aimed at Tang, but at something Tang isn’t a part of.

Tang knows this, and he won’t let Pigsy drown in it. He stands still, as the storm rages in blue eyes.

“No,” he is stone, hands clasped together. Pigsy grits his teeth, clenches his fists. The wave rises and crashes down.

“GET OUT!”

It’s loud enough to make Tang wince, but he doesn’t flinch.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

At that, Pigsy goes boneless, slumping down on himself. Tang steps forward, carefully, quietly, and directs Pigsy to the untouched couch.

Untouched because it’s Tang’s bed, Tang’s space. Because Pigsy would only destroy himself and his things, would only rage at the things he deems worthy, and Tang wonders, why does Pigsy think himself worthy of this hatred, the anger that sits in Pigsy’s heart?

Pigsy sinks into the cushions. Tang takes his bruised hands and holds them, letting Pigsy breathe.

“MK’s folks,” Pigsy finally spits out. “They found out the kid’s got a good job and an okay place, and now they want a cut of his earnings.”

The tone of Pigsy’s voice is nothing short of derisive, and Tang understands the fury now. It’s funny, that he knows Pigsy enough to tell the difference between rage that’s performative and fury that’s real, but it’s not that hard for him.

Fury like this comes from care, and there is no one Pigsy cares more about than MK. MK, the boy with the sunshine smile who likes Monkey King and drawing and will work himself to death for anyone’s approval.

“I’d have told em to shove it, but MK’s got a soft heart, and they told him it was paying back for all the trouble they had raising him.” Pigsy laughs, and it’s very, very bitter. “Like they raised him. Mei probably was a better parent than they were, and she’s his age. Bastards.”

Tang swallows the information, takes a deep breath. He wouldn’t consider himself easily angered, but this? This makes him furious. He doesn’t express his fury like Pigsy does, isn’t destructive, is cold and quiet and deadly. But he saves that for later, for when he can look up MK’s parents and figure out how to ruin them when it comes to their jobs, their social standings, their lives.

“Technically, that could be charged as harassment,” he suggests.

Pigsy snorts at that, at least.

“Yeah, but MK’s only 17. He’s turning 18 in a few months, but until then they could drag him back, charge me with kidnapping, ruin his whole life just because he isn’t their fucking lap dog,” The rage returns, and Tang watches as Pigsy carefully clenches his fists, as if he were too quick about it he could hurt Tang.

It strikes Tang, then, that he has never been afraid that Pigsy would hit him. It never crossed his mind. Because how could it?

“I’m gonna commit a felony,” Pigsy mutters.

Tang snickers. “I’ll drive,” he responds.

Pigsy looks up at him, and Tang hopes the expression on his face bleeds the sincerity he feels.

“As if I’d let you anywhere near the driver’s seat of my car,” Pigsy smirks as he says it, and he relaxes a bit more, the anger draining out of him like water through a sieve.

Tang wasn’t aware that he was tense himself, but he relaxes a bit, too.

“But you’ll get blood on the steering wheel. And besides, it’s no fun not having a criminal record. I ought to start it sometime, right?”

“You don’t know anything about me, if you think this’ll be the beginning of my record,” Pigsy half laughs.

Tang shrugs. “You’re right. But, I’d like to.”

Pigsy looks up at him, then, the red in his face smoothing to something dusty and rosy and beautiful. Tang looks away first. “But, first, you need some ice and bandages for your hands.” He gets up to grab it.

When he comes back, Pigsy tells him all about the boy who would come in with exact change for the cheapest bowl of noodles, once a week every Friday. How the boy would ramble on and on about everything, and Pigsy would listen out of politeness, and somehow that turned to a fondness he couldn’t shake. How that boy came rushing in, half soaked in the rain, hiding out just for the moment before he was going to keep running. How Pigsy had thrown caution to the wind and moved mountains to get the kid to stay.

Tang listens, disinfecting the areas on Pigsy’s knuckles that are cut instead of just being bruised. He wraps them, gentle, and places ice on both. Even then, he doesn’t let go of the hands, lets them settle in his grip like they’d always belonged there.

“You’re a kind person, you know,” he says, when Pigsy is done. And he means it, too, thinking of MK alone on the streets, thinking of MK turning out like he did but without the funds to support him, a drifter with nothing and no one. It makes his stomach churn.

“Nah,” Pigsy shrugs his shoulders. “Just had a lot of time to get into practice with it.”

He doesn’t elaborate. Tang lets the conversation end, and turns on the TV. He cleans up the room when Pigsy falls asleep.

Pigsy makes him noodles the next day, without comment. Tang smiles and eats.

A lot of people miscategorize Pigsy as fire. Tang would like to propose a different point of view.

When he sees Pigsy, he sees the sea.

The ocean is never calm, but it can fall into a rhythm. Small waves, rippling waters. Crashing against the obstacle that is land, constantly pushing, constantly trying, constantly moving.

Pigsy will rage like a storm, he will shine like water in the sun, and he will fall into a rhythm as he works. He will push back against the rock that is indifference, and, like the ocean, he surrounds anything and everything, connecting every person he comes into contact with, as if they were the continents themselves. He ebbs and flows, forcing himself into the issues that plagues those he cares about, and yet pulls back and gives them space, never demanding anything other than their time, if they could give it.

The ocean is not harsh, nor is it merciful, but it is a force of nature all the same. And, if you weather its storms, it will carry you wherever you need to go.

And Tang sees a man who gives MK a reason to stick around when all MK wanted to do is run, Tang sees a man who never lets Mei skip a meal regardless of her status and wealth, Tang sees a man that makes sure Tang has a warm and safe place to stay, and sees the ocean carrying battered ships to shore.

Learning about MK’s family has opened up certain topics. Tang knows it’s only a matter of time before Pigsy asks about his life. That doesn’t stop him from stiffening, from going stone faced, when Pigsy finally brings it up.

“I don’t hear you talk about your folks,” Pigsy mentions offhandedly.

When he turns around and sees the expression on Tang’s face, he frowns.

“No,” Tang responds.

He says nothing else. Pigsy doesn’t press. Just turns back to making dinner. And Tang stares at his reflection in the teacup. He takes a sip. It burns his tongue, but he doesn’t feel it.

“They died. Nearly two years, now,” he finally says, and it’s like dropping a weight off of his shoulders.

Pigsy grunts in acknowledgment. Doesn’t give him the sad stare, the ‘oh I’m so sorry’, he just glances back with something softer than pity and closer to empathy.

Somehow, it lessens the dull ache in his chest.

“They good ones?” Pigsy asks.

Tang smiles, just a little. “Yes,” he breathes, and it hitches, thinking about how they pushed him forward, how they never demanded but always encouraged. Tang wasn’t good at making friends, not close ones anyway. But that never mattered, because his parents were there.

And now…

“Mine are gone too,” Pigsy says, after some time and mostly as an afterthought. “It ain’t easy, dealing with it.”

Tang huffs a wet laugh, pushing up his glasses to wipe his eyes.“No, it isn’t,” He responds.

Pigsy slides a bowl yanduxian soup, with some some skewers of meat, and sugar coated haws for dessert. Quite the array of a meal. Pigsy sits across from him, and starts in on his own meal.

Tang eats. It’s the best he’s ever tasted, as always.

Looking up at Pigsy, something in his chest warms. He thinks about his parents and it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to.

“I think they’d have liked you, if you’d met them,” he says, softer than he feels, because he’s never said anything about love but this is as close as he can get.

Pigsy looks up, cheeks glowing, and he smiles and Tang melts, just a little.

