Character Study

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Branch

Ink Burns

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

This is a work of fanfiction, produced according to the principles of transformative fair use as put forward in US copyright law, and abiding by the custom and practice of fan-produced work in Japan, where the source texts were created. No author is in any way affiliated with any of the creators of the source texts, nor with the companies who distribute their products, nor any other rights holder, and these stories were not authorized by either the creators or the producers. Ink Burns is a fan site and the material here is freely provided for the enjoyment of fellow fan-community members; there is no commercial infringement.

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 US license at the Ink Burns fanfiction archive (http://www.branchandroot.net/archive/).

"Enough" published on 2004-01-14 21:15:10.

"Rosin" published on 2004-03-02 21:34:03.

"Insight" published on 2004-04-22 10:08:05.

"Hashira" published on 2004-05-08 14:12:48.

"Irregular" published on 2004-07-04 14:25:40.

"Credit" published on 2004-07-08 19:24:35.

"Dislocated" published on 2004-07-11 19:33:45.

"Assurance" published on 2004-08-26 12:12:17.

"Hageshii" published on 2004-12-13 17:53:47.

"Relational" published on 2005-11-15 15:51:08.

"Souvenirs" published on 2007-03-21 14:18:14.

"Negatives" published on 2007-03-26 14:20:43.

"Reconstruction" published on 2008-03-11 17:27:45.

"Elemental" published on 2008-10-05 21:45:57.

"Remember and Forget" published on 2008-10-05 22:08:17.

"Man of Mouth and Hands" published on 2008-10-05 22:17:13.

"Hearthfire" published on 2008-10-05 22:19:38.

"Fire and Gravel" published on 2008-10-30 17:07:36.

"Moments of Mind and Self" published on 2009-01-01 16:09:33.

"A Good Show" published on 2010-01-06 14:23:25.

"Silence That Is Incomprehensible" published on 2011-11-16 13:20:33.

"The Word Whose Appearance Is Multiple" published on 2011-11-30 13:13:13.

"(Not) Limited by Blood" published on 2011-07-31 22:22:24.

"Seven, Eight, Lay Them Straight" published on 2012-03-14 13:44:42.

"All Our Times Have Come" published on 2012-02-08 12:39:25.

"Taste of Steel" published on 2012-03-28 17:28:28.

"Stones In the Road" published on 2012-06-01 21:16:19.

"The Single Akashi Seijuurou" published on 2012-07-30 12:54:47.

"Twelve Views of Summer" published on 2012-08-05 17:01:22.

"Chrysanthemum Tea" published on 2012-08-22 14:22:51.

"Bright-line" published on 2012-10-17 12:40:16.

"Under One Sky" published on 2016-02-07 11:38:27.

"The Blood of Kings" published on 2016-03-05 18:17:58.

"The Yellow Season" published on 2017-06-29 17:04:01.

"The Wandering Fire" published on 2019-08-16 18:02:05.

"The Marriage of Lightning and the Lake" published on 2019-09-04 19:23:34.

Attributions can be made by author's name and a link to the archive.

This ebook edition was published on September 6, 2019 by the Ink Burns fanfiction archive.

Cover illustration is .

Cover design by Branch.

Enough

Ed in a temper, Roy feeling generous. Porn With Purple Insights, I-3.

Prelude

"Now, about young Elric."

Roy tensed invisibly, as General Hakuro paged through one of the folders on the desk he'd taken over for his inspection of East City headquarters.

"Is the boy always this... volatile?"

"What do you mean, General?" Roy asked evenly.

"According to this he burned down the mansion of the Governor of Ketal during an altercation when the Governor's guards found him trespassing."

"After which," Roy pointed out, "it was discovered that the Governor was using his mansion as a clearinghouse for an illegally developed alchemical substance."

Which substance, Roy reflected, was of great interest to the man who had taken over Gran's jurisdiction, however illegal the development process.

Hakuro eyed him. "Did you send him to do this?" he asked softly.

Roy was pleased to vent a perfectly honest laugh. "If I had, I very much doubt he would have arrived in the city any time this month."

"Elric-kun does not take orders well?" Hakuro translated.

Roy pursed his lips judiciously. "Someone with a gift for understatement might put it that way," he allowed.

"Hm. I see."

Roy certainly hoped so.

Hakuro shuffled his papers together and put Edward's folder at the bottom of the stack. Roy suppressed a sigh of relief.

"Very well. You are dismissed."

Roy made his way back to his own office, counting down the days until Hakuro would be off their hands again. Perhaps catching up on his correspondence would relax him.

No sooner had Roy settled down at his desk, though, than a slip of paper puffed into existence above it and fluttered down on top of his other papers. Roy read it, and snorted.

"Well, that should put the cap on everyone's day."

Lude

Ed stalked into the Colonel's office, slammed the door and flung himself down on the couch.

"That was quick," Mustang remarked.

Ed threw an arm over his face. "That Author has the worst timing! I swear she does it on purpose!"

"Headache?" Mustang inquired, sweetly.

Ed snarled.

He heard Roy rise and come around the desk, felt the couch dip as Roy settled beside him, but didn't look or move.

"Are you all right, Edward?"

"Just fine," Ed muttered. "Taisa."

"I'll take that as a no, then." Roy's hand passed over Ed's brow. Ed struck upward, with another snarl.

Roy caught it. Barely. "Edward, why are you here?"

Ed huffed.

"Just a bad mood, then?" Roy suggested.

Ed stared intently away from him.

"So. How is this, then. Just lie still."

Ed slanted a sideways look. "Just that?"

Roy leaned over him, one arm on the back of the couch. "Tell me if you want me to stop."

Ed had his suspicions about any offer Roy Mustang made that sounded like what he wanted. There had to be a catch. But he finally nodded grudging agreement.

Roy started tracing feather-light patterns across Ed's forehead. After a moment's struggle just for form's sake Ed let his eyes drift closed.

Roy's hands passed down his neck, over his shoulders, testing for tension and kneading it away. Ed pulled in deep breath and released it with a sigh. The soothing hands moved to his chest, and then his stomach. The muscles there quivered, and Ed gasped.

"Ssh," Roy whispered to him, "relax, Ed. There's nothing you need to do."

"Mmmh."

Gradually, under Roy's careful hands, Ed's entire body slackened. He lay back on the couch, almost floating except that gravity had such a very good hold on him.

Roy's deep voice spoke by his ear, smooth as his touch. "Tell me if you want me to stop. But there's something I want to show you, my hawk."

Roy's hands were undoing Ed's pants. Ed considered protesting, the remnants of his bad temper stirring, but he was relaxed now and didn't want to change that.

Roy's hands were warm and gentle and the heat of Roy's breath washed over his cock.

"Ahhh..."

Wet heat curled around him, closed over him like deep water. Ed felt entirely underwater, his movement slowed, even his reaction to Roy's mouth on him languid. He sighed and stretched into it as Roy's tongue burned paths up and down, slowly filling him with a heavy heat until it overflowed in long, deep waves.

Ed wallowed in a comfortable daze. He only roused from it when he realized that he was lying reclined against Roy's chest.

"Mmm."

"Feeling better?" There was a chuckle in Roy's voice.

"Mm."

Thought returned slowly. "What about you?" Ed asked.

"I'm fine."

Ed blinked a few times. He turned in Roy's arms to look up at him, puzzled. Roy returned one of his infuriating, unreadable, one-sided smiles, but was apparently inclined to take pity on all forms of Ed's frustration today. Roy cradled Ed's jaw in his hand.

"Perhaps you'll understand later. My lover's pleasure is enough for me, today. To see you so abandoned to pleasure that I brought you..." he kissed Ed, slowly, "...that's enough."

Ed gazed up at him, not knowing what expression might be on his own face.

"Why?"

Roy smiled and settled Ed more comfortably against him. "Rest. My hawk."

As Ed closed his eyes again, he heard Roy whisper, laughing faintly.

"...my fractious, cross-grained gyrfalcon."

End

Ed: Eh?

Roy: *winces* You weren't supposed to hear that.

Branch: For our readers, the significance of the gyrfalcon is documented at this handy site. Ed, don't look yet.

Rosin

Roy considers some of the difficulties of his relationship with Ed. Light Purple Drama, I-3.

"...that only leaves Ausred. Rumors say that the research center there has been reopened, but the Alchemist supposedly in charge is someone who's been dead for two years." Hawkeye passed her notes over to Roy.

"Hm." He paged through them. "None of my correspondents are in that area, are they?"

"No, sir, and few are in a good position to move from what Fury says." She narrowed her eyes in thought. "Taisa, what about Edward-kun? This is the kind of rumor he might reasonably have an interest in." Roy smiled.

"True enough. I believe he cleared out one of the storerooms, today, for experiments. Ask him to speak with me when he's done."

"Yes, sir."

Roy contemplated the Captain's solution as she left. It should work. Edward's interest would be unremarkable, and if anyone could kick the truth to the surface, it was his hunter.

His knowing, willing hunter.

It still surprised Roy that Edward had given himself to Roy's cause. He knew Edward was uncomfortable with what Roy meant to do, but he hadn't truly expected even tolerance. The most he had hoped for was Edward's silence after he left. His long familiarity with Edward's steel sense of ethics had not led him to expect the young man to condone cold-blooded murder. Edward's offer of allegiance had both comforted and worried him.

On his darker nights, Roy wondered if Edward had confused desire for his lover with approval for his leader.

It had not surprised him, at the beginning, that Edward had let Roy take him to bed. Roy knew perfectly well that he was a skilled lover, and he had been careful with Edward. Careful not to alarm or completely overwhelm him. Careful not to let their time in bed affect their relationship at work. Too much. And despite Edward's occasional grumbles about how no contract was worth putting up with Roy's ego, it was clear that Edward was enjoying their liaison.

If he had know, then, where it would lead them Roy might have chosen to break the contract himself.

Because it had all become tangled. The unthinking purity of Edward's response to him had drawn Roy, bound him to Ed more tightly than any other lover ever had. And the more he had seen of that bright spirit, the closer he had come, the more he had found himself relaxing into Ed's trust. He knew that it was not a good idea to relax, and still couldn't seem to stop himself.

At the start, eight years ago, Edward's sense of rightness had been a useful extra. Roy had used him as a dowsing rod, to tell where corruption had spread. Half the time just giving Edward his head had solved the problem, too.

So why hadn't Edward rejected the cold expediency of Roy's plans? Roy couldn't deny that Edward's acceptance had soothed him, comforted him with a gut-level assurance that what he did was right. He had spent too long contemplating the dirtiness of his own methods to accept that comfort easily, but Roy had come to rely on it more than he knew he should.

Had Edward's trust of Roy's touch led him to trust Roy's integrity? Was that all that had led him to it?

Could Roy really face drawing back, if that was what it took to leave his hunter's judgment unimpaired?

Roy started a bit when a knock sounded at his door, followed by Edward himself.

"Taisa, Hawkeye-taii said you wanted to see me."

Roy held out his hand. Edward tilted his head, curiously, but crossed the room and let Roy pull him down to a kiss.

"Should I have locked the door behind me?" Edward asked against Roy's lips, sounding amused. Roy didn't answer. He drew back to look at Edward, grateful that the afternoon sun would be in Ed's eyes and he wouldn't see the uncertainty in Roy's.

"May I hold you for a little while, my hawk?" he asked softly. Ed looked at him wordlessly for a moment, perhaps a bit taken aback, but settled into Roy's arms willingly enough. Roy suppressed a shiver as Ed casually rested his cheek against Roy's hair.

The thought of letting go, permanently, affected him with something uncomfortably like panic. Roy didn't like losing control that way, but he had yet to see any solution. For now he simply bore with it, and hoped a solution would present itself in time.

He leaned his head against Ed's shoulder and closed his eyes.

End

Title Note: Rosin is powdered pine sap (fir, I believe). It is used, among other things, on the bows of stringed instruments to provide the right amount of friction against the strings. Without this it is far more difficult to control the sound and shape it into accurate or complex music.

Insight

Tezuka introspective. Drama, I-3

He knew that no one among his peers was credited with greater insight into his opponents than Atobe Keigo. It was a justified reputation. But Atobe concentrated on the physical, and tended to ignore the signs of character that the ball wrote on the face of a racquet. It was the weakness in his strength, because those signs were the ones that told whether a player would or could go beyond his physical limits.

He found it strange that Atobe ignored this when he was one of those people himself.

But, then, Atobe had had years to get used to the idea that he didn't need to know, that it would never matter, that no one could overtake him no matter how they drove themselves. Old habits were hard to change. No one had driven Atobe, or shown him in the language of his own body how much it could matter.

No one until himself.

And, to his credit, Atobe did watch him for those signs of the intangible, now, when they played. Not that he made it terribly difficult, he supposed. Nothing was very concealed when he played Atobe. When they faced each other the fronts ripped away, Atobe's affectations and his own reserve both burned to glittering ash in the heat of their contest. He knew it was what kept them both coming back for another unofficial match every few months, carefully stepping around ever having to inform their coaches, for almost three years now.

Sometimes he wondered if Atobe realized just how much of himself he showed, when they played.

Perhaps it still didn't occur to Atobe that his opponent would see. He knew his own style was somewhat deceptive. It appeared that he forced the game onto his terms, that it was simply the fine extent of his control that caused each ball to come to him as if called. But it was more than control; it was also understanding. He learned the language that the ball spoke to his racquet, and spoke it back, and the ball heeded. But the ball was only a carrier, in the end. The language he had to learn each time, listening through his hands, was that of his opponent.

Atobe's language was both raw and sleek. There was fury in the power of his techniques, and malice in the way he held his hand until the most overwhelming moment so that he could crush those who dared stand against him, those who dared try to stop him. He used his strength as a bludgeon, and his speed to confuse, and his arrogance to infuriate. Where some balls sang against the strings his screamed.

And when someone sent that scream back, proved that he had heard it, Atobe's eyes brightened and his smile turned hungry and true.

Tezuka Kunimitsu knew why he kept coming back. It was to hear a desperation and hope and frustrated rage that matched his own.

Sometimes he wondered whether Atobe saw that, too.

End

Hashira

Some conversation, courtside, about what it means to be Seigaku's pillar. Drama, I-2, anime continuity

Kikumaru Eiji liked it when his team was relaxed. Which meant he didn't like it much when scouts came sniffing around the school courts. They ogled the Regulars and distracted everyone else, and Tezuka was more stringent than usual about proper behavior when they were around. Today, in addition to the usual sleek looking scout, smiling over his business cards like a poker shark with a winning hand, was someone who looked like a team manager; and that meant Ryuuzaki-sensei was with them, ready to pounce on any lapse Tezuka might miss.

Personally, Eiji thought they could all do without the distraction, with a bare week to go before Nationals, but nobody had asked him, so he just sidled around the other side of Oishi and tried not to twitch whenever the scout looked his way.

"Fuji-senpai." Echizen's voice was low, but rather sharp, and Eiji looked to see what was annoying Ochibi this time.

"Yes, Echizen?" Fuji asked, cheerful smile firmly in place. Echizen narrowed his eyes before spinning on his heel and stalking back to serve. A very hard serve, Eiji noted, that Fuji returned rather lightly. Ah, that was it. Fuji was in a mood to tease, and wasn't playing for real.

It wasn't that Eiji didn't understand the urge, because ruffling Ochibi's feathers was amusing, but Tezuka was probably going to be annoyed as soon as he noticed. Eiji craned around to check on their captain's whereabouts, and winced. Not only was he already watching Fuji and Echizen's match, the scout and manager were right next to him along with Ryuuzaki-sensei. Tezuka never approved of his players messing around, and the fact that Fuji was toying with Ochibi in front of outsiders wouldn't make him any happier. To Eiji's surprise, though, Tezuka merely folded his arms and watched silently. Ryuuzaki-sensei, after a long glance at him, tucked her hands in her pockets and didn't interfere.

"Ah, is that Seigaku's incredible first-year that we've heard so much about?" the scout asked, brightly. "He's very good, to play a game like that against a third year."

Eiji winced some more.

The manager only grunted, watching the match almost as narrowly as Tezuka. Fuji let Echizen have the second game, too, and Eiji expected Ochibi to be steaming and, possibly, to pull out a Drive A or two just to make it clear how pissed off he was. It was obviously the day for surprises, though, and maybe Ochibi was growing up a little, because as the serve came back to him he looked up with a smile, bright eyed.

"That's enough, Fuji-senpai," he stated, and served straight for Fuji's racquet. With no excuse to let that one escape, Fuji turned his racquet out and returned very lightly, as if he'd been surprised. Quite calmly, Echizen aimed straight on again. Just as if, Eiji realized, he were practicing against a wall. He covered a grin as Fuji's eyes glinted and he returned full strength to the corner. Echizen practically materialized behind the ball, smile brighter than ever.

Eiji could almost hear Fuji's sigh as he finally gave in to Ochibi's enthusiasm, and the game suddenly vaulted onto another level. When he looked around to check reactions Ryuuzaki-sensei was smirking, Tezuka had a very faint smile, and the scout's jaw was hanging open.

The manager laid a hand on the fence, chuckling.

"Seigaku's pillar, eh?" he said, softly. And then he turned a sharp eye on Tezuka. "The next one."

Eiji wasn't the only one blinking in surprise.

"How...?" Oishi started, and paused. The manager seemed to understand what he wanted to ask.

"I went to school here," he told them. "Katsuki Toshiki, pleased to meet you." Everyone murmured greetings back, sounding just a little dazed that this outsider in their midst... wasn't.

"Every school has its imprint," Katsuki-san continued, easily. "That's part of ours. Has been for years. "

"How long?" Oishi murmured, a bit wondering, glancing at Ryuuzaki-sensei Everyone in hearing distance followed his example.

"What are you looking at me for?" she asked, amused. "That's always been the business of the team itself. Besides, I only came here a year or two before Katsuki did."

"Oh, yeah, we all thought it was such great luck, having a beautiful woman as a coach," Katsuki-san said, suddenly grinning wickedly. "Then we found out what she was really like."

Eiji nearly choked, trying not to laugh, as Katsuki-san ducked the swat Ryuuzaki-sensei aimed at him.

"Nothing but insolent brats in this job," she mock-grumbled.

"Ah, no wonder she deals so well with Ochibi; she had practice," Eiji observed, glancing away innocently as Ryuuzaki-sensei skewered a glare in his direction. His partner gave him a more effectively quelling look.

"He does have a good deal in common with some that I remember," their coach allowed, relenting.

"Not that much, Sensei " Katsuki-san said, watching the ongoing match again. "I know you had hopes for him, and Echizen Nanjirou was an incredible player. Singles One both his second and third years. Never lost. But he could never have led the team, much less been our core. This one, he has what it takes." He glanced at Tezuka. "And you've been letting him learn that he has it, haven't you Tezuka-kun?"

"You were captain while you were here." Tezuka stated it as a fact, not looking away from the match. Katsuki-san nodded.

"I've seen Fuji Shuusuke play a few times, and I wondered why you didn't say anything. You knew Ryouma could get him to play seriously."

It was Tezuka's turn to nod. Eiji, once again, had to increase his estimation of their captain's potential sneakiness. Really, it was no wonder he and Fuji got along. Katsuki-san sighed.

"That's exactly what Nanjirou never had. It wasn't just that he didn't care about the team. It was almost as though he didn't really understand the game. There was no real rapport between him and his opponents. I'm sorry, Ryuuzaki-sensei," he looked at his old teacher, "but I never believed he could go all the way. He didn't have the spirit."

Ryuuzaki-sensei shrugged a little. "You win some and you lose some. It's true for teachers as well as players."

Kachirou, who Eiji had always considered the sharpest of Ochibi's cheering section, approached a bit tentatively.

"Do you mean Ryouma-kun really will be able to beat his dad in tennis?" he asked. Katsuki-san bent a narrow eye on Echizen's game.

"I think so." And then he smiled down at Kachirou. "You've probably seen it. When he plays a challenging opponent, I bet he lights up. And if he needs to, he finds some way over or under or around whatever's in his way."

Everyone smiled or laughed, and Eiji had to agree, that was exactly what Ochibi did. Kachirou nodded, shyly.

"And when that happens, he draws people along with him, doesn't he?" Katsuki-san asked. "His opponents, his own team, everybody."

On the court, Echizen delivered a smash that should, by rights, have been unreturnable. Fuji caught it, threw it back, waited for the return, eyes sparkling.

"That's what it means to be Seigaku's pillar, the center of the team. Not always the team's leader, though it's easiest when it happens that way," Katsuki-san shot a glance at Tezuka, "but the core that lifts the whole up. That's what my own captain taught me, and it's what I tried to pass on."

Eiji suddenly remembered that this man was a team manager, here on a scouting trip, and wondered just how susceptible Tezuka was to flattery. True flattery, certainly, but somehow Eiji didn't think it was an accident that this explanation was taking place right where Tezuka would hear every word. He also didn't think he imagined the silent offer of a team that would understand what drove Tezuka, and value it.

"Echizen will do well," Tezuka said, evenly, "provided he doesn't get careless."

Katsuki-san looked at their captain for a long moment before turning to Ryuuzaki-sensei.

"Some you lose. And then, some you win, don't you? I think we're done here, today, Sensei Thank you for letting us intrude." Katsuk-san gripped his scout's wrist before the man could produce the usual handful of business cards.

"Not at all," their coach murmured with a small smile, and led her guests off, the scout protesting under his breath. A subtle edge of stiffness left Tezuka's shoulders, and Eiji felt Oishi's silent sigh beside him.

Eiji grinned, watching Fuji and Echizen come off the court, Fuji laughing quietly as Echizen smirked up at him and told him he'd never keep Singles Two playing like that. Eiji bounced a little on his toes and trotted to meet them.

"Fujiko-chan," he called, "play a match with me next, now that Ochibi-chan's worn you out for me!"

He liked it when his team was relaxed.

End

Irregular

Jackal and Marui on a hot afternoon, and Jackal's attempts to convince his partner to take it easy. Porn With Characterization, I-4, manga continuity

It was a hot afternoon, on the kind of day that encouraged sensible people to lounge around in as little clothing as could be arranged and drink things with a lot of ice. Accordingly, Jackal Kuwahara had abandoned all clothing but his favorite pair of worn, cotton shorts, settled in front of a fan with a pitcher of ice water handy nearby, and watched with amusement as his partner made a spirited attempt to stab his textbook to death with a pencil.

No one who knew him would call Bunta particularly sensible.

"It's absolutely ridiculous!" Bunta declared, with a last vindictive jab. "I mean, look at this! I could deal with irregulars that came in groups, but why can't mourir act like ouvrir? They end the same; they sound the same; they should act the same! Why did I think Romance Languages were a good idea?"

"Last week," Jackal noted, "you said you liked the way they sounded." He refilled both their glasses. Bunta accepted his back, absently, and sipped without looking away from the page.

"I do," he said. "They sound soft, but they have such a nice, broad rhythm to them. I like that. But it's no excuse for this!"

Jackal shook his head, caught between a sigh and a laugh. When Bunta was in a mood to be unreasonable one just had to let him vent until he got it out of his system. Sometimes, though, the process could be hastened with a little provocation.

"I'm told that it's much easier going in this direction then for, say, a native speaker of French to learn Japanese," he observed.

At that, Bunta looked up with a flash of teeth. "Ha! As if!"

Jackal chuckled. His partner in a high temper was always worth watching. Animation brightened the dawn-colored eyes, and curved his mouth in a razor sharp grin. Bunta knew perfectly well what Jackal was doing, of course, but he rarely turned down the opening. It was one of the reasons Jackal found his partner endlessly entertaining; his dramatics were always perfectly sincere and entirely deliberate, at the same time.

"You have to admit, Japanese not only has irregular verbs, but often completely different words for a single object," Jackal prodded, perfectly straight-faced.

"That," Bunta declared, "is all according to rules. Sensible, consistent rules. There's no consistency to this mess!" He paused, and cocked his head at Jackal. "Is it?" he asked.

Jackal blinked at him. That leap had gone by a bit fast. "Is what?"

"Is it easier going the other way?"

Jackal shrugged. "My family always spoke both Portuguese and Japanese. I wouldn't know."

Bunta growled, and dropped his pencil, flopping onto his back on the floor. Jackal took pity on him.

"So, assuming Seigaku keeps winning, who do you think we'll come up against next time we play them?" he asked.

Bunta's expression smoothed into something more serious, and Jackal smiled. Bunta got impatient with simple memorization, but give him an analytical problem to sink his teeth into and he focused right down.

"I wouldn't be all that surprised if they set Oishi and Kikumaru against us, trusting to Kikumaru to get past me instead of trying to counter you at all," he said, narrowing his eyes at the ceiling. "They might also pull out their wild card and pair Fuji with someone. Maybe that power player Yanagi says they have; the one that didn't play last time."

"Kawamura," Jackal supplied.

"Him," Bunta agreed. "They've relied on their singles players, this year, over doubles, but I doubt they'll be happy leaving the pattern from last time intact and relying completely on singles to win. Not now that we know how strong they are in singles. And their lineup there will be changing, just like ours; they'll trust that part of the pattern to hold, I'd bet. It has this long. But they haven't come this far by being complacent, either. They'll want to take at least one doubles match, and I expect we're the pair they'll focus on beating, considering that we're more predictable than Hiroshi and Niou."

Jackal snorted. There were hurricanes more predictable than those two, together. Bunta laughed. And then his eyes turned distant.

"Pattern," he murmured. "Changing content to maintain the pattern..." He abruptly sat bolt upright and started leafing through his textbook. Jackal relaxed, and crunched on some ice, and waited.

"Ha!" Bunta exclaimed. "It is! It's preserving the sound pattern!" He beamed at the somewhat ragged book, pulled over some paper and started scribbling. Jackal held off asking until Bunta paused to blow a bubble over his work, something he never did when he was genuinely frustrated.

"Problem solved?" he inquired, mildly.

"Yep," Bunta declared. "The irregular forms change to keep the overall sound combinations consistent, instead of the particular conjugations. Now it makes sense."

Jackal shook his head and left his partner to his industry, though he did shift the fan so that it blew over both of them. After almost two hours, however, broken only by intermittent pleased noises and a few particularly satisfied bubbles from Bunta, he decided enough was enough. Bunta showed all the signs of skipping dinner and their evening practice, both, if Jackal didn't pull him back from the realm of linguistic discovery soon.

Of course, pulling Bunta out of an intellectual spree could be just as difficult as pulling him out of an interesting game.

Bait was often helpful.

Accordingly, Jackal rose and came around behind his partner, and closed his hands over Bunta's shoulders, digging his thumbs into the knots his partner got between his shoulder blades when he sat over a book for too long like this. Bunta flexed his shoulders back into Jackal's grip, making yet more pleased sounds, but his attention didn't stray very far.

"You should take a break, Bunta," Jackal told him, applying a little more force to a persistent knot.

"Ah! Mmmm," Bunta said. The inexperienced might have taken it for agreement; Jackal knew better. He heaved a sigh. Extreme measures it was, then.

Not that he objected all that strenuously, to be honest.

Bunta squawked with surprise, as Jackal scooped his partner up in his arms and stood.

"All right, all right, I heard you the first time!" Bunta protested, focusing on Jackal at last. "I'll take a break."

"You will now," Jackal agreed, serenely. "I had something a little more than a break in mind, though."

Bunta's brows rose and he gave Jackal an arch look from half-lidded eyes. "Did you, now?" he murmured.

For the first little while he and Jackal had worked together, the... firmness with which Jackal interrupted him when he felt Bunta was focusing too hard on something had rather taken Bunta aback. He'd never really worked with anyone who felt that his flares of intense focus were anything but good. Jackal disagreed, and, unless they were actually in a real match, was perfectly willing to transport his partner, bodily, to attend to the things Bunta sometimes lost track of. Appointments, meals, sleep, little things.

Jackal was also perfectly unscrupulous about taking advantage of Bunta's weak points to make him rest. One of those weak points was that Bunta loved the feeling of Jackal's hands on him. Jackal had magnificent hands, large and long fingered, deft and strong, they went perfectly with the rest of his body.

Bunta liked the feeling of Jackal's body against his, too, but it was the stroke of his hands, over Bunta's stomach, curving around his ribs, sliding up his back and down his arms, that lodged a lazy purr in the back of Bunta's throat. He arched back over Jackal's hands, in a sensual stretch, as his partner straddled him and lifted him up to meet Jackal's body leaning over his.

"You're so impossible to budge, sometimes, Bunta," Jackal said against his neck, reaching to fish out one of the tubes they both kept stashed about their rooms, these days.

"As if you have room to talk," Bunta sighed, less indignantly than he'd intended. "You're the most stubborn person I've ever known."

"Completely in self defense," Jackal answered, a bit muffled against Bunta's shoulder.

It was difficult to scoff as such an assertion deserved when Jackal's hands were on Bunta's thighs, thumbs stroking the soft inner skin, moving, warm, between his legs and then between his cheeks. "Jackal," Bunta breathed, as those long fingers slid into him. Considering how content Jackal was to let Bunta call the pace of their games, he did tend to... press the pace in bed. Of course, Bunta had to admit, analysis was at far less of a premium, here, than it was when they faced opponents across the net.

Here, Jackal's quiet, sure action folded around Bunta as powerfully as his partner's arms, whispering to him to trust Jackal's strength in a different way. And, after all, the question at the back of those steady, brushed steel eyes always waited for Bunta's acceptance. Jackal's fingers quirked, wringing a gasp from Bunta as fire bloomed through him, and he wound his arms around Jackal's neck, pulling him down.

"Jackal," he breathed, lips curving against his partner's ear. "Fuck me."

The rumble of Jackal's laugh shivered through him, and Bunta was still smiling when Jackal's hand lifted his chin and Jackal's mouth covered his. And then the room whirled as Jackal pulled him upright, and back against Jackal's chest. Those powerful hands stroked up Bunta's thighs, spread over Jackal's, and up his chest, pressing him back into Jackal's body behind him. Bunta arched in Jackal's hold, sighing as Jackal's hands settled on his hips, stilling him.

The feeling of Jackal thrusting into him, deep and hard, drove a moan up Bunta's throat. He flexed back to meet his partner, as Jackal's hands moved again, one sliding up Bunta's stomach, leaving warm shivers in its wake, and the other slipping between his legs. Bunta glanced down and smiled. There was the aesthetic appreciation of the dark skin against light, of course. More, there was pleasure at watching that deft touch closing around him.

Bunta liked feeling Jackal fill him, liked the stretch and heat, liked it smooth and fast and hard, and that was the way Jackal always moved. He also liked seeing Jackal touch him, liked being able to watch the care as well as feel the strength with which Jackal handled him.

And Jackal always handled him with strength.

Bunta spilled onto knees and elbows as Jackal shifted forward, lifted Bunta's hips up to meet his as he drove into Bunta harder, faster, and Bunta cried out as Jackal's grip around his cock tightened, pleasure squeezing his nerves just as tight. It was hot and rough, and he rode the wave of it with as much abandon as Jackal was riding him.

The crest dropped them both, panting, in a tangle on the bed, and it was a little while before they managed to extricate themselves from one another, pausing every so often to laugh at each other's contortions to avoid the wet spot. The finally reached an equitable arrangement lying at right angles, with Bunta's head pillowed on Jackal's stomach where Jackal could comb his fingers through Bunta's damp hair.

"And here I thought you said the best thing to do on a hot day is lie still," Bunta remarked, yawning. Jackal's stomach moving under him almost made him laugh as well.

"I know you, Bunta," Jackal told him. "I needed to wear you out if I want you to take a rest."

Bunta smiled. His partner was one of the only people who could keep up with him long enough to wear him out, and it would have irritated him if Jackal hadn't been both caring and matter-of-fact about using that advantage. Altogether, though, Bunta was very pleased with the partner fate had dealt him, and put up with Jackal's stubborn streak with what he, personally, thought was commendable grace.

It certainly paid some significant dividends, he reflected, stretching muscles that tingled in the aftermath of Jackal's attentions.

"Does that mean you'll stay still and be my pillow for a while?" he asked, turning on his side so he could look at his partner.

Jackal's mouth curved in a wry grin. "Sure."

Quite significant dividends, Bunta thought, as he closed his eyes and let himself drift off.

End

Credit

This story takes place in a quantum bubble of the Challengeverse (maybe it happened, maybe it didn't), immediately following "The Continuation of War". Tezuka offers Oishi some support after his very bad day. Porn with Characterization, I-3

It had not been a relaxing day for Oishi Shuichirou.

To be sure, practice wasn't normally somewhere he relaxed. But today had had more than its fair share of stress. On top of the general run of keeping the team focused, there was the vastly increased problem of keeping them focused on actually practicing against Rikkai instead of attempting to one-up the other team. The attitudes of the Rikkai players had not helped in the least.

No, that wasn't fair, Shuichirou told himself. The attitudes of their singles players were really quite reasonable, even Kirihara's. Of course, very few people gave Tezuka attitude for long once they had played against him. Well, very few people, aside from Echizen, who gave absolutely everybody attitude, and could actually be considered becomingly respectful, by comparison, for moderating the back talk he gave his captain.

But he was wandering from the subject. The subject was the doubles players, and specifically that Niou character. His partner, at least, had seemed vaguely remorseful about knocking Eiji unconscious, but Niou had brushed it off. Shuichirou felt his teeth grinding, and made himself stop. Again.

He didn't lose his temper very often, but he would have this afternoon. Not even over a direct offense, either, no, it had been the crack about Niou's own captain that had been the last straw, and Shuichirou would have exploded, if Tezuka hadn't noticed. The hand on his shoulder had startled him out of what Shuichirou was guiltily aware was an irrational anger, and the silent support of Tezuka at his back had given him the moment of calm to take a good deep breath and not yell.

It didn't particularly surprise him that Tezuka had quietly fallen in beside him when they all left. He knew Tezuka worried when Shuichirou lost his cool, and he had to admit that the company was welcome, now. Tezuka's company in private, where their long familiarity let him relax his usual reserve and show himself to Shuichirou more openly, would be especially welcome.

At his gate he looked a question at Tezuka and received a tiny smile back. Tezuka would come in for a while, then.

Up in his room he let his bags thump to the floor, and leaned his hands on his desk, blowing out a long sigh.

"I'm sorry about that, Tezuka," he said. "You shouldn't have to deal with me acting immature, on top of everything else..."

Tezuka's hands closing over his shoulders stopped him.

"Enough," the deep voice behind him said, quietly. "No one can keep a perfect temper all the time."

"Except you?" Shuichirou murmured, ruefully.

"I'm just a little better at putting it off until later."

Shuichirou sighed again, more softly, as Tezuka's thumbs stroked down his neck, coaxing away a little of the day's tension.

"I shouldn't need you to make allowances for me," he insisted, though.

Tezuka pulled Shuichirou around and into his arms. "I said, enough," he warned, the warmth and amusement in his eyes belying his stern tone. "You let yourself be more open than I do, and have the problems that go with that. Why should I be unwilling to help you with the problems when the openness is exactly what I need? Both in my vice-captain and in my friend."