The apartment becomes lived in. During one of their shopping trips, Pigsy gets Tang a different outfit, muttering something about Tang needing something to wear when his clothes are being washed. Two outfits becomes three, becomes four, all hung up right beside Pigsy’s sleep shirts and chef coats. Tang gets his own toothbrush.

He buys himself books and they fill up the empty space on the bookshelves. He buys alcohol, stores it in Pigsy’s fridge and laughs off the comments about his poor taste in baijiu. He was never one to settle in, he never thought he could again, but slowly Pigsy’s apartment becomes their apartment and the change in his mind as he thinks of it leaves him wide eyed and spiraling.

Pigsy takes it all in stride, greeting Tang in the morning with something on his face that looks...pleased? Tang doesn’t understand it, and yet it makes his face feel warm when he thinks about it.

The winter months roll in, because while they have a weather tower to regulate weather it does not mean that they can ignore the need for seasons, and the apartment becomes colder.

“Do you not have A/C?” he curls up tight, beneath his blanket, and still shivers.

Pigsy rolls his eyes. “Maybe if you didn’t freeload all the time, I could afford to use it!”

Later, Tang will find this all as a facade. He knows Pigsy would never blame him for being without the funds to pay for heating. In fact, the noodle shop does better in the winter months, because of the desire for warm, filling food to combat the chill. He will later find out that Pigsy forgoes the A/C in his apartment to save up money to give MK a yearly Christmas bonus, both as a present and so MK can heat up his room.

In the moment, however, he just turns away with a huff.

Pigsy sighs. “The bed’s warmer,” he says.

Tang stares, blankly, until it finally hits him what Pigsy is suggesting. “Why, you cad! Trying to bed me when we’ve barely courted!” He leans back on the couch dramatically.

“Shut up!” Pigsy looks very flustered, and Tang grins, leading Pigsy to snap some more. “You were the one complaining about being cold!”

Tang sips his tea, and shrugs. Pigsy turns back to dinner to hide his blushing face.

That night, he moves to sleep in Pigsy’s bed. It’s a pretty large one, it isn’t as if there isn’t room for the both of them. The move is purely practical, after all.

Pigsy sleeps in a tank top and boxers. Tang wonders if the tank top is for his sake. They both get in the bed very stiff, neither wanting to acknowledge what’s happening. Tang curls up under covers, back to Pigsy. The bedroom is indeed warmer. Tang imagines the small heater sitting in the corner is likely the reason.

He turns his head. Pigsy is already asleep, trails of light from the outside signs segmenting his face. He’s snoring. He looks calm.

Tang stares for longer than he thinks he should, before he lets his eyes slide shut.

It becomes routine.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As whole, as Tang reminisces on the moments bringing him to his position, he’s quite glad he decided to stick around. It’s a strange place, this city, full of danger and mystery, now that MK is the monkie kid, now that the demons are free, but at the same time little has changed, and that is something Tang can appreciate. Every morning he settles at the noodle shop and lets life continue, predictable, comfortable.

And maybe that’s his mistake. That he thinks he can coast forever. The sea is many things, but predictable is not one of them.

The downfall starts when Mei mentions that one of her aunts has been trying speed dating.

“She made the mistake of signing up for the straight couple’s night. She told me that when she realized, she left faster than the speed date itself!” Mei taps her fingers on the noodle bar, giggling along with MK at the thought.

“Speed dating doesn’t make sense. I mean, how can you figure out if you like someone in a minute?” MK crosses his arms over his chest and ponders.

“Well, I’m pretty sure I knew I liked you in sixty seconds,” Mei boops Mk on the nose, and he laughs, before making a face. There’s a mixture of emotions there—disgust, confusion, fear?

“Yeah, but that’s different. We’re friends,” he stresses that last word, looking at Mei expectantly. “Just friends.”

“Well, duh! I was just saying,” Mei rolls her eyes.

Tang watches the tension roll out of MK like a breeze. He wonders...but will never waste an opportunity to snark, so he sets the thoughts aside for a moment and leans back on the counter.

“I’m sure I could charm anyone in sixty seconds. Where is this happening, exactly?” he asks.

Mei gives him a look. “I’m pretty sure speed dating isn’t for people who are already taken,” she tells him, and Tang blinks, confusion painting his features.

“What do you mean?” he asks.He jumps when Pigsy’s knife slams hard against the wood of the cutting board, harder than normal.��

Tang frowns. “Pigsy, you alright?”

“Peachy,” Pigsy growls out, from the kitchen.

Tang stares, before shrugging it off. Pigsy’s moods aren’t entirely predictable, after all, and it isn’t as if anything terrible has happened today. Pigsy’s cooking smells as heavenly as ever.

He turns back to Mei and MK, but they’re disappearing out the door, MK with the next batch of deliveries in hand. Tang tilts his head to the side in confusion, before shrugging.

Oh well.

Pigsy is still stilted, when they head upstairs that night. He’s quiet during dinner, quiet after dinner, and instead of watching TV he goes back to the kitchen to make a dessert. Tang follows, sitting at the kitchen island, watching how Pigsy shuffles about, glancing occasionally at a recipe. Cocoa powder, flour, eggs, different ingredients come out. The oven is preheated.

“Something’s clearly bothering you,” Tang says, finally.

Pigsy stiffens. Runs a hand down his face. Sighs.

He keeps working, throws the dessert in the oven, sets a careful timer.

Tang waits, and waits.

The kitchen is silent, save for the ambience.

“What is this, Tang?” Pigsy’s voice is hard, hands resting on the kitchen counter, shoulders hunched as he finally speaks up. He sounds exhausted, from days and days of work. Tang frowns. “You steal food from my shop, you sleep in my house—you live with me, for pete’s sake, you—what is this that we have?”

And Tang, Tang doesn’t know what to say.

“Is this even something?”

He’s basked in the freedom to be himself, with Pigsy. A label defines, a label makes you inseparable. Tang comes and goes as he pleases, he doesn’t get pinned down, he’s one and alone, with Pigsy by his side.

He has called himself a ‘father figure’ to MK, but that is inherently different. There’s a degree of separation, with that label. He can still leave, and MK will not be too bereft. MK has others, Tang is just one. Pigsy wants more than that, he doesn’t want the separation, and Tang is always unsure.

“I just—” And there’s something quiet and breaking in Pigsy’s voice.

Tang says nothing.

“Whatever you want from me, Tang, you have it. I’ll-I’ll give you everything, just—”

Blue eyes, like the constant tide of the ocean, meet earth in Tang’s brown ones.

Tang is afraid he could erode.

If he stayed.

What would he become, if he shifted his foundation?

“Is there a point to this?” Pigsy asks. “Or am I just something you keep around? To say you have one?”

Tang knows that he is a man of words, of stories, knows he is Triptaka, is Tang Sanzang, and myriad others placed in the body of a single man, knows he has more knowledge in an inch of his brain than most gain in their entire lives, but he has nothing to say now.

His thoughts halt at the wounded expression on Pigsy’s face.

More than just anger and softer than just hurt, settled between an aching heart and a broken one.

“I…,” he starts, and then his mouth clicks shut, because he is, before and now, a coward eventually.

Whether he is captured by demons or putting his foot down against others’ bad behavior, he falters. And he is terrified, because the swell of his heart, the affection that warms him enough to burn, is too much to bear, to articulate.

So instead, he says nothing at all.

And he knows he’s erred, because Pigsy turns his back as the timer dings.

He pulls the set of mini cakes from the oven, sets them down on the counter with forced gentleness. Tang flinches at the harsh bang of the oven closing. Watches Pigsy’s chest rise and fall with harsh breaths that hitch with an emotion Tang can’t place, before Pigsy swallows, steels himself, stills. Clenches his fists as if readying himself for a fight. Tang doesn’t know what the battle is, wonders what side he’s on.

“Forget it.” He hears, finally, and Tang feels his heart jump in his throat.

The words sound like a relent, like something giving way. It strikes him like a spear through the chest, and he suddenly finds it hard to breathe.

The mini cakes cool in a few minutes, but it may as well be hours with how silent and still the kitchen is, and Pigsy sets one on a plate for Tang, placing it in front of him with a fork. Chocolate lava cake, something Tang had mentioned off handedly as an interesting dessert to try. Of course Pigsy remembered. Why wouldn’t he?

Pigsy vanishes into his room. The door slams shut. Tang eats.

It’s the best he’s ever tasted, like always.

He sleeps on the couch. It’s cold.

Pigsy doesn’t open the shop, the next day. Tang leaves early in the morning, before breakfast, to give him some space, and comes back from his leisurely morning walk to a closed sign hanging on the door. Unlike the last time, MK waves at Tang, hopping down the stairs excitedly. Pigsy gave him the day off, because Pigsy isn’t feeling well, apparently.

Tang sees the worried lines in MK’s expression and promises he will make sure Pigsy is okay. MK runs off, to meet Mei at the arcade, and Tang heads up the stairs. He passes MK’s apartment door and stands in front of Pigsy’s door.

He knocks.

“Pigsy?” He calls, loud enough that he can’t be missed. “It’s me. Can I come in?”

Silence.

Tang doesn’t know how to handle rejection, didn’t think it possible, from Pigsy. In the two years they’ve known each other, he has never been rebuffed. Has never been told, in no uncertain terms, to leave. Pigsy has shouted it without heat, before, but it has never rang true.

He stands outside the door for twenty minutes, trying to swallow something akin to fear crawling up his chest, as he slowly realizes the door isn’t going to open. He waits another ten minutes after that, processing the realization, the pain in his chest.

“Alright,” He says, finally, and he prays Pigsy doesn’t hear how his voice shakes. “Get well soon. I’ll see you in the shop.”

He should demand to be let in. He should kick down the door, do something. Be bold, be brave, courageous.

But he never was a fighter, so he turns on his heel, and leaves what is left of their relationship on the welcome mat.

He walks through the city, again, because he has nothing better to do now. There is no comfort from stepping into the noodle shop and feeling like home. There is no barstool with his name on it, no random bowl of noodles appearing at his seat inconspicuously, no begging for a story from MK, no fond looks from blue eyes in the kitchen.

Tang had settled into routines and expectations. The rug has been pulled from beneath his feet as he tries to grasp the idea that the comforts have crashed into dysfunction. He tracks every minute of the two years he’s spent here, tries to trace the beginning of the end like a true crime investigator, and still, he can’t decipher why the equilibrium shattered.

Change is a product of existence, Comes a memory from his days as a monk. You must let life flow like a river, accepting the directions it will take.

But Tang isn’t a monk anymore, and he is not flowing like a river or any such nonsense that sounds far more like what Sandy would say. He is analytical, he is intelligent, he is knowledgeable. Despite all of that, he is stumped by this situation, by what he is to do.

The answer, of course, is the simplest, but Tang is pretending not to be ignoring it, because acknowledging the solution means making a choice he can’t undo. To decide if he wants this to be set in stone. Can he tie himself down like this, can he make that choice to stay, forever if it comes to it?

At the same time, hasn’t he already? Just a day without being able to go into the noodle shop leaves him aimless. A day without Pigsy and he is lost, without much to do or see. He has centered himself about the warm air of noodles and the gruff smile of the chef making them.

And that is so, so terrifying. When you give everything, when someone is your everything, what happens when they leave? He’s dealt with that enough with his parents, and to become a pair, to be a part of something, he doesn’t think he has the strength for it.

But Pigsy gives and gives, and promised Tang everything, if only Tang would stay. And Tang is a coward, but not enough to ruin something so simple, so kind, and so honest.

He makes a decision, and heads to the bank.

The next day, the noodle shop opens. Tang is there when it does, settling into his barstool without fanfare. He follows Pigsy’s movements with sharp eyes, notes the rumpled form of his shirt, how his pants aren’t tucked into his dress shoes, how his feet shuffle against the tile instead of stomping with purpose. Pigsy moves slow, turns to look at Tang and has bags under his eyes—or could they be red from crying? Tang isn’t sure.

His heart aches, as Pigsy regards him with something like heartbreak. Pigsy says nothing, turns back to his work, and Tang watches.

Step one.

He heads to the market between the lunch and dinner rushes, picks out the ingredients from memory. He’s walked with Pigsy enough times to know what it is that he has to get. He comes back to the shop with an armful of grocery bags, heading upstairs to their apartment. Pigsy never locks it during the workday, and Tang uses that fact and knowledge to his advantage.

He has no idea how to do this, but he chops the vegetables and meat and sets the water to boil. Brings forth the memories of two years of watching Pigsy make the same thing over and over, and maybe looks up a recipe or two on his phone for reference.

By the time Pigsy comes upstairs, when the shop closes, it’s ready. Tang pours the servings into two bowls, and nearly jumps and drops everything when the door opens.

“Welcome home,” he says, braver than he feels.

Pigsy stares at him, at the bowl of steaming broth, and sets his chef’s hat on its hook. He pulls off his shoes, puts up his chef’s coat, leaving him in a t-shirt and slacks.

Tang watches Pigsy’s movements instead of thinking about how to approach the situation. He gets a little distracted, until Pigsy hops up onto one of the island chairs, pulling a bowl towards himself. Tang sits across from him, waiting for Pigsy to take a sip.

Pigsy takes the chopsticks offered, as well as the spoon. He takes a sip. His face remains carefully neutral.

Tang takes a sip a few moments after. He promptly sputters into his bowl, and laughs.

“God, this is terrible!” he can’t stop laughing, and he can see a smile peeking at the edges of Pigsy’s mouth. “I tried to make it like yours, but I guess I’m coming up short,” he glances at Pigsy, looks him up and down.

Pigsy’s face is dusted with a pleased blush. “Shaddup. And hey, it ain’t worse than my first attempt at cooking.”

Tang snorts at that one. “I doubt that. But, do tell. I don’t think you’ve ever told me why you decided to become a cook in the first place, anyway.”

This is the start. Tang makes Pigsy a meal, and Pigsy tells him a story.

That night, he sleeps next Pigsy, like usual, and traces the way the moonlight sets upon Pigsy’s face. He needs to do more. He needs to be more, and he’s pretty sure financial support would be somewhat helpful, so he schemes.

Step two.

A few days later, as the air between them settles into something like normal, he appears one afternoon, change in his pocket and bills in his wallet.

“A bowl of noodles, please.” He sets the money on the counter. It’s enough for at least three bowls of noodles, but that’s by design.

“Keep the change.” He evene winks, like it’s a joke

Pigsy eyes the money and then gets the most offended look on his face, as expected. Before he can make a move to either argue or even respond, Tang pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and explains.

“Didn’t you know? This month is my charity month. I go to different establishments and pay to keep them afloat.”

Pigsy rolls his eyes. “Pshh, I don’t need your charity to keep this place runnin’! Pigsy’s Noodles is a thriving establishment,” he rebuffs.

“So you’re refusing my service?” Tang responds, like a challenge.

He raises a brow, and watches as Pigsy gets redder and redder.

“One bowl of noodles, coming right up,” Pigsy manages through gritted teeth.