Shuichirou leaned against his friend and rested his forehead on Tezuka's shoulder, smiling just a little. They'd had this conversation often enough that he knew he wouldn't win it. Nor did he really want to. He just couldn't help saying so, when he felt as if he was taking advantage of Tezuka's strength. He saw enough of Tezuka's honest emotion and response to know that, while the strength in question was impressive, it wasn't limitless. Tezuka always insisted that it was a more than even trade, though. And, to be honest himself, Shuichirou always relaxed quickly with the reassurance of Tezuka's arms around him.

"Better?" Tezuka asked.

"Yes," Shuichirou laughed. "Better. Thank you."

"No need." Tezuka freed one hand to lift Shuichirou's chin. "Shuichirou."

Hearing Tezuka's dark velvet voice wrapped around his name always made Shuichirou shiver, and his lips were already parted on a quick breath when Tezuka's mouth covered his. The heat wound its way into his bones, and Shuichirou moaned softly. Tezuka kissed him deep and swift, again and again, the way he kissed when he wanted to lay Shuichirou down and open his legs and touch him until he was incapable of thinking.

Tezuka seemed to especially enjoy that last part.

Shuichirou pressed against Tezuka's body, offering his assent, and went willingly when Tezuka's hands guided him down to the bed. Long fingers flicked open his shirt and pants, as Tezuka's lips traced down his neck.

Opened them, but didn't pull them off.

"Tezuka," Shuichirou murmured, shifting under him. It always made him feel a little more... wanton when Tezuka touched him without undressing him first. As if what they were doing was more urgent, even when they went slowly. As if the presence of clothing somehow emphasized how undone and open it was. How undone and open he was, under Tezuka's hands.

Tezuka's fingers stroking his chest were a silent question; Tezuka knew that he was hesitant, sometimes, about this. But it excited him, too, and his hand over Tezuka's, moving it down, was an equally silent answer. Tezuka's lips curved against his throat.

One warm, strong hand slipped into his open pants, closing around him, and Shuichirou gasped, pressing up into it. Tezuka stroked him firmly, mouth tracking over Shuichirou's shoulders, pushing his shirt further off, before wandering down his stomach. Shuichirou shuddered as Tezuka's hands slid down his hips, pushing his pants a little further down even as Tezuka's legs spread his apart.

Tezuka paused, kneeling above him, hands resting on the arch of his hipbones.

"Tezuka?" Shuichirou asked, breathless.

"Your strength is part of your magnificence, Shuichirou," Tezuka said, voice low. "Never doubt that I find you magnificent."

Shuichirou's breath caught in his throat, and Tezuka's smile acknowledged both the flush that heated Shuichirou's cheeks and the wonder that softened his eyes. Tezuka leaned down to kiss him, once, softly.

And then the heat of his mouth closed over Shuichirou's cock, and Shuichirou's thoughts were washed under the abrupt surge of tense pleasure. His senses took over the moment, filling his mind with the rough brush and bind of cloth against his skin, the press of Tezuka's fingers, the sleek, wet glide of his tongue, demanding reaction from Shuichirou's nerves, stroking liquid heat down them until Shuichirou couldn't help but answer those demands with long, deep shudders of pleasure that raked through his body and took away with them his ability to move.

Not, he reflected, a little lightheaded, that this was all that different from the results of Tezuka's demands on the court.

Fingers brushed against his cheek, and Tezuka laughed, softly, that rich sound that so few ever heard.

"You certainly look more relaxed, now," he commented.

Shuichirou looked up at him and smiled. "So do you," he said, quite truthfully. The bittersweet-brown eyes were warm, the faint pinch between the brows was gone, and Tezuka's mouth was gentler than anyone but Shuichirou probably ever saw it. He drew Tezuka down to lie against him, tangling his fingers in soft, springy hair.

"Rest a little," Shuichirou suggested. "You had a long day, too."

"Mmm," Tezuka agreed, winding an arm around Shuichirou. "Good idea. Especially," and the deep voice took on a hint of teasing as it breathed in Shuichirou's ear, "since you'll need your rest later."

Shuichirou flushed again, abruptly aware of his still rumpled condition, and felt more than heard Tezuka's suppressed chuckles.

"Tezuka!" he laughed.

End

Dislocated

Immediately after "The Continuation of War", Yanagi and Inui finally get around to talking about how they parted. Drama With Romance, I-4

As the Rikkai team made their way back to their bus, Renji found himself pausing for one more look back toward Seigaku's courts. He had, perhaps unwisely, let himself be drawn into playing a second doubles match, today, this one against Yagyuu and Niou.

As a pair with Sadaharu.

They had both evolved over the years, of course, but they had also watched each other do so, and, while their particular moves had changed, their coordination was achingly familiar. He had read descriptions of how it felt to have a dislocated joint realigned, and, from what he recalled, it sounded remarkably like what he had felt this afternoon: a sharp pain accompanied by a hard wrench and a sudden feeling of rightness. Despite his distraction by such contradictory feelings, which he suspected Sadaharu shared, they had won.

Actually, Niou's expression of indignation when they did had been rather amusing.

And despite his own knowledge, well borne out, now, that both of them played better in singles than in doubles, he found himself reminded of something he missed. Perhaps, he thought, whimsically, the first doubles partner one really had rapport with was like first love; it always had a special place.

"Renji?"

He started, and looked around to see Seiichi smiling at him, sympathy in his eyes.

"Do you want to stay a little longer?" Seiichi asked, gently.

"I don't..." Renji broke off. For the life of him, he couldn't say whether he wanted to or not.

Seiichi shook his head at Renji, and reached up to take his shoulder and shake him lightly. "You need to settle this, Renji. If nothing else, until you do you'll be vulnerable to the same kind of shock he gave you last time."

Having a solid reason to go along with his ephemeral ones made Renji feel better about the prospect, and he smiled back, bowing his head to the knowledge that lurked in Seiichi's gaze.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"Don't be foolish," Genichirou said from behind him, hand warm on Renji's back. "We'll be waiting for you when you get back."

Renji knew without looking that Genichirou's expression was softer than his tone, and nodded.

After waving his teammates onto the bus, and thinking a little, Renji stationed himself five and a half blocks away from the school, under a handy chestnut tree. It should be far enough that anyone Sadaharu might walk with would have turned off already.

When Sadaharu appeared, and spotted Renji waiting there, his mouth took on a very satisfied quirk, by which Renji deduced that Sadaharu had predicted this turn of events.

"Renji," Sadaharu greeted him, just a touch smug.

"Sadaharu," Renji returned, suppressing a chuckle and falling in beside his old friend. "Do you have your room on separate environmental control yet?"

Sadaharu waved a hand. "I'm waiting until fall for that; my schedule is too irregular in summer to get good results."

One of the things he had missed, Renji reflected, was someone who genuinely took Renji's informedness completely for granted.

"Will that give you results in time for this year's Exposition?"

"The baseline will be a little short, but the lower number of variables will make the entire study much cleaner."

"That must be a pleasant break from the data you deal with all summer," Renji murmured.

Sadaharu shot him a sidelong look. "Data that changes makes an equally pleasant challenge," he countered. Renji smiled.

Sadaharu was a scientist to the core, and had a true scientist's drive to constantly improve and adjust his models. It was a good thing, because otherwise, Renji was convinced, the frustration of attempting to map such stubborn imponderables as human performance in a game like tennis would have driven him mad within six months. The fact remained that Sadaharu was a scientist and looked for patterns that were stable.

When dealing with people, one had to look for patterns that moved, as well.

"And you?" Sadaharu needled. "Still cluttering your mind with the latest novels by Touma Shigure?"

Renji chuckled. "Much of history is written by storytellers," he pointed out. "Comparing a contemporary story to contemporary events allows me to recognize the patterns of reinterpretation when I seem them in historical accounts."

Sadaharu sniffed.

"Oh, come now," Renji sighed. "Don't pretend you don't know the value of including emotional elements in calculations. Not when you demonstrated it so very well at the Regional finals."

"That was different," Sadaharu insisted, as he opened his front door and waved Renji inside.

"How?"

"That was you. It was personal."

Renji paused in toeing off his shoes to cast an exasperated look over his shoulder. For all his finickiness over his data, Sadaharu was as capable as the next person of fuzzy logic when it suited him.

"The most objective observation is always personal for someone, Sadaharu," he admonished. "The observer always has a reason for observing."

Sadaharu, too, paused, in the act of opening the door to his room. He gave Renji a crooked smile.

"You really will make an excellent professor," he said, echoing their childhood nicknames.

"So will you," Renji observed, closing the door behind him. "We'll just be in different departments."

This time Sadaharu stopped dead in the middle of the room, a soft, surprised laugh escaping him. Renji remembered that this was what they used to say to each other when they made plans to work at the same university when they grew up. And to move in together, getting a nice, big apartment in...

"Shiodome," they said, together, and were both still for a moment, looking at each other through a tangle of memory and dreams so dense that Renji felt it like a knot in his chest. He thought about his comparison of first partners with first loves, and reflected that Sadaharu was probably both to him.

It was Sadaharu who broke the moment, turning to his desk to set down his bag. He had always been the one less comfortable with interpersonal nuances. Renji accepted the tacit request to change the subject and went to take a look at the bookcase. The Yukawa and Kaku were expected; the Kurzweil was a bit of a surprise, and he adjusted his assumptions about Sadaharu's English proficiency to reflect it.

He had to stifle a laugh at the two novels by Touma Shigure.

But he did wonder about the couple of notebooks marked Recipes. "Sadaharu?" he asked, brushing his fingers over the spines.

"Ah," Sadaharu said, pulling one out, "a little in the way of biochemistry."

Renji raised his brows. Sadaharu flipped the book open and handed it to him with a faint smile. He read over the lists of ingredients and effects, brows climbing even higher at the recorded effects on other people. When he reached the section titled Penal-Tea he couldn't help himself and burst out laughing until he had to lean against the shelves.

"Sadaharu! You didn't!"

"It operates as a very reliable motivator," Sadaharu said, serenely, only the evil curl to his smile giving him away.

Renji shook his head. "You and your sense of humor," he mock lamented. "Niou was entirely correct about you." He ruffled a hand through Sadaharu's hair, unthinking, and they both froze.

Their old gesture, just as automatic as the old names. Just as easy. Just as hurtful, now.

Sadaharu snatched a deep breath and backed up to sit on his bed, head bent.

"Renji." The low voice was huskier than usual. "Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?"

"I didn't want to think about it," Renji told him.

"And?" Sadaharu prodded, still low but harder now.

"Your tone tells me you already know," Renji hedged. He knew he was avoiding the point, but to speak of it now would make the pain new again, and wasn't once enough?

"Tell me," Sadaharu insisted, roughly.

"And when I did think about," Renji admitted, eventually, "I thought that it would push you away from doubles, and into singles. Where you belong." He could see the muscles along Sadaharu's jaw standing out, and he didn't want to say the next thing, but Sadaharu had asked.

"And I was right," he finished, softly.

Sadaharu's mouth tightened, and he nodded, a little stiffly. "You were always better at people," he said, flat and toneless. "It was a good move, for our games."

Both statements were completely truthful, and made Renji's heart feel like lead. He had known what he was doing, then, but he hadn't understood what it would mean, and he couldn't leave the results to lie where they had fallen. He crossed the room and laid his hands on Sadaharu's straight, tense shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he told his once-best friend. "I should never have done that. Not to a friend."

Sadaharu's head came up quickly, and his mouth was uncertain now. Renji knew he had unbalanced Sadaharu's decision to focus their interactions solely through the lens of the game they both played, had intruded more personal matters back into the issue. But this was one pattern he found he needed to at least try to break.

"Can you forgive me?" he asked, quietly.

Slowly, the tension drained away under his hands, and Sadaharu's expression settled, a little wistful but at ease, and open in a way Renji hadn't seen in years.

"Yes," Sadaharu answered.

"Thank you," Renji whispered.

Sadaharu heaved a sigh, and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Renji's chest, clasping his hands loosely behind Renji's knees. Renji passed his hand through Sadaharu's hair again, tightening his other arm around Sadaharu's shoulders. The stillness this time was comfort, as their memories settled into alignment with their present.

Eventually Renji broke the silence, passing a hand over Sadaharu's shoulder and down his arm. "You really have gotten much stronger," he noted. Sadaharu snorted.

"Chasing after Tezuka, I've had to," he pointed out.

"Is he your goal, still?" Renji asked, curious. Having observed Tezuka's pattern of trying to make his team members aware of the breadth and variety of the world of tennis as a whole, he would be very surprised if Tezuka had not been trying to do something about that.

"One of them," Sadaharu answered, after a pause. Renji smiled down at the dark head leaning against him. Then Sadaharu looked up, an inquiring tilt to his brows. "Is Yukimura one of yours? I've never gotten enough data on the two of you to tell for sure."

"Not exactly," Renji answered, still running his fingers absently through black hair that was becoming more mussed than usual. "I like to match my skills against his, but it isn't from any particular drive to exceed him. It's just that he calls out my best; it's what he does for all of us, really. It's his gift." He paused, and then added, more softly, "He's the one who sent me to you."

Sadaharu tilted his head, mouth quirking in the terribly familiar preface to teasing. Renji braced himself.

"Did he?" Sadaharu asked, tone suspiciously light.

"Yes," Renji answered, warily.

"Well, I suppose I had already gathered that he didn't mind sharing," Sadaharu murmured, as if thoughtfully.

"Sadaharu..." Renji growled, throttling down the urge to blush. His friend's toothy grin didn't help matters any. "Toy with me, will you?"

"Who said I was?"

Renji looked down at Sadaharu, trying to place the expression on his face now. Sharp. Almost challenging. But there was amusement running under it, too, and that wistful edge once again.

"Aren't you?" he asked.

"Merely examining your reaction," Sadaharu defended himself.

Oh, yes, Sadaharu could split hairs with the best. Renji ran his fingers down Sadaharu's jaw, tilting his head up, and leaned in a little.

"And is this the reaction you expected?"

"It was one I considered." The quickening pulse under Renji's fingertips contradicted the steadiness of Sadaharu's voice. "Previously, I had calculated the probability as fairly low, though."

Renji thought back to the knowing look in Seiichi's eyes, to Genichirou's reassurance. If he wanted to do this they would have no problems with it. They knew he would be back.

Did Sadaharu?

Renji raised his hands to Sadaharu's glasses, and Sadaharu let him remove them. Dark eyes gazed back at him with an undeniable edge of desire, but also with an awareness and reserve that told Renji that his friend did understand.

"You really don't mind?" he asked, hesitant for once.

"Anything more would be too much, Renji," Sadaharu told him, gently.

Just because Sadaharu wasn't as good as he was at calculating interpersonal reactions, Renji reminded himself, didn't mean his analytical skills were any less. And he had often applied them to their particular relationship with downright dazzling success. So be it, then.

He set one knee on the bed, and pressed Sadaharu down with a hand on his chest. The other hand braced him as he leaned over his friend, brushing a light kiss against Sadaharu's lips before nipping softly at his throat. Sadaharu's body tensed against his.

"Renji!" he gasped, hands closing on Renji's shoulders.

"You're used to being the one who causes this response, not the one who gives it, aren't you?" Renji murmured against his ear. A shiver answered him. "Do you need that, Sadaharu?"

Long fingers spread against his collar bone, slid down his chest. He lifted his head to see Sadaharu's eyes. They were bright and laughing, the way Renji hadn't seen them for a very long time, as Sadaharu shook his head.

"Not with you," he said, simply.

Renji smiled and leaned back down, tasting Sadaharu's caught breath as they kissed again.

He went slowly, savoring the strength with which Sadaharu answered his kiss, his hands against Sadaharu's skin. Feeling Sadaharu arch under the stroke of Renji's fingers down his chest or thighs, seeing the sleek lines of his muscles tense into sharp definition when Renji pressed his lips to the hollow of Sadaharu's hip, hearing his low moan as Renji parted his legs, these wrapped around Renji tighter than any physical grip could have. Seeing the abandon in Sadaharu's eyes now, he recognized the pretense he had seen on the court for what it was: the shell of this loosed passion. The knowledge that Sadaharu trusted him, again, with so much of himself stopped Renji's own breath. The note of that trust in Sadaharu's voice, when he called Renji's name, even more than the heat and welcome of the body twined with his, drew Renji, helpless, over the edge of pleasure.

It was a long time before he could raise his head from the curve of Sadaharu's shoulder, or relax the trembling tightness of his hold.

"Renji," Sadaharu said, eventually, sounding thoughtful.

"Mm?"

"You said Yukimura isn't you goal; that you don't play like that."

Renji propped his head on one hand so he could see Sadaharu's face. "Yes."

Sadaharu tilted his head on the pillow. "Does that mean you're going to have a problem playing all out against me?"

Renji stroked his fingers down Sadaharu's cheek, silently acknowledging the similarities Sadaharu had seen. "No," he said, softly. "I won't. Seiichi sent me back to you today, and he'll send me back to you this weekend, too."

An appreciative smile curved Sadaharu's mouth. "You have a good captain."

"Yes," Renji agreed, shoving back the shudder that tried to walk up his spine at the memories of Seiichi's absence.

Sadaharu seemed to feel it anyway, and pulled Renji back down to him. "It's all right," he murmured. "He's back."

Renji sighed, and nodded. Sadaharu's arms tightened, and an edge of teasing crept into his voice.

"Can you stay a while longer before I send you back to him?"

Renji laughed, quietly. He'd forgotten how easily Sadaharu could make him laugh. He twined their fingers together and settled closer.

"Of course."

End

Assurance

Immediately follows "Confluence". Mizuki and Yuuta's various reactions to Mizuki's clash with Fuji at the music store. Porn with Insights, I-4

Yuuta had noticed the sidelong smiles Mizuki gave him on the way back from the music store, and was not surprised by Mizuki's hand on his wrist, when they turned into the residence halls, urging him toward Mizuki's room. Nor was he surprised when Mizuki immediately pressed him down to the bed. Yuuta watched the shadowy, blue eyes above him while long, slim hands stripped his clothes away. The eyes were focused intently on him, as if Yuuta were something Mizuki had memorized, but suspected might have changed since. Yuuta smiled. He liked it when Mizuki was like this. Mizuki had told the truth, that first time; he did have a very light touch. Now, though, his hands were slow and strong, and the mouth on Yuuta's was open and demanding. This was Mizuki without the calculation, and Yuuta liked the honesty of this raw, insistent desire. He stretched and sighed under Mizuki's caresses.

Normally, Mizuki also liked to take his time with preparation, waiting, coaxing, teasing until Yuuta was hot and wanton, but today seemed to be different all around. He pulled Yuuta, swiftly, up to his knees, back against Mizuki's chest. Arms wound around him tightly, not letting them part. Yuuta stiffened as he felt Mizuki's cock pressing against him already.

"Mizuki?"

"I want to feel you, Yuuta, as close as we can get," Mizuki murmured, mouth brushing against the nape of Yuuta's neck. "Will you trust me?"

Yuuta thought back to the scene at the store today, to Mizuki's restraint in not following Aniki's challenge to the hilt. Mizuki must be wound tighter than a watch spring, still, and edgy from that partial victory. Yuuta probably should have expected that Mizuki would want some reassurance of Yuuta's welcome and acceptance. Yuuta knew he had always been the flip side of that coin, comfort and sanity to Mizuki when he was lost in his own obsessive drive. Despite the fact that their definition of sanity wasn't always the generally accepted one. And, after all, hadn't he just been thinking that he liked it when Mizuki got a little less careful with his intensity? He smiled and relaxed in Mizuki's arms.

"Yes," he answered. Mizuki's arms tightened even further before he reached for the handsome blue glass jar that Yuuta teased him for keeping lubricant in.

He had to breathe deeply against the first ache of Mizuki pushing into him, gasping at the slow pressure. He let Mizuki support him as the slow, slow stretch unwound all his muscles one strand at a time and left him trembling. He felt as if only Mizuki's hold kept that burn from pulling him apart. The shaking uncertainty of his whole body choked his voice. He could only manage a faint moan as Mizuki paused, completely inside him. Mizuki whispered his name, that normally smooth voice harsh. Then he was moving again.

Yuuta heard Mizuki's name in his own voice, rough and breathless, and rocked back to meet his lover as he relaxed and opened under Mizuki's gentle motion. The more he relaxed the stronger Mizuki's thrusts became, and deep enough to taste in the back of his throat, a rough slide so tight it brushed the edge of discomfort. But Yuuta liked the firmness of the touch, the contact, the closeness of Mizuki so tight inside him. He shuddered as Mizuki slid one hand down and stroked a finger up the underside of his growing erection. Those long fingers fondled him even as Mizuki's grip refused to let him go far enough to thrust into his lover's hand. Yuuta groaned and surrendered his last tension, sank back in Mizuki's hold. He gave himself to the rhythm Mizuki created for them, fell down into the heat of Mizuki's hands, and the strength of his body lifting Yuuta, driving him under a flood of burning, shivering sensation, heat like sand under a summer sun spiraling up him, finally overflowing.

Mizuki held him close, even after the shuddering heat left him, limp and panting in its wake. He laid Yuuta down gently, pulled on his robe, grabbed a towel and left, returning in a few minutes with the towel cool and damp. Yuuta grinned just a little. The stroke of the towel was as sensual and careful as Mizuki's usual lovemaking; it was a considerate gesture.

It was also a declaration to anyone who might take notice, in the hall or the bathroom, that Mizuki had just had Yuuta in his bed and, by implication, left him too satiated to move. He'd give Mizuki that; it was close enough to true, and Mizuki needed, right now, to know and advertise that Yuuta accepted and chose him. It would calm him back to his normal levels of manipulativeness, Yuuta thought.

Mizuki lay back down, twining a leg through Yuuta's and leaning on an elbow so he could see Yuuta's face as he stroked a hand over his chest.

"So," he purred, "what were you so amused by at the store?"

Yes, Mizuki was definitely back to normal. Just like him to wait until his target was dazed to ask the question. Yuuta caught Mizuki's fingers in his as they made distracting circles on his skin, and studied them as he tried to find words.

"You asked if I found everything I wanted," he said, slowly. "I was smiling because I think I did. You... you were both all right."

"You were watching my little passage with Shuusuke?" Mizuki asked, casting a speculative eye on Yuuta. Yuuta blushed. Yes, he knew he always said he didn't like seeing them fight over him, but...

"I was worried," he muttered. "I've never seen Aniki quite that cold, not even the first time he played you, or the first time he played that little bastard Kirihara. And I know you, you don't let things go. So I was worried. But you..." he brought their clasped hands to his lips and spoke against them, "you held back."

"Yes," Mizuki agreed.

"Why?" Yuuta looked up. Mizuki gave him a sidelong glance under his lashes to go with a crooked smile.

"Do you think I want both Tachibanas baying for my blood?" he asked, dryly. "Just the one is bad enough."

Yuuta couldn't suppress a snicker. Mizuki freed his hand to stroke Yuuta's hair.

"It isn't for revenge anymore, Yuuta," he explained, gently. "It isn't to regain my honor. It's a game proper now, and it doesn't do to rush a game, or overextend too soon. Besides," he kissed Yuuta slow and deep, stealing his breath, "Shuusuke takes care with things that belong to you. So do I."

Yuuta looked up silently for a moment before winding his fingers through the soft strands of Mizuki's hair and drawing him down to another kiss.

"Everything I wanted," he repeated, voice husky.

End

Hageshii

Lust comes looking for Greed before things heat up. They get to know each other a little. Porn With Characterization, I-4, spoilers ep 30 on.

She found him on a rooftop at sunset, looking down at the streets as the nighttime life of the small city began to swirl into the open, more fluid and frenetic than daytime life. She had a few moments to examine him before he turned to face her, and took advantage of them with some curiosity. He was tall and built more powerfully than most of them. And he held himself differently. He draped himself against the air, with none of the tension she was used to seeing in her own kind. Insouciance wrapped around him, from the pointed toes of his boots to the furred collar of his vest. He could really have been human.

The thought lasted until he turned, and she caught his eyes.

His eyes blazed with the insane desire they all shared, one way or another. They matched his smile perfectly.

"Well, hello there," he drawled. Her mouth crooked at the light in his eyes as they stroked down her body. She could tell the moment he focused on her orouborous; his glance sharpened and flicked back up to her face. "Who are you?" he asked, a good deal more coolly.

"I am called Lust."

"Suits you," he observed, eyes wandering again, though his bared teeth were not precisely inviting. "Do I need to ask why you're here?"

Lust shrugged. "Tonight I'm merely here to see you. I haven't received specific instructions yet."

His brows flicked up. "Just sightseeing?"

"I suppose."

He looked at her narrowly for a long moment, and then chuckled. "Old bat's messed up again, I see. That's nice to know. Well, I'm Greed, so pleased to meet you." He ambled across the roof to her, grinning lazily. "How old are you?"

Lust glanced up at him from under her lashes. He couldn't possibly be as careless as he looked. "I'm told that's not the sort of thing you should ask a woman."

He brushed his fingers against her cheek. "You don't have to worry about wrinkles, though, so what's to worry you about it?"

He did have a point. "About ten years, I think." Lust shrugged, laying a hand casually on his chest, fingertips tapping against him.

Greed's grin turned fierce. "She really is losing it, if one as young as that's already curious instead of just obsessed."

She studied him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You will," he predicted, low voiced, hand slipping under her hair and down her back. It was warm.

"What are you doing?" Lust asked, still unsure whether to be cautious or amused at his maneuvering.

The grin tipped sideways into an unabashed leer. "Taking advantage of the opportunity, what else?"

Lust was startled to a laugh. Was he really that simple, this one she had heard stories about? Of course, the sketchiness of those stories was what had drawn her here tonight. Gluttony wasn't good at noticing details, and Envy's comments about Greed tended to be brief. "Idiot," "Impractical," and "More balls than a herd of bulls" came to mind.

Previous to this evening, she had thought Envy meant that last metaphorically.

Well, and he probably had, she decided as Greed pulled her a little closer against him. But perhaps not just metaphorically.

"So? Are you going to try to carve my heart out or not?" Greed asked.

A good question. She was a little inclined to, just to avoid entanglements. On the other hand, she rather liked the urgency of his body against hers. And it had been a very long time since she did something just because it felt good. She was getting the impression that Greed lived for things that just felt good. There was something to be said for that, provided it didn't leave you sealed for a century and a half.

The gleam in Greed's eyes said that he might not care, even if it did. And that piqued her interest.

"Not tonight," she answered.

"Good enough."

Greed's mouth moved on hers with no hesitation or uncertainty. There was none in his hands, either, sliding over the lines of her back, her hips. One warm palm moved up her ribs to cup her breast and his thumb stroked the bare skin just above the line of her dress, drawing a shiver over her flesh. Lust sighed. There was a roughness in the confidence of his hands on her that she found herself enjoying. It heated something inside her. She slid a leg along the side of his and buried both hands in the spikes of his hair, laughing at the low growl in his throat. He had good legs, under that leather, she could feel.

A brief thought flickered through her mind, wondering where her standards of good legs had come from, but she brushed it away. It didn't matter. What mattered was that the leather was in the way.

"It wouldn't be a good idea for your humans to see me here," she said, elliptically.

"Really?" Greed murmured against her neck, and shrugged. "All right." He lifted her up, easily, into his arms.

Lust raised her brows, slightly nonplused, and then had to stifle an actual grin as Greed sprang down off the side of the building to land on a ledge below and swing both of them through the open window. He did like to show off, this one.

"Very nice," she told him, quellingly, and twisted out of his arms. She lifted her own to run her hands back through her hair and inhaled deeply. While his attention was riveted she let her clothing absorb back into her body and stood in the dim room naked, smiling, challenging.

"Very nice," Greed purred back to her. He shrugged off his vest and skimmed the pants off his hips, and black retreated to show pale skin. It was warm against hers when he wound his arms back around her, walking them both back towards the bed.

She let him lower her to the cool, smooth sheets and stretched against them, reaching up to pull him down as well. His solid weight on her was almost soothing, anchoring her to the moment. She drew him tighter against her, pressing her mouth to his shoulder, breathing in the rich, flat-sharp scent of him. It was the scent of immediacy. And after years of chill manipulation the weight, the scent, the strength of him covering her leached the tension from her shoulders, made her breath come a little deeper.

Greed's hands gentled, stroking her side, her leg, petting back her hair until she let him kiss her. "You're fragile," he said softly, in her ear. "You should be careful."

She pulled back far enough to look down her nose at him. "Excuse me?"

Greed gave her a long look before shaking his head a little, mouth wry. "Not what you think. Never mind."

He lowered his head and she felt his mouth, serious and hot and wet, on her breast. His teeth scraped faintly against her skin, and she arched her back, sighing. Her breath caught in a light gasp as Greed slid a hand under her, caressing the skin over her spine, and licked further down her stomach. She flexed her hands on his upper arms, liking the density of his muscles. He worked a hand down the inside of her thigh and glanced back up the line of her body, the wicked glint in his eye wanting to know what she would do. Lust felt her lips curling up in answer. As if she would be here if there were any doubt; besides, his hand kneading her thigh was turning her own muscles lax and liquid. She parted her legs so he could settle between them. He arched a bit, himself, when she trailed her foot up the back of his leg, and laughed.

And then he bent his head again, and his tongue moved against her, velvety and rough, hot and insistent. His fingers stroked against her, gliding across her wetness, coaxing her to spread her legs further open. Lust tossed her head back and moaned low in her throat.

"Ah, so you are enjoying yourself," Greed murmured, lips brushing against her. "Good to know."

"Mmmm," Lust agreed, eyes dropping shut with the bright heavy heat swelling through her. She was impatient, though. Normally she would savor the pleasure—and she did. But the wildness in Greed teased her, and she shifted, holding out her arms when he looked up. "More."

"A woman after my own heart," he remarked, baring his teeth as he moved up to lean over her.

Lust traced her nails over his chest, pleased at the shiver that ran through him. "Not at the moment. Not precisely," she whispered, and wrapped a leg around his hips and pulled.

A low sound, half a groan and half a growl, wrung out of Greed as he slid into her. Lust laughed again, breathless. He felt so good, smooth and hard inside her, just like the tension of his arms and back under her hands. His eyes were heavier on her, now, intense, and she gave him an encouraging smile from under her lashes as he drew back and drove in again. She pressed up to meet him, and it was almost enough. Almost as wanton and powerful and wild as she wanted. She leaned up and nipped at his ear. "Harder."

The sound he made was harsh and pleased and understanding. Strong arms wrapped around her and Greed rolled over, pulling her on top of him. This time, Lust's smile showed her teeth. She planted her hands on his chest and arched up, pushing herself back onto him, feeling him sink deeper inside her. Greed's large hands moved, sure and easy, over her shoulders and breasts, down her ribs to settle on her hips, and lifted her a little higher.

When he thrust into her it stole Lust's breath. "Yes," she gasped. "Greed..." The long lines of his face were intent now, mouth open on quick breaths. Lust realized that she was panting, too. The thick slide of him inside her, hard and fast, drove silky pleasure over and through her. She flexed against his grip, pushing down to meet his thrusts, and surprise flickered over his face for a second. As if he had forgotten she wasn't a human woman, forgotten that the same power ran through her body as through his.

His grin flashed again, and Greed trailed a thumb down her stomach. Lower. Until Lust cried out, losing her rhythm for a moment, and he stopped there, thumb circling, rubbing sparks to dance down her nerves. She drove down against him, demanding, and Greed met her with a gasp.

"Lust... oh, yes..." His voice was hoarse, breaking over the want and pleasure that blazed in his eyes. He thrust into her just that tiny bit harder that Lust needed, and fire surged through her, tightened down, surged out again. Over and over, spreading wider each time, and Lust moved with it, reveling in the heat and tingle of power and slow, sharp thrill and... oh, yes. A choked off cry from Greed answered her, and she savored the hardness of him inside her, still moving against the clench of her body. She sagged into his hands' grip as the tide of pleasure retreated again, fingers stroking his chest, coaxing him to follow her.

He wasn't long behind.

When his hold eased, Lust slumped down onto him, bonelessly, resting her head on his shoulder. His hands still stroked over her, soothing, encouraging her to stay there.

"Delightful," he sighed.

Lust made an amused sound. "And you," she murmured, sliding a hand down his arm to feel the texture of him, "are... satisfying. I don't say that often."

A laugh rumbled through his chest. "I can imagine."

"You realize," she added, conversationally, "that the next time we meet I'll be pretending it's for the first time? Just to be on the safe side."

The hands moving over her never flinched. "Doesn't surprise me. The old bat's a real bitch if you cross her. And you haven't even figured out what you want, yet."

Lust sniffed. "I want to be human," she informed him.

Greed snorted with what sounded like exasperation. "NaÃ¯ve."

Lust stilled. "Are you saying it isn't possible?" she asked without lifting her head. He was the second oldest of them; he might know.

"I'm saying you're shopping in the wrong store." Greed turned them over, settling his weight on her again, and Lust made a small, agreeable sound even as she eyed him, narrowly. Was he trying to turn her away from that person and toward himself?

A second later she almost rolled her eyes at herself. Of course he was; he was Greed. The question was whether he was telling the truth in the process.

Greed wove his fingers through her hair, gently, his expression weary. "You're more human now than the old bitch has been for centuries, Lust."

Her mouth twisted. A lot of good that did her.

Greed chuckled, and buried his face against her neck, inhaling deeply. "You smell like the sun at noon, you know." Lust made an annoyed noise. "All right. I don't think you'll understand yet, but listen up." He raised his head and looked down at her, sharp, wild light back in his eyes and smile. "A long time ago, I talked to an alchemist who worked with plants. She said that sometimes you don't need a seed or even a root; sometimes just a piece of plant will start to grow into a new one, especially if you feed it with power. Sometimes just a scrap." Greed's fingers closed on her chin. "Just a scrap, Lust. Remember that." He kissed her, slow and wet and tempting.

Once they untangled their tongues again, Lust gave him a cool look. "You're satisfying and entertaining, both, Greed, but I think Envy might be right; a hundred and forty years in that array did something to your mind."

Greed threw back his head and laughed. "Probably. Not that Envy's got room to talk, the little psychotic. Just remember, all right?"

"All right," Lust agreed. "And I'll be waiting for you the next time you break out of your seal; perhaps we can do this again."

"Gee, thanks," Greed muttered. Then he lifted her fingers to his lips, shooting her a look from under heavy lids. "Be nice if I could get a little help with that project, of course."

"I have no intention of ending up inside one of those myself," Lust said, firmly, sliding out from under him with a bit of regret. But it was getting late.

"That would be a waste," Greed allowed, gaze passing over her body like another hand. "In that case, do you have to leave so soon?"

Lust shook back her hair and reformed her clothing. "Gluttony will be wondering where I am."

Greed blinked, lounging on the tangled sheets. "Not like he'll say anything to her."

"Of course not," Lust waved a dismissive hand. "He'll just worry. And then he'll start eating the furnishings."

Greed, for the first time all night, looked startled. And then his smile returned, too wide and bright and saw-edged to be human. "I'll be damned. I was more right about you than I thought." He came up off the bed in a loose-jointed surge, as cocky and casual as he'd been when she first spotted him, and swept her up against his body, laughing. Lust sighed, and speared a fingertip out to skree off the sudden shield across his throat. Greed barely seemed to notice. "You do whatever you need to," he told her, "and I will, too. And we'll see, hm? Now," he let go and his own clothes raced over his skin, "get on back to your friend."

Lust shook her head, giving up on trying to figure out what he was on about. She did hope he would return to be sealed instead of resisting enough that they had to kill him, though.

Greed flung himself back across the bed, propped up on his elbows, and grinned at her. "And if we both make it, maybe I can keep you next time."

Lust raised a skeptical brow over her shoulder as she left, but she was smiling when she reached the street.

Maybe.

End

A/N: "Hageshii" is the word Lust uses when she's describing Greed after his death. It has connotations of both violence and intensity. The best parallels in English might be "furious" or "tempestuous"—violent because it is the nature of the thing to be extreme and intense.

Relational

Twenty thoughts of Niou Masaharu. Character Sketch, I-2, manga continuity

Yagyuu puts a wall of reflective glass between himself and the world. For Niou, the distance between his eyes and his thoughts is sufficient.

Yanagi's strategy encompasses more detail than his own; Yanagi's concrete observations range far wider. But Niou knows there is a space of colorful intuition at the heart of his own strategies that Yanagi does not like to enter.

His initial equation to describe Sanada was 'winning equals everything'. His new equation is 'winning equals everything, but duty equals everything squared'. The line this equation describes has become interestingly curved.

Yukimura, on the other hand, is the same quadratic equation he's been since Niou met him; equally gentle or merciless depending on how he calculates. Which is the positive conclusion, and which the negative, Niou has never tried to resolve.

He suspects he will need calculus to graph Kirihara properly.

Marui, he puts on like a festival mask when they play together, showy technique concealing unsmiling concentration. They smile at each other once the game ends.

Jackal's quiet sense of humor curbs Niou's dispassion. It wasn't until he met Jackal that Niou understood dispassion could be as wild and out of control as any emotion.

Steel tipped darts have the most satisfying weight in the hand. It requires weight to fly true.

Red meat has the same weight in the body, and the richness of its taste has the same weight on the tongue.

Watching opponents on the court stumble and freeze and fail has the same weight in his soul, round and satisfying.

He likes the numbers that describe fractals; he finds it typical that he prefers the numbers alone, while Yukimura always sketches the design out in the margin of a notebook.

He likes the taste of greens with sesame; it tastes like fresh air. He knows that he thinks so only because his mother often makes it in the fall, as the heat passes and the windows are opened, a stubborn association that isn't shaken no matter how often he eats it in other seasons. The irrationality of this delights him.

He likes the blues of the sky best at sunrise or sunset. When they're changing.

He thinks Yagyuu's taste for standing outside in storms is a bit much. But he joins his partner to watch what he's like, then.

He thinks Yagyuu is very like water. He takes on the shape of his container until he breaks it. He takes on the colors around him and remains clear in himself.

He thinks Yagyuu's eyes are the color of water.

Niou and Kirihara have an even record of winning at Ou-sama, because no one has found a truth either of them hesitates to tell. Unless, of course, the King is Yagyuu, because they both like the dares he comes up with.

Perception calms him; it is precise and uncompromising. There are times it feels like anger, that way. The sure knowledge that Sanada would never understand this comparison amuses him.

To deceive is to control the perception of others. Niou would rather like a match against Hyoutei's Atobe some time. He wonders how much it would be like playing Marui or Yukimura.

No one will control him. The point of the whole thing is freedom.

End

Souvenirs

Hiruma considers the things he's gotten from his friends. Drama, I-2

He's never been a sensualist or any kind of aesthete. He doesn't savor food or drink for their tastes. He doesn't buy fine clothes to feel the textures against his skin. He doesn't go to watch the flowers at any time of year.

The few sense pleasures he enjoys are the gifts of other people.

The hot, black bitterness of coffee, steaming in a thick mug, is the taste and smell of a talk with Musashi. The dry rattle of paper and wood, under the still, slanting shadows of leaves and temple roofs, is the sound and color of Kurita's trust.

And, while he never expected to enjoy either, the sharp tang of cleaners coming off sleek, bright surfaces is the scent of Anezaki's care.

So when Anezaki wonders how he can possibly drink his coffee black, or Musashi wants to know why he doesn't open a window already, he just laughs.

Life is like that.

End

Negatives

Hiruma considers Mamori. Romantic Introspective, I-3

This was how he put it to himself:

Anezaki Mamori understood the need to fight for what you wanted and cared about.

She was cheerful and outgoing, and probably even sweet, but he doubted she'd be able to carry off refinement or elegance without bursting into giggles half way there.

She never fought fire with fire; she fought fire with a goddamn mop.

She cared for the weak and defenseless, and also for the strong and independent, and even for the downright fucking dangerous. She cared for people like it was her favorite hobby, and it drove him batshit insane and it made him laugh.

She never touched alcohol, not because she took any special effort to avoid it, but simply as though drinking herself drunk never occurred to her as a useful thing to do.

She growled at him and about him, glaring nose-to-nose, but she never once thought she was a failure because of him.

He'd seen older men, men with rings on their left hands, look at her, and he'd seen her dismiss them, cheerful and oblivious and impervious as a boulder rolling over a branch.

In short, Anezaki Mamori was as different from his mother as it was possible to be and still have two X chromosomes, and that was why he was still standing here, watching her look away and turn red, and touching his cheek where he could still feel the light brush of her lips.

"Crazy fucking woman," he muttered at last, and she spun around, fire in her eyes, mouth open to tear a strip off him, and then she stopped.

He thought it was because he'd taken her hand.

End

Reconstruction

Twenty things about Yukimura. (Because Konomi lost his thread completely and I don't find Yukimura's Svengali Tennis the least little bit convincing.) Character Sketch, I-2, manga continuity

At first he thought it was strange, playing tennis in teams, but he's come to like the school club. It makes inside and outside clear.

People on the inside are the ones who see him smile, who hear him shout. People on the outside only see his calm.

His team makes him smile the same way his garden does, to see subtle and bright colors unfurling in harmony, to see the fierce, unrelenting desire all things have to grow. He loves that.

He thinks Akaya might have gotten a bit frost-nipped at the start, but he seems to be recovering, finally shedding dead leaves and putting his energy into new ones.

Then there are the ones like Yagyuu, his morning glory—charming and ruthless. Only trees are strong enough to bear up a morning glory and not be strangled.

He's sure few people would imagine Niou anything as firm and solid as a tree, but he thinks it's appropriate.

He thinks he will come to his art after he's done with tennis. Mathematics, though, he keeps with him at all times. That isn't a career; it's the underpinning of his world.

Sometimes tennis and art tangle in his mind. Jackal reminds him of the Impressionists—solid and everyday, but always striking in the texture of his existence, in the way light falls on him.

Marui, on the other hand, reminds him irresistibly of Mondrian, all stark, strong lines and cheery, primary colors.

The time his class was assigned a self-portrait, he used dark outlines and intense colors for the background. His image looked at the sky, though, and he painted that a pale, clear blue.

All things have a pattern. All things can be described and understood. He shares that conviction with both Niou and Renji, though they show it in three very different ways.

His own technique is really quite simple. He fills the space that the game creates—whatever that is. Renji says he's like water, pouring into different shaped containers. He likes the image.

The shape that his games with Sanada make is brutal and complex and fine as the edge of Sanada's sword. Sanada makes him think of the stone and earth that plants grow out of.

For Sanada, muga no kyouchi is an extra step into concentration, discipline, purity. For Seiichi it's like pulling muscles out that last bit into a full stretch.

When he stretches out on the court, no-self exists in the spaces between his breaths.

As an artist, he knows, a blank sheet is not empty; the moment eyes and intention touch it it holds color and line that the artist must find. His tennis is like that, too.

It was not his strongest opponents who named him Kami no Ko. The strongest can throw off his domination, keep their will to fight. It's only the weak that he stuns simply by uncovering his spirit.

Renji teases, gently, that Seiichi's spirit is the sun of this garden, his team. Seiichi says that, if so, Renji is the rain. He isn't teasing; without rain, the sun would only scorch.

He knows he will stay with his club and his team through high school. He loves the competition that runs down the years, woven tight and intimate. And only here is there the devotion that saw him through months of slow terror and helped him stand at the end of it.

He knows the love and pride of these years will live on in his heart even after he leaves. But he's never let go of anything he's truly wanted. He sees no reason to start.

Elemental

Kirihara's view of Yukimura. Written for the Porn Battle prompt: Yukimura/Kirihara, elemental. Character Sketch with Porn, I-4

When Seiichi-san made love to him it was pure and intense and wiped Akaya's mind clean of everything but the body over him, inside him, the hands spread against his back, the dip of Seiichi-san's dark head over him.

And the heat.

It almost wasn't even pleasure. It was sensation, the trembling of nerves screaming a pure signal of yes, the tingle in muscles stretched and flexed, the throb of his cock rubbing against Seiichi-san's stomach with bright flashes of heat that burst up his spine until they were light behind his eyes.

It was Yukimura Seiichi.

And Akaya gave himself to it completely, gladly, opening his hands to let the rest of existence flutter away and closing them instead on the firm, long muscles of Seiichi-san's arms, letting his body flex and buck, wild and abandoned, as Seiichi-san's cock drove into him again and again, letting himself scream as the heat finally condensed and exploded through his whole body.

It was incredible, hot and brilliant and overwhelming. There was nothing else quite like it, and it wrung Akaya out like a rag every time, left him breathless and lax and a little dazed. But it was the next part he thought he might love the most.

Because Seiichi-san gathered him up, held him tight and shuddered against him, whispering Akaya's name. And Seiichi-san didn't let go, just slid back and close again, cradling Akaya against him and kissing him softly until Akaya was pliant and trembling in his arms, more undone by the tenderness than by all the wild sensation. This was what he clung to.

It was Seiichi-san.

End

Remember and Forget

Post-series (probably) Juumonji considers the fix he's gotten himself into. Written for the Porn Battle prompt: Eyeshield 21, Juumonji/Sena, protective. Character Sketch with Porn, I-3

It was ridiculous. It was absurd. Six months on the same team, no matter what kind of hell they'd gone through together, should not be able to wash away over two years of bullying. But there it was.

He'd gotten used to protecting Sena.

He stepped out on the field, for his own pride and anger and future, and he put his body and bones on the line to guard, well, the quarterback, yeah, but mostly Sena. Because Hiruma could take being downed and Sena...

Okay, Sena could take it too. Sena's back was still slim, under his hands, but it was hard these days, solid with the muscle that let him be tackled by Banba and Yamato and Shin fucking Seijuurou and still stand back up and run again.

But it was his job to protect Sena.

So, yeah, maybe it was ridiculous that he was so careful, drawing Sena against him, that he tried to be gentle when he kissed Sena. But he couldn't help it!

Sena was good at getting him to forget that, though.

"Mmmm, Kazuki... Kazuki, more..."

Sena's eyes were hazy and dark, and the arch of him under Kazuki was abandoned. When Sena lost himself, when he forgot politeness and titles and diffidence, he was the most amazing thing Kazuki had ever seen, and he lifted Sena up, thrusting into him deeper. The tight heat of Sena's body around him made him moan.

"Fuck, Sena..."

Sena smiled up at him, innocent and sweet and wanton. "Yes."

Kazuki gasped and his hips drove forward, fucking Sena hard, and Sena's open moan as his body wrung tight sent a shudder down Kazuki's spine and it didn't stop there. Pleasure rushed out, tingling in his fingers and toes, pulsing with every beat of his heart, and his heart was pounding. Sena sighed, head laid back, and Kazuki's hands tightened fiercely on his ass.

He really, really couldn't help it, though, when they settled back down against the bed and he wrapped his arms around Sena carefully, protectively, even if it did make Sena laugh a little.

He didn't mind as much that it made Sena cuddle into his chest, and he buried his face in Sena's hair with a gruff sound. It was absolutely ridiculous.

He wasn't going to let go.

End

Man of Mouth and Hands

Ichimaru reflects on why he's with Aizen. Written for the Porn Battle prompt: Aizen/Ichimaru, fealty. Character Sketch with Porn, I-4

Gin stood at the broad window, looking out on Hueca Mundo. "Such a strange place," he mused.

"Strange enough to regret coming?" his captain murmured from the couch behind him, and Gin turned, lifting a brow.

"You brought us here," he pointed out in a tone of innocent surprise.

"Answer me, Gin." Aizen's tone was cool, but his mouth was quirked faintly.

"I just did." Gin leaned against the sill, head cocked teasingly. They played this game of perfect respect and sly defiance, and he always looked forward to seeing how Aizen would end it.

After a moment, Aizen chuckled and held out a hand, beckoning and commanding, and Gin came to it. He let himself be pulled down to the couch and laid back on the thin, soft cushion, smiling.

"So you'll follow me anywhere," Aizen stated, hands sliding under Gin's coat to find the ties of his white hakama.

"Everywhere," Gin agreed, and smirked as Aizen lifted his bare leg over the back of the couch. He wiggled his toes cheerfully and listened for the stiff, stifled silence of the two arrancar girls who attended the door, who were just as infatuated with Aizen as little Hinamori had been. Likely to the same end. The high couch back would block most of their view, but that was all right. For most people, imagination was stronger than reality.

Not that he really needed extra reason to moan as his captain's cock pushed into him, but it added a little something.

Other thoughts faded away, though, as Aizen spread him out and fucked him, held him all the while with intense, inhuman eyes, sharp enough, heavy enough, to plane the surface of space and time flat. Gin gasped under them. Every thrust rocked him, curled his spine, and Aizen's strong, square hands held his thighs stretched as wide open as they'd go.

Aizen never held back in any way, and Gin loved that.

"Making sure of me?" he asked, husky.

"I'm quite sure of you," Aizen murmured back.

Gin finally shuddered and gasped with the rush of heat through him and Aizen smiled, intent and unruffled. He fucked Gin firmly for another few moments, keeping him opened up, before drawing back. Gin could never tell when, whether, Aizen had come, and he loved that control, too.

Aizen leaned over him, one hand curving around the back of Gin's head, carelessly gentle, and kissed him, and the sound Gin made, low in his throat, had nothing of teasing in it—only surrender.

Picking up the conversation as if they hadn't paused, Aizen murmured, "So, will you be the first before my throne?"

Gin savored the ambiguity of the question and looked up into his leader's brilliant, distant, immediate gaze for one bare moment, stripped and exultant.

"Yes."

End

Hearthfire

Future indefinite. Byakuya and Renji; the heat and cool between them. Written for the Porn Battle prompt: Byakuya/Renji, cold and hot. Character Sketch with Porn, I-4

Renji lay stretched out on his stomach, on his futon and gasped as long fingers traced slowly over his tattoos.

"Byakuya-san..."

Cool lips brushed over the nape of his neck. "Shhhh."

Renji buried his face in the crook of his arm, pretty sure he was blushing like a girl at the reassurance or command, whichever it was. He knew Byakuya wasn't actually much older than him—a few decades was very little, by the standards of nobles and shinigami—but that icy control always made him feel older. Not that "ice" was something a person would normally think of in a moment like this, but it wasn't that kind of cold... He lost the thought as fingertips slid down his spine and there was a little pleading in his voice this time. "Byakuya-san!"

He sighed as body heat covered him, Byakuya's weight settling against his back, steadying him. A palm stroked up his neck, moving his loose hair aside, and a hot tongue slid over the marks on his shoulders and he moaned softly. They'd been here for over an hour and every inch of his skin was touch-sensitive by now. "Byakuya-san, please..."

"So impatient, Renji," Byakuya murmured.

In bed, at least, he could be pretty sure that was teasing and not reprimand. And, yes, Byakuya's mouth was curving against his skin and he heard a faint chiming. Turning his head he saw Byakuya dipping his fingers in the small cup of oil set beside them in the sun to warm. His breath came deeper and he couldn't help squirming a little as Byakuya's fingers brushed his ass, stroking that oil over himself. Anticipation caught in his throat as Byakuya edged his legs apart with his knees and long, slim hands closed on his hips, holding him still.

And then Byakuya was pushing against him, into him, fraction by fraction, so very slowly, and Renji's hands closed tight on the quilt under him. He moaned openly as Byakuya's cock slowly, slowly stretched him open, slid into him, and he had no clue how the man managed to go so slow. His hips would have been bucking up helplessly if Byakuya hadn't held them down. "Byakuya-san!"

Byakuya paused, he actually stopped, and asked, only breathless, "Yes, Renji?"

His ass tingled with the fierce, slow stretch and his whole body throbbed with want. "Don't stop!"

"Very well, then," Byakuya murmured, husky, and he was moving again, until he was all the way inside and Renji was panting for breath past the flood of sheer sensation.

Renji didn't know how long Byakuya fucked him like that, slow and controlled, sliding and thrusting in and out until Renji's whole body was hot and undone with it and he was moaning wordlessly into the quilt. When he spilled over the edge into orgasm, he almost didn't notice; it was just a change in the texture of pleasure that was already drowning him.

He did notice when Byakuya shuddered, buried deep inside him, and moaned, and dazed as he was that sound still made his breath catch. He smiled as Byakuya settled against his back again, arms sliding around him.

"You're warm," Byakuya murmured against his shoulder.

"Yeah," Renji whispered.

He knew it wasn't body heat Byakuya was talking about.

End

Fire and Gravel

Guessing gift for Lynn. A moment of tension before a match reminds Ibu of why he fits in with Fudoumine, past and present. Character Sketch, I-3

Shinji listened to the murmurs that followed his team, braiding together into one curious and surprised and speculative strand.

"...first years, come on."

"They made it Nationals that year, didn't they?"

"Next one too..."

"Only because they didn't come up against any strong teams. It was a fluke. Only the captain is really good."

Shinji's head turned, eyes tracking the one who'd made that last, disparaging, comment. He could feel the old, quick rage boil up, the fury that wanted to claw that smug dismissal to ribbons, that raged against the wall of disbelief.

The heat of his teammates closed more tightly around him, and he knew they had heard it too, were also angry with slow-burning memory. He leaned into that; it was the thing that had bound them together from the first, that had made him welcome. All of them were looking in the same direction, now, and from the corner of his eye Shinji saw Tachibana-san's glare, not smoldering but bright and fierce.

The one who had spoken swallowed and stepped back quickly.

"No need to listen to the howling of stray dogs." Tachibana-san's statement gathered them back up, moved them forward again.

Shinji's anger didn't fade, though; it just banked, waiting for fuel to make it flare again. He wasn't really surprised when Tachibana-san fell in next to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Let it go, Shinji," his captain murmured. "You know you're better than that."

Shinji hesitated and bent his head. "Yes, Tachibana-san." He supposed he did know. It just didn't make him any less angry.

The hand on his shoulder shook him gently. "Come on. We have a match to play. Remind yourself how good you are, until you really know it."

Looking up, Shinji saw Tachibana-san was smiling at him, intent and wry with a glint of starting fire. This time, he smiled too. "Yes, Tachibana-san." He straightened.

There were other bonds, and better welcomes, than anger, now. He would try to remember.

End

Moments of Mind and Self

Yamamoto reflects on the meaning of being a born killer. Character Sketch, I-3

Yamamoto Takeshi had never killed.

He knew people didn't believe it, and doubly didn't believe it after they'd seen him with a sword in his hand. It amused him, in a wry sort of way, that none of them ever seemed to stop and think that he was one of Tsuna's Family, after all.

The only person he knew believed it without question was Squalo, and that was because Squalo threw monumental temper tantrums over it, yelled at him that Takeshi was being false to the spirit of his own goddamn sword, attacked him in the middle of the mansion gardens purely to draw him out.

It was probably very bad of Takeshi that he was always extra careful not to cut with his edge in those fights, but the way Squalo glared at him was so funny.

And he thought that, really, Squalo did understand. When the fights were over he gave his critiques in a level, precise voice, and the courtesy of being truly serious was all the accolade Takeshi could ever need from him.

He knew, he thought, what it was they all saw in him. It was the odd calm that came to him, that let him stand in the way of strange weapons and deadly intent and still think. He'd never decided for himself whether it was a narrowing or a broadening of his focus; he just knew that it felt like a current of cool water in his mind, and it let him stand and watch, in the hot boil of deadly danger, and choose his moment.

He supposed he could use that moment to kill, easily enough. He just didn't see any reason why he should.

Sometimes, when he sat after he practiced his form, all still, the thought came to him that one day something might happen to change his mind—that he might, one day, truly feel in his heart, and in his sword, that he had reason to kill. If it did he knew he would, would strike from that cool current without hesitation. But it hadn't happened yet. He fought to win; that was where he found his edge and sharpness.

That was the edge he liked to feel cutting into his opponents.

He hoped it wouldn't change. If it ever did, he thought he might lose the smile Reborn had told him he should keep.

Sometimes he wondered what Reborn was steering him towards, with his comments about being a born hitman, and his directions to keep a hold on the joy the sword brought to Takeshi, his moments of openness and his faint, knowing smile. He would think about that later, though, in another deep, quiet moment. This moment was ending.

Takeshi opened his eyes and drew a slow breath and let it out and rose from the floor of the dojo. He was smiling, eyes light, as he opened the doors and stepped out into the evening.

End

A Good Show

Sebastian stays with Ciel for his perfection—by demonic standards. Character Sketch, I-3

Sebastian stood in front of his mirror and adjusted his cuffs minutely. Aesthetics were important. He was currently a butler, and a proper butler was always perfectly turned out.

The tick of his pocketwatch marked the minute and he strode briskly down the hall to wake his master.

He amused himself with his own flowing patter about breakfast and tea; really, it was no surprise the British of this generation were dabbling about calling his kind; they had a natural, or perhaps national, talent for ritual. He slid on Ciel's shoes, stifling a snort at the childish way Ciel rubbed the sleep from his eyes. How many among the English underground, he wondered, would be afraid of Earl Phantomhive if they saw him yawning around his fist in the mornings?

Fortunately, the child did not have ascendancy in his latest master.

"And, of course, Lord Randal will be here this afternoon to speak with you about the smuggling through Kent." he finished.

Ciel stood and Sebastian's eyes widened, drinking in the change as the light of Ciel's soul flared and focused, hard as sapphire.

"Yes." All trace of petulant laziness was gone from Ciel's voice and his eyes were sharp and bright above a faint smile. "We must receive him properly." That smile gained a malicious curve for one breath. "See to it."

Sebastian's mouth curled in answer and he bowed deeply before Ciel's bared edge. "Yes, my lord," he murmured, not to the order, which was a given in any case, but to acknowledge the appearance of a master worthy of his contract.

Aesthetics were very important.

End

Silence That Is Incomprehensible

Follows some of Hyuuga and Ayanami's possible history with each other pre-canon, from the Academy through the aftermath of the war. Includes porn without sex and s/m without the whip which, while quite consensual, is not particularly sane. Drama, Character Study, Porn, Kink, I-4

Hyuuga met Ayanami his first week at the Academy, and that meeting set the tone for everything that came after.

The whole class was out in a courtyard for beginning zaiphon training, and the teacher was yelling at Hyuuga. Nothing unexpected.

"Hyuuga-kun! You're here to learn to use your zaiphon, not to learn ballroom dancing!"

"But sensei," Hyuuga lilted as he sprang aside from yet another clumsy stroke by his training partner that barely left a scorch on the flagstones, "it's more fun this way! Besides," he added, as Shigetsu-sensei started to turn red in the face, "why should I wear myself out when a sword is so much faster?" He sprinted lightly forward and spun to come up at the Ochi kid's back, sword laid lightly against his neck.

More to the point, why should Hyuuga show his zaiphon here, where it was just possible someone would recognize what he was by seeing it? Not that he could say that out loud.

"What are you going to do if you can't use that sword of yours and never trained in this?" Shigetsu-sensei snapped back while Ochi swallowed tightly. Hyuuga would have to admit it was a good point, if he were actually untrained. Since he wasn't, he was just summoning his sunniest smile and another good line of bullshit when another of his classmates cut in.

"Perhaps a greater challenge is in order, then?" It was the cool boy with the silvery hair who stepped up to stand beside him. Ayanami, that was it. Who proceeded to push Hyuuga's sword away from Ochi's neck with precise, gloved fingers, using just enough pressure to move a lightly-held blade without cutting himself. Hyuuga's brows rose. This one was pretty observant. "May we switch partners, sensei? I believe Hiroki-kun would be better served to start with someone closer to his own experience."

Hyuuga sheathed his sword and glanced over his shoulder to see Ayanami's training partner, who was standing in the middle of a swath of deeply etched stone and shaking. Shigetsu-sensei looked too and sighed. "Yes, yes, fine. You take Hyuuga-kun, then. Maybe you'll rub off on him. We can hope," he grumbled as he herded Ochi and Hiroki off to the side to work on some basic focusing exercises.

Ayanami didn't speak, just beckoned to Hyuuga and turned to pace gravely through the, mostly pretty small, explosions their classmates were managing. Hyuuga blinked as he trailed after; had this guy been raised in a monastery or something? Or maybe he was from one of those noble families that was really strict and formal. Ayanami led the way through an arched arcade and into a smaller court, off to the side of the general training melee, before he stopped and turned to fix an intent look on Hyuuga. "You favor the sword?" he asked, after a moment.

The sharpness of his eyes, the pinpoint focus in them, tugged at Hyuuga, sent a tingle down his nerves. He slid his hands along his hilts and decided, impulsively, to give a true answer. "I am the sword."

Ayanami didn't frown or look puzzled, the way most people did. He just nodded. "Then we should train with both." He drew his own, perfectly regulation, sword with one hand and a swift coil of zaiphon circled the other. "Guard yourself."

The instinct he'd been born and trained to jabbed Hyuuga sharply, and both his own swords swept out to meet the fast lick of Ayanami's blade even as he leaped to avoid the lash of zaiphon that could have taken his leg off. Another three exchanges of steel, and zaiphon came scything in again. Hyuuga's lips drew back off his teeth as the world sharpened around him and he rolled down and back up in a scissoring attack on Ayanami's casting hand. This was good. He hadn't thought to find a real opponent among the other students, but this one... this one might have the edge he craved. The edge his sword needed to stay true.

He danced and spun through the storm of Ayanami's sword and zaiphon, starting to feel the pattern of them and know where he needed to strike. Ayanami was strong, but a straight sword couldn't counter the subtle binding of a curved edge, and the harshest, most precise zaiphon was no use if it didn't connect. There was an opening. Here. Here.

Hyuuga spun, wakizashi coming up from below as his katana bound Ayanami's sword, and Ayanami's last zaiphon attack would go just past Hyuuga's shoulder. He could see it, feel it, see the reflection of it in the widening of Ayanami's eyes. Hyuuga laughed with the absolute purity of the moment as he struck.

Just before his short blade touched home, the circle of zaiphon around Ayanami's hand snapped into an expanding sphere.

Hyuuga didn't have time to yelp, barely had time to cross his blades and channel a desperate burst of zaiphon through them, before the lash of Ayanami's power struck him and blew him back into the unforgiving stone wall of the courtyard with crushing force.

His swords rang on the pavement in the sudden quiet as he collapsed to his hands and knees, coughing for breath. He stared with blank, stunned eyes down at the flagstones under his palms. His defense had been good for a last-minute effort, but it had broken; he'd felt Ayanami's zaiphon against his skin. The taste of it couldn't be mistaken. "You," he rasped, and stopped, because there was a cool edge of steel under his chin. He looked up the length of Ayanami's sword to meet those still, intent eyes.

"Do you yield?" Ayanami inquired calmly.

A shiver ran down Hyuuga's spine, hot with recognition and chill with excitement. His teachers had told him, repeatedly, that a swordsman must always be prepared to meet someone stronger. He'd been torn between hoping and scoffing; it was already clear that he would be stronger than his teachers very soon, and they were the best in Barsburg. He still hadn't met a stronger swordsman, today. But Hyuuga had spoken the truth then he said he was the sword.

And the greatest of swords required, not just another sword to meet, but a hand to wield them.

"I yield to you," he said quietly, and watched Ayanami's brow quirk. Yes. Ayanami heard at least some of what Hyuuga meant. He pushed himself upright, grinning as Ayanami sheathed his blade. "Aya-san is sneaky."

Ayanami actually blinked at that. "I beg your pardon?" Hyuuga's grin widened. Good; he liked Ayanami's seriousness but it was possible to have too much of a good thing.

"I bet you knew what I was all along," he accused with a playful pout. "You could have just said."

"I was reasonably sure," Ayanami agreed, unruffled again. "My family keeps track of these things. But it's well to be entirely sure, when possible. For that, I needed to see your zaiphon."

Hyuuga hauled himself back to his feet, one hand against the wall to steady himself as he bent to retrieve his swords. "Even using mine, I couldn't hold you off," he acknowledged ruefully, feeling his ribs creak. He'd have some spectacular bruises tomorrow.

"You're not weak, though. That's good." Ayanami stepped closer, voice turning softer and deeper. "There are indications that the Emperor is considering sanctioning some of us, to serve the Empire. The strongest of our generation are being sent to the Academy for that reason."

Hyuuga sucked in a quick breath, eyes wide. "Sanctioning us?" he whispered. "But, the Church..." Warsfeil were anathema. Unholy. Both Barsburg and Raggs executed any proven Warsfeil. In fact, the Empire had been getting even more stringent about that, lately, enough that the Fallen families had stopped talking even with each other for fear of drawing the Emperor's attention.

All except Ayanami's family, apparently.

Ayanami's eyes were cool and level. "The Pope has been favoring Raggs increasingly, of late. If the Empire finds itself in need of a counterweight to the Church's strength, then we will serve that purpose."

Hyuuga whistled softly. "You think it's really coming?" He'd hears whispers of war for years, but only ever half believed them.

"Whatever comes, I will meet it in the Empire's service." Ayanami might have been remarking on the chance of rain later that day, but Hyuuga had tasted his edge now, and heard the fire underneath that coolness. "And you?"

Hyuuga grinned; he thought he would like being Ayanami's sword. "Anything you say, Aya-san."

Hyuuga wasn't really surprised when both he and Ayanami were posted inside headquarters after graduation. Someone among the higher-ups must know what he and Ayanami were; his personal pick was Field Marshal Miroku, who seemed to be making a hobby of Ayanami's career. Miroku had a reputation as a cunning strategist who knew when to gamble and when to stand pat. He was gambling on the Academy-trained Warsfeil, but not so wildly that he'd let them out from under his eye. Hyuuga understood that. It just didn't make the first handful years before their real assignment came through any less boring.

And their real assignment wasn't actually that much of an improvement.

"Oh come on," Hyuuga groaned, flopping over the back of his chair and letting the letter of appointment flutter down to the table beside his crossed boots. "We need Imperial permission to leave headquarters?" On pain of having their dispensation to, you know, keep living revoked. Great.

"We will have plenty of work in the field," Ayanami said, hands folded composedly on the table. Hyuuga's mouth quirked at the cool look Aya-san was giving his propped up boots.

"Well, at least you got a promotion out of it. A Major in just three years!"

Ayanami flicked his fingers. "An administrative promotion."

"Mm." Their third member was watching them, leaning on his elbows with his clasped hands against his mouth. "I must presume that the Field Marshal judges you will be a better leader for this unit than I would."

Since Masaru had been a Captain before Ayanami, Hyuuga filled in silently; it had been pretty blatant, to promote Aya-san over him so abruptly. He eyed Masaru, wondering if this would be a problem, fingers tapping thoughtfully against his katana hilt.

"I expect formal rank to mean little among us," Ayanami answered evenly, banked fire in every word. "All that truly matters is our strength, and ability to serve the needs of the Empire. That is the purpose of this unit, and we will fulfill it. Titles mean nothing beside that."

Masaru's eyes had narrowed at Ayanami's first words, a faint haze of almost-zaiphon flickering around his fingers as if he expected a challenge to follow them. By the last words, though he was staring, wide-eyed. Hyuuga grinned; he supposed it could be a little hard to believe, the first time a person came up against that true steel dedication.

"I understand," Masaru said slowly, and bent his head a little. "Ayanami-sama."

"Yep, that's our Aya-san," Hyuuga agreed expansively, leaning his chair back on two legs. Ayanami's hand twitched for a moment, as if with the urge to give Hyuuga's boots a brisk shove and topple him all the way over, and Masaru gave him a mildly admonishing look for his familiarity with their commander. Hyuuga grinned, lacing his hands behind his head.

Maybe their confinement wouldn't be quite such a hassle as he'd thought.

A year later, the Black Hawks had four members, the newest fresh out of the Academy and assigned as Ayanami's Begleiter. Hyuuga, long familiar with Ayanami's desperately workaholic habits, approved mightily.

Besides, Yukikaze was cute.

"Yuki-chan!" he sang, swooping in over the back of Yukikaze's desk chair only to stop short with a grin at the extremely sharp letter opener that was suddenly pressing up under his chin. He liked this kid.

"Yes, Hyuuga-san?" Yukikaze asked calmly, still writing in Ayanami's schedule book with his other hand.

"I got you some of that candy you were drooling over the other day," Hyuuga told him, dropping the paper bag onto the desk so that a few hard candies rolled temptingly out of it. Yukikaze flushed.

"I was not drooling!" He gathered up Ayanami's schedule, ignoring the candy, and marched it over to their commander's desk.

"Hm? Must have been mistaken, then." Hyuuga picked up one of the spilled candies and unwrapped it with a deliberate crackle. Yukikaze spun back around just in time to see Hyuuga popping it into his mouth. "Mm! Oh, hey, these are good." A little sweet, a little tangy: actually he kind of liked that. Maybe he'd have to snitch some more.

Yukikaze was back at his desk in a flash, sweeping the rest of the candy into its bag and whisking the bag into his desk drawer. Hyuuga laughed. "See, I knew you liked them."

"I never claimed I didn't like them," Yukikaze pointed out. "I just said I wasn't drooling."

"Yukikaze," Ayanami's murmur cut through their byplay, "didn't I have an appointment with Procurement after the meeting with the Committee on Military Research this afternoon?"

"Yes, Ayanami-sama." Yukikaze straightened up from locking his drawer. "I spoke with the General's secretary, though. Your meetings with Military Research usually run long, and it turns out that Procurement only really needs your signature."

Ayanami's brow rose. "I believe that was my decision to make."

Yukikaze stood even straighter, nearly at attention, but his tone was firm. Almost scolding. "You're over-scheduled, Ayanami-sama. The other departments take advantage of your conscientiousness. There's no excuse for it."

Ayanami sat back in his chair, eyeing Yukikaze coolly, but the corner of his mouth had quirked up with what Hyuuga could tell was amusement. "I see. That's your considered and experienced opinion, hm?"