Tang hides a laugh behind his hand as Pigsy scoops up the money and grumbles, shoving two of the bills into the cash register and one into the tip jar.

Because MK had been bemoaning a lack of sketchbook paper, a lack of money for replacing such, and just like every time MK talks about something he wants, off handed or to complain because that’s how he deals, Pigsy will take some of the money that should go to the shop into the tip jar when MK doesn’t look, smiling to himself when MK excitedly realizes that, thanks to the tip jar, he can get what it was he thought he couldn’t—

Because Pigsy gives and gives and gives, pieces of himself scattered across and holding together the people he’s chosen to keep close, regardless if Pigsy is the one who ends up falling apart in the end, and Tang wants to fill up the spaces that Pigsy has lost from his generosity.

Tang takes his bowl of noodles and smirks, like he’s won. That night, when they’re sitting on the couch and watching TV, Pigsy leans his head on Tang’s shoulder.

“You coulda just said you wanted to start payin’ rent,” he mutters.

Tang snickers. “Where’s the fun in that? You got so red, I thought you were going to become a tomato.”

At that, Pigsy sits up.

“I’ll show you a tomato—c’mere!”

Maybe it’s a bit dangerous to challenge someone who knows all of your ticklish spots. Tang laughs until he cries, and concedes to Pigsy’s victory.

Step three doesn’t really register. He doesn’t think about it, because the first two steps have brought him back into that comfortable routine. Maybe he might have fallen into the same bad habits, if not for his hyperawareness of Pigsy’s moods in the following weeks. He doesn’t want to miss something, like he did before. He wants to be attentive, be kind.

He wants Pigsy to never again think of or ask the questions he did, that night. He wants Pigsy to know, immediately, what they are. Even if Tang is afraid to define it.

It’s a typical day at the shop, but Pigsy is a bit more tired than normal. Some days, this happens. Pigsy would never hire another chef, even though he has enough business to afford it, and being the only cook in a bustling restaurant means little breaks and consistent exhaustion.

Tang still makes them dinner, most nights. He tries a new recipe each day, because why not? Pigsy takes to each one like a food critic, and his descriptions have Tang in stitches every time—

“I never thought you could turn broccoli into soup.”

“Okay, so I cooked it too long!”

“You liquified a vegetable! Without blending! That’s like...did you use magic on this? Tang, did you use magic on this.”

—He’s not a very good cook, yet, but Pigsy eats anything he makes anyway.

Today, Pigsy is already tired, and he clearly doesn’t have the energy to deal with an annoying customer.

He has to anyways.

“This isn’t what I ordered last time! I ordered your original noodle bowl two weeks ago, and it tasted far better than this!” The irate woman slams her empty bowl on the counter.

Tang wonders if she understands the irony of complaining about a meal she finished.

“Ma’am, I make every bowl of noodles the same. I’m the only cook here. You either ordered somethin’ else, or your taste buds changed in two weeks.” Pigsy isn’t polite to customers like these, but Tang has to commend him for holding back, for still calling her ‘Ma’am’. Tang has a few different names he’d call her.

“I know what I ordered, and my tastebuds didn’t change. You clearly made it wrong! I demand a refund immediately!” She shouts in his face.

Pigsy goes from pink to red. “Look, lady, you finished your meal. I ain’t giving you back the money for shit you ate.” He spits, and she leans back, aghast.

“The nerve!” She leans back, aghast. “I don’t know what I expected from a pig—”

She freezes as a pair of chopsticks sticks its way between the two angry faces.

“Excuse me,” Tang starts.

His glasses flash, and he doesn’t bother standing. His arm divides the space, as he leans back in his chair with a bowl in his free hand. He pushes her back, ignores the look of confusion on Pigsy’s face. “I suggest you get over yourself. This behavior certainly isn’t doing anything for your looks.”

The woman leans back, crosses her arms.

“And you are?” She hisses.

“I’m his partner,” Tang says, and surprises himself with how easily the title falls out of his mouth. “And you don’t get to talk to him that way. If anyone is acting in poor taste, it’s you.”

Pigsy’s face is slack, his eyes are wide, and the red of anger on his face has given way to the dusty rose Tang has come to expect as Pigsy’s blush.

The woman opens her mouth, finger raised. Tang raises his eyebrow in waiting. But then she huffs, turns on her heel, and leaves.

Tang doesn’t give her a second thought, turning back to his own bowl of noodles—which have tasted the same in the two years he’s been eating here, so she’s full of it, clearly—before glancing over at Pigsy, who is staring at him with eyes full of something.

He has never seen Pigsy’s eyes shine like that before.

His face warms, and he buries it in his scarf and bowl. Pigsy smiles, and turns back to work.

That night, they’re sitting on the couch after eating another concoction that could barely be called food— “You’re getting better at this.” “You don’t have to lie to me.” “Bold of you to assume I would spare your feelings when it comes to your cooking skills.”—and Pigsy’s hand slides away from his lap and rests on top of Tang’s. Casual.

“My partner, huh?” Pigsy says over the buzz of the television.

Tang flushes. “It seemed an appropriate word to use.”

“Sure.”

Pigsy’s voice holds a laugh, and Tang could leave it here, he could. It would be far too easy to settle, to let it fall complacent.

But Tang has let the ocean lap at his heels, and now all he wants to do is dive.

“Hey,” he turns Pigsy’s face towards his, and—

Pigsy’s lips are warm.

Pigsy’s eyes are blown wide, and Tang closes his quickly, worried about the response, worried about Pigsy’s reaction.

Dimly, in the back of his head, he thinks ‘It’s the best he’s ever tasted’ and he has to squash the laugh that bubbles up his throat, because it isn’t appropriate right now. Pigsy's snout practically crushes his nose, and the sharp hairs on his face prickle Tang's skin.

He breaks away. Pigsy’s smile is blinding, a rare event. His face is flushed, both of them are flushed and Tang fidgets with his glasses. There’s a beat of silence, as they stare at each other, before they both turn back to the TV to avoid the ever so awkward eye contact.

They watch whatever’s on, for a minute of crushing silence.

“Alright,” Pigsy finally sighs, long sufferingly fond, and he leans against Tang as if tang were his rock. The ocean crashes against the sea, and the rock stays steady. “Guess I’m stuck with you.”

Tang inclines his head so it’s resting on top of Pigsy’s. The rock erodes, and becomes something new. Moves with the ocean, given enough time.

“Where else would I get free food?”

Pigsy laughs.

#lego monkie kid #freenoodleshipping #Tang #Pigsy #kitkat1003 #monkie kid tang #monkie kid pigsy

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cheri-translates · 3 years

Text

[CN] S2 Gavin and MC in Chapter 9 - Part One

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers from Season 2 🍒

I’m focusing on Gavin and MC, not the plot (because the latter requires extensive time and effort that I can’t spare :’>). So I won’t be explaining certain plot points as I’m unsure of them myself

Do read Ch 2 before proceeding! Otherwise you’ll be completely lost from the very beginning:

MC is in her office looking out for trending topics in the news, and she starts thinking about what Grey Rhino does:

At present, Gray Rhino is one of the most active anti-Evol groups. Its members are found all over the world, and consist of tens of thousands of people.

Most of the members are normal civilians or Evol victims, and are extremely against the existence of Evol. Every member seems to have a snake-shaped tattoo on their body.

From what I understand, they have a hand in the “Small Syringes”, the missing plane and the train incident from not too long ago.