Yukikaze bowed without losing one bit of his stubborn expression. "Please forgive me if I've overstepped myself, Ayanami-sama. But it's my duty to look after your work and health both, and I will do so to the very best of my ability."

After a long, silent moment of locked stares, Ayanami set down his schedule book and picked up the report he'd been reading again. "Bring me the document Procurement needs me to sign, then," he directed.

Yukikaze lit up with a soft smile that wasn't even a little triumphant. "Yes, Ayanami-sama."

Hyuuga drifted over to lean on Aya-san's chair. "Aya-tan is so cute with his Yuki-chan," he cooed, and just had to laugh at the identically annoyed looks they both gave him.

It really was kind of adorable.

Five years after the Black Hawks were founded, Hyuuga was pretty satisfied with life. They were a tight unit, and they had enough sweeping successes under their collective belt that the fear he saw every day in the halls had turned from "monsters from under the bed" fear into "deadly elite unit" fear. People got out of their way, and Generals quaked in their boots when they saw Ayanami coming. Hyuuga approved.

So when Yukikaze came to him with the news that Ayanami had locked himself into his rooms and wasn't answering the door, it was a bit of a shock.

He smiled for Yukikaze, though, and patted his shoulder. "Don't worry about it. I'll go see what's up. You just make sure his paperwork stays caught up." He strolled down to their quarters, tucked away in a spare corner of officer territory so they could all stay close, even though it meant a smaller room than Ayanami was entitled to by now. Sure enough, Aya-san's door was closed and locked.

Hyuuga shrugged and pulled out his wakizashi to bang on the metal door with the metal guard. "Aya-tan!" he caroled loudly. "Open up for your evening serenade! This is your five minute warning!" He checked his watch and leaned against the wall, whistling piercingly and tunelessly just to make sure Ayanami knew he hadn't gone away.

At four minutes and thirty-five seconds, the lock clicked.

Hyuuga frowned a little when the door wasn't opened, but it slid open at his touch. All the lights were off, when he stepped in, and his eyes narrowed. He slipped aside, back to the wall, and let the door hiss shut again. "Aya-san?"

One of the shadows beside the polarized window stirred.

"What is it?" Hyuuga asked quietly. It wasn't like their driven commander to brood, much less lock out his own unit. Had they gotten a suicide mission or something?

Ayanami's voice was low and velvety in the dimness. "How many demands on your loyalty will you accept, Hyuuga?"

Hyuuga cocked his head, watching details emerge as his eyes adjusted. Aya-san had his back turned, as if looking out the darkened window. "As many as you make, you know that."

"And if I demanded your eyes and your hands?" Ayanami asked, so distant and casual it made Hyuuga's neck prickle. That was how Aya-san sounded when he talked to Generals: disengaged. He shouldn't sound like that with his own people. "If I demanded your body to move to my command?"

Hyuuga crossed his arms, leaning his shoulders back against the chill of the wall. "You have those already," he pointed out. "I'm your sword. You can wield me as you wish."

Finally, Ayanami turned to face him, eyes gleaming in the half-light. "And if I demanded your life? Your soul in my hand?"

Hyuuga blinked. Was that what this was about? "Aya-tan," he sighed, running a hand thought his hair. "We're all Warsfeil here, you don't have to dance around the question. If you want a soul contract to act through me, all you have to do is say." Never mind that such a thing was legend. This was Aya-san; if he thought he could do it, Hyuuga would believe he could.

Ayanami stepped away from the window. "Are you saying you agree?"

Hyuuga snorted and shoved off the wall. He crossed the room to Ayanami in a few firm steps and dropped down to his knees, catching Ayanami's hand and pressing it to his chest. "Don't insult me," he said low and fierce, looking up. "You've had my soul in your palm from the day we first fought. If you choose to close your hand now, that's your right. Take whatever you want from me."

Ayanami stood very still for two long breaths before his other hand finally lifted and threaded through Hyuuga's hair, fingers gentle. "Yes," he murmured.

That was all the warning Hyuuga got before ice was driving into his chest, into something that wasn't his body. Burning cold fingers kneaded the very core of him, unbearably intimate, and he was distantly aware of his body, pulled into a bone-cracking arch of tension, of his voice, hoarse and wordless. It was more intense than any pain or pleasure he'd ever felt and in the roaring silence of his mind he prayed for it to continue and begged for it to stop. One of Ayanami's hands cradled his head carefully while the other touched him, traced him, pulled his soul in half, stretching his life and breath agonizingly thin as part was taken away from him into darkness.

Slowly, he noticed he was shaking. That his throat was raw. That the darkness around him was the dimness of Ayanami's rooms. That he was being held against Ayanami's shoulder as every muscle shuddered helplessly. His soul, the part of him that commanded Wars and shaped zaiphon, ached and burned, but he could still feel, just a little, the coolness of Ayanami's fingers stroking it.

The key of his life belonged to Ayanami, now.

Which made today no different than yesterday, really.

"Told you so," he finally managed, husky, and Ayanami's shoulder trembled against his chest with a silent chuckle.

"Indeed." Aya-san's voice was warm again.

A bare few weeks later, it was Masaru's turn to spend several days pale and wobbly, and that was when Hyuuga started to wonder, and to remember just who it was that legend said could do such things to living human souls. Let alone two or three at once. It wasn't until years later that he remembered that the week Ayanami had taken Hyuuga's soul to him had been the same week that the Emperor's chief researcher had received a medal for unspecified services to the Empire, and the week that young Princess Ouka had been confirmed as heir.

The princess who would eventually wield the Eye of Raphael in war—or, at least, who would be used to do so. The researcher who tampered with the Eye and its master so that another could command it. The Eye that was said to seal the power of Verloren.

Knowing made no difference to him, of course.

Hyuuga didn't think the soul division had any side-effects, under most circumstances. But the day Ayanami came to them and said, "War is declared," he knew the driving fire of dedication that licked at his heart wasn't his own. That was the taste of Aya-san.

He could see it catching in all of them.

Masaru bowed, hand on his sword hilt. "What are our duties, Ayanami-sama?" he asked, eagerness burning through his usual smiling courtesy.

"We are tasked with capturing or killing the Raggs royal family." Ayanami's face was still and intent. "Nothing must be permitted to interfere or hinder us. Nothing."

Even Yukikaze, normally the gentlest of them, was hard-eyed. "Nothing will. We swear it, Ayanami-sama."

Hyuuga bent his head, smiling. "Don't worry, Aya-tan." He met their commander's eyes over the edge of his glasses. "It'll be our pleasure."

Ayanami's fire flared in his blood, and Hyuuga's breath caught softly. "Entirely our pleasure," he purred.

The war was over. It had taken a hard toll on the Black Hawks. Masaru was officially dead and had returned to them only in the guise of an enemy: Katsuragi.

Yukikaze was dead for real.

"You didn't release his soul, did you?" Hyuuga asked quietly, leaning in the door of Ayanami's office, watching his oldest friend standing at a darkened window again. "Yuki-chan's."

Ayanami didn't even shrug, and his voice was remote. "I was not holding it closely at the moment he died."

"You always held his soul pretty damn closely," Hyuuga said bluntly.

Ayanami didn't stir. "You will not speak of this, Hyuuga."

Hyuuga rolled his eyes. Aya-san could be so damn stubborn sometimes. "Look—"

This time, Ayanami answered him with steel. Hyuuga froze, keeping his hands still at his sides as Ayanami's sword pressed delicately against his neck.

"You will not speak of this." There was a ragged edge under the coldness of Ayanami's voice, now, and Hyuuga closed his eyes.

"All right," he said softly, and waited for the pressure to come off his throat before he lowered his chin and sighed. "Remember you still have us, though," and his mouth quirked as he finished, "Aya-tan." As Ayanami's eyes narrowed, he fished in his pocket and pulled out a candy to ceremoniously unwrap and pop into his mouth, lounging back casually in the doorway. He raised his brows at Aya-san. "Hmm?"

Ayanami gave him a tight-lipped look for the obvious reminders of their lost member, but in the end he only turned abruptly to his desk and picked up a pen. Hyuuga smiled around his candy.

He would, he assured Yuki-chan's memory, take care of Aya-san.

The headquarter Generals were getting to be an increasing pain in the ass. It didn't matter to them that the Black Hawks had the best success record of any unit in the entire Armed Forces. It didn't matter to them that Aya-san could actually deal with the Military Minister and even the Emperor and make sense of their orders. All they saw was how fast Ayanami had risen in the ranks, and that his appointment to Chief of Staff had been Miroku's last action before retiring, and they howled about favoritism and upstarts.

It really got on Hyuuga's nerves.

Today, that officious little insect Ogi had come into the actual field with them, along with a handful of his bootlicking staff, to "independently evaluate their performance" on the boring little rebellion the Black Hawks had been sent to put down. He'd been making sure to let them see him scribbling on his little clipboard and frowning judiciously.

Hyuuga didn't like boring missions that wasted their time and didn't have any good fights for him, so he was already in an edgy mood. When Ogi actually started berating Ayanami for getting his uniform bloody in battle he decided enough was enough.

"Ooo, Aya-tan," he interrupted when Ogi paused for breath, eyes theatrically wide behind his glasses. "He's right! Just look at all that blood on your sword hand!" Which was true, even after Ayanami had stripped off his soaked gloves. Hyuuga smiled, slow and wide, and murmured, "Well, we can't have that can we?" He strolled up to Ayanami's side and sank fluidly down to his knees, catching Ayanami's hand in his. He slanted a sidelong glance at Ogi, lip curled wickedly as he licked a line of blood from the back of Aya-san's hand.

Kuroyuri squeaked and Ogi choked, and Hyuuga smirked as he turned Ayanami's hand and ran his tongue slowly up Ayanami's blood-streaked palm. He took his time about it, enjoying the way Ogi's eyes got wider and wider, and his little pack of jackals started edging backwards. A quick look up at Aya-san told Hyuuga that he was amused; he didn't show it, of course, but he was standing there quite calmly, looking down at Hyuuga without surprise, just as if his subordinates licked the blood off his hands every day. Under the amusement was hint of heat.

Hyuuga definitely took his time after that. No sense doing a job half-way, after all. Besides, the sharpness of blood was already in his mouth from their brief battle, and he liked the taste of it on Ayanami's skin. It was cutting and real, more satisfying than any opponent he'd found today. He half closed his eyes and wrapped his mouth around Aya-san's fingers, savoring the way they flexed against his tongue.

By the time he was done, Ogi and his staffers had retreated in disorder. Hyuuga chuckled as he slowly sucked the last iron trace off Aya-san's middle finger. "There, now," he said brightly. "All better."

"Indeed," Ayanami murmured, fingertips brushing Hyuuga's mouth before he drew back and turned away. Hyuuga laughed as he stood and caught sight of Kuroyuri and Konatsu, both red as beets and staring with eyes the size of saucers. It was Konatsu who finally managed a strangled, "Major...!"

"Don't worry," Hyuuga told him, ruffling his hair. "You'll understand when you're older." He grinned as his new Begleiter sputtered in outrage, and tucked his hands in his pockets, strolling back toward their ship in Ayanami's wake.

Aya-san's touch lingered on his lips.

Hyuuga considered it his special job within the unit to make sure that Ayanami didn't go too crazy. Usually this was simple—just a matter of hanging over Aya-san's shoulder on days when they were especially straight or his mouth got a little too tight, teasing until Ayanami snapped and went for his whip. It was fun, like sparring only different. A game they played.

Sometimes they played it harder than others, of course.

"You know, Aya-tan," Hyuuga remarked, draped over the back of Ayanami's chair, "you should take a break from the paperwork now and then. Live a little! Go out for dinner instead of eating in the cafeteria!"

Ayanami's fingers were getting tighter on his pen.

"You could go to one of the restaurants where the officers hang out, and the girls come to sigh over the heroes," Hyuuga continued, watching for the moment Aya-san would drop the pen. "You could even get laid!"

He expected that crack to be the one that sent him rolling aside from Ayanami's whip, but what he felt instead was a cold twinge in his chest and stomach. It made him still for a moment, eyes widening behind his glasses. That was Aya-san's hand on his soul, tightening his grip for just a moment.

That was his warning, on nights they played a harder game. If Hyuuga kept pressing, what he faced wouldn't be a weapon he could avoid or blow he could roll with.

Hyuuga smiled, slow and dark.

He pushed himself off the back of Ayanami's chair and strolled around the desk, keeping his face turned away so Ayanami would see only his back. His uniform. "Come on, Ayanami," he taunted, dropping all the familiar forms he usually called his commander by, calling him what his enemies did, "you can't really be an automaton, the way they say you are. It'd do you good!"

Over his shoulder he watched Ayanami rising slowly to his feet and stepping out from behind the desk also. Good.

"Or maybe that's not it," Hyuuga murmured, thinking about the vicious gossip he'd heard most often lately. "Maybe you just don't want to be around the other officers and hear people saying it again. That you slept your way to the top."

The first lash of Ayanami's rage sliced into his soul, burning like frozen metal, and he staggered under it, gasping. Ayanami's face was set and still, but his eyes were bright. Gleaming. Furious.

Beautiful.

"With Miroku-sama, isn't that how it goes?" Hyuuga managed, lowering his head to keep Aya-san focused on his uniform and words, not his face, not who he really was. "Or the Emperor. Maybe both."

Ayanami's grip licked out between the halves of Hyuuga's soul, wrapping around him like a fist and squeezing until Hyuuga's sense of himself broke and ran between those steel fingers. His legs gave out under the force of it and he stumbled down to hands and knees, chest heaving. The fingers of Ayanami's control thrust into the very core of him, ruthless and precise. The chill and fire of Ayanami's presence inside him, wild and furious, set his body twisting, trying to get away and trying to press into the punishing intrusion.

The raw strength of it made him hard.

"That's why they all think you'll be their dog, now," he gasped, and moaned out loud as Ayanami's will raked his soul harder. His arms gave out and dropped him down, prostrate on the rug at Ayanami's feet. There was no part of him that wasn't in Ayanami's grip, now. He was pinned down under the sword of Ayanami's power driven into him to the hilt, flayed open by its edge. It was absolute intimacy, unnatural, almost unbearable except that it was Aya-san's hand on him. Hyuuga was a Warsfeil, born to be a sword drawn by this hand, and his hips jerked helplessly against the floor in response to that taste of blood and steel in his soul.

His voice was gone now and he was lost in immaterial sensation, the reason for it nearly forgotten, but he recognized when Ayanami's touch started to turn less harsh, started to caress as well as cut. "Aya-san," he whispered, in answer. The touch on his soul softened still more, shaping him gently back to himself, stroking the taut, trembling fibers of his being until they eased. His body gradually turned limp and boneless against the floor as his soul quieted under Ayanami's hand. He heard quiet steps approaching, heard the rustle of fabric, felt light fingers brushing his hair back, and drew a slow breath as his mind started working again. He cleared his throat softly.

"Forgive me." He always asked for Ayanami's forgiveness, these nights, because he hated the thought that Aya-san might take the things he said to heart even for a moment.

"There's nothing to forgive," Ayanami murmured, fingers still carding through his sweat-damp hair. "Not for you."

Hyuuga smiled wryly into the carpet. This was the other thing that was always said.

Sure enough, Ayanami added, quietly, "This is a dangerous game, Hyuuga."

"Aya-tan." Hyuuga pushed himself onto his side with a shaky arm so he could look up at his friend, amused and exasperated. "You know I love doing it." There was a wet spot on the front of his pants to bear witness to that.

He figured Aya-san had noticed when he raised a brow at Hyuuga.

Hyuuga laughed. "What?" he lowered his voice to a husky purr. "My soul likes to feel its master's hand now and then." He looked up at Ayanami, half teasing and entirely serious, and smiled as Ayanami's shoulders relaxed all the way.

Aya-san always offered him an end to their games, offered the kind of cherished safety he held the other Black Hawks in. None of the others would ever be wrung like this by their commander's will. Neither would Hyuuga, unless he chose it. He knew that.

He chose it every time.

He chose the ice and steel, and the burning lash of Ayanami's fury. He was the sword, and those were the things that made the world come alive in his mouth and heart. He also loved the soft caress of Aya-san's fingers against his soul, of course, but that wasn't what made the world brighter.

He caught Ayanami's hand and kissed his fingers. "I will serve you in every way, in every time, with my heart and soul. I will defend you with my life."

Ayanami's touch on his soul warmed, though he was silent for a long moment. At last he murmured, "If it comes to that."

Hyuuga smiled up at him, content with that permission.

He knew it would come to that, eventually.

End

The Word Whose Appearance Is Multiple

How the newer members of the Black Hawks might have come to join and, over and above that, come to be contracted with Ayanami. Drama, Character Study, I-3

For the purposes of writing in English, and based on a few indications in the manga, I've interpreted Kuroyuri as a girl.

Kuroyuri

Kuroyuri was a prodigy. She'd heard it from her family, she'd heard it from her teachers, and once she'd gotten to the Academy she'd seen it in the eyes of her classmates. Whenever they looked down far enough, anyway. She was the youngest person in the whole school by almost five years.

It wasn't that she was a brilliant strategist, because she wasn't. She just always won anyway. With the kind of zaiphon she commanded, she didn't need to "marshal her resources" or "coordinate with her partners". She just blew apart whatever was in her way. It worked.

So on the day of the exam, while everyone else whined and sweated, she stood apart from her "team" and leaned back against the clear wall of the arena with crossed arms. She tapped her toe, waiting impatiently while the proctor read out the rules and reminded everyone this was for real. It had better be for real; she hadn't had a single good match since she left home.

When the far door snapped up and the over-muscled target raged through, she pushed off the wall, filled her hands with power, and blew a hole where his chest had been.

The proctor, who hadn't even gotten all the way out the other door, hesitated. "Er. This team... passes?" She looked over her shoulder at the head of the academy and the fancy generals who'd come to watch exams with him. Kuroyuri sniffed.

"You know I passed," she said, waving a hand at the rest of the students. "If you want to know about them, go get another target." She wasn't part of any "team" of students; they'd all made that clear, and she'd expected it already. She'd been poisoned for existing when she was five, where was the surprise that people grudged her her life and power?

"There might be some justice to that, yes," the Chairman allowed, fingers flicking at the proctor. She guided Kuroyuri out with a hand on her shoulder, tossing a cheery, "Wait right here!" at the rest of the students.

"You have the strength for battle, certainly," the Chairman observed, giving Kuroyuri a stern look. "But I'm not entirely sure you have the discipline. Perhaps it would be better to keep you for another year."

Kuroyuri stiffened, starting to glare. She'd die of boredom if she had to spend another year around here! The general standing beside Miroku stirred, though, and lifted a hand.

"That won't be necessary," he said calmly. "I will take this one."

The Chairman cocked an eyebrow at him. "You will, hm? Well, Kuroyuri was certainly slated for the Black Hawks eventually, but are you sure, Ayanami-kun?"

"Quite sure." The general stepped forward and rested a hand on Kuroyuri's shoulder. A possessive hand, she thought, looking up at him, which made a little thrill of hope and surprise run through her. "Kuroyuri will do better among our own kind."

That was when the unit name clicked, and Kuroyuri's eyes widened. This was the Warsfeil general! This was the man all the families like hers were talking about! He used his power right out in the open, he and the Black Hawks, and no one dared say a word! "I'll do my best!" she exclaimed, looking up at him starry-eyed. "I promise!"

He smiled faintly, glancing down at her. "I trust you will."

Kuroyuri wandered through the rest of graduation and processing in a daze, seeing again and again that tiny smile, hearing that low, sure voice saying he trusted her.

Her new post was so exciting it nearly made her squeak. Okay, fine, it did make her squeak, but only once! And that was just because Hyuuga could do really cool things with his swords. There was lots of blood, on that assignment; she approved. In fact, she kind of loved it. She was with other Warsfeil, she was one of the official ones. And, so, yeah, the rest of the military whispered about them, and crossed the hall out of their path, and moved away from any table one of them ate at. It wasn't all that different from how she'd already been treated at the Academy, and at least now she had a unit she belonged with!

It took a while for her to realize that there was something wrong.

She didn't always use her soul sight. It had been really strong when she was younger, and really distracting, so she'd learned to ignore it mostly. The first time she used a Wars in her new duties, though, she'd noticed that Hyuuga was half-souled. It hadn't taken much thinking to figure out who held the other half, and it made perfect sense that Ayanami-sama could do something that amazing. He was Ayanami-sama! She'd looked, when they came back to the ship, just to be sure she was right.

That's when she'd seen that Katsuragi was bound the same way.

Both the other Black Hawks' souls belonged to their commander. Hers didn't, and Ayanami-sama hadn't made any sign he expected to take hers. She searched his face when he told them they'd done well; she couldn't see any difference in how he looked at them and how he looked at her. But there must be one. Because otherwise, she'd be bound to him the same way, wouldn't she?

She brooded on that all the way back to the Fortress, curled up on her seat with her arms around her knees. Was it just because she was so young? Did he think she wasn't strong enough? But he knew her strength, he'd seen her in battle!

Was she... not suitable somehow?

That was the thought that finally drove her to his office to ask. She couldn't stand the thought she might not be what he needed. Once she'd kicked that clown Hyuuga out the door and slammed it behind him, she spun around to face her commander, biting her lip.

Ayanami-sama set down his pen and folded his hands with that faint smile of his. "What is it, Kuroyuri?"

"Am I... not what you want, Ayanami-sama?" she asked, soft and shaky. "Am I... am I failing in some way?"

His brows rose. "Why would you think that?"

"You haven't... I'm not... You haven't bound my soul!" she burst out. "You have both the other two, but not me! Am I... not good enough?" she finished in a whisper, blinking hard to hold back tears.

He rose and came around the desk to her, and she clenched her hands at her sides, trying to be brave in face of whatever he was going to say. When he knelt down level with her and touched her cheek, a sob almost broke loose.

"Be calm," he told her quietly. "Your place is here at my side. Do not doubt that."

Kuroyuri nearly gasped with relief, pressing her locked hands to her chest. "Ayanami-sama..."

"I hadn't thought to take your soul until you're older, and sure in your heart that you belong to the Black Hawks." Sharp violet eyes held hers. "To me."

"I do," she protested. "I am! You gave me a place, you let me fight, you let me use my power! You make everything right! I do belong to you!"

"Is a contract binding your soul something you really wish?" he asked softly. "This is your life bound to mine, and you are very young, Kuroyuri."

"You gave me a place," she said, soft and sure, because he'd just confirmed it. Her place was at his side. He was the one who let them command darkness right out in the light, and not fear for their lives. "I'm sure in my heart, Ayanami-sama. I swear it."

He held her eyes for another long moment, but finally he nodded. "Come here." He held out his hand to her and she stepped forward, trustingly, into the circle of his arm.

When his fingers reached into her chest, chill and sharp like a blade cutting her open, she bit her lip hard to keep silent. She wrapped her hands in his uniform coat and swallowed down the whimpers that tried to force their way up her throat. This was Ayanami-sama, and her soul was his to take. Everything that was her stretched, and stretched some more as she gasped for breath, until part of her settled into his hand.

"Ayanami-sama," she whispered, rough and shaky.

"Shh," he murmured to her, soft and cool, rubbing her back. "It's done. Be still, now."

She quieted obediently, leaning against his shoulder, and slowly the ache of dislocation eased under his soothing hand. "Thank you," she finally said, low.

He chuckled softly. "Thank you, as well." When she looked up shyly, her breath caught. She could see it, raw in his eyes, the possessiveness she thought she'd sensed when he'd claimed her from the Academy. Her. He wanted her to be one of his people, not despite what she was but because of it. She smiled back, cheeks warm.

"I belong with Ayanami-sama."

The satisfaction in his eyes made her blush harder, right down to warm her heart.

"Yes."

And that became her world.

Haruse

When Kuroyuri announced, "I want to see you more often. Is that okay with you?" Haruse answered as honestly as he always answered her:

"Of course."

He wasn't sure why this caused her to grab his cuff and tow him promptly off down the halls of the Fortress, but she obviously had a destination in mind so he followed after willingly enough. When they went up an elevator into officer territory, he did wonder whether he was really cleared to be there. Kuroyuri had to use a keycard to unlock the elevator doors. But, he reasoned, he was in the company of someone who clearly was authorized, so it should be all right. Maybe she wanted to spend some time together in her own rooms instead of down in the common areas where people did tend to look askance and whisper.

So when she finally announced, "Here we go!" he was expecting the door to open onto an officer's suite.

Instead he found himself looking across a large office at a large desk, behind which was, unmistakably, General Ayanami, the Chief of Staff of the entire Imperial Armed Forces.

Reflex jerked him into a salute as Kuroyuri trotted blithely across the office. "Ayanami-sama," she said, leaning familiarly against the man's desk, "can we have Haruse for the Black Hawks? Please?"

Ayanami's brows rose, and his mouth quirked with unmistakable amusement as he returned Haruse's salute and nodded for him to stand a little easier. "This is a unit of Warsfeil, Kuroyuri," the General pointed out, quite reasonably.

Kuroyuri, though, just looked up at him and said softly, "You can change that, though. Can't you? You can, Ayanami-sama. Please?"

They looked at each other for a long, silent moment. Haruse didn't know what passed between them in that silence, but finally Ayanami looked up to regard him thoughtfully. "Is this your wish, Haruse-kun? To join the Black Hawks?"

"I... I didn't... I never thought..." Haruse took a deep breath, trying to get control of himself past his shock. "I hadn't thought it would ever be possible, sir. I never considered it."

Ayanami glanced back down at Kuroyuri, a little chiding. "Kuroyuri..."

"But!" Kuroyuri spun back to him, eyes wide and pleading. "You said you wanted to see me more often, too! You said it was okay."

"I did. I do!" he agreed earnestly. "I would love to be able to serve with you, it's just... I mean..." He ran a hand through his hair, flustered enough to be falling out of attention. He looked over at Ayanami, who was watching them quietly. "Is it really possible, sir? For me to become... what you and Kuroyuri-chuusa are?"

"Possible, yes," he murmured. "Is it your will to become that?"

Haruse took a deep breath, thinking hard. Dozens of childhood horror stories about Warsfeil clamored in the back of his head: anathema, unholy, they'll eat your soul if you're not good. But against that clamor was the pressure of Kuroyuri's eyes on him, their honesty and determination, their purity. He knew by now that the duties of the Black Hawks were dangerous and bloody, but he hadn't become a soldier because he thought it would be a safe, clean job. He had enlisted to serve his people and his country with his life. Slowly he straightened and nodded. To become as she was... "It would be my honor, sir," he said quietly.

"Even if you lose your soul?" Ayanami asked casually, and Haruse froze.

"Ayanami-sama!" Kuroyuri protested, scowling. "You're trying to scare him."

He cocked a brow at her. "Your soul is no longer entirely your own, Kuroyuri."

She huffed, arms folded. "That's because it's you. This is the place you gave me. You're my place; of course my soul is yours."

Haruse felt like the world tilted. She said it so calmly, so matter-of-fact. Warsfeil truly did deal in souls, then, but... not as a horror, it seemed? She said it as easily, and as earnestly, as if it was her loyalty she'd given. Perhaps... perhaps they were the same thing in a way.

Perhaps to "give your heart" just meant something a little more tangible to Warsfeil than to most people.

And this man, who had given his dearest friend the belonging Haruse knew she needed so very much, was offering to let Haruse see the world the same way. Offering him a place beside her.

Haruse drew himself back up to calm and proper attention. "Even so, sir. It would be my honor."

Ayanami smiled faintly. "I think you've found someone suitable, yes," he told Kuroyuri, and stood from behind his desk. "Come, then, Haruse-kun. If you would make this pledge with us, I will show you the first part of it." He stripped back the glove from his left hand and drew his sword, taking the end in his bare hand and closing his fist tight. Haruse flinched in shock. Ayanami's face was calm. He held out his hand, cupping it as red gathered in his palm. "My blood," he said, softly. "Take and drink of it." He smiled, and this time it was sharp. "If you would be raised up."

Haruse swallowed a little hard, but a glance at Kuroyuri showed her only smiling, happy and hopeful. If he was going to look at the world as they did... then his commander's blood was not a threat or a mark of pain. It was the offer of life—a new life. Haruse gathered himself and walked across the room to Ayanami, and knelt down at his feet; it seemed only proper. He cupped his hands under Ayanami's and touched his lips to the blood in his palm.

It slid down his throat and straight through his chest like a burning sword. Haruse doubled over, gasping harshly for breath. It felt like his heart was being pulled inside out, and each tug sent a stab of fire through him.

"Haruse! Haruse, it'll be all right." Kuroyuri's arms, small and strong, wound around his shoulders. "Let Ayanami-sama in, and it will be all right."

She was his guide in this, so he clenched his teeth and did as she said, fighting to surrender to the force twisting through him. And it was true—the more he yielded to that pressure, the easier it got, the less it hurt, until he felt like he recognized his own body again. Or maybe it was his soul. Slowly he looked up, and met Ayanami's eyes with a shock of connection. His lips worked as he tried to sort out, in his spinning head, what this man was to him, now. One title after another shaped themselves: General, commander, patron, Lord. Master, his soul whispered.

Ayanami's bloodied hand settled on his head. "Call me by my name, now," he said quietly.

Haruse shivered, panting for breath as Kuroyuri hugged him around the neck and made encouraging noises. "I..."

"Give it time to settle in you," Ayanami told him, more gently than he'd spoken yet. "Rest while I take care of your transfer to the Black Hawks. Kuroyuri can show you some of how to use our power once you've recovered."

Haruse's breath caught, because that new gentleness was open to see in Ayanami's eyes. It was quiet, but it was there, and it plucked at Haruse's devotion. "Yes, Ayanami-sama," he said softly. A part of him couldn't help wondering, though, whether the loyalty he knew he couldn't help giving Ayanami would take from what he'd already given Kuroyuri.

A few days later, when he was given his transfer papers to sign, he saw that his new post was listed as Kuroyuri's Begleiter. Haruse smiled.

He had chosen rightly.

Konatsu

Ayanami watched his newest member of the Black Hawks salute smartly and march out of his office with a straight back, and turned a thoughtful eye on his oldest member. "You didn't ask."

Hyuuga shrugged a shoulder casually, still looking out the window over the city. "Konatsu's a Warren, and word's gotten around the Fallen families, you know. I imagine he knows who you are. If he wants to be given that power, he'll ask himself."

"He may know," Ayanami agreed mildly, "but you certainly know. And you didn't ask."

Hyuuga sighed, a wordless admission that he wasn't going to get out of answering this one, and turned around, leaning his shoulders against the glass. "Yeah, I didn't. Aya-san, this kid grew up without power in one of your bloodlines. The Fallen families aren't nice, any more than the God Houses are, and no one's hand but yours ever redeems us." His mouth quirked, faint and sharp. "He lived and fought and never bowed down. I like the kid's spirit."

Ayanami snorted softly, amused. "Yes, that was what convinced me he was deadly enough to join us, power over Wars or no." He cocked his head at Hyuuga. "Why would you not wish to see him with greater power, then? I doubt he'd abandon the sword, not if he already fights such that you approve of him."

Hyuuga lowered his eyes, examining the toes of his boots. "It's something he said, when he woke up," he finally said, low. "That what he wants has no meaning if someone gives it to him." When he looked up again, his eyes were burning, they way they did in battle. "I want to watch him keep fighting for whatever it is he really wants."

Ayanami didn't think he'd ever seen Hyuuga this interested in anyone, before. Perhaps Ayanami himself held Hyuuga's attention that way, at least once Hyuuga had teased him out of patience, but certainly no one else. "Very well," he said at last. "I think I'll assign him as your Begleiter, then. Since you take an interest in his progress, you may stand as his superior and mentor. He seems very dedicated, so he may," he added dryly, "even be a good influence on you."

Hyuuga grinned at him, running a hand sheepishly through his hair. "Whatever you say, Aya-tan."

Long past being deceived by any apologies or promises to be more diligent at anything except field work, Ayanami waved dismissive fingers at his oldest friend and follower, and turned back to his own paperwork.

Over the next few weeks, though, he watched his new subordinate. Konatsu was, indeed, very diligent, and also quite practical. It took only a few days before the boy evidently concluded that nothing would cause Hyuuga to do his own paperwork, and took it over completely. Konatsu was courteous, capable, and deferred to his seniors, with the developing exception of Hyuuga. Ayanami could only approve of both his manners and his good sense.

And never, by word or look, did Konatsu suggest he hoped or desired to be offered the power of a Warsfeil. Hyuuga appeared to have read his protege correctly.

Something else Hyuuga had said lingered in Ayanami's mind, though. No hand but yours ever redeems us. For the God Houses, redemption came in the form of the Traveler to Seele, for as long as he or she was strong enough to bear the burden of cleansing the Houses. What did redemption mean for the families who had flowed from Ayanami's blood, down his lifetimes?

To judge from the responses of his Hawks, it meant his acceptance. His mark.

This boy of his spirit's blood, born without the touch of his power, still stood straight and walked without hesitation at Ayanami's side, of his own choosing. Perhaps the simple mark of blood and power would not be sufficient to Konatsu's pride. But there was another mark Ayanami could give him. If Konatsu was strong enough to bear it.

When Konatsu had been with them two months, and through one field assignment without faltering, Ayanami decided it was time.

"Come in," he called at the respectful tap on his door, and looked over Konatsu's shoulder at Hyuuga. "Kuroyuri and Haruse were just looking for you, Hyuuga. I think they said something about taste-testing." Hyuuga's eyes widened behind his glasses.

"Ah. I'll just... ah, there was something... yes, that I had to do." Ayanami smiled to himself as Hyuuga vanished rather than make himself an easy target for Haruse and Kuroyuri's experiments. Or perhaps he was simply obeying his commander's evident wish that he leave them alone; with Hyuuga it could be hard to tell. Konatsu blinked after his superior for a moment before shaking his head in mystification.

"You wished to see me, Ayanami-sama?" he asked, stepping inside and coming to precise attention.

"I did." Ayanami leaned back in his chair. "It has become my practice, over the years, to create a soul contract with my Black Hawks." He tilted his head, curious about how much this boy had or could observe without the senses of a Warsfeil. "Were you aware?"

Konatsu nodded slowly. "Something Kuroyuri-chuusa said made it seem possible. But... with the whole unit?" Softer, as if to himself, he murmured, "It's true, then." He lowered his eyes and bowed deeply, not a military salute but as a son of the Warren line to his Lord. Ayanami found that satisfying.

"Indeed. I see no reason to break that practice in this case. You are not Warsfeil, but you have a strong soul. I believe you could bear the contract."

Konatsu shot upright, eyes wide. "Me?" he nearly squeaked, and Ayanami's mouth quirked with amusement. He nodded silently.

"Yes," Konatsu whispered, nearly glowing with sudden excitement and determination. "Yes, Ayanami-sama. Let me serve you, I won't fail your trust, I swear!" He lifted a hand as if to offer Ayanami his soul in that palm.