One of her subordinates from Black Swan, Zehn, gives her a call

She’s tasked him to take note of Gray Rhino’s operations, because she thinks they’re going to act again

But he brings her news of STF instead: Apparently, STF has a new commander, but he’s a mystery since he hasn’t made a public appearance

MC: Maybe he’s a shrewd old man.

MC sighs and decides that she needs to investigate into the commander of STF

At this moment, impatient knocks are at the door. Even before I make a sound, Minor has already pushed the door open, rushing to me with extreme anxiousness.

I frantically hang up, turning my head and glowering at Minor.

MC: Why did you barge into my office?

Minor creases his brows, gesturing at the phone in his hand, mouthing some words to me.

Minor: It’s-- Bro-- Gavin--

MC: Gavin?

The words subconsciously leave my lips, and my tone is slightly surprised.

MC: Why did Gavin give you a call to look for me?

A voice drifts from the phone in Minor’s hand.

Gavin: Because your phone line was busy.

I was just having a discussion with my subordinate from Black Swan on how to fish for information regarding the commander of STF...

Feeling a little guilty, I hurriedly take the phone.

MC: Looking for me so urgently - is something wrong?

For a while, there’s silence at the other end of the line.

I wait quietly for Gavin to speak. After a moment, his voice returns.

Gavin: MC, has... anything happened to you lately?

This question is very abrupt, and I find it slightly odd. Thinking that Gavin is asking about the “Small Syringes” incident, I respond.

MC: Nothing’s wrong. I occasionally get strange harassment calls... but the rumours of the company being involved in prohibited drugs are slowly clearing up. As of now, work has returned to normal. Come to think of it, Captain Gavin deserves much thanks for helping me clear up the rumours.

I laugh, adding that last line.

After a soft “oh”, Gavin doesn’t continue.

The silence in the air spreads to both ends of the line. Minor, being incredibly tactful, leaves the room. Before closing the door, he mouths a “Boss, all the best”.

I think of the earlier information received. After hesitating for a moment, I test the waters with a question.

MC: Gavin, it’s been a while since we were in contact. How have you been?

Gavin: I was executing a mission.

Gavin’s breathing is very soft, drifting through the phone and into the receiver.

I can even imagine how he looks, pinching his phone with slight force, his right hand subconsciously tapping lightly on the desk.

The gloomy weather is filled with large, dark clouds. The first rainfall of winter, which has been brewing for a very long time, finally starts pattering down.

The synchronised rustling of rain can be heard over the phone. I lift my head to look out the window, and speak to Gavin softly.

MC: It’s raining.

Gavin: Mm.

The thick sound of rain mucks up a memory, and I continue, thinking aloud.

MC: Rainfall in winter is the coldest... When you’re on missions these days, take note of the weather. When you head out, check the weather forecast, remember to bring an umbrella, and don’t catch a cold.

Gavin once again makes a sound of acknowledgement.

Gavin: Got it.

Another wave of silence hangs on the other end of the line. Just as I hesitate on whether to say goodbye, Gavin suddenly speaks.

Gavin: MC, I need your help with something.

Holding the STF-issued provisional visitor pass, a special officer leads me to the reception room.

Collaborative filming between the STF and [MC’s Company Name] has been shelved temporarily due to the gradually increasing amount of work. Other than the “Small Syringes” incident, it’s been a very long time since I came to the STF.

Special Officer: Miss MC, this is the place.

When the door is pushed open, a familiar voice drifts from inside.

Tang Chao: Yo, it’s you again. If you visit a few more times, I’ll be familiar with you. Your name’s MC, right?

Eli: Is that how you should speak to a lady?

Tang Chao: I’m just establishing good relations early. We’ll probably have many chances to meet in the future.

Aside from Eli whom I’m familiar with, I recognise the youth who doesn’t have a filter over his mouth. He’s Tang Chao, Gavin’s colleague, and the one who pretended to interrogate me the last time.

MC: Special Officer Tang, it’s been a long time.

Gavin: Tang Chao! Who allowed you to be here?

With a “bang”, the door is pushed open with force. Gavin strides into the room with a dark expression, placing files on the table with a thud.

It’s been a long time since I've seen Gavin, and I can’t help but take several looks at him.

Gavin is wearing everyday clothes, and in his deep eyes are the coolness and resoluteness that I'm familiar with.

My gaze remains unmoving, and I vaguely spot a white bandage near his sleeve.

MC: Gavin, are you injured?

Gavin: No.

Tang Chao: He’s lying.

Gavin: ...

MC: ...

Tang Chao grabs the files on the table, whipping his head around to greet him before running out into the corridor swiftly.

Eli: I can’t help much by staying here. The two of you can talk.

The reception room, which was in a state of chaos earlier, suddenly sinks into quietness.

I remain standing in place, somewhat at a loss. Gavin, feeling uneasy, turns his head to the side, releasing a soft cough.

Gavin: They talk too much. Let’s go straight to the main topic.

Gavin plays down on the topic of his injuries, but I know that even if I were to ask, he would only keep it hidden.

I sigh inwardly.

MC: You haven't told me what you needed my help with.

Gavin: We met a witness who has special circumstances, and we need your Evol to read his memories.

MC: Special circumstances? Is his memory impaired? Or did he lose part of his memory from fright?

Gavin shakes his head, and only signals that I should follow him.

In the interrogation room, Gavin briefly explains the situation: the incident happened at a station, and the victim died from a bullet

The witness is an elderly man who is blind

I tug on Gavin’s sleeve, and can’t help but voice the doubts in my heart.

MC: Gavin, since this witness is a blind man, how am I supposed to read his memories?

Gavin: Memories aren’t just images. Sounds, scents, and even touch are parts of memories.

MC: I think I understand what you mean. If footsteps are heard, it could confirm the time when the suspect appeared. If a unique scent is stored in the memory, it could also be a lead to cracking the case.

Gavin nods lightly.

Gavin: That’s why I requested for you to come.

He tells her not to be stressed about it

Unfortunately, MC doesn’t get anything out of reading the witness’ memories

MC: I’m sorry, I don’t have much of a clue.

Gavin nods lightly, and doesn’t say anything. This causes me to feel a little embarrassed.

Even though the case has nothing to do with me, I couldn’t be of any help to him.

Thinking about how he’s been handling Evol cases which come one after another, he must be facing an incredible amount of stress.

Walking out the doors of the interrogation room, Tang Chao happens to pass by.

Tang Chao: You’re going off just like that?

Gavin: ...

Tang Chao: Let’s head to the canteen for a meal. There are chicken drumsticks today.

Gavin blatantly ignores Tang Chao, who had extended an enthusiastic invitation. He turns towards me.

Gavin: I'll send you home. Don’t worry about today’s matter.

Seeing him like this, he’s probably planning to focus wholeheartedly on investigating and not intend to have a proper meal...

Sighing inwardly, I pat my hands and make a wilful decision.

MC: Gavin, you haven’t given me my remuneration. How about this. I’ll treat you to a meal, then you can conveniently send me home.

Gavin: No thanks.

MC: ...

Seeing the awkward expression on my face from being rejected, Gavin seems to be in a great mood, and the corners of his lips lift a tiny bit.

Gavin: I’ll send you home, and conveniently accompany you to a meal.

MC: ...eh?

Gavin: Why are you in a daze? Let’s go.

By the time we walk out of STF, the rain has already stopped. It isn’t time to eat yet, and neither of us are very hungry. We simply head to a nearby snack street to find something random to eat.

The road is flanked on both sides with various snack shops, numerous coloured billboards tightly packed together. In this late afternoon drawing close to evening, business is bustling, and people are walking to and fro.