Ayanami rose, pleased. Hyuuga had chosen well for them when he'd brought Konatsu's courage and faith to Ayanami's attention. "Come, then."

Konatsu came to him and stood straight and proud, bright eyes fixed on Ayanami's face even as Ayanami set a hand on his shoulder and reached for his soul.

Most of any soul was simply brightness and darkness, but each had it's own faint texture, the impress of the mind and heart born from it. Konatsu's was soft to his touch, not guarded with the fire and edge that so many Warsfeil gained. It was strong, though. Some souls tore when he took them to himself, but not this one. Half Konatsu's soul settled into his grasp like a bird landing on his hand, warm and living and surrendered into his hold without question or doubt. Ayanami smiled and stepped closer, drawing Konatsu in to lean against him as he marked that soul for his. The boy gasped for breath in the wake of the binding, trembling a little. "Ayanami-sama..."

"I was not mistaken," Ayanami told him quietly. "You have strength for this and more."

Konatsu actually blushed, and Ayanami chuckled, resting a hand on his head for a moment. "It's done. Go and rest, now."

"Yes, sir." Konatsu was still glowing with quiet happiness as he left, despite his shaky knees, and Ayanami contemplated the new soul in his keeping with some pleasure. He had missed this, the binding and sealing of souls.

He would have to find the rest of the Ghosts as soon as possible, and regain the rest of his rightful powers. Perhaps with them in his hands once again, he would be have what he needed to fill the loss at the heart of him that even his Black Hawks only soothed a little. He had searched since Raphael's hold had first been broken, and he had a feeling that the pieces of his self would come within his reach again soon.

Soon he would make himself whole again.

End

(Not) Limited by Blood

This is the story otherwise known as "The Role of the Sharingan in Sex and Endogamous Bonding and Incidentally Kakashi's Massive Control Issues". I'm really not sure I can summarize it better than that. Written for the Porn Battle prompt: Kakashi/Sasuke, teacher. Porn with Characterization and Worldbuilding, I-4

Warning: clan endogamy may result in incest-y vibes for some.

Look, I never claimed to be in control of the bunnies I get from this fandom.

This takes place when Sasuke et. al. are about 19.

Sasuke stood out on one of the curving verandas that every building in Tanigakure seemed to have and wondered distantly how soon he could get out of here. He pressed his forehead against one of the veranda's smooth wooden posts and closed his eyes, breathing in the faint, rising cool of the river flowing through the bottom of the valley. He wanted to be gone from this place.

Not because Hidden Valley was a trial to stay in or anything. It was a pleasant village, and if the sloping sides of a deep gorge seemed like a precarious place to build a village, at least the floor and lip of the valley were thick enough with trees to make him feel at home.

Not because the mission was going badly. It was going fine from what he could see. Valley's council had agreed to relax the border controls between River and Fire countries, to allow larger groups of Leaf shinobi across as long as they presented proper notice of their mission at the border, instead of having to wait for approval from the village. The Master of Valley even seemed a bit charmed by Kakashi, and even her most uptight councilors seemed to approve of Sasuke.

Oh yes. Sasuke knew why the Fifth had sent him along. Over half the council were members of the Yasumori clan, and Yasumori was a clan like Hyuuga, like Uchiha had been—old and dignified. The longer he was here, the more Sasuke found himself falling back into old habits, found formalities coming easily to his lips, found himself reading at a glance the little indications of clan politics, of who was supporting or feuding with whom. It was exactly what Kakashi needed as he dealt with the Yasumori, so here Sasuke was.

And it hurt.

Every time he bowed at just that angle that said he was a son of the senior branch; every time one of the Yasumori unthinkingly cleared the way for him in response; every time he recognized the tiny grimace that said Yasumori Koujirou really wanted to disagree with Yasumori Michiru no matter what their clan head had told them about solidarity in front of outsiders; every time he saw those things and looked by reflex for familiar eyes, eyes like his, and found only the green and hazel of Yasumori, it hurt.

Maybe it would have been better if Naruto or Sakura had been along on this mission. Maybe they would have been able to remind him that he was someone else, now, building a new clan and not the son of an old one. Maybe that would only have made it worse; he didn't know. All he knew was that he thought he might give his soul to look into eyes like his own tonight, and the last of those in the world were both traitor and dead.

"Sasuke?"

Kakashi's voice startled him, but he stifled a flinch (because a noble didn't show his reactions like that) and raised his head. It was starting to get dark and his teacher was a shadow in the cool dimness under the veranda roof. "Is there a meeting?" he asked steadily.

Kakashi's visible brow quirked just a bit. "No meeting. And it looks like that's just as well."

Sasuke flushed. He should be concealing his hurt better than that. "I'll be fine," he insisted. "It's just..." He bit off the explanation.

"Hm." Kakashi came to lean silently on the veranda rail beside him, looking down over the curved roofs below them, fading away into the gorge as dusk fell. Only a few lamps had come on, yet, to re-trace the outlines of the village. It was quiet here where the guest houses stood, and the soft rush of the river below blended with the murmur of people a handful of steep, wooden streets away. "It's just what?" Kakashi asked, just as Sasuke was relaxing again.

"Familiar." It slipped out without thought, and Sasuke gave his teacher a quick glower for getting that out of him.

"I did wonder about that," Kakashi murmured, not minding the glare at all which was just typical. "Unfortunately, I was the only jounin free to send on this one and you were the only noble of a senior branch free to come. At least the only one I could trust to tell me all I need to know."

That confidence in him warmed and hurt, both. "I'll be fine," Sasuke repeated, with determination if not quite as much surety as he'd have liked.

"Hmmm."

Sasuke stiffened at first, but the sound wasn't doubtful; just thoughtful. Of course, that wasn't any less alarming for anyone who knew Hatake Kakashi.

Even knowing that, though, he wasn't prepared for Kakashi to straighten and casually push up his forehead protector, looking down at Sasuke with his Sharingan uncovered. After days on end of furiously suppressing his desire for his own clan, the reminder that there was another Leaf shinobi with Uchiha eyes hit Sasuke like a fist in the gut and stopped his breath just as surely.

"I wondered," Kakashi repeated quietly, and lifted a hand to rest on Sasuke's shoulder, warm and sure, just holding him.

Sasuke caught his breath again in a deep gasp, and a confusion of words and thoughts tumbled up to his lips. "Sensei... I mean, senpai... I... Kakashi-san..." In his heart it was none of those, but he didn't dare say it. It would be too much.

Kakashi's hand tightened, strong and reassuring, and the tangle of want in Sasuke was joined by a simpler, more familiar heat that made his breath hitch a little. He swayed forward before he caught himself, uncertain. He thought Kakashi smiled just a little behind his mask, and a thumb stroked up and down his neck gently.

"It's all right," Kakashi told him, soft as the deepening dusk. "You're my team here, Sasuke; you know I'll take care of you." And then Sasuke just had to stand and stare, because he hooked a finger over the edge of his mask and slid it down.

When they'd all been younger, his team had schemed wildly to get a glimpse of their teacher's face. As they'd gotten older, Sasuke had come to understand there was no great mystery, only an entrenched habit of concealment; and he could understand that perfectly well, and had stopped trying to get past it. And now here it was, set aside for him just as easily as this. It was the simplicity of it that let the heart-deep words slip out as Sasuke leaned closer, hands coming up to Kakashi's chest, the way he would have called any of the older cousins.

"Kakashi-niisan."

His teacher smiled, a startlingly clear curve of firm lips. "Yes." He tipped Sasuke's chin up and kissed him, slow and easy, watching him with that half-lidded red eye, and Sasuke's heart turned over and sped up. There were things he'd never had the chance to learn but had still heard about; things about how the sight of the Sharingan could be used in bed. The way Kakashi's tongue stroked over his and swept through his mouth made him wonder if it had all been true, because before long he was clinging to his teacher's shoulders and panting for breath thanks to that slow, wet slide.

The street lamp outside their guest house came on, casting the fineness of Kakashi's profile into relief as he finally drew back, making the silver of his hair shine as he tilted his head toward the door. "I think this is better carried on inside, hm?"

Sasuke swallowed and murmured, husky, "Yes, Kakashi-niisan." He expected Kakashi to turn the lights on when the door closed behind him, but the room stayed fully dark, and Sasuke's eyes widened as he understood. He took a breath and activated his own Sharingan, and a flash of hope and excitement ran through him as the shapes of the room faded into his sight, dim against the shifting brightness of Kakashi. The thought of having an older clanmate again (kind of; close enough!) to guide and teach him made him shiver—hard enough that, when Kakashi held out his hands, Sasuke stumbled going to meet him. It had been so long.

He was caught and pulled close against the heat of Kakashi's body, feeling it and seeing it, and when Kakashi's hand slid down his back to just the right place to support him he knew he was being seen the same way. "Please," he whispered, and lifted his face to meet Kakashi's mouth on his.

Their clothes ended up scattered across the room, a vest flung over one chair, Sasuke's shirt dropped onto the low table, Kakashi's pants kicked into the corner, and when Sasuke finally got to feel the the sleek heat of Kakashi's skin against his own he moaned. He could see every shift of response in Kakashi's chakra as his hands traced over the solid muscle of his teacher's back and shoulders, and knowing he was just as bare to Kakashi's eyes, to his Sharingan, was enough all by itself to make him hard.

And it wasn't all by itself.

Sasuke came up onto his toes, body arching helplessly taut as one strong hand closed between his legs and calloused fingers stroked his cock knowingly. "Kakashi-niisan," he gasped, wanting, almost pleading, and Kakashi's fingers tightened as he caught Sasuke's mouth in another kiss, deep and hard. Sasuke lost it all in a second, coming with a strangled groan as heat wrung him out fiercely, over and over, until he was leaning against Kakashi and gasping for breath. "Wha..."

"Mm. Now maybe we can take it a little slower," Kakashi-san murmured against his ear, and Sasuke could hear the smile in his voice, see it in the shift of his chakra. He was sure his hot blush was just as visible, and felt the vibration of his teacher's chuckle through the broad chest he rested against.

"Yes, Kakashi-niisan," Sasuke managed, a little embarrassed and a little delighted with the teasing. It felt good, intimate and casual and like clan.

He let Kakashi guide him down to the bed, watching the tight, patient coil of his teacher's chakra, the focus of it. That focus was in the hands that slid down his body, slow and sure, spreading his thighs until he gasped, kneading the drawn muscles of his stomach until they relaxed into heat, cupping his ass and squeezing just once, hard enough to make him moan. He reached back, for once a little shy next to his teacher's experience, watching with the clarity of the Sharingan and the dizziness of the heat in him to see what Kakashi liked, what his chakra brightened for. He trailed his hands down Kakashi's chest to stroke lightly over his cock and was answered by a low sound and swift downward shift of chakra. That gave him an idea, and he licked his lips.

"Kakashi-niisan? Can I...?" He slid his fingers down the length of Kakashi's cock.

After one still moment, Kakashi's fingers slid through his hair and tipped his head back for a slow kiss. "Yes," Kakashi murmured into his mouth.

Kakashi's hand slid through his hair as he settled between Kakashi's legs, and Sasuke leaned into his fingers. That made the coiled lines of Kakashi's chakra ease before Sasuke even touched him, and fresh heat curled through Sasuke. If his teacher wanted to guide him in this, too...

"Kakashi-niisan." He rested his cheek against Kakashi's thigh, looking up at him. "Will you show me?"

"Show you?" Long fingers stroked lightly through his hair again, and Kakashi's voice sounded perfectly casual, but his chakra was still flowing in tight, poised lines.

"How to do this for you."

For one instant, Kakashi's chakra coiled even tighter, as if he hadn't expected Sasuke to see what he wanted. But then it relaxed all at once, spread out into the soft edges of acceptance. The flicker in it matched the flash of wry amusement in Kakashi's voice. "Yes. I think that will do. For both of us."

Kakashi's hand slid down to cup Sasuke's cheek and guide him down, and the heat in Sasuke's stomach turned heavier. He opened his mouth and slid his lips down Kakashi's cock, and moaned as Kakashi's other hand wove into his hair. This was good. He gave himself up to the signs of Kakashi's hand against his head, of the long fingers wrapped around his jaw, of the flow and flare of Kakashi's chakra, moving as he was shown until the thickness of Kakashi's cock was sliding in and out of his mouth, over his tongue, slow and steady.

And Kakashi was careful with him. Didn't press him down too far. Kept his hands gentle, even as his breath was coming faster and deeper and his chakra was falling and brightening. It was good, good to feel that, good to trust it, good to watch that sharp, red eye on him in the darkness and know he was being seen by kin, by clan.

(Close enough!)

And then Kakashi's hand was sliding under his chin, lifting his head. "Enough," his teacher said, husky. "Come here."

Sasuke slid back up Kakashi's body and was caught tight against him, kissed hard as he wrapped his arms around Kakashi's solid shoulders. The room spun as Kakashi turned them, laid him down, but that was all right because Kakashi's chakra was steady, a stable anchor like Kakashi's weight over him. The rush of heat as strong hands slid down his thighs and caught his knees to spread him wide open, so wide, drowned his thoughts and he moaned openly, pinned down under Kakashi's gaze.

"Mmm." It was a satisfied sound. "I thought this might do for both of us, yes." Kakashi's smile was clear. "Well, since my hands are busy, why don't you get me ready, Sasuke?" he teased. "I think your vest is by the bed."

Sasuke flailed wordlessly for his vest and fished in the inner pockets. Knife oil, muscle salve, no, ah there it was. He slicked his fingers with gel and reached down to slide them over Kakashi, completely unable to help the soft moan when he thought about the cock in his hands sliding inside him.

Knowing Kakashi, that was probably the idea.

And his breath cut short again as Kakashi's eye on him sharpened. "Now," Kakashi told him softly, and Sasuke grabbed for his arms, fingers closing tight as Kakashi's cock pressed against him, into him. Slowly. Very slowly.

"It's all right, Sasuke," Kakashi murmured to him as he gasped. "I see you. I've got you."

Shudders were running through him under Kakashi's hands. The stretch of it was hard, just on the edge of too hard but never past it, because Kakashi was seeing him, every flicker of response in his body and chakra, and that had Sasuke making little moans of want, low in his throat. The thick slide opening him just kept going; as soon as Kakashi was all the way in he was drawing back again, smooth and slow, never pausing, fucking Sasuke so steadily that he was half out of his mind with the rush of sensation.

And it just kept going.

His throat was dry with panting for breath he never caught, and his legs were trembling in Kakashi's hold, and it took him forever to even think to free one hand from their frantic grip on Kakashi's shoulders and reach down to fist around his own cock. Kakashi made a husky sound at that, and thrust into him harder, and Sasuke's stroke tightened at the rush of heat. "Kakashi-niisan," he whispered, pleading.

"Look at me, Sasuke," Kakashi ordered, velvety in the darkness, and Sasuke looked up to meet the intent eyes above him, caught by that familiar red, focusing his own gaze on it.

And it changed, spinning into the scythe wheel of Kakashi's Mangekyou Sharingan, the deepest power of their clan.

Response slammed through Sasuke like a wave crashing up the shore and he groaned as fire flashed down every nerve and wrung him fiercely until he was breathless, senseless, aware of nothing but heat and the eye that locked his gaze. His body was wringing down so hard he was barely aware of Kakashi driving into him deep and fast, but he saw the answering brightness flash through Kakashi's chakra, spilling through like a waterfall. Pleasure sang through him until he thought he might break before it peaked and dimmed slowly with the ebb of their chakra.

They were both still for a long moment before Kakashi gently eased Sasuke's legs down to the bed again and stretched out, drawing him close. Sasuke lay quietly against him, feeling completely limp and more at peace than he'd been since they took this mission.

"It's true, you know."

Sasuke made an inquiring sound, and Kakashi's hand came up to cradle his head against Kakashi's shoulder, careful and tender.

"For the sake of Obito's gift to me, I was affiliated with the Uchiha. There was no other lawful way to respect his wishes. I never claimed anything of the clan, but the fact remains." His thumb rubbed slowly up and down the tendons of Sasuke's neck as Sasuke stiffened, mind blank. "You know who your family is now, Sasuke. But if you need clan, too... remember it's here."

Sasuke wrapped his arms tight around Kakashi's chest and whispered against his shoulder, "All right."

It was a shock. And yet it wasn't. He'd never suspected it was official, but Kakashi was his teacher, the one he went to when he'd found something new in the clan records, the one who understood what the Sharingan saw and did. The one who had held him and seen him tonight, the way one of his clan would have if there had been time. Sasuke let his breath out and edged closer on the bed.

Kakashi relaxed too, and his lips brushed over Sasuke's forehead, and Sasuke settled into his teacher's arms as easily as he would into any of his kin's.

End

Seven, Eight, Lay Them Straight

Yamamoto wants some captains back. Hirako doesn't trust him a bit. But there are other people who have a stake in the argument, and he has a harder time saying no to them. Alternate storyline, because if KT really intends to break them up, well I'm just not having with that. Drama, Character Study, A Bit of Fluff, I-3

It had, Shinji thought, been a pretty good day, so far. The chill of winter was still hanging on, but it was sunny and crisp out. Everyone was pretty much recovered from the battle with Aizen. There was a new volume of manga out for Love and Lisa to argue over, and Rose had been talking about making something 'experimental' for dinner which was always good for a laugh or two.

It could have kept on being a good day if they hadn't gotten a visitor.

Shinji sat very still on one of their salvaged couches, eyes fixed on the dapper First Division vice-captain standing calm and collected in front of him. "He wants us to what?"

Sasakibe didn't even have the grace to look ashamed of his message. "Yamamoto-soutaichou asks that the captains of the Third, Fifth, and Ninth divisions return to take up their positions again," he repeated, hands clasped easily behind him. "May I bring him your reply, Hirako-taichou?"

Shinji lifted a brow and looked around at his fellow Visored, perched here and there on the ledges and second-hand furniture of their home in the mortal world, all stopped dead in the middle of reading or cooking or mending to stare down at Sasakibe. They looked about like he felt. "Well, ladies and gentlemen?" he purred. "Do we have an answer for the illustrious Captain-General?"

Predictably, it was Hiyori who first snorted. "Fuck it," she spat, arms crossed.

"About like that, yeah," Lisa agreed, turning back to her manga. "Notice he didn't ask for any of the rest of us; just three to replace the captains his own damn blindness lost. Selfish bastard."

"And I can't say I enjoyed the Court's last reaction when they thought I didn't fit into a proper division any longer," Love added, leaning against a pillar, "I don't really want to see what he'd try to do with a spare captain this time."

Rose's eyes were hard, flamboyance left aside for once. "We served Soul Society loyally and were wounded in that service, and your precious Council would have killed us out of hand like mad dogs. Why should we go back to that?"

"They were told who was at fault and all they did was make the bastards captains," Kensei growled, muscles flexing ominously as he clenched his fists. "Now they want us to clean up their mess?"

Mashiro took another bite of the dumplings she was demolishing and turned a hand palm-up at her captain, shrugging her agreement.

Shinji smiled. "So there you have it," he told Sasakibe cheerfully. "Our answer is that Yamamoto should fold his offer into corners and shove it. Anything else?"

Sasakibe sighed quietly. "I will take your reply back. May I say, personally, that I would welcome your presence in the Court of Pure Souls, setting things to rights once more. I don't believe I'm alone in that." He bowed to them, deep and courteous, before picking his way back to their door.

"Huh." Lisa squinted after him. "That was kind of half-hearted. I expected him to argue more."

Shinji frowned to himself, thinking about the way Sasakibe had phrased that last bit. He wasn't so sure the argument was over.

When their next visitor from Soul Society was Kuchiki Rukia, Shinji figured he'd been right.

"If he thinks he can twist us around to this by sending one of Ichigo's friends," he started, low and hard, as Hachi quietly sealed the barrier again behind her. Rukia instantly looked guilty and Shinji nearly growled.

"It isn't like that," she insisted, eyes wide and earnest, and Shinji slashed a hand through the air, cutting her off.

"You can tell Yamamoto, we said no and we mean no. He made his damn bed, and now he can sleep in it! Not once in a freaking century did anyone even..." he trailed off because Rukia had stopped looking guilty and was looking puzzled.

"Yamamoto-soutaichou doesn't even know I'm here." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, her eyes widened and she waved her hands, black sleeves flapping. "I mean...! He approved the project, of course, and Ukitake-taichou knows where I am, so it's not like..."

Shinji ran the last few minutes through the 'Juushirou-san or possibly Rukia is putting something over on Yamamoto' filter instead of the 'Yamamoto is putting one over on us' version. "It's not like you're sneaking around behind Yamamoto's back to do something for Ichigo?" he hazarded and laughed when Rukia's cheeks turned pink. "Well that's different. All right, what are you here for?" He strolled back to his couch and sprawled out comfortably.

Rukia gathered herself and bowed to him formally. "Hirako-taichou, I'm here to beg a favor on behalf of Kurosaki Ichigo, who you have named your ally." She pulled a wrapped bundle off her shoulder and knelt down on the concrete to unwrap it at his feet.

It was a sword. A nameless sword, and yet... Shinji frowned and held his fingers close to it, testing that sense of power. He'd never seen a nameless sword that radiated reiatsu like this one. He'd also never felt such a gathering of reiatsu that wasn't marked with the sense of a single soul. "What's this?"

Rukia sat back on her knees, hands folded. "Yamamoto-soutaichou ruled that, because Ichigo had lost his shinigami powers in defense of Soul Society, it would be proper to restore them if we could. Many have contributed their reiatsu already."

Contributed their reiatsu to a sword. Shinji thought about that for a long moment and finally called, without looking up, "Hachi, is this what I think it is?"

Hachigen came and leaned over Rukia's shoulder, eyeing the sword with interest. "Indeed. As a named zanpakutou can be the channel for a single shinigami's spirit power, this one could theoretically channel the power of all the contributors into the recipient."

Shinji caught a glint in Rukia's eyes before she lowered them demurely, and grinned. "You like the irony?" he asked softly.

That spitfire glint flashed again, along with Rukia's teeth, before she composed her expression. "It was judged the most stable solution, and the one likeliest to succeed," she observed coolly.

Shinji laughed out loud. "You convinced them to let you do it, didn't you?" The very 'crime' she'd nearly been destroyed for, and here she was sanctioned to perform it right out in in front of gods and men.

"It was judged Ichigo's spirit, having accepted my reiatsu once, would most readily accept this infusion from me as well." Rukia was really bad at looking innocent. Shinji approved.

"Give it here." He held out a hand, gathering his own strength. In one swoop he could help Ichigo, who had gotten almost as raw a deal as the Visored had, and put a thumb in Yamamoto's eye. Show the old man he couldn't control everything and everyone.

Because he might have been wrong about why Rukia was here, but he didn't think he'd been wrong about what the old bastard was scheming.

When their third visitor arrived, Shinji knew he'd been right, because their third visitor was Hisagi Shuuhei, vice-captain and acting leader of the Ninth Division. The man who had Kensei's numbers tattooed on his cheek. It didn't take a genius to spot who must have inspired the kid to become a shinigami, and a dispassionate corner of Shinji's mind wondered just how badly it had rubbed Tousen the wrong way, that his own vice-captain had a previous loyalty to the captain Tousen had betrayed. Or, hell, maybe he'd been sick-minded enough, by then, he'd thought it was funny.

Kensei was the only one Hisagi had eyes for once Hachi let him in, at any rate. He went straight to Kensei, like he didn't even notice the rest of them, and after a moment's hesitation he bowed all the way to the ground. Shinji's lip curled, because that was exactly the kind of gesture he'd expect from someone on a mission of manipulation, treating Kensei like he was already the kid's captain. But if that was the case, Shinji didn't know why the hell the kid was so stiff and awkward about it.

"Muguruma-taichou." Hisagi's voice was just as stiff. "The Captain-General sent me to ask that you take up leadership of your division again."

Shinji propped one foot up on his windowsill perch, considering that phrasing while the other Visored started to slip closer through the concrete and shadows of the building.

Kensei folded his arms with a snort. "So he can betray us twice? I don't think so."

Hisagi bent his head. "Your reservations are only sensible," he agreed quietly.

Shinji pursed his lips. Interesting. If he had to guess, he'd say Hisagi hadn't wanted to come here, and might just be resenting the way Yamamoto was using him to pressure Kensei, despite wanting Kensei back himself. "So if it's only logical we refuse, why are you here forking over this steaming crap?" he prodded.

Sure enough, Hisagi's shoulders tightened, all the more obvious in that sleeveless kosode of his. "The Captain-General sent me," he repeated flatly.

"The Captain-General can kiss my ass," Kensei said, rough. "Go back and take the damn division yourself, already."

Hisagi's head dipped a little lower. "I'm not qualified as a Captain. It... it will have to be someone else. I'm sorry, Muguruma-taichou."

Shinji exchanged a long look with Love, brows raised. Love nodded faintly back to him, leaning against the pillar across their 'entry hall'. This kid had it bad for Kensei, just like Kensei's whole seated complement always had, except for Mashiro herself and that poisonous bastard Tousen.

And maybe that was exactly why he didn't want to be here pressuring him. Shinji chewed on a nail and frowned. This could be bad; Kensei had a soft spot for earnestness and honesty.

Kensei blew out a breath, running a hand through his hair as he looked down at Hisagi. "Not like it's your fault."

"Thank you for saying so." Hisagi didn't look up, and Shinji thought he was leaning harder on the hand he had braced on the ground, now; anyone with less of a poker up his spine would have been slumped. "I won't trouble you further, sir."

Kensei shifted his shoulders, tapped his fingers on his belt, and finally asked abruptly. "How are they? The Ninth."

Shinji swore silently at Yamamoto for having the brains to send a messenger who so transparently wanted not to manipulate them that his very earnestness manipulated them. Or at least Kensei.

"Unsettled," Hisagi admitted, low. "Not as badly as the Fifth, but... no one likes being without a captain's strength to guide us. Even if Renji or Ikkaku can be pried away from their captains... I worry that it won't be enough. Renji is still very new to his bankai, and Ikkaku has been holding himself back; neither of them has the confidence that would make me willing to follow them." Not the way he'd followed the bare memory of Kensei. The thought hung unspoken in the air.

Kensei's eyes were dark as he glanced over at Shinji, and Shinji's mouth tightened. "You know the risks," he said levelly.

"No one knows them better, except maybe you." Kensei turned away and banged his fist against a cracked support beam. "My people weren't the ones who fucked us up, though!"

Hisagi's head came up and he stared at Kensei's back with wide eyes, suddenly hopeful, suddenly hungry before he got himself back under control and looked down again. Shinji watched the performance and sighed. He knew Kensei would never deny that kind of loyalty and need; it was exactly how he made them so loyal to him in the first place. "Your choice."

Mashiro rolled onto her stomach on the couch she was sprawled across and dangled her arms over the edge. "Are we going back?"

"I'll think about it."

Shinji rolled his eyes. Deny it as he would, Kensei still thought of himself as a captain, and of Mashiro as his vice-captain, someone he had the right and responsibility to direct without a second thought. "You're too good for that place," he muttered.

Kensei smiled at that, tight and thin. "Tell me something I don't know." He turned back to stand over Hisagi, who looked up at him with fragile calm. "Tell the old man I'll think about it."

"Yes, Taichou," Hisagi answered, husky, and bowed his head almost to his knee. "Thank you."

Shinji flopped back onto his elbows with a sigh as Hisagi got up to go. He wondered glumly who Yamamoto would find to pry at their resolve next.

"We have another visitor," Hachi announced from the ramp down to the red stone floor of their cavern and Shinji puffed a soap bubble from the basin of dishes he was washing away from his face.

"Who is it this time?" he called, dunking the next plate in the rinse water and drying it on his red striped apron. Hachi sounded a little weirdly formal, but he got like that sometimes. "Did the old goat send Retsu-san to scold us or something?"

"Nothing that grand, I'm afraid."

Shinji jerked around, suds dripping off his hands, to stare. No, his ears didn't deceive him, that was Kyouraku Shunsui stepping down the ramp all right. From the corner of his eye he saw Lisa's latest manga hit the ground, pages fluttering as the lurid pink cover flapped closed. He tossed the last plate back into the water, snapping the suds off his hands like blood off his blade. "Kyouraku," he said, low and warning. Lisa had never been one of his division back in Soul Society, but she was one of his people now and he wouldn't have her hurt by Yamamoto's damn politicking.

The man held up his hands, looking apologetic. "I would have told Yama-jii to walk off a cliff, really I would have, but I did want to make sure Lisa-chan was okay." He looked over Shinji's shoulder, eyes deceptively soft. "And it is true you'd be welcome, if you ever decided to return."

"You have a vice-captain," Lisa pointed out, stifled. When Shinji glanced over his shoulder, she was standing still and straight-shouldered, but her hands were fists half hidden in her skirt.

"Nanao-chan would step aside for you," Shunsui told her gently. "You have to know that. She idolized you." His mouth tilted wryly. "Still does."

"Why should you care?" Lisa lashed out, fists tightening until they trembled. Shinji fell back a few steps to be in support range. Or range to restrain her if she broke and attacked Shunsui, because it would only piss her off more when she couldn't even hit him. "You never did anything! You never even looked for us!"

Shunsui sighed and tucked his hands in the sleeves of his extravagantly flowered kimono. "Lisa-chan, we didn't know. None of us knew what had happened until Yoruichi had already gotten all of you to the mortal world." His eyes never left Lisa. "If we had known, we would have acted. I swear that to you."

"He and Ukitake-taichou are the ones who destroyed the Kikou-ou, rather than see Rukia-san destroyed unjustly," Hachi put in quietly from where he sat on the end of the ramp.

Lisa crossed her arms tightly over her stomach, hands gripping her elbows. Shinji ran a damp hand through his hair with a disgusted huff. Lisa was strong and capable, and as pissed off as any of them about the way they'd been sentenced sight-unseen by the damn Council, the way Yamamoto hadn't done a single thing to save them. But he also knew she'd spent the past century missing her captain. "Go on, if you can trust him," he told her quietly.

Lisa worried her lip between her teeth, glaring daggers at Shunsui, but Shinji could see the helpless hurt behind the anger. Obviously Shunsui could too, because he took one step that flashed across the cavern and folded Lisa in his arms. "I'm sorry, Lisa-chan," he murmured against her hair. "I'm sorry I couldn't find you sooner."

Lisa didn't make a sound, but her hands lifted to close tight on his sleeves.

Love came to prop himself against the washing stand and said quietly to Shinji, "Two to zero?"

"Three, counting Mashiro, as soon as Kensei makes up his mind to go." Shinji fished out the last plate and scrubbed it viciously. "Shunsui-san will look after Lisa, at least, but what the hell do we do to keep Kensei and Mashiro safe?"

Love considered for a long moment and finally suggested, "Kill Kurotsuchi before he gets too curious for our own good?"

An unwilling smile tugged at Shinji's mouth. "That'd be a start, yeah."

He was beginning to have a bad feeling about where this would end, though.

When Hinamori showed up, he went right through 'bad feeling' and landed on 'blazing fury' instead.

"I am going back to Soul Society after all," he said, very quietly, "so that I can kill that old bastard with my own two hands." The edge of concrete under his hand was slowly crumbling and the air was ringing around him. He was aware of the uneasy looks the others were exchanging, the way Hachi's hands were slowly folding into the form for a restraining kidou, and couldn't bring himself to care right at the moment. How dare Yamamoto use the girl Aizen broke? How dare he send her here, as if to tell Shinji to take responsibility for the messes his alleged subordinate left behind?

It was Hiyori who stuffed her hands in her pockets and snorted as if she hadn't noticed the weight of his rage. "Yeah, well, he deserves it. I mean, what kind of moron tries to play the sympathy card on you?"

After a long, taut moment, Shinji let out a breath of harsh laughter and hauled his reiatsu in before he destroyed any more of their home. "No one, you'd think."

"I asked to come."

Shinji eyed Hinamori, really seeing her for the first time. The thought wandered through his head that she couldn't be as delicate as she looked if she was still on her feet after the way he'd just cut loose. "You asked?"

She bobbed her head earnestly, hands clasped in front of her. "After I spoke with Hisagi-san."

Shinji's brows rose. "And exactly what did Hisagi say, that made you think coming here was a good idea?" he drawled.

"He ah... well..." Her steady gaze wavered and slid away from his. "You see, Rangiku-san was, er, counseling Kira-kun again, and Hisagi-san said that if he was going to have to take anyone to Fourth afterwards he wanted to at least get some of the sake for himself, and he ah... might have been just a little drunk."

Shinji crossed his arms and leaned back against a fallen block, still showing the sword-cuts from where Ichigo, or maybe Hiyori, had carved it up during their first fight. Kensei had a hand over his eyes, and Love and Rose were both trying to stifle snickers. "Go on."

Hinamori cleared her throat, cheeks faintly pink. "Well, he mentioned that, if Muguruma-taichou did decide to return, it would be for the sake of his division. After the story Renji-kun and Rukia-san brought back, about what had happened to you... it seemed to me that was likely the only reason any of you might be willing to come back. And that the best person to make the Fifth's need clear would be me." She spread her hands, looking up at him steadily once again.

"Ah, I see," Shinji said lightly, temper simmering again. "So it was your own personal idea to guilt-trip me, not Yamamoto's."

"No, sir!" Hinamori started forward a step, chin up, color high. "I would never...!" She stopped, hands clenching tight on each other. When she spoke, her voice was husky, broken around the edges. "I would never try to... to manipulate someone's heart like that. Never."

The shadows slinking behind her eyes and turning them dark were painfully familiar, and Shinji's temper collapsed in a heap. This girl obviously hadn't even had his own native suspicion and nasty-mindedness to help her understand what Aizen was. "No," he said a bit more gently, "I can see you wouldn't." He propped a foot against his broken perch with a sigh, slumping a little. "It's true enough; if I came back for anyone it would be for the Fifth. What happened wasn't their fault. But the Council and Yamamoto are still there, and... Hinamori?" She was staring at him wide-eyed, hands clasped tight against her mouth.

"He got it from you," she whispered. "That's how he made everyone believe it, he was pretending to be you..."

"Hinamori!" Shinji straightened up, reaching out as she started to slide down to the ground, wondering what the hell was wrong with her and why Retsu-san had let her out of Fourth's clutches in this shape. Mashiro was already there, though, easing Hinamori to the floor in a rustle of hakama. Shinji frowned down at them, unsettled. "Hinamori, what are you talking about?"

She gulped and scrubbed her hands over her face. "I wondered how Aizen-taichou could act like he cared, when he obviously didn't," she said, nearly whispering. "I couldn't understand it. It seemed so real! If he could do all those things, to Rukia-san and the people of Rukongai and you and... and me... If he could do that, how could he even understand kindness well enough to fake it?!" She heaved another breath in and out and looked up at Shinji. "But just now... when you spoke more softly, you sounded just like him. I mean, he sounded like you. He's been acting like you, all this time, that's how he did it, that's how he made everyone believe it!" She was shaking in the casual circle of Mashiro's arm, but her voice had risen, hard and steady, and her eyes were blazing.

Shinji had to take a few breaths himself, swallowing down his gorge at the thought of Aizen using him, or at least his memory, that way. "You still sure you want me to come back?" he finally managed, almost as lightly as usual.

"Yes!" Hinamori leaned forward on her knees, tense and broken and looking more alive than she had since she's stepped in the door. "The Fifth was under Aizen for too long, believing lies for too long. Help us re-learn what's real, what that looks like." She finished softly, "Please, Hirako-taichou."

Shinji looked down at her, absently damning his own sense of responsibility. Hinamori had a good instinct for the target, that was for sure. The opportunity to reclaim his division from the traitor who'd stolen them beckoned temptingly, and the determined beginnings of trust in the wide brown eyes locked with his promised silently that things would be different this time. Shinji sighed, reminding himself to do something extremely unpleasant to Yamamoto for letting Hinamori come and close this net around him.

He stalked over and held a hand down to Hinamori. "All right, come on, then. Up!" He hauled her to her feet. "Hiyori!" he called without looking around.

"Yeah?" The single word was toneless and Shinji grinned just a little, guessing what she was thinking.

"Didn't figure you'd want to go back to the Twelfth, so decide which of us you want to stick with. If it's me, you and Hinamori need to hash things out between you. Can't have more than one vice-captain, after all."

Hinamori blinked up at him for a second before a smile broke over her face like sunrise. "Yes, Taichou!"

"What's to hash?" Hiyori fired up instantly, which had been more or less the idea. "I have seniority!"

Hinamori peered around Shinji with a flash of calculation in her eyes before she folded her hands and smiled, sweet and steely. "If you'd like to decide it that way, I'm sure that will be fine. How long was your tenure as vice-captain, Hiyori-san? And how recent is your administrative experience?"

"My what?!"

Shinji faded back to lean against a pillar beside Rose while they watched the show. "So, should we wait for them to send your vice-captain after you, too?" he asked. "Just to have the full set."

"Since it seems I'll need to rescue mine from alcohol poisoning, I think we'd better not." Rose tossed back his hair, looking around at the rest of them. "I suppose this is the best way to take care of everyone in the family."

Shinji's mouth curled up. "Yeah, I think you're right." And he didn't think Yamamoto had really considered that part of it—that he was taking into Soul Society a group who would never be turned against each other, no matter who ordered it. Not after what they'd been through. Well, too bad for him if the old bastard hadn't. Yamamoto had asked for this; he'd get it.

The Army of Masks was coming to Soul Society.

Shinji shook his white haori's sleeve straight with an annoyed twitch of his arm. He hadn't counted on the uniforms they'd worn for centuries feeling so awkward, though it made sense enough once he thought it through. None of them had had any trouble putting the uniform off, even outside of their gigai—not after the way Soul Society had condemned them to death without a second thought. In face of that betrayal, they'd all taken on the clothing of the mortal world with bitter speed and finality.

But the people who'd condemned them were dead of what Shinji could only think of as the world's biggest karmic boomerang, and the people who really mattered wanted them to come home. So here they were, gigai packed away, new manga stockpiled, pantry handed over to Tessai, standing in their cavern and looking at each other. Back in uniform. Wondering who was going to be the one to test their welcome and try to open the senkaimon.

"So?" Hiyori crossed her arms, glowering at nothing. "What are we waiting for?" Shinji's mouth twitched up at the corner.

"For someone to get impatient," he told her and drew his sword. His tilted smile turned true for a breath at the way everyone else breathed out with relief. When he slid his blade through the edges of the world, he felt it catch at once. The turn to unlock the gates was as smooth as ever, a familiar sense of vastness shifting around that tiny motion, and then the gates were in front of them, silently sliding open one after the other.

When eight butterflies flittered through the light of the gates to hover in front of them it was Shinji's turn to sigh as relief ran through him in a warm rush. Their reiatsu imprints had been reinstated, and they were recognized. Official. Accepted.

He was still going to flip Yamamoto off the first chance he got. But he couldn't deny the comfort of having one of those delicate, black messengers hovering at his shoulder, a silent and unmistakable sign of belonging.

"Let's go, ladies and gentlemen," he said quietly.

The walk through the passage was silent, so silent the rustle of haori and occasional clink of swords seemed loud. Shinji halted when they came to the bright horizon of the second gate. "Everyone ready?"

"Ready as we're going to get," Kensei muttered.

"Let's go see what our welcome is," Love agreed, one hand resting on his sword's hilt.

"They'd better be damn grateful to see us after a hundred years of this shit," Hiyori growled and hitched her sword up on her hunched shoulders and stomped through the gate. Shinji smiled at her back, far more gently than he'd ever let her see since they shouldn't really pause in the middle of the passage between worlds to have a brawl.

"Like she said."

They stepped out of the gate and into the pillared staging plaza of Soul Society.

There were more people waiting than he'd expected.

He'd been sure their vice-captains would be there, because Yamamoto wasn't the kind to change what was working, and Shunsui-san would be there to pick up Lisa of course. But Juushirou-san and Retsu-san were both standing back among the circle of pillars also, and he spotted the white haired mini-captain lurking back there too. He almost didn't recognize Kuchiki Byakuya, standing still and poker-faced under another column, and wondered yet again just what had happened to turn Kuchiki House's mouthy little firebrand into this.

Shunsui-san tipped his hat up, smiling quietly at them. "Welcome back, all of you."

"We'll say whether it's nice to be back once we find out," Shinji returned dryly and rolled his eyes a little at the dramatically mournful look Shunsui-san gave him. "Lisa."

She stepped forward, and Shunsui-san's clowning softened at once into something almost tender. "Lisa-chan." And then Shunsui-san grinned. "We have a present for you."

The Ise girl stepped out of his shadow and came forward, holding something clasped against her chest and giving Lisa such a starry-eyed look that Shinji almost laughed. "Welcome back, Yadoumaru-fukutaichou," she said softly and held out the vice-captain's badge with both hands.

Sure enough, the stiff line of Lisa's back eased and she smiled a little. "Are you sure, Nanao-chan?"

"Of course!" Ise was actually blushing. "It will be an honor to serve under you again." Shinji raised a brow at Shunsui-san, who just looked smug.

Lisa laid her hands over the badge, resting them on Ise's for a moment. "Well. Thank you, then." She snugged the badge around her arm with a still-practiced flick and tug and straightened to give Shunsui-san a familiar half-glare. "Well? What are you waiting for? There's work to do."

"I'm sure there is, somewhere," Shunsui-san murmured, probably just to see both of his vice-captains give him matching dark looks. The man definitely had bad hobbies. Well, it wasn't like anyone nice got to be a captain around here, except possibly Juushirou-san and in his case it just made him more alarming. Why had they thought this was a good idea, again?

Finally, the vice-captains who had been waiting started to come forward, and Shinji's mouth quirked. Ah, yes. That had been why.

Hisagi stepped up and knelt down at Kensei's feet, formal and proper, but the husky edge in his voice when he said "Taichou" made Shinji shake his head. Just as well they'd come back, maybe; this one wouldn't have lasted much longer on his own. The weighing look Kensei gave his vice-captain said he saw it too, and his voice was quiet as he reached down to touch Hisagi's shoulder. "Yeah. Come on and let's go see about kicking things back into shape."

Hisagi took a breath. "Yes, sir." He stood and gave Mashiro, standing at Kensei's shoulder, a respectful nod despite the alarmingly thoughtful look she was turning back and forth between him and Kensei. Shinji bit back a snort of amusement, anticipating the volume of Kensei's arguments with her if she started trying to matchmake.

Even as Hisagi stood, the other vice-captain, a lean blond with a noble-family look to him, stepped up and bowed down to the ground before Rose. "Ohtoribashi-taichou," he greeted Rose, quiet and contained.

"Kira-kun, yes? Kira Izuru?" Rose smiled with just a hint of mischief. "No hang-overs today, I hope?"

Kira looked up at that, losing his closed expression to a quick blush and a sputter. "Taichou!"

The mini-captain's curvy, amber haired vice-captain was leaning against a pillar giggling under her own captain's resigned eye and Kira shot her a slightly harried look.

Rose chuckled and beckoned Kira up with a tilt of his head. "I didn't have that long with the Third before everything came apart. You know them better, now. Tell me about them."

Kira composed himself a bit and stood. "Of course." He answered the silent crook of Rose's fingers and walked beside him as they stepped away from the gates, and Shinji's brows lifted. Rose's gestures were open and welcoming, but he was being very careful not to touch Kira at all.

Was there a single damn division that hadn't been left broken in the wake of Aizen and his merry psychos?

Certainly not his own. Shinji eyed his own vice-captain ruefully as she came to him. There were still dark smudges under her eyes, and he was pretty sure it would take some serious work before she was truly ready for duty again. Well, that was his job now and he'd do it.

"Hirako-taichou," she said, low and a little hesitant, starting to kneel formally, head bent.

"Hinamori," he returned, quietly, hands folded into his sleeves. They'd have to work on her self-confidence when she wasn't in a blazing temper, for starters. She obviously needed the forms for her own comfort, right now, but he wasn't about to spend the next hundred years with his vice-captain popping up and down from her knees at every turn. He'd say something once she was a little calmer.

She paused, though, looking up at him. Biting her lip, she slowly straightened. Shinji cocked his head and watched her, keeping his expression neutral, waiting for her to decide what she was going to do. Finally, she nodded, folded her hands in front of her and bowed from the waist. "Welcome home, Taichou," she said firmly.

Shinji smiled, slow and pleased. "There, now. That's more like it." Maybe there wasn't quite as much work to be done as he'd thought.

Hinamori's back straightened a little and she nodded back, determined.

"Are we done yet?" Hiyori growled from where she was sprawled out on the steps to the gate.

"Since the old man didn't show up so I can bawl him out right away, yeah, I think so." Shinji strolled for the stairs down. "Come on, you two."

Hinamori and Hiyori closed up at his shoulders as they followed everyone else out into the Court and Shinji grinned. He could practically feel the suspicious looks Hiyori was shooting his new vice-captain behind his back, and he might still be going to regret having made this choice, but right now he was glad he had. Politics and broken divisions and all.

Hinamori was right. They were home.

End

All Our Times Have Come

Hisagi is dealing with his new captain and his old hesitancies. His new captain is having none of those. Written for the Porn Battle promt: Kensei/Hisagi, reunion. Porn with Characterization, I-4

When Muguruma Kensei returned to take back the Ninth Division, it had caused a stir. Compared to the various rejoicing, gossiping, suspicion, and the shock suffered by anyone who had to deal with Mashiro, Shuuhei knew that finding himself working in the same room with his captain was a very small change to be fretting over. On the scale of all the stir caused by the captains' return, it was really a very minor thing that Muguruma-taichou liked to have his vice-captain close at hand. It could certainly be worse. Mashiro might have wanted her own seat back, and while Shuuhei wouldn't have fought her for it he knew that would have caused a great deal more upset in the lower ranks. It comforted the people who had never known Muguruma-taichou to have Shuuhei remain.

Even if that did put him in the same office as the man he had a hopeless and ridiculous crush on.

The chair across the room creaked and Shuuhei glanced up, catching the long flex of muscles as Muguruma-taichou stretched his arms overhead. Shuuhei fixed his eyes firmly back on his paperwork, trying to remember the next thing he needed to write.

"About time to knock off for the day. You done with those yet, Hisagi?" Muguruma-taichou's voice didn't rumble the way some deep voices did, but there was a roughness to it when it was low. Shuuhei spent a lot of time in this office stopping himself from shivering, just listening to his captain.

"I should finish up a few more pages," he said calmly, not looking up again. "Please go on ahead, Taichou; I'll close the offices up."

"Hm." Muguruma-taichou's steps whispered across the wood floor to the window behind Shuuhei's desk. He could see his captain out of the corner of his eye, bare arms crossed as he looked out. "You know, if there's one thing that I really do hate Tousen for, it's this. For teaching my people to be afraid."

Shuuhei's head jerked up at that, shocked; Muguruma-taichou hadn't spoken Tousen-taichou's name once, since he'd returned. It took a moment to realize what else he'd said, and then Shuuhei flushed, caught between shame at being found wanting by his captain and the need to defend the philosophy of his other captain. "Sir, we aren't—" He broke off abruptly as Muguruma-taichou turned and one warm, strong hand caught his chin. Dark eyes held his.

"Aren't you?"

Heat rushed over Shuuhei as he realized what his captain was talking about. He could feel his heart beating against his breastbone like it wanted to get out. "It's not," he started, husky, and had to swallow and try again. "It's not Tousen-taichou's fault that..."

Muguruma-taichou's thumb stroked over his mouth and Shuuhei's words choked off in the shudder of want that ran up his spine. "You won't get what you want if you don't ask for it, Hisagi," Muguruma-taichou said quietly.

Shuuhei closed his eyes, because that was the only way he could look away from the levelness of his captain's gaze. "It isn't my place to ask."

"Bullshit!"

Shuuhei's eyes flew open again, wide at that barked word, to find Muguruma-taichou frowning down at him. "This is why I say it's Tousen's damn fault," Muguruma-taichou growled, though his hand was still gentle, wrapped around Shuuhei's jaw. "You hold back with me exactly the way you hold back with your own sword. " He shook Shuuhei a little. "I haven't seen you release that damn sword once, since I got back, and everyone says that's business as usual for you. You're ashamed of the shape of your own soul, Hisagi! You think I'm going to leave one of my people in that state?"

Shuuhei swallowed and shook his head, wordless. No, he couldn't imagine the captain he'd come to know letting that go.

"You are what you are," Muguruma-taichou told him, flat and inflexible. "And what you are is a man of the Ninth. My Ninth. You marked yourself with it, so don't try to tell me otherwise." His thumb brushed over Shuuhei's cheekbone, where the numbers 69 were tattooed, and Shuuhei flushed. A corner of Muguruma-taichou's mouth tilted up. "I haven't had much luck yet getting you to release your sword. But I'm betting Tousen never touched this part of you." He braced his other hand on the back of Shuuhei's chair and leaned over him, voice turning low again. "So tell me. Shuuhei. Do you want this?"

Shuuhei's thoughts were tangled up in a knot. It was Tousen-taichou's words that had kept him in the Division, had given him a way to fight with honesty. That's what he'd thought, even after Tousen's betrayal. But Muguruma-taichou... it had been his imagine in Shuuhei's head that led him to the Division to start with, that made him try over and over to get into the Academy until he did it, that made him work and train until he'd found Kazeshini's name and shape, and closed his hand on that strength.

Do you want this?

"Yes," he whispered, hands closed into white-knuckled fists on top of his desk, remembering the first time he'd held Kazeshini's grips and spun his blades free, the terror and thrill both. Remembering the first time he'd seen Muguruma Kensei standing proud and easy after a battle, and the flash of desire to be like that himself. Maybe it was true; maybe he had stopped at the easy answer. If anyone could teach him to walk in the dark shadow of Kazeshini's edge without losing himself, it was this man. So he looked his captain in the eyes and finished, "Please."

Those eyes were hot as Muguruma-taichou smiled. "Yeah." He lifted Shuuhei's chin and kissed him, hard and sure.

Heat twisted through Shuuhei's stomach and he reached up to fist his hands in Muguruma-taichou's haori; he didn't want to hesitate, he didn't want to hold back from fear, and his captain didn't want him to either. Realizing that one thing, feeling it in the force of Muguruma-taichou's mouth on his, pulled a faint moan out of him.

He wanted it, yes.

Muguruma-taichou made an approving sound and pulled Shuuhei up out of his chair. "Come here." Shuuhei had to swallow as he found himself pressed up full length against his captain, feeling the hardness of his body, the solid weight of Muguruma-taichou's muscles under his hands as he slid them up his captain's arms. He flushed hot as broad hands slid through the sides of his hakama and under his kosode to grip his ass firmly, and couldn't help grinding wantonly against Muguruma-taichou in answer. "Taichou!"

"I think," Muguruma-taichou murmured against his neck, "that when I have my hands on your ass you can leave off the titles." He dragged his tongue along the edge of Shuuhei's choker, sending a jolt of heat up Shuuhei's spine. "And I don't want to hear my family name from someone I'm fucking, okay?"

Shuuhei pulled in a quick breath; that was the kind of intimacy he hadn't expected, the kind that made this more than just a captain resorting to unorthodox methods with a subordinate. "...Kensei-san," he answered, low and hesitant, unsure again if it was really all right for him to have this.

Muguruma-taichou lifted his head and caught Shuuhei's chin again with one hand, looking at him steadily. "Do you think I haven't been watching all of you, the same way you've been watching me? Looking around to see who still has some goddamn fire in their guts? I didn't leave you in the vice-captain's seat just to soothe anyone's nerves!"

Shuuhei stared back at him, closer to being overwhelmed by this than he was by the heat of his captain's hands on his skin. "You really think I'm like that." And it wasn't a question, but he could hear the wonder in his own voice. "You really think I can handle it."

Muguruma-taichou slid his thumb over Shuuhei's cheekbone again, tracing the numbers slow and firm. "You know the answer to that already. You have for a long time, I'm thinking." A little gentler, he added, "You just forgot for a while, is all."

Shuuhei took a slow breath, feeling something in his spine release. He lifted his head and looked back levelly. "I'll try to remember, then. Kensei-san."

His captain smiled with a flash of teeth. "That's better." He wrapped his hand around the back of Shuuhei's neck and pulled him into a slow, hot kiss. This time, Shuuhei pressed into it, moaning softly as those powerful hands slid under his hakama again, pulling him up the thigh Kensei-san slid between his legs. Shuuhei shivered and let himself rock against that solid muscle, hands groping over Kensei-san's shoulders and back.

"Yeah, that's it." Kensei-san's hands kneaded Shuuhei's ass, strong enough to make him gasp a little, low in his throat. "Don't hold yourself back, Shuuhei."

The quiet coaxing, the promise of an anchor in the powerful body unmoving against his, undid Shuuhei's reserve strand by strand until he was riding Kensei-san's thigh, grinding wantonly against him, kissing back hot and wet and open. He barely recognized his own voice when he groaned, "Kensei-san, fuck me..."

Kensei-san chuckled against his ear, low and rough. "Right here? You want me to put you down over your own desk and fuck you right here and now?"

Shuuhei shuddered and ran his open mouth down the line of Kensei-san's neck, tasting salt on his skin, and bit down on the curve of his shoulder. Those hands tightened hard on his ass, digging into his muscles and spreading him open, and want twisted a little tighter. Want he didn't have to hold back. "Yes!"

"Good."

Shuuhei leaned over his desk as soon as Kensei-san let him go, breath coming hard; he wanted this. He wanted to feel the easy confidence of his captain's hands on him until that confidence soaked into his skin. As his hakama slid down and warm palms pushed his kosode up over his hips, he sagged down to his elbows and rested his head against the smooth wood, a little light-headed with anticipation. "Kensei-san..."

"Easy." One hand closed firmly on his shoulder, holding him steady, and tension eased out of Shuuhei's shoulders, unwound down his back. There was nothing hidden, nothing held back in Kensei-san. He could trust that hand on him, the way he hadn't been able to completely trust anything for a very long time. When Kensei-san's fingers pushed slowly into him, Shuuhei laughed against his folded arms, breathless; those fingers were slick. Kensei-san had apparently planned for this.

"I made you impatient with me," he said, husky with the slide and stretch of being opened up.

There was a faint chuckle in Kensei-san's voice. "Not impatient quite yet. But I did think about what might get through to you, since training alone obviously isn't enough."

Shuuhei flushed a little at that reminder. "Forgive me."

The hand on his shoulder shook him gently. "None of that. I'm your captain. It's your job to follow me, yeah, but it's also mine to know what it takes to get you there." He sank two fingers all the way into Shuuhei and twisted them slowly. "Not like I object," he murmured as Shuuhei moaned with the heat tightening his stomach. Kensei-san's hand stroked down his back and both of them wrapped around Shuuhei's hips, holding him. "You have what it takes Shuuhei. You spent a long time being sabotaged, right down inside, and you still have what it takes. Remember that."

Shuuhei reached out to grip the far side of his desk, panting for breath as Kensei-san's cock pushed into him, thick and hard. "Yes, sir," he gasped. It felt like the words were as solid as Kensei-san was inside him, and he held tight to that feeling.

And then he just held on as Kensei-san fucked him, hard enough to rock him up off his heels if Kensei-san hadn't kept a good grip on his hips, pulling him back into each stroke. It was hot and slick and secure, and Shuuhei moaned openly with the feeling of his captain's heavy cock driving into his ass over and over, deep and sure.

"Let go, Shuuhei," Kensei-san ordered, rough and husky. "I've got you. Stop holding back."

Shuuhei shuddered like that order was a hand stroked down his spine and let himself cry out at the next thrust, at the burst of heat up his spine, let himself spread his legs wider and push back against Kensei-san, taking his cock deeper, hungry for more. An approving gasp answered him and Kensei-san moved with him, fucking him harder, bracing his hands against the desk on either side of Shuuhei and leaning over him, pounding deep into his ass. Shuuhei let thinking go and just moved, just felt the hot pleasure of being fucked open so hard, abandoning himself to it under the solid shelter of his captain's body over his. When heat finally rushed him over the edge and wrung him out, he groaned in an already-raw throat and ground his ass back against Kensei-san wantonly. Kensei-san fucked the tightness right back out of his body until he was sprawled over the desk, barely able to moan when Kensei-san finally buried himself deep in Shuuhei and shuddered against his back.

"Yeah," Kensei-san said softly against his ear. "Like that. Hold on to that, Shuuhei."

"Yes, sir," Shuuhei agreed, rather dazed. He felt Kensei-san's lips curve against his neck.

"I'll be glad to remind you, of course."

Shuuhei's face turned hot. "Kensei-san..."

Deft fingers combed through his hair, stroking damp strands back. "Yeah?"

"Thank you," Shuuhei said softly. "For this. For coming back at all."

Kensei-san's hand slid down to rest on his nape, which pulled a soft sound out of Shuuhei as he bent his head under that warm weight. "I'm never going to trust the Captain-General all the way again, that's for sure. But you're not him. For you, for my division, for the job we actually do when moronic conspiracies and politics aren't getting in the way... for that I'll stay." He tightened his grip for a moment and pushed upright. "So come eat dinner with me and keep me from actually strangling Mashiro the way she deserves."

Shuuhei slowly pushed himself back to his feet, feeling his muscles burn with the reminder of his captain inside him. "You don't hold back, Taichou," he allowed wryly, "but you're not always completely honest either." Everyone in the division knew how fond Kensei-san was of Mashiro.

"Oh shut up. One of these days I really will strangle her." Kensei-san didn't look at him, but a corner of his mouth was curled up and he rested a hand on Shuuhei's shoulder again as he tied his hakama. "Come on."

Shuuhei smiled a little too, feeling himself settle into this new shape of things. "Yes, Taichou." After too long, it felt like there was light for his way forward again.

And a hand to steady him on it, too.

End

Taste of Steel

However guilty he thinks he should feel, Hijikata can't be anything but pleased by what Okita has become. Whatever second thoughts Hijikata might be having, Okita can't be other than what he is. Porn, Character Sketch, Angst, I-4

Axandra has translated this work into Russian.

"Why won't you allow Tetsu-kun to have a katana? Why won't you let him decide for himself?"

"Are you brainless? He's just a brat of fifteen."

"Nine years. I was nine years old. So that's how it is. You don't want him to end up like me, do you."

Souji didn't leave when they reached Hijikata's rooms, only opened the outer screen and stood there in the night breeze. Hijikata sat and emptied his pipe and repacked it, mouth tight; what, after all, could he say at this late date?

"Do you hate what I am so much?"

The question was soft, the tone wistful, but it still struck him like a cut from behind. "No!" he snapped, and then took a breath. "Don't be a fool, Souji. I know whose the responsibility is," he said more evenly. "It was my hand that brought this to you."

Souji spun away from the open screens, as lightly as if he were fighting, and took two steps across the room to sink to his knees in front of Hijikata. In the dimness, two pale hands closed around one of his, clenched on the stem of his pipe.

"Yes. It was." The whisper of Souji's hair sliding over his shoulders as he bent his head was scarcely louder than his voice. "They've called you the demon more than once. Am I not the demon's child?"

Hijikata closed his eyes for a breath and then let it out. "Yes," he said, low, sliding his other hand over Souji's shoulder and up under his hair. "You are." The other things he had done for the sake and in the name of the shogunate, he had made his peace with; they might stain and damn him forever, but that was the choice he'd made when he placed himself in Matsudaira's service. This, though. This was a choice he'd made for another, before Souji's spirit was grown to understanding. The sword, his sword, had consumed Souji's soul until he was an unthinking weapon in Hijikata's hands. And content to be so. It didn't help to have Tetsu always before Hijikata's eyes, these days, reminding him of how a real child thought and felt. Or to see Souji reaching out for companionship, seeing no reason why Tetsunosuke should not become what he was.

Souji was looking up at him now, and even moonlight showed the falseness of his smile. "Do you wish for me to leave this way of life?"

The false smile flicked away in a gasp, and Hijikata realized his grip had tightened fiercely on Souji's nape. His voice was lower than usual when he said again, "Don't be a fool."

This time, Souji's smile was sweet and brilliant. "Yes, Hijikata-san."

Hijikata snorted with rueful amusement, at both of them really. He set his pipe aside and pulled Souji closer, one hand finding his waist to tug loose his obi. He accepted the heat that ran through him at the way Souji sighed, the way slim, strong arms wound around his shoulders and Souji's mouth opened under his. If Souji was too much like him he knew exactly why it was, and perhaps it had been fate after all. The troop might whisper of his unbendable will, but he didn't think there had ever been a time when he could have refused this—Souji's pliancy, lying against his chest, or the pureness of Souji's response to Hijikata's hand on the sleek skin of his hip and back.

"Hijikata-san," Souji whispered, and there was a plea in it that he couldn't fail to answer. He kissed Souji deeper, intent, until he was flushed, skin heated under Hijikata's fingers.

"Demon child," he murmured back, and closed his eyes as Souji pressed closer with a breathless sound. Souji was his. His sword; his mirror. Without conscience.

But hadn't Hijikata found his conscience again, in another's spirit and voice? He could only pray that the same would come to Souji in time.

Because he would never give this up.

He tumbled Souji down to the tatami where he lay laughing softly, kimono spread out around him in disarray. "Hijikata-san," Souji said, voice dancing over the syllables of his name, light and confident again as he stretched out his arms. He made a satisfied sound as Hijikata came to them, covering Souji and pulling him tight against the length of Hijikata's body.

Hijikata had never once been able to question that this was Souji's desire as well as his own. It was the one hint of cleanliness in this polluted life they led, and he cherished it, cradled Souji's eagerness against him and tasted it, kiss after slow, hard kiss, until Souji was rubbing against him, gasping with every wanton flex of his body, hands pushing Hijikata's kimono open as they spread against his chest. "Hijikata-san...!"

Hijikata smiled and tipped Souji's chin up with his thumb, kissing down his neck, open mouthed. Subtle tension threaded Souji's body at that; even in bed, even with him, Souji was a warrior. And that made his yielding sweeter. Hijikata bit down on Souji's throat, firm enough to mark, and heat tightened his stomach at the sharpness of Souji's gasp, the way his body pulled taut and trembled, needing to respond, to defend, even as Souji held himself back from it, left himself open only for Hijikata.

He could never refuse this.

"You're mine," he whispered to Souji as he turned him over, and Souji pressed his forehead against his folded arms, panting as he lifted his ass.

"Yes, Hijikata-san."

The salve Hijikata fished out of his wall cubby was cool as he spread it over his cock, and Souji twitched as Hijikata drew slick fingers between his cheeks. The little sound of want he made nearly snapped Hijikata's control, and he wrapped his hands around Souji's hips and murmured, "Now."

Souji moaned openly as Hijikata pushed into him, hands flexing against the tatami, catching in the muddle of their clothing. He was trembling again, and Hijikata held him firmly, pressed deeper into the tight heat of him slowly, until Souji gasped and the tension flowed out of his body.

"Please." Souji's voice was low, husky, sensual as even a good fight didn't make it, and a growl caught in Hijikata's throat. He answered with his body instead, driving deep, hard thrusts into Souji's ass again and again, faster and harder as Souji moaned under him. Hot pleasure gripped him tighter and tighter, and when Souji shifted, one hand reaching between his legs, the heat blinded him. He buried himself hard in Souji, gasping as pleasure shook him, holding Souji tight against him even as Souji gasped and bucked in turn.

The stillness of the evening slowly descended on them both again.

Finally Hijikata drew back, pressing a kiss to Souji's neck. "Stay tonight," he said quietly.

Souji turned on his side, pushing his hair back to smile up as Hijikata, languid and sated. "Always."

Hijikata paused, looking down at his lover, his sword, and finally nodded. Souji's smile turned contented, and when Hijikata had spread the futon, he snuggled close, as unabashed as ever.

Hijikata held him and watched faint night shadows move over the ceiling. He would not disavow anything he had done. He would not deny his love for what Souji was. However it troubled his conscience, his spirit rejoiced in Souji's reflection. He loved the demon child with all the fierceness and pain of his heart.

There would not be another.

End

Stones In the Road

Go is everything to Ogata, including sex. This can present some difficulties, considering his best opponents. Porn, Humor, Character Study, I-3

Ogata Seiji had once been informed that it was entirely normal for people to have sexual fantasies that had nothing to do with the person or things they actually desired. Admittedly, the person who told him this had been trying to explain away why she'd called someone else's name in bed with him, but he thought it was true enough. He did not, after all, have the slightest desire to actually take most of his go opponents to bed, and yet the one thing that would reliably get him off was remembering a heated game. The click of stones onto the board, so faint and so intense when a decisive move was made; the line of smooth white or black, curling around space itself, so subtly that the opponent should not even notice until it was too late; the sudden stillness of an opponent's fingers on their stones when they did see; those were the things he thought of that made him purr into a lover's ear so promisingly that most of them seemed surprised to be tossed out the next morning as soon as he needed to study.

Those were the things he thought of when he was alone, too, spreading his legs and leaning back against the cool softness of hotel sheets, fingers wrapped around his cock. He closed his eyes, stroking slow and firm, and remembered today's game. The cut he'd waited eight turns to make, lulling the opponent into thinking he'd missed the possibility. The attack he'd made during the endgame, right when his opponent had thought he had the upper corner all wrapped up, oh yes. Seiji tipped his head back against the give of the pillows, panting as heat curled slow and heavy in his stomach, fingers working harder. The fury in the click of the next stone, mmmm yes. The narrowing of his opponent's eyes...

An image of Kuwabara's evil old eyes, narrowed amid their wrinkles and bags flashed into his mind. Seiji choked, eyes flying open, and snatched his hand off his cock. He felt like he'd run into a brick wall and been doused with freezing water into the bargain.

Seiji rolled over as his erection wilted, and groaned into the pillows. Damn it, damn it, damn it. That picture was a more effective libido-killer than anything, up to and including being laughed at. He sighed, muffled; really, he should probably know better than to use his games with Kuwabara for this. It was too easy to slip, and there went his evening's pleasure.

But they were the best games.

He couldn't help laughing at himself a little, because he could see the humor in his dilemma, and rolled back over to stare up at the ceiling, smiling faintly. All right, so today's game was off limits. Shame, that, it had been a good one. Perhaps all wasn't entirely lost for the evening, though. Opponents came and went, but go itself never abandoned him. If he just thought of the board, still and golden with all the possible moves hidden in its simple lines. Of the stones, cool to his touch and silky smooth, weighing so little to carry all the force they did.

Mmm, yes, that was better.

Seiji fixed his mind on the flow of smooth stones through his fingers and stroked his cock slow and hard, smiling with closed eyes.

End

The Single Akashi Seijuurou

Two different versions of how Akashi might have taken Kuroko's resignation, and what promise he extracted from his team: one dark, one light. Character Sketch, I-2

A Side

When Akashi Seijuurou heard that Tetsuya had quit the basketball club, even before the official retirement of third years was announced, he shrugged.

"He's only anticipating events."

Ryouta rubbed the back of his head, looking uncertain. "Well, I suppose we're all quitting, in a way, but..."

"That wasn't what I meant." Seijuurou looked around the spare classroom where he had called his team to him. Shintarou was sitting neatly at one of the empty desks, hands folded lightly, still careful of his fingers even now that the tournament season was over. Daiki was sprawled along the boxy sill of one of the windows looking out, one hand draped over his knee, open and empty and desperately wanting. Ryouta had perched on the desk whose chair Atsushi had taken, swinging his feet while Atsushi nibbled pineapple pocky and waited silently. They were the most brilliant players he'd been able to find and train; he thought they would do.

"It's time for us to separate."

Shintarou frowned faintly, adjusting his glasses as if that would help him understand Seijuurou more clearly. "What do you mean?"

Seijuurou leaned back against the teacher's desk and spread his hands. "We've won. We are the strongest team in Japan. Where else will we find competition, now, but in each other?"

Daiki's dangling foot, which had been tapping restlessly against the wall, stilled.

"As you choose your high schools," Seijuurou continued, suppressing a smile, "choose separate ones. I want your words that all of you will cease to think of each other as teammates and instead play each other as opponents." Something he had already prepared them for, after all.

They glanced at each other, and he waited patiently for the obvious logic of the thing to register with them. Atsushi was the first to shrug and nod, fishing out another stick. "If you think it would be good."

"I suppose you have a point," Shintarou allowed, slowly. "It would allow for more balanced competition." He was still watching Seijuurou narrowly; of all of them, Shintarou was the one who knew him well enough that he might intuit the point of this exercise. That was all right. It wouldn't keep him from carrying through the exact sequence of moves Seijuurou mapped out for them.

"Might even be interesting," Daiki put in, still looking out the window as if he didn't care, but the hand on his knee was clenched now.

Ryouta was the last, as Seijuurou had known he would be. Ryouta was the only one besides Tetsuya himself who still played by his emotions. "I'd miss the team." He pouted briefly at the room in general, and Shintarou gave him an exasperated look. "But I guess that could be fun too, playing against you all." His play-pout dissolved into a genuine smile, edged and glinting. "Let's see who wins."

Seijuurou nodded, satisfied. "Very well. Then, for the last time, the team is dismissed."

They stood and stretched and clattered out, Ryouta already asking Daiki for a practice match while they still had the chance, Atsushi turning away down this newly named path of separation with cheerful ease, Shintarou lingering for a last long look over his shoulder before sliding the door quietly shut behind him. Seijuurou leaned back on his hands and smiled up at the ceiling through the motes of dust dancing in the air. He knew who would win, of course; it would be him. He was the one who had pushed these players to become what they were, and they had never made a move he hadn't seen coming. The opening was concluded. Now it was time for the middle game to begin. And when the end game was reached, the rightness of all his moves would be revealed for all to see.