It is the season where autumn ends and winter begins, and the fragrance of roasted chestnuts is in the air. My mind still ponders on the case from earlier.

MC: Gavin, aren’t there any other witnesses in that case?

Gavin: The crime occurred when the station was most desolate. There weren’t other commuters on the platform.

MC: Since the location of the crime is in a place like the station, aren’t there any surveillance cameras nearby?

Gavin: On the day of the incident, all the surveillance cameras nearby were broken.

While speaking, a large white cat holding a Dragon Li cat in its mouth leaps past us lithely, and Gavin slow down his footsteps.

MC: Looks like it’s a premeditated crime.

I have no other ideas after this, and I decide to ask whatever I can think of.

MC: After the murderer committed the crime, what would have been the first thing he’d have done?

Gavin: Get rid of the murder weapon.

Gavin says this casually. Standing before the roasted chestnut stall, the smile on the boss’ face instantly freezes.

I take the freshly prepared roasted chestnuts, hurriedly pulling Gavin away.

At this moment, I realise on hindsight that Gavin had silently footed the bill, and I had accepted it just like that.

Gavin turns his head and sees me rooted in my original spot. His eyes are caged in the tender glow of sunset.

Gavin: What’s wrong?

MC: Gavin, is there anything you want to eat?

At first, he shakes his head. In the end, he seems to notice the downward tugging at the corners of my lips, and can only struggle in front of the oden noodle shop for a while.

Gavin: One serving of fishballs.

MC: Two servings. And add a serving of fish tofu, chicken wings, chikuwa... please add more chilli.

MC: You have to eat more.

While we’re eating and walking, a clear “bang” suddenly resounds from behind us.

With my mind filled with the shooting incident, I’m so scared that I shift half a step backwards.

Gavin: It’s a shooting game.

Meeting Gavin’s teasing gaze, I laugh awkwardly, and an idea surfaces in my mind.

MC: I know! Let’s go and play that! Since we can’t escape from the topic of “shooting”, we might even get some inspiration from the game.

Gavin: ...that’s going a little far.

Despite what he says, Gavin still accompanies me, walking towards the stall. Seeing that there’s business, the owner immediately calls out to us in a lively manner.

I hold the gun, weigh it in my hand, and look at the target set up in front of me.

Gavin glances at me in surprise, and asks suddenly.

Gavin: You’ve learnt shooting?

MC: Mm, an incredible friend taught me.

Gavin: Which friend?

MC: ...the one who taught me self-defence. He’s very skilled, and is a very nice person too.

Gavin turns his head to the side, looking utterly disinterested, as though he doesn’t believe my big words.

After greeting the stall owner, I hold up the gun and adjust my posture. Settling on the target, I squint with my right eye, pulling the trigger confidently.

Bang--

Brimming with confidence, I look at the target, but realise that I’ve barely hit the 7th ring.

Gavin: Looks like his teaching wasn’t that great.

[Note] If you aren't familiar with Gavin’s dates: S1 Gavin taught MC how to shoot in his Rehearsal Date! So he’s basically insulting himself LOL

In a great mood, Gavin watches the faraway target. Unwilling to lose, I fire several bullets, but the results hover around the 6th and 7th rings.

MC: ...it’s been a long time since I practised, so I’m a little rusty.

After saying this, peals of laughter drift from behind me.

I turn my head, and see a high school couple playing the shooting game too.

Girl: Dear, your shooting skills are really good!

Boy: Dear, wait for me to get the biggest and cutest doll for you.

Once the girl hears the boy’s words, she laughs even more.

A wave of melancholy strikes my heart. Just as I think of setting the gun down, I hear Gavin’s voice at my ear.

Gavin: You’re putting too much weight in front.

Suddenly, a familiar warmth presses against my back. Scorching breaths are at the roof of my head. He holds my hand, resting the butt of the rifle on my shoulder.

MC: !

Gavin: Are you ready?

Gavin rests the first pad of his forefinger over mine, applying pressure on the trigger, not leaving a single gap.

I can feel the calluses as he covers the back of my hand with his, and the heart that’s about to leap out of my chest.

I don’t know if it’s the lingering warmth from sunset, or the temperature of Gavin’s body which is causing my face to feel heated.

Bang--!

The bullet slices through the air, hitting the centre of the target with precision.

Gavin: Do you remember the gist of the action?

I nod with force, the scorching warmth of our skin being pressed together causing the temperature of my face to rise.

Under Gavin’s close guidance, the subsequent eight shots all hit the bullseye.

His eyebrows arch upwards slightly, and he chuckles.

Gavin: Do you still want to try?

Seeing that Gavin is hitting the target with every shot, the stall owner seems to get a fright, and immediately waves his hands.

Stall owner: I’m about to close the stall. You should pick a prize quickly.

Gavin: That one then.

Gavin points at the largest pink bunny plush on the counter. Then, he pauses, tossing me a questioning glance.

MC: Gavin, I want that prize.

I point at a golden coloured ginkgo keychain in the glass cabinet.

Stall owner: Miss, the one you chose is a third-rate prize. It’s of little value.

MC: It’s all right. I like it.

I hold up that ginkgo keychain, the fine leaf made of golden wire reflecting a dazzling light under the sun.

MC: It’d definitely look really nice on a bag!

I turn my head excitedly, and can’t help but flaunt it off to Gavin.

The autumn wind is somewhat gentle. The corners of Gavin’s lips are hooked upwards. His eyes, which are watching me, are flourishing with an amber light.

Gavin: Mm, looks really nice.

[Note] Screaming because it’s left ambiguous in Chinese on whether he’s referring to the ginkgo keychain... or her smile 👀

Right after walking out of the snack street, raindrops patter down.

MC: It’s raining again.

I retrieve my umbrella, and Gavin takes it from me naturally. The transparent umbrella is held steadily above my head.

Gavin: It’s getting late. I’ll send you home. Don’t worry about today’s matter. It has nothing to do with you.

Fine rain continuously slides off the umbrella. Gavin matches my pace, walking forward slowly.

Everything in the rain brings with it a certain hazy and humid quality, reminiscent of an image frequently featured in movies.

Gavin: Where’s your bracelet? Why aren’t you wearing it?

MC: The weather has been too damp these days. I was afraid wearing it out would affect its condition.

Gavin: ...oh.

I lift my head, and see a mother and daughter afar off, getting caught in the rain.

I exchange a glance with Gavin. We reach a tacit understanding, and he nods.

We walk over to the mother and daughter, and give the umbrella to them.

MC: This umbrella is for the both of you.

Mother: How could I take it!

With my persuasion, the mother and daughter finally accept this kindness, and repeatedly thank Gavin and I.

I take out an unimportant document from my bag and use it to cover my forehead. Just as I prepare to share a few sheets with Gavin, a shadow suddenly shrouds the top of my head.

--It’s Gavin’s jacket.

MC: No need. It’s just a little rain, it’d be fine.

Gavin: Didn't you say that rainfall in winter is the coldest?

Not allowing for any protests, Gavin holds the jacket over our heads, ensuring that I wouldn’t get caught in the rain.

Gavin: Let’s go. The journey isn’t long. I’ll send you home. Oh yes, don’t leave the house over the next few days. Especially at night.

His expression is incredibly serious, and even a little stern.

MC: Got it.

Gavin’s jacket covers my head. I breathe in, inhaling his unique scent.

But the jacket doesn’t seem to be large enough, and isn’t sufficient for two people to walk while standing side by side. After a moment of thinking, I stagger slightly, standing in front of Gavin.

I lift my head, looking at Gavin’s clean lower jaw and amber coloured eyes.