It would be a victory worth winning, just as he had planned, for years, that it should be.

B Side

When Akashi Seijuurou heard that Tetsuya had quit the basketball club, even before the official retirement of third years was announced, he frowned. Obviously, Tetsuya wanted to make a point of his disapproval, not that Seijuurou had missed it in the first place.

He expected tracking Tetsuya down to take a little while; it wasn't an easy task, even for Seijuurou, when Tetsuya wanted not to be found. In the end, though, a single question to a classmate led him straight to the roof where Tetsuya was leaning against the safety rail all alone. Seijuurou contemplated this move, standing in the doorway. Tetsuya had always been the easiest to handle, of his players, but today he clearly wanted a confrontation. Very well.

"A formal resignation seems a bit overdone, considering we're all retiring in a week."

Tetsuya didn't turn around. "A week is too long."

Seijuurou came away from the door to stand at the rail beside him, watching him. "Do you really think I haven't seen it?"

"You haven't done anything about it." Tetsuya's tone was even, as always, but it was still an accusation. Seijuurou hid a smile; perhaps this pawn would reach gold after all.

"What would you have me do? Try to reduce their strength? Force them to cooperate when their talents make individual play the most natural thing?"

"I don't know!" Tetsuya actually raised his voice, fingers a little white with the force of his grip on the rail. "I just know it's wrong. Something's missing."

Seijuurou sighed. Tetsuya was the one he had the highest hopes of, in some ways, the one whose perception might let him control a game as surely Seijuurou himself did. His tactical awareness was already superb. His strategic sense, on the other hand, still had a ways to go. "Are you going to quit basketball itself?"

"I..." Tetsuya stopped there, unable, even now, to say that he wanted to leave the game, and Seijuurou let his smile show.

"Then I'll have the same promise from you that I'll take from the others, when we retire. Choose a high school none of the rest of the team is going to and give me your word you'll play with all your strength for your new team."

At last Tetsuya turned to look at him, blinking. "...you want to split up the team?"

"How else will they keep playing?"

Tetsuya was quiet for a long moment, and finally turned back to the rail and the bare trees below. "I still don't think this was the right way to do it."

Seijuurou felt a moment's exasperation. Tetsuya still had yet to understand that the only way to prove a strategy or approach right was to win. Seijuurou's methods of developing his players had won steadily, and this new strategy shape would continue to win the ultimate game, the one in which all of his players achieved 'promotion'. This way won; therefore it, and he, were right. Sometimes Seijuurou got tired of having to point that out. Well, perhaps by the end of the game Tetsuya would see it himself. "Will you come?"

"To a school without any of you," Tetsuya said slowly. "To... the tournaments. With a different team."

"All of us in different teams," Seijuurou agreed patiently. "To play against each other, now."

Slowly, Tetsuya's back straightened, and his gaze was level when he nodded. "Yes. I'll do it."

"Good. I'll see you there, then." Seijuurou turned briskly toward the door and the stairs down from the winter chill of the roof. He glanced back, once, before he went in. Tetsuya was standing straight and steady at the rail, one hand closed into a fist. Seijuurou smiled.

He still expected to be the one who would face Daiki, and give him back the life of his game. Ryouta had the potential to match Daiki, but he still let his emotions get in the way of his playing. Tetsuya would have to find suitable pieces of his own to work with before he had a chance, and that wouldn't be easy. But Seijuurou wouldn't discount them. They might do it after all.

They were, after all, his players.

End

Twelve Views of Summer

Twelve kisses between Kuroko, Kagami, Aomine, and Kise. Can be read as poly or as six separate timelines. Character Sketch, Light Porn, I-2

Kuroko Tetsuya

When they were together, Kagami wrapped himself around Tetsuya until Tetsuya felt like he might drown, go under the surface of all the Kagami-ness and not come back up. But he kissed gentle and hesitant, mouth moving lightly against Tetsuya's, like he was never sure he was doing it right.

Tetsuya thought he was doing just fine, and reached up to wrap a hand around the back of Kagami's neck and keep him there so they could do it some more.

Kise kissed the same way he looked at people, coaxing and charming, dropping tiny kisses at the corners of Tetsuya's mouth until Tetsuya relaxed against him—relaxed into the hand on his back and arched his spine to tip his head back far enough to meet Kise straight on. Because, of course, that was the other way Kise looked at people, when he was ready to stop playing around: direct and hot. When he kissed like that, Tetsuya relaxed against him all the way.

Aomine twined around Tetsuya like a cat, until Tetsuya wondered lightly if Aomine was trying to mark him. Aomine laughed and purred against his ear until Tetsuya couldn't stay still any longer and batted him away, and he was smiling when Aomine swooped in to catch his mouth. Aomine kissed as open as a laugh, but he tasted as wild as his game had gotten, and as they kissed he slowly pulled Tetsuya tighter and tighter against him.

Tetsuya let him, because Aomine wasn't the only possessive one.

Kagami Taiga

It hadn't taken Taiga very long to figure out that Kuroko's bland expression hid something a little scary. Something unrelenting and fearless. It was still always a shock to actually see it, and it had been just as much of a shock the day Kuroko gave him a long, thoughtful look and then leaned down over the bench and kissed him. It hadn't been an aggressive kiss, but the firm heat of Kuroko's mouth against his had made him go still.

It was a shock every time, in a way, but he kind of liked it that way, and he was careful when he spread his hands against Kuroko's back, careful so he'd stay close.

The first time Aomine had kissed him, Taiga had been in the middle of challenging him to a one-on-one, and now he couldn't actually use the phrase without feeling his ears getting hot. Not around Aomine, at least. Which made Aomine smirk, which meant Taiga had no choice but to haul him closer and kiss it away. It took a little while to get to the actual game, sometimes, but that was okay. Aomine kissed just like he played, hot and wild and pushing until Taiga pushed back, pushed him against the fence or the post itself, which was when Aomine finally relaxed, tension easing away under Taiga's hands. That was when Aomine played a lazy, wicked, drawn-out game, or a bright, fast-flying, laughing one.

Not always on the court, but that was okay too.

Kise should be a relaxing kind of guy to hang out with, as easy-going as he acted most of the time. But he really, really wasn't, not once you saw what was on the other side of the easy-going. Taiga never really relaxed around Kise unless Kise was showing that flip side, the one where his eyes made you think of a fucking sword even when he was smiling.

Well, okay, he also relaxed when Kise was wrapped around him making soft sounds into his mouth, sounds that made Taiga go slow with him the way he never would have on the court. But kissing, he maintained no matter how much Kise teased him over it, was different. He knew he was right, because saying that made Kise's eyes turn as soft as the sounds he made.

Aomine Daiki

The day Tetsuya let Daiki kiss him, something in Daiki that had been wound tight finally eased. It finally felt right, again. Maybe Tetsu wasn't at his side on the court any longer, but this, it was like one of Tetsu's passes. Something burning through the air. Something so heavy and direct it was impossible to catch, but Tetsu trusted him to catch it anyway. So he caught it and held it, held Tetsu to him, and licked at the tiny, familiar quirk in the corners of Tetsu's mouth. The way Tetsu laced his hands around the back of Daiki's neck told him everything was all right again.

Kise kissed like a challenge, and where they went from there was up to Daiki. If he stood firm and kissed back gently, Kise softened and leaned against him and smiled the private smile only friends got to see. If he caught Kise up, spinning him off his feet, laughing over the centimeters of advantage he still had, Kise would laugh with him, bright and happy and true. And if he held Kise hard, kissed back rough and wanting, Kise would turn wild in his arms until they were both wrung out and exhausted.

Sometimes Daiki thought Kise reflected, not a copy, but all the true bits of himself. When he thought that, he wondered a little at how much of Kise there seemed to be.

Daiki liked the way Kagami kissed, though he never said so out loud. He liked Kagami's weight against him, liked how completely straightforward he was. No bullshit, no holding back.

Considering that, he also found it kind of funny that Kagami was so gentle about it. However wild they started, and Daiki liked wild after all, sooner or later Kagami's mouth on his turned slow and hot and wet. And that made Daiki not miss the wildness.

Kise Ryouta

Kuroko was a godawful tease, was the thing.

It kind of got Ryouta hot, because he knew how that game was played, and Kuroko could play it right down to the hilt.

So it was a game to get kisses from Kuroko, to tease him back until he decided to finally respond. To feel him turn lightly aside until Ryouta gave in and turned serious. To feel Kuroko finally turn toward him and open his mouth under Ryouta's.

He was never sure who won those games, but the intentness of Kuroko's kiss made him not care.

There were times when Kagami scared Ryouta a little. Not because of his strength or his loudness or his vast social awkwardness, or any of the things that Ryouta knew probably alarmed other people. Because he never looked away. To Kagami, Ryouta's charm for his fans and edge for his opponents and even his quietness for a friend were all the same. Kagami kissed him the same way, no matter what, always warm and steady. Ryouta loved it, and it freaked him out, and even then Kagami just held him.

What did you do with someone like that?

So far, the answer seemed to be: let him hold you and kiss you quiet.

Aomine kissed like a wind blowing through, no matter what mood he was in, always sweeping you up in itself. Bright and laughing or fierce and wild, it always swept Ryouta up. And when Aomine was holding Ryouta tight against him and whispering, between kisses, just what he was going to do to Ryouta, how hard it would be, how good...

...well, it was easy to say yes. To throw away caution and wondering about what this might do to his image and whether his agency would yell at him over it, and just kiss back. It was like swallowing fire, and he strained into Aomine's arms for more of it.

The satisfied sound Aomine made, when he did, poured heat right down his spine.

This he had won, and he would not let it go.

End

Chrysanthemum Tea

Aomine reflects a bit on on the effect Kuroko's had on him, and where Kuroko has brought him to by the season's end. Spoilers for anime-only fans. Character Sketch with Drama and Fluff, I-3

Looking back, he'd felt it first during the Interhigh preliminaries when he'd seen, when he'd experienced, Tetsu's fierce rejection of despair. He'd seen a whole team lock together around Tetsu's unwillingness to give up no matter how they lost, and a flicker, just a flicker, of something like hope had brushed over that court.

It had reminded him, for an instant, of the lightness he used to feel playing with Tetsu. At least until he saw that Tetsu had understood the difference between their games, and had to wonder whether even Tetsu would be coming back after that.

When he'd been dragged to the Winter Cup preliminaries though, to see Seirin play that bastard Hanamiya, he'd remembered again. Watching Tetsu's new senpai put their game and all their chances in Tetsu's hands, watching them accept pass after twisting, unpredictable pass, he'd remembered doing that himself, trusting like that. Remembered a time it had seemed necessary. Remembered how good it had felt. To win, of course, when that had still been in doubt.

He missed that.

So he pushed them, pushed Satsuki to convince their captain to challenge Seirin directly, as soon as they knew the bracket for the Winter Cup. Pushed Kagami to understand what he had to do, if he really wanted to be a challenge. And if he also left Tetsu with his water bottle, well it wasn't like he'd forgotten they were friends just because they were enemies.

And when he'd seen them on the court, he'd known he'd been right to push. Kagami had advanced, and that was enough to please him for a while right there. But he'd also felt something at the start of the game that he'd never felt before. Tetsu's presence. Not just his determination, not just unsupported spirit, but the weight in his sense of the court created by a player who had his own strength. He wanted to taste that strength, to push against it and feel it push back, and it was a thrill just like he'd expected. Not hope, he wasn't stupid enough to hope, he told himself firmly, but a thrill. That was the best he had, these days, and the ache of knowing that made him angry and rough, even with Tetsu.

Kagami, though, Kagami was a nice surprise.

Actually, Kagami was a shock. A delicious shock. To push and find, not air, not even just resistance, but an unmoving wall, a wall that he could strain against and still not move, a wall he had to break himself open to knock down... he felt like he needed to scream with how good that was.

Just a little, he could relax against that.

And against Tetsu's ferocity, when he turned his presence outward like an explosion no one could ignore, not even him. Just a little.

Against Seirin's strength, he could relax just a little, just enough to feel it again. The need that would drive him to where the game opened up. Opened up into brilliance. Into the fire of fighting to win, burning away the numb weight of too many opponents giving up, disappearing, leaving him alone on a cold court. Now he felt the heat again, now he could fight with everything in him, push himself past his limits and feel the wildness of fire, not just of rage.

When that fire burned as high as it could go and that still wasn't enough, the shock was like glass breaking all around him. Smoked glass, and now he was squinting in sunlight. He felt like he could see again, and what he saw was Tetsu. The reason he had lost. Tetsu... and his partner, who trusted each other so much they burned like the sun.

Their assurance that it wasn't over yet was warmth to go with the light, another shock but a different kind—not just unexpected but impossible, like landing softly after a long, long fall. Such a long fall he'd long since given himself up for dead, let himself die before he even got to the bottom. Well, here was the bottom, and thanks to those two he'd bounced. The hope he'd first felt a flicker of at the start of the year, even if he hadn't been able to name it then, and the pain of losing that he'd never expected to feel again both itched at him after that, prodding him to repay them.

Which was, he told himself, why he agreed to coach Tetsu's shooting. Why he didn't want Tetsu to lose. Why it stirred something sharp in him, when he wondered whether Akashi had deliberately reduced Tetsu's strength.

Quarter-finals, at least, he could blame on Satsuki. He had less excuse for cold-cocking that idiot Shougo, after, but at least Shougo was the only one who actually heard his reasons. And it was clearly Satsuki's fault that he wound up bringing Kagami shoes for the semi-finals. But he couldn't really pretend that his brief match with Kagami, then, was anything other than a deliberate teaching game; not under the calm knowing of Tetsu's eyes, and his tiny smile. Still, he knew he owed them, and it was easy enough to tell himself that was why.

He didn't really break until the final match. Watching them on the court, the way they held each other up and drove each other forward, he knew that he wanted to touch that again. Wanted to taste that kind of trust again. Wanted the light that his shadow brought with him. That was why he laughed, no matter how strange a look Satsuki gave him. It was Tetsu's victory, all right, complete and inescapable.

When the match ended, maybe he'd find Tetsu and tell him so.

End

A/N: In hanakotoba, chrysanthemum indicate truth (saving gold chrysanthemum, which are the crest of the imperial family). In Chinese traditional medicine, chrysanthemum is also used for clarifying vision or reducing eye-strain.

Bright-line

Aomine always seems to be searching for his boundaries. Kuroko decides it's time to give him one. D/s, Porn with Characterization, I-4

Aomine Daiki dropped a couple cans of soda on the low table and threw himself down on the scruffy couch in the apartment he shared with his dad, sprawling comfortably. He was still grinning. He hadn't stopped grinning since Tetsu, acting as their referee, had declared that his last shot counted and he'd won.

Kagami was getting good enough to push him, one-on-one, and Daiki loved it.

"That," he declared, stretching luxuriously, "was fantastic."

Kagami snorted into his drink. "You would think so, yeah."

"Don't give me that." Daiki prodded Kagami's knee with a foot and laughed when Kagami swatted at him and scooted further around the table. "You wouldn't keep coming up here if you didn't think so too." And, yeah, so Daiki had started it, coming down to Seirin to catch Kagami and Tetsu after practice and goad Kagami into matches. But it hadn't taken more than a month or two before Kagami had gotten Tetsu to lead him to Daiki's door and demanded (yet another) rematch. "Isn't it the best thing ever?" Daiki asked, letting his head fall back against the couch and baring his teeth at the ceiling. "Going all the way to the edge, and then pushing against it? Getting pushed back?"

He could almost hear Kagami rolling his eyes. "You and yourâ€”"

"Taiga."

Daiki blinked and lifted his head. Tetsu had been quiet all the way back here from the court down by the overpass, a thinking kind of quiet. He hadn't joined them yet, either, just leaned against the sliding door out to the tiny balcony and watched them. Now that he'd finally spoken (and since when did he call Kagami by name like that?), there was something serious in his voice. Kagami obviously thought so too; he was looking up at Tetsu, where he stood over them, with a silent question in his raised brows.

Tetsu didn't answer him, though. Just rested his hand on the wild mess of Kagami's hair for a moment as he stepped past him toward Daiki. "What is it?" Daiki asked those steady eyes resting on him.

"That's what's most important to you." It was a statement, not a question. "Having something to push against that can stop you."

Daiki's mouth crooked up at one corner. "Not like that's a secret. It's what you went looking for, wasn't it? When you left."

"One of the things," Tetsu agreed. "To make you see me again. To bring you back. But Kagami-kun has his own reasons for playing you; we're partners, but it isn't right to use his game for my own purposes. I think it's time I was more direct."

Daiki blinked, puzzled. Tetsu couldn't be thinking of playing him one-on-one; Tetsu's game had expanded, yes, he wasn't a pure supporting player any more. But still...

Abruptly, Tetsu was more present, locking Daiki's attention like a magnet. "Tetsu, what...?" he asked, startled. It was always a bit of a shock when Tetsu did that. And then Tetsu leaned over him, sliding a knee onto the couch and resting a hand on the back of it. His other hand caught Daiki's chin firmly, and Daiki couldn't do anything but stare. He knew Tetsu was far more forceful than his polite words and self-effacing habits led people to expect, but this... this was...

This was different.

The part of his mind that wasn't blank with startlement was expecting a kiss, but Tetsu just stayed where he was, leaning over Daiki, holding him, not letting his attention move anywhere else. And, Daiki thought slowly, letting him realize that. "Tetsu," he said again, husky with the sudden curl of heat low in his stomach. "What are you doing?" He slid his hands up to close on Tetsu's hips, not to steady Tetsu but to steady himself.

"Giving you what you want," Tetsu told him quietly, and now he leaned down and kissed Daiki. It was slow and wet and demanding, and Daiki wondered hazily where Tetsu had learned to kiss, because he sure as hell knew what he was doing. When he started to lean up into it, though, Tetsu's hand on his jaw tightened, holding him still. The heat in his groin tightened too, answering that grip. Tetsu finished kissing him, taking his time about it while Daiki sat, stunned.

Tetsu was...

"Be still, Aomine-kun," Tetsu said as he drew back, and his voice was quiet and even and so utterly sure things would be the way he said that Daiki nearly shuddered just to hear it. He let Tetsu lift his chin, fingers tightening on Tetsu's hips as his head was tipped all the way back against the couch cushions and held there.

"Fuck, Tetsu..." he gasped, feeling his spine pull taut with something he didn't have a name for, anticipation or resistance or maybe both.

"Something that will stop you," Tetsu said, soft and musing, not letting him go. "Someone that will stop you." The heat of his mouth on Daiki's bared throat, wet and slow, made Daiki jerk tauter, and oh god he was hard from this, from the things Tetsu was implying. Tetsu sucked sharply, just under the point of Daiki's jaw, and he groaned with the hot almost-pain. There would be a mark there. The realization made him dizzy, or maybe that was just the way he was panting for breath now.

Tetsu lifted his head and relaxed his grip on Daiki's chin, stroking the line of his jaw gently. Daiki just looked up at him, dazed. "When we're together like this," Tetsu said in that low, even, relentless voice, "you will only do what I allow you to do." He touched Daiki's cheek softly. "Yes or no?"

Daiki sat, still caged under the arch of Tetsu's body, head spinning. This was crazy. He was crazy, he didn't even know why this was making him so hot. Except... it was Tetsu, who he had never, ever been able to overwhelm or budge from his position on any subject, in any game. Tetsu always stood firm, always came back, never backed down, was the one thing Daiki could count on without doubts. Tetsu was the one immoveable thing he could lean against.

But... like this?

"I..." He had to clear his throat and try again. "Tetsu, this is... I'm not..."

Tetsu touched a finger to Daiki's lips, eyes steady and calm. "Yes or no? That's the only choice you have."

Daiki swallowed hard at the spike of heat those words put up his spine, but...

Tetsu smiled, small and private, just between them, and closed his hands around Daiki's face, resting their foreheads together. "I'll take care of you, Daiki. You know that."

The heat in him turned molten, spreading until Daiki wondered if he was going to come from that assurance alone. Because he did know it. Tetsu had always taken care of him, held him steady, brought him back.

And, fuck it, he wanted that, not just in the game but here too.

"Yes," he whispered, closing his eyes.

"Good," Tetsu murmured to him, sliding one hand down to his throat, thumb stroking the tender spot where he'd marked Daiki. It made Daiki shiver, hands flexing against Tetsu's hips. Tetsu's hands slid over his shoulders, down his arms, and closed on Daiki's wrists. "Not there," Tetsu murmured, pulling Daiki's hands away and guiding them up and back until they were pressed against the back of the couch, behind Daiki's head. Tetsu smiled down at him, and now there was a glint in his eyes. "Here."

Daiki's breath was coming short again with how it felt to be spread out under Tetsu like this, hands gripping the couch frame behind his head, legs spread. "Okay."

"Don't move until I tell you you may," Tetsu ordered, cool and level, and Daiki nearly moaned. He did moan when Tetsu reached down to unfasten his jeans and tug down his underwear just far enough to free his cock.

Tetsu stayed right where he was, kneeling over Daiki, not touching him anywhere except for his hand wrapped around Daiki's cock and fondling him slowly. Daiki's whole body pulled tighter and tighter, under him, until he was clinging to the frame of the couch, trembling with the need to rock up into Tetsu's hand. Nothing but Tetsu's word held him back, nothing but Tetsu's eyes on him, steady and unmoving, but that was enough. Daiki had said yes, given himself up to the one will that had always stood firmer than his. He did as Tetsu said.

It felt incredible.

Tetsu's fingers were gentle on him, gentle and slow, until Daiki was arched taut under him, gasping helplessly for breath, spread out and begging with every inch of his body. "Tetsu..."

"Good," Tetsu told him, warm and quiet. "That's good, Daiki. Now come for me." His hand wrapped tighter around Daiki's cock, pumping slow and sure, and Daiki made a hoarse sound as pleasure ripped through him, wrung out his whole body wild and hard, blinded him to everything but raw sensation and the sound of Tetsu's voice reassuring him.

As he came back down, slow and dazed, he felt Tetsu's hands sliding over his arms, gently loosening the grip of his hands and guiding them back down, stroking over his neck and shoulders and cradling the back of his head as Tetsu kissed him. Daiki finally pried his eyes back open and looked up at Tetsu, dazed. "Wow."

Tetsu laughed quietly. "You can move, now."

"Oh sure," Daiki murmured, completely wrung out. "Now that I don't think I can any more..."

Tetsu smiled and leaned down to kiss his forehead. "So, was it good?" he asked.

"Yeah." Daiki took a long breath, trying to fit what had just happened into his head in some kind of sensible way. It didn't work very well, but one thing was clear; Tetsu was unreasonably good at finding what Daiki needed. "I... thanks."

There was a definite glint of satisfaction in Tetsu's eyes. "My pleasure." One hand slipped down to knead the nape of Daiki's neck, slow and easy, and he raised his voice a little. "What did you think, Taiga?"

"Jesus."

Daiki froze at the question and the husky reply. He'd forgotten Kagami was there. Tetsu had locked his attention so tight, he'd forgotten. Tetsu's hand tightened on his nape, now, and he murmured, "Only what I allow, remember."

How did that make sense of Kagami still being here?!

Kagami's voice was a little shaky. "You know, you say you're not a sadist, but every now and then I really wonder. I also think you really like making me come without touching me. God." A huff of breath, and then he spoke again, voice softer. "Aomine. It's okay, really. We're... Tetsuya and I... we're like this, too."

"Taiga won't touch you unless I say," Tetsu told him quietly. "But he's part of this too, don't you think?"

Daiki could nearly hear the fizzle as his brain's ability to make sense of things gave out, like a fuse blowing. What was left was something hot, knowing that Tetsu had taken him like that in front of someone else. In front of Tetsu's other lover. In front of the other person he held this way. Something hot and wanting curled through him, thinking about that. Daiki wrapped his arms around Tetsu and buried his head against Tetsu's shoulder with a breathless sound.

"Good," Tetsu whispered to him, fingers stroking his hair gently. And a little louder, "Taiga, come here."

It was the same quiet, utterly inflexible command that Tetsu had pinned Daiki down with, and it put a little twist of heat through him to hear it addressed to someone else. Daiki took a good breath in and out, as the couch compressed beside him, and raised his head to look at Kagami. Who was very flushed and definitely looked like he'd done his clothes back up in a hurry. And who bent his head under Tetsu's hand when Tetsu reached over to run his fingers gently through Kagami's hair. Daiki had to swallow, watching that, and suddenly it made a lot more sense how just watching him and Tetsu could have gotten Kagami off.

"Daiki. Taiga. Do the two of you want to be together, in this?" Tetsu asked. "I can keep it separate, if not, but it does seem like a sensible extension of how you two are about the game."

Kagami snorted, mouth curled in obvious amusement as he looked up. "What, you mean both of us completely in your hands, both on the court and off?"

"Taiga," Tetsu chided, tugging gently on his hair. "I'm not Akashi-kun, and no one is in my control, on the court."

"I know." Kagami smiled as he caught Tetsu's hand and twined their fingers together. "But you hold us, don't you?"

There was something unspoken there, in the way they looked at each other, some reference to another conversation, and Daiki didn't even realize his arms had tightened around Tetsu until Tetsu looked down at him, eyes soft and clear, stroking his hair again. "I do hold you," he said, as if it were an answer to Daiki and not Kagami. "No matter which side we're on."

Maybe it was an answer for him after all, because hearing that settled the flare of jealousy. "I guess we can try it." Daiki shrugged. "Together." He slid a glance at Kagami, who nodded agreement and promptly held out his other hand to Daiki.

Daiki curled his lip and glanced aside. "What are you, a girl?" He let one hand drop to meet Kagami's though.

"At least I'm not an asshole," Kagami retorted, but his fingers were almost as gentle as Tetsu's, wrapping around Daiki's.

"The two of you," Tetsu sighed, but there was a tiny smile on his lips when Daiki looked up, and his touch was proprietary when he reached out to rest his hands on their shoulders. It made something in Daiki relax, just to feel that, and he gave up attempting to get his sensibleness back on line.

Tetsu's hand on him was its own kind of sense, and Daiki thought he liked that better.

End

Under One Sky

On a night, soon after affairs in the Water tribe's territory are concluded, Hak, Yona, and Soo-won think about each other, what they've become to each other, and what may wait in their future. Drama, Character Study, Loyalty Porn, Light Angst, Sort-of Threesome, I-3

Hak watched the campfire with unfocused eyes, hands moving over the blade of his spear with absent familiarity, cleaning and oiling, testing the edge. He listened to Yun ordering Yona's dragons around, briskly assuring the last of the evening's camp chores were all done, but he wasn't paying attention to that, either.

He was listening to the whisper and snap of Yona's bowstring, and the small, flat thud of each arrow flying home into tonight's target tree.

Hak tried not to be grateful that Yona's hands were as sure, now, on her bow and sword as they were, once, on her long sashes and bright over-robes. He tried hard not to be grateful for that.

It wasn't because of the old king's memory and his determination to keep his daughter and people free of blood, though Hak still respected that. It wasn't because he was her guard, should be her sword, should never allow her to be in danger, though he still felt that. It was because of where the gratitude came from.

Hak knew himself reasonably well. He'd known for a long time that he loved Yona, for example. So he'd known for even longer that he loved the sharp edge of violence, of strife, of exercising his greatest gift. He loved how bright it made the people around him, bright with their own effort, their desire to live and triumph. People fighting burned as bright as the logs at his feet, lighting up the falling night. If that were all he saw, when he watched Yona shooting or practicing her sword form, then he'd feel no conflict, would love that fire in her with a whole heart, give himself to her burning without a flicker of doubt, as completely as any of her dragons.

He did give himself to her completely.

But when he watched her with weapons in her hands, something deep inside him relaxed, eased, not just because he rejoiced in her strength but because her fierce brightness, then, tugged his attention away from the memory of another's brightness. Another's brightness that some part of him still yearned toward, still needed to be distracted from, and that need infuriated him.

Hak knew himself reasonably well, so he knew he'd chosen his master years ago, and that master was not Yona. Not then. He'd loved her, of course, and he'd always protected her with everything in him, but her brightness was lighter, back then, softer. The one whose brightness was heavy and edged, then, wasn't Yona.

It was Soo-won.

Watching Soo-won's smile turn sharp, watching his eyes turn intent, watching him move pieces on a playing board or people to his will, feeling him block even Hak's attacks and take the bruises from them and retreat until he found the perfect moment to strike... Sitting flat on his butt in the Royal Guards' empty practice yard, staring up at the brilliance of Soo-won's grin in his flushed, dripping face as he offered Hak a hand back up and wiped away a trickle of blood with his other wrist... In that moment, Hak had chosen his master. He'd felt the shape of his future, then, felt it like something snapping into place and settling. He would guard them both, be their sword and shield, Yona's shelter and Soo-won's right hand. He would serve them and be loved by them. His queen would be beauty and warmth enough for a whole kingdom, and his king, his master, would be greatness enough. And Hak? He would be strength enough. It had felt so right, in his heart, in his head, knowing that was how things would be.

A log collapsed in a brief cloud of sparks, and Hak blinked away the brightness of them, jaw set.

That rightness had shattered, all in one night of rain and blood and the incomprehensible flatness of Soo-won's eyes as he'd admitted to killing Yona's father in front of her. Hak would never forgive him for that, not for Yona's pain and not for the loss of their world and future together. But the memory of that future still sang to him, and he was grateful, so very grateful, that Yona had grown bright enough, hot enough, fierce enough to hold his loyalty as well as his love, to command the attention of what lived at the base of his spine and under his ribs. To pull that attention away from Soo-won.

He hated the need to be grateful.

Yona took a slow breath, feeling the flow of steady strength from her firmly set feet, up through her lungs, down her arms. It was late; the moon had risen on her target practice, making the shafts of arrows she's already shot stand out, pale against the shadowy trunk she was aiming for. She wasn't weary yet, though, and she drew the bow again, taking a small moment's pleasure in the resilience her body had gained. She didn't precisely love her current life, but it satisfied something deep inside her, far deeper than was ever reached or woken by her life in the palace. She lived this life for her people, and was not broken by it. She released the arrow, and released her breath, and smiled as the shot bit firmly into the tree where she'd aimed it.

Her last kanzashi had never broken, either.

Yona's smile faded. She wished, sometimes, that it would. If it broke, from the roughness of the life she lived now, then she could tell herself that it was a sign her old life (her old love) couldn't fit into her new one.

But the bright, pretty hair ornament Soo-won gave her had never broken, no matter what falls or blows she'd taken while carrying it, and that... well, she had a hard time, sometimes, not viewing that as a sign too.

Her fury had never faded, not since the day she first woke from her daze, pulled awake by the specter of losing Hak and the sudden, hot need to close her hands on him and keep him. Her fury simmerd in her blood with every breath, drove her arms through the motions of pulling her bow or swinging down her sword, drove her feet down the path that would protect her realm. But none of that helped her, because that road only seemed to lead her back to Soo-won, or at least alongside him.

This would all be easier if she hated him. Sometimes she wished she did.

She was infuriated with him all the time; to call it anger was far too pale a word for the razored edges of rage and pain that clawed under her breastbone every time she remembered her father's body on the floor at Soo-won's feet. At the same time, though, every time she saw the changes he'd made, the faces of the people easing at news of new markets, new crops, safer borders, she saw the smile of the boy she grew up with, was struck still on the road, sometimes, with the memory of it. Every time they actually met, the whole ball of rage and sorrow and sweetness whirled up inside her, tangling her in the burning strands of it until she almost screamed.

She forced away those memories with another hard breath out and instead drew another arrow and set it, feeling for the proper pressure and slide of the bowstring under her calloused fingertips, pulling it back until she could almost hear the tension on the string, sighting down her arm in the ghostly reversed shadows of the moonlight.

Thinking about Soo-won was like seeing by moonlight. Shadows spread unfathomably black and in strange shapes, so that she couldn't always tell what daylight shapes they might belong to. But the pale light spread out as well, softer-footed than daylight, showing her things the sun never did, if only she stepped outside the firelight and looked. And the further away she stepped, the more things she saw that were new and strange.

She released the arrow, knowing, now, just from the surge of the bow in her hand as the string recoiled, that this one was true. For a breath, she almost felt Hak's arms around her again, his hands over hers, showing her how to draw, how to stand, how to aim. She shook her head fiercely, shook her arm out, pulled another arrow maybe a little more roughly than she should.

The moonlight made everything strange, everything new. She wished it didn't. Because sometimes, now, when Hak's hands over hers on the sword felt strange and new, made her stomach flutter for a moment, other strange thoughts snuck in. Sometimes, looking at the world with her new eyes and feeling the small, unbroken hardness of the kanzashi against her ribs, she wondered if it survived because there would come a day when she must wear it again.

A day when she must stand, with bow and sword and burning rage, at Soo-won's side.

Soo-won laid down the sheaf of reports from his observers on the Xing border and rubbed tired eyes, closing them against the low lamp-light of his records room for a long breath. By the time he'd turned his attention south, he'd more than half expected Yona to be there before him. That didn't make it easier to read the accounts of "bandits" with increasingly ridiculous names, led by a red-haired woman who carried a bow and defended their people with a ferocity that sent his hand reaching, again and again, for the old book of legends, stories of a dragon god who burned with such love for his mortal people that he called miracles down around him.

Part of him, the cynic who had known since the age of nine what evils even well-meaning humans could do, scoffed at the very idea. Another part, the child who had never stopped crying for the loss of his father's love and strength, raged and demanded why, if Yona truly bore the blood of the sky dragon, if she could truly call down miracles, that blood had not wakened sooner, in time to spare them all what had followed from his father's death. And the calculation that had once delighted in the complexity of the world around him, the part that had frozen cold over his father's pyre and never truly melted again, considered what use he could make of this new legend growing in the land. For the sake of their people, he suspected she would let him.

He ran a hand through his hair with a sigh and stood to blow out the lamps by the window, fluttering and smoking now as the night breeze strengthened. He didn't want to think such thoughts about Yona. Even when he'd thought he must kill her, lest she be used by one of his enemies, she had seemed the purest, truest creature in Kouka to him. He had never wanted to sully that, had planned for her death rather than her exile or imprisonment exactly so that no one of his enemies would ever lay hands on her and twist her to their ends. He had rejected, violently, Kye-Sook's suggestion he might marry her, supposing he'd been able to keep his assassination of the king secret from her as well as the populace.

His hands tightened into fists, in the concealment of his sleeves, as the last threads of lantern smoke rose to curl around his head before blowing away. He would use anything he had to, to save his people, but at least, he promised himself once more, he would not try to twist her to an end she did not choose. He would not promise what he could not give--not safety, not mercy, not justice. Not yet.

Soo-won did not lie to his people.

He knew that Geun-tae and Joo-doh would probably both disagree, if they heard him say it, Geun-tae loudly and Joo-doh fiercely. They were very alike (though they'd probably disagree with that also) and had little patience for subtleties or shades of meaning. And it was true that he kept his own counsel, did not tell even his advisor or the General of his own tribe most of his plans, at least not in detail, smiled softly even at opponents sometimes. But this shade of meaning was one Soo-won was painfully sensitive to.