MC: We’ll walk like this?

A touch of red surfaces on Gavin’s cheeks. He doesn’t lower his head to look at me. Shifting his gaze elsewhere, he feigns coldness in his voice.

Gavin: Mm.

The large jacket covers and carves out a small and narrow world. The sound of rain pattering on the jacket is slightly gloomy, blending with the scent of rain, and the delicate, faint fragrance in the air.

I take a deep breath, looking towards the street.

MC: Gavin, look. The wintersweet flowers are blooming.

[Trivia] In the language of flowers, the wintersweet symbolises independence, perseverance, fortitude, faithfulness, and a loving, noble heart :>

Behind me, Gavin halts in his steps, and peels open a corner of the jacket slightly.

I can’t see his gaze, and can only feel his drawn out breathing and the warmth of his skin through his shirt.

The yellow wintersweet flowers emit a subtle fragrance. In a manner which isn’t overly resplendent or bright, they add a warm lustre to this world.

Gavin: Mm, looks really nice.

His voice is clear and bright. In this indistinct, misty rain, it seems to indicate the direction that I should proceed towards.

In many moments, it’s always been the case.

The red light across the street seems to be exceptionally lengthy, and doesn’t change for a long time.

The waiting time is a little long, and I can’t help but enter a slight trance.

When I was fifteen years old, the rain was just like this.

Seventeen year old Gavin crossed the curtain of rain, and the school jacket he placed on me had carried the scent of an inexperienced youth.

That youthful scent which forever pauses on that rainy day has been breathed back to life in my memory, entwining with the scent of the man that is presently twirling around the tip of my nose.

Like a certain miraculous overlapping.

MC: The rain seems to be getting heavier.

The white shirt which has been caught in the rain is slightly soaked. I seem to see his slim back through the shirt, which has turned half-transparent from being drenched in the rain.

That clean and cool scent, just like the refreshing breeze coursing through this rain, descends on my heart.

The green man lights up, and the passers-by next to us walk across hurriedly. Perhaps this rain wouldn’t stop even after a while.

I summon my courage, and simply grab onto Gavin’s hand, pulling him into a run.

Across the streets, across the pelting rain, across the sea of memories, and walking into a junction belonging to us.

The rain pours even harder, creating flowers of water on the ground, as though urging me to hasten my footsteps.

Urging me to take his hand and walk forward quickly--

Part two: here

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc gavin #this is so so SO much better than I imagined T-T

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mosaicofdreamsanddragons · 3 years

Text

Slow Fade

For @ninja-knox-ur-sox-off‘s pirate au.

Find on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27570436

It was the customer service that broke him.

That’s what Pigsy told MK when asked how he became the chef on a pirate crew, glaring at Tang who was muffling a laugh. It was a true statement.

But it also wasn’t.

Once, many years ago he’d had his own restaurant. It wasn’t much, just a noodle store by the docks, filled with the everyday bustle of sailors, merchants, and other such people a port town attracted. His customers had barely had the room to sit down on good days. But it had been his.

With the constant stream of ships brought many to his little stand hungry for something unlike the rations they’d lived off of on the sea, he was guaranteed at least a few people coming in even on his worst days. Even on days with low ship traffic, he’d always have at least one person in his store: Tang was a regular to put all regulars to shame, despite somehow never paying for his food.

He’d loved it, every part of it. So of course, it hadn’t lasted.

It had been a good day for customers. He’d actually had a line out the door and seating had been scarce. Tang still got in somehow chattering happily about the newest legend of the Monkey King. Pigsy’d had his hands full making noodles and busing tables as fast as one Pig could when he heard a commotion.

“A bowl of noodles. The best you have,” came a pompous voice. Pigsy glanced up to see a very well dressed man shove his way into the store, completely ignoring the line as he shoved his way into the counter.

“We have a line,” said Pigsy.

“Excuse me?” the rich boy said. “I’m gracing your store because I’ve been told it’s got the best noodles this backwater island can give me. You should be grateful.”

“Grateful for business,” said Pigsy, “but in this backwater island we have things called lines. I simply do not have the room to seat you even if you were to be served now,” he waved his hand around the packed room. “That’s what a line is for.”

“Easily solved,” said the man. He turned to look directly at the customers seated at the high bar. It vacated. All but Tang. Sitting there calm as you please eating the noodles he always seemed to have but never seemed to pay for.

“Move,” the rich boy said. Tang didn’t even bother to look up from his bowl. The boy tried several more attempts to get Tangs attention, face turning a deeper and deeper shade of red until he’d shoved Tang bodily out of the chair.

Tang’s bowl had splattered all over the floor with a clang.

The boy sat down and turned his attention back towards the kitchen. “No problem,” he said before he realized the man he had been talking to was no longer present.

He didn’t even get a moment to register the location of the chef before Pigsy picked him bodily up and threw him from the shop unto the hard stone streets. The boy had been sputtering and yelling about vengeance before he’d left but not before yelling how Pigsy would regret this. It had been a sight Tang said. But Pigsy paid it no mind. He’d had more important things to deal with, like the rest of his customers. He hadn’t thought that boy a threat.

He’d been wrong.

The rich boy had turned out to be the new governor of the whole island. And apparently had nothing better to do then menace noodle shop owners.

Pigsy didn’t notice the drop in customers immediately. Ships still came and went bringing hungry sailors from far away. It wasn’t until a week later, when there had been no new ships coming in that he realized something.

There had been a lot less regulars.

He’d asked Tang if there was some event going on. Tang dropped his usual chatter about legendary pirates and sighed looking grimly at his reflection in his bowl. “I think they’re scared,” he said. “That boy you threw out? He was the new governor. In the last week he’s already dismissed and even executed people he dislikes. They say he’s cleaning up the rot of this town.”

“I fail to see what that has to do with me,” said Pigsy.

“You threw him out of the shop on his first day,” said Tang looking up to Pigsy, the glare of his glasses hiding his eyes, “Everyone things he’s going to come after you, to make a point about how he and by extension the empire are the power in this town.”

“If he really thinks he’s going to clean the corruption out of this town,” said Pigsy with a shrug. “Then he’s got better things to do beside pick on noodles shop owners.”

But that did not bring back his customers. With every new story about the new governor, he’d gotten less and less regulars. Worse was merchants were now deliberately not selling to him. The more honest ones told him he’d been blacklisted, and they just couldn’t afford drawing the ire of the governor and lose their businesses.

Then word started getting out to the sailors and soon even they weren’t coming to Pigsy’s shop. Tang would go out and try to catch them as they came off, directing them towards the stand but there were only so many he could catch, and soon after arrival those sailors would be greeted by gossip about the governor’s least favorite noodle shop.

Then the governor started banning people from going up to the sailors and solicitating them. He claimed it was a preventative measure against thieves. Tang said it was because he’d seen him win some customers over to Pigsy’s.

The only customer he had now was Tang. And it’s not like Tang had the money to keep the shop in business. Tang tried though, every day he’d come in with some new scheme or trick to pull in more customers but even that failed to fix the reality that was Pigsy’s ledger. With the amount of red in it, there really was only one thing left to do.

He plopped the noodle bowl down in front of Tang. “Eat up,” he said gruffly. “It’s on the house tonight.”

Tang looked up, “Pigsy, you can’t afford that.”

“Can’t afford it anyways,” he said. “I’ve been over the ledger. This is the last night we’ll be able to be open.”

Tang looked down at the bowl of noodles. Then he stood up. “If we’re going under,” he said. “Then we’re going to go under properly, with at least one customer.”

“Tang wait…” he called but it was to late. Tang had already stomped out the door with a determined look on his face.

Pigsy stared back down at the uneaten bowl of noodles. His last bowl, that he’d poured his heart and soul into, abandoned in an empty noodle store.

He should eat it, not let the last piece of his store sit on a counter getting cold. Tang would be out all night looking for customers that would never come and tomorrow they would close the shop. It would be a shame to waste it. This fancy meal he’d made for someone, anyone, else.

Eating it would mean he was truly out of business.

The bell of his shop chimed and Tang practically danced back in, trailed by a furry golden sailor. “Look what I found!” he said smugly. “A customer. One customer for our last night.”

The customer glanced around the room. “Nice place you have here,” he said and then his eyes fell on the bowl of noodles. “Already got my order up? Your service is amazing.”

Pigsy half expected Tang to protest when the customer sat down in his spot and ate the last bowl of noodles but instead he settled down next to him and called for some drinks. He starts to cheerfully regal their customer with tall tales of the legendary pirate captain the Monkey King. And Pigsy realized it had been a long time since he’d heard Tang tell any sort of story not tied to how he’d managed to get them customers today.

The stranger seemed to enjoy the tales almost more than Tang and the atmosphere of the little shop became warmer. Pigsy could almost pretend it was just any other late night before their troubles began.

The bell chimes again, and Pigsy looked up, half expecting another customer and wondering if he’d even have ingredients to make more noodles. But the man in question wasn’t here to eat. He glanced around the store with distain before saying, “Are you the owner of this establishment?”

“Yes,” said Pigsy, “What can I get for you?”

“You have received an invitation by the governor himself to join his kitchen staff,” he held out a paper to Pigsy. “Work begins at dawn.” Then he turned and walked out of the store only stopping at the door to say, “Don’t be late.”

“Promotion!” said the customer before he noticed grim look on Tang’s face.

“Don’t do it,” said Tang turning to face Pigsy. “That man hates you, he’s been trying to get rid of you for half a year!”

“I don’t exactly have much of a choice,” said Pigsy staring down at the empty sink. “I’ve checked around. No local business will hire me, to scared the governor will come after them. Short of getting on a ship, and all the ones that come through here are in his pocket and won’t let me on, this is the only option I have.”

“It’s a trap!” said Tang. “Either he’s going to make your life a living nightmare or he’s going to set you up for something worse!”

Pigsy closed his eyes. “I know,” he said. “But what else can I do?”

“Pigsy…,” began Tang.

“Excuse me,” he said and headed into the backroom. He needed time to confront his impending doom.

The next morning he arrived at the governor’s mansion’s kitchen entrance for work exactly fifteen minutes before dawn.

He was regulated to cleaning duty for a massive ball happening that night. That in itself wasn’t unusual, he was new after all, and it would be unlikely the cook would trust him with anything close to chopping for another year. But that set him on edge. The governor had systematically dismembered his business, his big finale couldn’t be something this normal.

So it didn’t really surprise him when he was bumped up from cleaning to serving for the party by special request of the governor himself.

And it didn’t surprise him at all when said ball was filled with only the most annoying of party goers, who looked at service workers like they were the dirt beneath their shoes or furniture on the wall.

What did surprise him was Tang. Who had somehow gotten a job as a waiter.

“What are you doing here?’ he hissed at him.

Tang just flashed him a smile. “They were desperate for new help and I figured we’d go down together.” He leaned in and lowered his voice, “There’s one other thing…” He stopped suddenly and pulled himself away. “The governor’s coming. I’ve got to go. Don’t worry I got a plan.”

Pigsy watched his only ally in this world saunter off as the governor approached. He waltzed up with a lady on his arm and seemed content to hang out right next to where Pigsy was serving food and engage in conversation about how powerful he and his empire were and how those who lived here were nothing more than cultureless backwater fools who’d gotten to full of themselves after the last governor had been so lax…

Soon the governor ran out of people to talk to and turned to Pigsy, “Enjoying the new job I so generously provided?”

Pigsy kept his face neutral.

The governor leaned against the table between them. “You know, its polite to thank a new employer but I guess you wouldn’t know what was polite, given your general social awareness. You haven’t even apologized for how we met. Such rudeness. It’s understandable why you lost all your customers.”

Pigsy kept his face neutral.

“You must have relied on sailors for a good while there, as you held out longer than I expected once the townsfolk wised up. Honestly it has been infuriating trying to ruin you and that little friend of yours. But it doesn’t matter now does it? Now you’ve learned your place working for me.” Very slowly he raise his glass and dumped its contents onto Pigsy.

Pigsy kept his face neutral.

The governor smiled and then glanced off examining the now empty glass, until his eyes caught sight of Tang offering drinks to guests. “That little friend of yours, he’s a puzzle. I tried to scare him off but no no no, nothing seemed to faze him. Even offered him money to stop going to your store. And he refused. Something he desperately could not afford given his clothing or his previous lack of employment. How does a man such as him even stay fed anyways? Makes one wonder where the money comes from. Evidence enough for thievery. Men have been hanged for less…”

Pigsy’s neutral face cracked.

He wasn’t sure what he yelled at the man. He was certain it included a lot of very creative descriptors as all the anger that had been building towards this pompous petty child playing governor exited him at once. He shook the party to its very foundation and soon everyone was staring at them.

The governor was lying on the floor beside the upturned table when Pigsy’s head cleared. He seemed scared but he smiled up and Pigsy, “You are going to hang for this.”

Might as well go the full nine yards. Pigsy picked up one of the still full glasses and poured it on the governor.

“Might as well hang together then?” said a voice behind him. He turned to see Tang and the customer from last night, now dressed fancily with a mask, hat, and cutlass…the Monkey King, infamous pirate captain.

Before Pigsy could voice his shock at the situation or interrogate Tang, the Monkey King turned to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to the robbery tonight. Alas, I must be going as my ship departs on the hour. Do inform the rest of the navy their precious governor will be coming with me and not to fire lest they damage him. Now, I and my associates will be taking our leave.” He nodded to Tang who rushed forward to tie up the governor. Then he turned to Pigsy. “So what do you say? Care to join my crew as the new ships cook?”

Pigsy looked at Tang who was grinning, over to the tied up governor, and then back at the Monkey King. “As I’m currently out of employment at the moment,” he said, “such an offer sounds lovely.” Then he picked the governor up and followed the Monkey King out the hole that hadn’t been there before he’d started yelling.

Tang noticed his confusion and always down to explain something said, “You probably didn’t notice during all the yelling but we made the hole. Oh and we already loaded a ton of loot onto the ship but we have to hurry if we want to escape before the navy gets here. The Monkey King wasn’t originally going to rob the party for anything more than a hostage until he met us. We made this plan last night right after you got the letter…”

Pigsy stared at him, “This was your plan?”

Tang shrugged as they dashed onto a ship. The Monkey king headed over to the steering wheel, while Tang grabbed the ropes for the sails. “Joining the Monkey King’s Pirate Crew!” grinned Tang unable to contain his excitement, “the best plan I’ve ever made!��

“Grabbing the governor was his idea,” said the Monkey King from above.

Pigsy sighed and dropped the governor down onto the side of the boat. “What are we going to do with him once we’ve outrun the navy?”

“Well I was thinking you could come up with that,” said Tang. “He’s been bothering you and all.”

That was why three months later the governor was found seven islands over standing in a line that tracked back throughout the city. When asked how he’d gotten there he’d turned pale and muttered something incoherent about pirates and noodles.

#monkie kid pirate au #monkie kid #Pigsy #Tang #monkie kid sun wukong #my fic

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