He'd never lied to Yona or Hak.

His care for them, his happiness whenever he was with them, his delight in Yona's sweetness and Hak's strength, her honesty and his protectiveness, all of those things were true. True as death. True as blood. He felt those things still, and the pain of knowing he'd never have any of them again twisted something deep inside him until he thought it would be a relief when he'd finally wrestled his country back to safety and could let Yona take his life, as was her right by any just measure. He had never been able tell them everything—Yona would not, then, have understood any of it and Hak had still been the old king's man, and Soo-won had known from the day of his father's death that they could not be his once he set his feet on the path that led to Kouka's throne. But every word he had said to them, every smile, every clasp of hands had been his heart's truth.

Knowing, every instant, the full measure of the misdirection he practiced with nearly every word and breath, that was the line he chose, with which to measure his own honor. He held to that same line, now. He might keep his silence, he might conceal his talons in soft feathers for a time, but he would never lie to his own people. Any with eyes to see would have the chance and the right to note his true colors, to mark the feathers of a falcon rather than a sparrow. Though Joo-doh would scoff at such metaphors as pointless fancy, he was still one of the few to see and understand, years ago, the things that so many others missed, and he was one of Soo-won's closest retainers now because he still saw—at least when his temper wasn't getting in the way. It was that very thing that had troubled Soo-won for some time, now.

He still didn't know whether he'd told Joo-doh the truth or not, when he said he would kill Hak when next they met. When he'd thought, after, on why he didn't even attempt to defend himself, when Hak had advanced on him with bloodlust weighing down the very air around him, Soo-won had finally had to conclude that he hadn't believed Hak would really do it. Or rather, he'd known the man facing him truly meant to kill him. But somehow he hadn't, in that moment, connected that man with Hak. At the same time, he'd also known, down in the core of his bones, that Hak was present, and every reflex of nearly twenty years had insisted that Hak would never allow him to be harmed. Soo-won sighed at his own foolishness, scrubbing his hands briskly over his face. He didn't have the luxury of those old certainties, not any more. He just didn't know whether he'd truly be able to conquer them, when his path crossed with Yona's again.

He reached out and rested his hands on the ornate frame of the window, leaning out into the cool, dark night beyond, drawing a deep, slow breath of that clean air. He wondered if Hak and Yona were watching the same moon as he was, standing high and clear tonight.

And then he turned away, once again, from that old yearning, and picked up his brush to write the next set of orders that might shore up the crumbling foundations of his realm. The same sky might cover them all, but he was the one, the only one, who had undertaken to be the sun for his poor, worn-away people and country. He could not afford to let personal wishes bank his fire in any way.

Not yet.

End

The Blood of Kings

Joo-Doh tries for a long time to contain, or at least conceal, what Soo-Won's anger at his father's death might lead him to do, and in the process misses exactly what Soo-Won is doing and what part he may have to play in it. Character Study, Drama, Loyalty Porn, I-3

Joo-Doh was beginning to worry about Soo-Won.

Months after his father's funeral, the boy walked the halls of the palace as if he were still in the funeral procession, stumbling and uncertain. Joo-Doh was a little afraid that, if the princess stopped coaxing him to eat like a pet bird, he genuinely wouldn't remember to do so. And Joo-Doh didn't know what to do, now, any more than he had years ago when it was the queen who had been killed and Yona who was wild with grief.

Actually, that wildness had been easier to deal with than Soo-Won's pale, stunned silence.

As though the world had just been waiting for him to think that, voices raised sharply down one of the inner corridors, and Joo-Doh strode forward with an exasperated sound between his teeth. As if he didn't have enough problems already, with discipline on the edge of breaking down in some squads, it seemed Yu-Hon's death was stirring up tempers even among the...

...the king. And Soo-Won.

"Do you think I don't know?" Soo-Won was shouting, tears on his face even though his eyes blazed through them. "Did you think I wouldn't learn?!"

"I told you the truth; it was an accident!" Even more than Soo-Won's unaccustomed rage, the edge of strain and anger in Il's raised voice shocked Joo-Doh still, where he stood at the turning of the corridor. "He was my brother!"

"So you say." Soo-Won stepped back, expression hardening into something far too chill for a boy that young, and his words cut like a live blade. "I see no relation." He spun on his heel and stalked down the hall, shoulders high and stiff. Il reached a hand after him, only to clench it and let it fall, head bowed. Joo-Doh stepped back, carefully silent, into the main hall, looking around to be sure no one else had witnessed that. This was not the time for anyone to hear of dissension in the royal family, not with the man whose leadership in the field had kept their borders safe so recently dead. Apparently he was going to have to add 'keeping the king and his nephew from each other's throats' to his list of a newly minted war-leader's chores.

He suspected, darkly, that anticipation of watching him have to deal with this kind of thing was why Geun-Tae had been grinning so broadly at his investiture.

He made a careful bit of noise, turning the corner again, and bowed to the king exactly as usual, brief and perfunctory. The king's smile in return was weak, but when was it not? He'd never been comfortable around the kingdom's warriors. Joo-Doh counted it as a successful return to normality, and turned briskly down the corridor that would eventually lead to the courtyard of the messenger birds.

He didn't think he could bring Soo-Won back to anything like normality, not if his normally even temper had snapped so spectacularly, and it was looking like the princess couldn't either, so it was time for last resorts. A corner of his mouth quirked up, wryly, as he started composing a note to Mundeok, in his head. Young Hak could be a hell-raiser, especially when Soo-Won saw fit to incite him, but he did have a way of rousing Soo-Won in return. Right now, Joo-Doh was willing to deal with the one in return for the other.

He didn't really want to think about what the palace would be like, if Soo-Won stayed as coldly furious as he'd just been.

Joo-Doh sighed as he paused in his final, evening round of the palace. There was still light burning behind the screens of Soo-Won's rooms.

Nearly three years after the accident that killed his father, and it was like part of the boy was still frozen in that moment of knowing the most important thing in his world was gone. His mourning time was nearly over, but clearly not done. Open loss might not show on his face, any more, but his smile was different these days, barely skin deep and scraped thin over pain. Anger still flashed out from behind it, too, every now and then, and Joo-Doh couldn't really blame the boy for that. It was such a stupid, pointless accident that took Yu-Hon from them all, but especially from his son. Small wonder if Soo-Won was enraged at the world for permitting such a thing, cold to his uncle, and painfully quiet sometimes, even with the princess or their partner in crime, Hak.

He supposed he should be grateful that the lights were burning, Joo-Doh reflected as he climbed the stairs to the breeze-way; at least it meant that Soo-Won was in here instead of sneaking out into the town as he'd done more and more often lately. But at least when he was sneaking out he wasn't brooding. Joo-Doh had looked after the royal children for over five years, now, and seeing Soo-Won's bright laughter and subtle spark of challenge quenched like this was troubling.

So his voice was a bit gentler than usual when he tapped on the door and nudged it open. "Soo-Won-sama? You should get some sleep."

Soo-Won was standing at the widest window of his rooms, with his back to the door, looking out over the drop of cliffs that guarded the palace's rear. He stood so still in the lamplight that he barely even seemed to be breathing, arms stretched out until his fingers touched the frame to each side. That position made Joo-Doh just a touch nervous, though if asked he'd have said no one was less likely to take his own life in grief than Soo-Won. Soo-Won had always had more resilience in him than that. Just in case, though, Joo-Doh eased quietly inside and closed the door behind him before taking a few steps toward his charge. "It's late, Soo-Won-sama. Come get ready for bed."

"Does this seem right to you, Joo-Doh-shougun?"

The soft question was so level, so distant, that a faint chill ran down his spine. That was not a child's voice. "Does what seem right?" he asked, edging around to get a look at Soo-Won's face.

"This country is dying, like my father died. Not of malice, but of misadventure and bad timing and incompetence." There was a flick of sharpness on that last word, but when Joo-Doh stepped far enough around to see, Soo-Won's face was perfectly still, almost serene if not for the tightness around his eyes, the dark shadows behind them. That expression didn't change in the slightest as he turned his head to look straight at Joo-Doh. "Does our world seem right to you, Joo-Doh-shougun?"

"This is the mortal world, not the celestial one," Joo-Doh answered quietly. Under the weight of that gaze, he could only give his charge the hard truth he'd felt sawing away at his own soul more than once. "There will always be things that are wrong."

That hidden rage flared in Soo-Won's eyes for a moment, sudden and hot, and just as suddenly concealed again. Soo-Won's voice was as measured as ever when he spoke. "I know that this is true. Some things will always be wrong. But that does not mean that we should tolerate those which can be put right."

True unease nipped at Joo-Doh for the first time. On the face of it, this seemed like the abstract discussion of evil in the world that any child probably needed to have, sooner or later, after losing a parent. The princess certainly had, after her mother died, though hers had involved far more tears and smashed dishes. But it wasn't just pain looking back at him from Soo-Won's eyes, tonight. Soo-Won had spoken of his father, yes, but also... the kingdom. Incompetence killing the kingdom, and wrongs that should not be tolerated. The earlier chill he'd felt turned to ice, coiling heavily in Joo-Doh's gut, and he couldn't help how his eyes widened. However much he might agree, sometimes, there were names for what Soo-Won was saying. Deadly names.

Soo-Won's perfectly level gaze narrowed for a fraction of a moment, and then melted away into a rueful smile. "I'm sorry, Joo-Doh-san. I'm rambling aren't I? You're right; I should go to bed. I hadn't realized how late it's getting."

That just made the chill grip harder, because Joo-Doh didn't believe for an instant that this had been over-tired rambling—nor that the lateness Soo-Won spoke of was anything to do with the advancing night. He'd seen Soo-Won smile just like that, before, usually to cover the kind of risks with his person and safety that by rights should have turned Joo-Doh's hair white years ago. It was always completely natural, entirely believable, and invariably meant that Soo-Won intended to keep right on doing whatever he'd planned on. "Soo-Won-sama..."

"Yes, Shougun?" Soo-Won was still smiling, but now Joo-Doh could feel the edge hiding under it, like a knife under silk, and finally realized part of what alarmed him about this whole conversation.

Soo-Won never called him by his title, always spoke to him as a familiar guardian, not as the war-leader of the Sky tribe. Always, until now. Joo-Doh looked at his royal charge's smile, sweet and open and utterly implacable, and swallowed hard. Softly, trying not to tip this precarious balance in any direction at all, he said, "Please sleep well, Soo-Won-sama."

Soo-Won's shoulders bowed for a breath with what did look like weariness, and he closed those bright, hard eyes for a moment. "I'll try, Joo-Doh-san."

Joo-Doh nodded warily and withdrew, trying not to feel like he was retreating from a battlefield as he left the room and latched Soo-Won's door closed behind him.

The memory of chill followed at his shoulder as he moved on through his evening rounds.

Joo-Doh sat at the more sheltered of the two tables in the dusty back court of a small, run-down inn and glowered at his drink. If he looked up from his drink, he'd just glower at his infuriatingly stubborn charge instead, and if he heard one more soldier mutter about royal nannies under their breath he wasn't going to be responsible for his actions.

In retrospect, it had probably been a bad idea to change out the handful of men he took along with them on this past year's increasingly frequent travels, but it was bad enough that he was being dragged back and forth across the country. He hadn't wanted to take any one group out of the regular rotation that often; it was bad for discipline and worse for their training. So every time Soo-Won had insisted on gallivanting off outside the palace, visiting yet another port or village or fortress, every time the king came to Joo-Doh and asked if, just perhaps, he wouldn't mind too much, Il didn't want to say no but the boy was a royal nephew after all and kidnapping was always a possibility... Every time, Joo-Doh had stifled a sigh and agreed to watch over Soo-Won's journey, and chosen a new set of guards to go with them. Apparently this had just made the amusement of his men at his difficulty in managing one sheltered noble boy more wide-spread.

Joo-Doh took a long drink and shot a dour look at the three soldiers who'd taken the next table over and were laughing quietly into their own drinks. He'd like to see them do any better.

Of course, most of them still thought these trips were some kind of whim. Few of them ever noticed that Soo-Won was always awake and up before them, and only a handful had actually caught Soo-Won at his sword training and seen for themselves the knife edge that lay under that silk-soft smile. Joo-Doh had, so far, been able to keep those few quiet by reminding them of how much the king disliked weapons and how displeased he might be to find his nephew practicing with such fierce dedication. His men had all dealt with enough royal interference curtailing their field training, or quashing even ceremonial appearances by the palace guard, that they'd kept their mouths shut. He suspected word might be making its way slowly through the ranks of the guard itself, but it hadn't gone further yet. Joo-Doh was grateful for that.

Because he hoped, with all his heart and soul, not to ever find himself ordered to execute Soo-Won for treason.

The thought made him take another long drink, and beside him Soo-Won laughed softly. "Has it been such a long day, Joo-Doh-san?"

Joo-Doh gave up any further attempts at avoiding his barracks nick-name and glowered at Soo-Won properly. "It's been a long year," he corrected, acidly, "and if you'd told me you intended to come this far north into Fire, on this trip, I'd have brought another five men along. Or have your travel journals," he infused the phrase with as much sarcasm as possible without raising his voice, "not mentioned the increase in bandit activity?"

He was fairly sure that Soo-Won's travel notes did mention exactly that, because he'd caught sight of a page of them now and then. They were more comprehensive than the reports he received himself from trained observers. Passing those steadily growing files off as a "travel journal" had made him choke at his charge's bland-faced audacity, the first time he'd heard it.

Sooner or later, this charade had to break, and every time he thought that he tried to bury the knowledge. He would hold that day off as long as he could.

Soo-Won smiled at him, sunny and gentle, and spoke just clearly enough to be heard at the next table. "I'm sure the skill of your good soldiers will be more than enough to keep us safe." The soldiers in question elbowed each other and puffed out their chests, half-jokingly, to look more impressive. Soo-Won positively beamed at them.

Joo-Doh's hands itched to strangle the boy, just a little bit. Except that he was reasonably sure Soo-Won would be able to hold him off for a while; he knew Soo-Won had been training with Hak every time the boy visited the palace. And such a display would raise the very questions he'd been trying to avoid. He took a slow breath and tried to stop grinding his teeth.

The sunny smile barely dimmed, but Soo-Won's eyes acquired a hard glint behind it. "Be calm, Joo-Doh-shougun," he murmured. "I have my reasons for coming here."

That was exactly what Joo-Doh was afraid of, but saying so might invite finding out what those reasons were. Frankly, he was still hoping to bluff through whatever happened when the king finally caught wind of all this, and surely that could be better done with some genuine ignorance at work. So he didn't answer, only leaned back as the inn's one server arrived to set out bowls of soup and rather scant dishes of cabbage and dumplings, and took another drink.

And nearly choked on it as the server pulled a knife out of her sleeve and pressed the edge swiftly to his neck.

"Don't move!" barked the inn-keeper from where he was suddenly filling the doorway, a horse-bow already drawn and aimed at the soldiers' table. "You. The noble boy. Set your purse on the table and stand back."

Joo-Doh silently cursed himself for letting his temper set him even a little off-guard. He cast a quick glance around the tiny courtyard and growled low in his throat as three more men, far scruffier than their host-turned-bandit but just as well armed, popped out of the nearest buildings and ran to flank them, swords and cudgels in hand. "Please do as he says, Soo-Won-sama," he gritted out, opening his hand slowly toward his men at the next table who were frozen in the act of standing, teeth bared in grimaces of outrage and embarrassment.

Not that he had any intention of letting this riff-raff keep their money, but it would get Soo-Won further out of the way of that bow and clear of Joo-Doh's swords when he drew them.

"Yes... yes, of course," Soo-Won stammered, eyes wide as he stumbled to his feet, and that should really have warned Joo-Doh. Soo-Won only ever stammered like that when the princess was trying to hand-feed him or when Hak was scruffling up his hair. Even so, he was caught nearly as much by surprise as the little gang of bandits when Soo-Won's hands lifted away from the purse and he took one long step back from the table, whirled toward the inn-keeper, and cut the man's head half off in one fast, hard sweep of steel.

Later, Joo-Doh would think. Later, he would remember the sureness of Soo-Won's hand sliding under the concealing looseness of his outer-robe, the calculation of the turn that flung his robes clear of his sword's draw, the utter stillness of his face as he cut. Right now, though, he had other concerns, and long training and hard experience threw him back from the knife against his throat, drove his elbow into the woman's stomach, and cut her arm to the bone with the first sweep of his own draw. "Get the flankers, search the buildings," he snapped at his men as they started up from their table, the tension of the ambush breaking into the reaction speed he'd trained into them. He silenced the high, shrill sound of pain the woman was making with a hard blow of his hilt to the side of her head and left her in a heap as he herded Soo-Won back under the courtyard's tiny balcony. His eyes tracked back and forth across the open space, half street and half town square, that the little inn backed up to.

When Soo-Won spoke, it was so soft he almost missed it.

"There are only the five of them."

It took a few seconds for the implications to penetrate the singing of adrenaline, but when it did Joo-Doh froze. Soo-Won knew how many this little bandit gang had. He's brought them here, insisted on stopping at this scruffy inn, knowing that the inn-keeper had taken up with bandits. Joo-Doh turned slowly to face him, fury rising. "Soo-Won-sama..."

"I had to know," Soo-Won cut him off, voice harsh before he took a slow breath and continued with his usual evenness. "I had to know if I could do this, and no lives of those who are in my care could be lost in the knowing." His eyes flickered to the sprawled body of the inn-keeper and away in a flinch that Joo-Doh recognized from other boys fresh from their first kill. "This town was as prosperous as any in this region manages to be, before he came. I doubt Kan Soo-Jin will spare the tax money to re-build that prosperity fully, but at least now they have a chance."

Joo-Doh could hear perfectly well the fingernail grip on composure running under this small economic lecture, and made an intensely exasperated sound between his teeth. He laid down his swords on the nearest table and pushed Soo-Won down into one of the chairs. "Breathe," he ordered briskly, setting a hand on the back of Soo-Won's neck and pressing his head down. "Slowly." He could feel the tremors running through the boy gradually subside, faster then he would have expected, to be honest. When Soo-Won made to straighten up, Joo-Doh let him and busied himself with cutting the late inn-keeper's overshirt into rags, to clean the swords, and strips to tie the woman up with. Soo-Won accepted a swatch silently and cleaned his own sword with only a few pauses to swallow hard.

Joo-Doh was, rather reluctantly, impressed. The royal children had been kept away from violence of any kind, and even if he'd come here seeking it, Soo-Won was dealing with his first kill better than some young soldiers Joo-Doh had commanded. Blood would tell, he supposed.

The possible consequences of that didn't quite occur to him until his three men came back, dragging another unconscious prisoner with them, and he saw the way their eyes moved from the splash of blood across Soo-Won's robes to his steady hands sheathing a clean blade. When Soo-Won nodded to them, cool and apparently unshaken, Joo-Doh could see their shoulders straighten exactly the way he'd seen happen when Soo-Won's father acknowledged one of the men under his command. That was when Joo-Doh started cursing again, silent and heartfelt.

How was he supposed to keep this quiet?

Joo-Doh paced the dark halls of the palace on his way to his rooms, slow and weary. It had been a very long month.

First there had been the princess' thirteenth birthday, which had put Soo-Won and Il in the same place all day, resulting in a great deal of tension as they both smiled for Yona and tried not to show how chilly Soo-Won's glance got every time it crossed the king and how the king's voice turned tight and sharp every time he spoke to Soo-Won. Then there had been a caravan coming south, decimated by bandits just inside Fire's north border, and Joo-Doh had to spend far too long arguing with Kan Soo-Jin until the prickly bastard agreed to accept a few squads of men from Sky to help clean them out. And just to tie things off perfectly, the past two solid weeks had been full of negotiations that started with an incursion over the border from Sei, moved through two shouting matches between Soo-Won and Il that he knew of, and ended with another territorial concession. Joo-Doh had just returned from seeing off the Sei envoys, far more courteously than he would have preferred, and he wanted to find his bed and sleep for a day or two.

But there were lamps still burning in the guest rooms Soo-Won kept here, now he'd moved back into Yu-Hon's house in the town.

Joo-Doh spared a moment to reflect, darkly, that he would probably get more sleep if his sense of responsibility were just a little less developed, before he tapped on Soo-Won's door and called quietly, "Soo-Won-sama? It's late." After the last few years, the corollary please go to bed and stop plotting something I'm going to regret some day was probably understood on both sides.

Tonight, though, he got a surprise when the door swung open to show, not Soo-Won, but the attendant and aide he almost never brought to the castle with him, Kye-Sook. He looked Joo-Doh up and down, coolly, before turning back to the room where Soo-Won stood in a pool of lamplight. "As we have discussed, then, my Lord," he murmured, and bowed deeply to Soo-Won before slipping out past Joo-Doh and down the quiet corridor. Joo-Doh was still looking after him, trying to pin down why that cool look made him uneasy, when Soo-Won spoke quietly.

"Come in, Joo-Doh-shougun."

It was a command, not an invitation, and Joo-Doh was moving before he quite realized it. He drew a breath to remonstrate, only to loose it as his eyes finally met Soo-Won's. They were as level as he'd ever seen them, but tonight they were also fiercely intent, and that look cut off his words like a blade laid against his throat.

"I have need of you," Soo-Won said quietly.

"Soo-Won-sama, I can't... This won't..." Joo-Doh made sharp, frustrated gesture, the knowledge that had walked beside him for the last seven years boiling up in his throat. He couldn't go along with this. What good would a civil war do anyone at all, especially now with every surrounding country gathering like vultures, circling lazily as they waited for something to die.

Soo-Won cocked his head, pinning Joo-Doh under that uncomfortably sharp gaze. "In three years," he said, quite conversationally, "this country will be no more. The only reason we've made it this long is Kai's own internal strife. But now that Xing and Sei have realized that they can start carving away our territory and meet no resistance, smaller interests than the Empire itself have started to look our way. Li Hazra, north of Fire, will be ready to move within three years, and there are two separate Southern Kai traffickers who are already moving in on Water's port markets. Once Earth has exhausted the mines left them after my uncle's last concessions to Kai, those same interests will move on Geun-Tae-shougun's territory, and he will have to choose between loyalty to Kouka's throne and safeguarding his people." Soo-Won's mouth tilted in something that didn't look in the least like amusement. "I think we both know how that will play out."

The litany of disaster waiting to happen—starting to happen—froze Joo-Doh's heart. "Then you must know," he managed, voice rough, "that anything that divides the kingdom further will only bring the end faster."

Soo-Won folded his arms and leaned back against the window-frame behind him with a sigh. "If I sought merely to depose my uncle, perhaps to exile him, then yes. You would be right. Nothing would bring down the scavengers more quickly than the least hint of a figurehead they could use as an excuse to invade. And that," his voice fell, soft and cool and level, "is why I must kill him. Swiftly and as secretly as may be done, so that I can present myself as the only surviving heir and be fairly assured that the tribe's war-leaders will acknowledge me rather than see chaos." When he looked up from his folded arms, the fire in his eyes rocked Joo-Doh back a step. "And then, Joo-Doh-shougun, then we can start to take our territory back and to remind Sei and Xing and Kai that we are not a country it is safe to take lightly."

The absent thought ran through Joo-Doh's mind that, if Geun-Tae were standing here, he'd be cheering out loud and probably planning their first campaign before he even remembered to tell Soo-Won 'yes'. Joo-Doh felt that he had considerably better sense than that overgrown adolescent, but he still felt like Soo-Won had reached in and turned his world inside out with one pull.

He hadn't realized how much his own vision had narrowed, how far in he'd pulled it in an effort to ignore the bleak future looming up. Not until Soo-Won spoke, and suddenly he could see a future more than a year or two away. Suddenly, the dull grinding awareness of threats closing in from every side, threats he was not permitted to drive off, eased into a glimmer of hope and an unfolding path forward. It flowed over him like the first breath of a new dawn, and he breathed it in with something painfully like wonder.

One thing caught at his attention, though, like a thorn caught in his clothing. "The only heir? But the princess..."

Soo-Won flinched, the first time Joo-Doh had ever seen that happen, he realized. "I love my cousin well," Soo-Won said, folded arms tightening until his shoulders drew in. "I will do my best to keep her out of it, to find somewhere safe to send her." He rubbed his fingers across his forehead, still not looking up. "It can't be a noble family, but she's very young still. Surely she will adjust if I can find a merchant family to hide her in. One that travels a lot, ideally."

"And if you cannot?" Joo-Doh asked, slowly, not wanting to think about it himself, but he hadn't become the Sky tribe's war-leader by ignoring critical strategic issues.

Soo-Won's hand fell, fisting tight as he tucked it under the concealment of his sleeve. For a long moment he was silent, head bowed, shoulders taut. When he spoke again, his voice was thin and airless. "I will not be the contemptible creature my uncle is. I will not allow personal grief or guilt to rule over my responsibility to my people. If I cannot keep her hidden... then I must see her killed as well, before she becomes a pawn in the hands of our enemies." He pulled in an unsteady breath and looked up with a brittle smile. "Kye-Sook asked me that as well. I will do whatever must be done."

"Soo-Won-sama." Joo-Doh moved to reach out a hand, only to halt. What could he possibly say? It was the truth, and while there was enough resentment against the king that he might not make a very good cat's-paw, Yona was a beautiful and innocent young girl that all hearts would melt for. If she learned of this, if her grief was seized on by one of the Kai nobles and set up at the head of an army... Even the people in the army's way might wonder if she didn't have justice on her side.

Soo-Won shook his head. "It is what it is." He let out a slow breath, and then straightened, and the intensity that had struck Joo-Doh so silent at first rose around him again, like a fire catching. "I will do what must be done," he repeated. "And to do that, Joo-Doh-shougun, I need you. I will need at least two of the tribes' war-leaders to support me from the first, but above that I need you. I need the unbending determination that drove a young officer who was merely competent to become the equal of Lee Geun-Tae. To recover our country's footing and drive off the scavengers coming now to feed, I need the strength that holds Sky's warriors steady even as their king turns away from them." Very softly, he finished, "Will you give these things to me?"

It struck Joo-Doh a little breathless, to be seen through and through, and then to be called on to serve as he once hoped to. "Soo-Won-sama..." It came out husky, and he swallowed, drawing himself up in return. "To one who sees, and will act, yes. For this, I will give all that I am." He had to swallow again before he could finish, because there was no going back from this. But his steps were firm as he came away from the door and knelt down at Soo-Won's feet, head bowed. "Soo-Won-heika."

Soo-Won's hand rested briefly on his bent head. "Thank you, my Shougun."

The calm certainty of that acknowledgement put a tiny shiver down Joo-Doh's spine. He had come up as Sky's war-leader under Il, and he'd never had his king's full trust.

Until now.

The thought quieted an old, old tension in his chest, and it came to him that, yes, he could rest in his king's hands now, and be sure that he would be used rightly in the service of his kingdom and people. The bared steel in the gaze that met his, when he raised his head, promised him that, and he met that steel willingly with his own.

"Your will, my king."

Joo-Doh would never have expected that becoming involved in plotting a treasonous coup would make him feel so much more relaxed at meetings of the Five Tribes, but this seemed to be the case. For once, he'd managed to sit through An Joon-Gi's obvious obfuscation as he talked around the condition of his northern port towns, and Il's obliviousness as he tried to agree with everyone, and even Geun-Tae's open yawns, without his hand itching to knock anyone's heads together. He only marked these things as indicators of future projects. It was a bit of a revelation, suddenly having that vast weight of frustration fall away, lifted by the surety that all of these things would be seen and seen to.

That didn't mean he was enthusiastic about having Kan Soo-Jin as a co-conspirator.

"Are you sure about this, Soo-Won-sama?" he asked quietly as they watched Fire's war-leader sweep away down the corridor in a nearly visible cloud of self-satisfaction.

"I know he's loyal to nobody but himself," Soo-Won murmured, cutting straight to the heart of the issue as Joo-Doh was coming to expect of him. "But Fire has by far the largest army of any of the Tribes. Better to have it behind me for now than to risk him picking up on our plans from the outside. While he believes that he may make use of me, he will be a powerful ally."

Joo-Doh snorted a bit at that, because that didn't say very kind things about the man's perceptiveness. "And when he realizes otherwise?" Because even Kan Soo-Jin probably wouldn't be able to keep believing that once Soo-Won took the throne.

The brief curve of Soo-Won's lips, distant and yet anticipatory, almost made him shiver. More than ever, of late, he saw Soo-Won's father in him—Yu Hon's skill with a sword and his strategic vision both. Strange, given how much Soo-Won looked, and even sounded often, like his mother.

"That," Soo-Won said, soft and certain, "is when there will be an opportunity to see to Fire's recovery. One way or the other."

Joo-Doh bowed his head, at that. He didn't like the idea of having to fight amongst themselves, but he doubted Kan Soo-Jin would feel the same. Soo-Won's hand rested on his shoulder for a moment, and his voice was low but even when he spoke. "Whatever must be done, we will do. But I will do everything I can to protect as many of our people as is possible."

Joo-Doh raised his head, looking back steadily, reassured again by the fire that burned at the back of Soo-Won's eyes. "Yes, my Lord."

The quick patter of slippers coming down the corridor made him step back into the shadows of the nearest door as the princess came careening around the corner. "Soo-Won!" She lit up like sunrise at seeing her cousin and reached out to catch his hands as she skidded to a halt. Soo-Won reached to catch her, so swift and unthinking and protective that Joo-Doh couldn't help rolling his eyes a little. Both the boys were so transparent around the princess.

"I have dancing lessons this afternoon, and Hak says I dance like a crow, and you have to come watch so you can tell him I don't!" she said all in one breath, tugging on his sleeves insistently, already poised to dash back the way she'd come, presumably with her cousin in tow.

"I'll come, Yona-hime," Soo-Won promised, smile distantly kind while his hands were thoughtlessly tender, straightening her over-robe. "In just a moment."

She pouted up at him, and not just because of the delay in meeting her whim, Joo-Doh thought. Yona was more than just transparent, where her attempts to capture Soo-Won's attention were concerned. "Come quick, then."

Soo-Won watched her as she turned with a soft huff and ran back down the outer corridor, light as the garden breezes that followed her. His face was perfectly still, but the darkness in his eyes and the white-knuckled fists he hid in the folds of his over-robe made Joo-Doh step close again and say, softly, "We will do everything we can to confine her away from things, Soo-Won-sama."

Soo-Won closed those shadowed eyes for a breath. "Thank you, Joo-Doh-shougun." When he opened them again, they were distant, but intent again—sharp and fierce. A king's eyes, Joo-Doh thought, and Soo-Won's words carried a king's knowledge and weight. "I will do what must be done."

Joo-Doh bowed, and answered that the only way he could, the way he was increasingly sure the entire country would answer Soo-Won's blazing will.

"Yes, my king."

End

The Yellow Season

Jingyan is figuring out why Lin Shu likes to be held tightly, in bed, and in the process shakes a few truths loose that he didn't expect. Porn with Characterization, I-4

I swear, I do not normally make terrible linguistic jokes in my titles, so let's just consider this one truth in advertising.

One of the things that had surprised Jingyan the most about xiao-Shu, in bed, was that he liked to be held. Jingyan had very clear memories of xiao-Shu being always in motion, always a little restless. He'd liked being in contact, definitely, always reaching for Jingyan's arm or leaning into an arm thrown around his shoulders, so it hadn't actually surprised him that xiao-Shu liked it when Jingyan left the marks of his mouth on xiao-Shu's skin. That was the kind of reminder he could have guessed xiao-Shu would enjoy having. But the xiao-Shu of fifteen years ago had been quick-fire and restless, and not the type Jingyan would ever have expected to like being in any way restrained.

Xiao-Shu now, though, made little sounds of satisfaction when Jingyan's weight settled over him, or when Jingyan folded his arms around him and held him close. When Jingyan's fingers wrapped around his wrist so that Jingyan could press a kiss to the inside of it, xiao-Shu's eyes dropped closed for a breath and his lips parted softly.

And so, this evening, Jingyan let his hold on xiao-Shu's wrist tighten, winding his fingers firmly around it, and watched xiao-Shu closely. The quick hitch in his breath made Jingyan nod to himself; he was fairly sure he was right about this.

"Jingyan?" xiao-Shu asked, a little husky.

Jingyan gathered xiao-Shu closer and turned them, easing xiao-Shu back against the bed and stretching out over him. He caught xiao-Shu's soft, pleased sound in a kiss, and said quietly, against his mouth. "My heart. My own." Xiao-Shu relaxed back against the blankets, a smile curving his lips in response; xiao-Shu, now, also liked it when Jingyan reminded him that he belonged here, with Jingyan. Belonging—that was the key, wasn't it? Jingyan wrapped his fingers gently around xiao-Shu's other wrist as well and pressed them both to the bed over xiao-Shu's head.

Xiao-Shu's eyes went wide and dark, and his whole body arched up taut under Jingyan's. "Jingyan..." He could feel tiny tremors running the length of xiao-Shu's body, feel the sudden quickness of his breath.

"My own," he repeated, low and sure, sliding a leg between xiao-Shu's thighs and pressing up between them. Xiao-Shu moaned, low and open, grinding up against him with a complete lack of restraint that made Jingyan's own breath come faster. Perhaps this wasn't something he would have expected of xiao-Shu, but that didn't mean he couldn't put the pieces together when they were in front of him—and he was more than willing to oblige. He tightened his hold on xiao-Shu's wrists a little and bent his head to bite, slow and firm, up and down the line of xiao-Shu's neck.

"Jingyan...!" The note in xiao-Shu's voice was breathless and yearning, the flex of his body under Jingyan's hold increasingly wanton. Jingyan made wordless, encouraging sounds as he sucked the marks on xiao-Shu's neck darker, each one sending xiao-Shu bucking up against him.

"My own, my xiao-Shu," he murmured against xiao-Shu's ear, rocking his thigh firmly between xiao-Shu's legs. "It's all right; I won't let go."

"Yes, this, please." Xiao-Shu sounded near incoherent, and he was pushing up against Jingyan so hard that, if he weren't begging, Jingyan might be having second thoughts. He had to hold tight enough to xiao-Shu's wrists, to keep him pinned, that he might be leaving marks there, too. Given the way xiao-Shu was pulling against his grip, he wondered if that was exactly what xiao-Shu wanted. The thought sent a curl of heat through him.

So he settled his weight more securely over xiao-Shu and pinned his wrists hard against the bed. He pushed his thigh up between xiao-Shu's legs and, when xiao-Shu arched up against him, head falling back, leaned down and closed his teeth on xiao-Shu's throat.

Xiao-Shu cried out, shaking under Jingyan's hold as he came undone all in a rush, flushed and half-wild, so beautiful in this moment that Jingyan couldn't look away. It took a long time for xiao-Shu to quiet again, and even then his breath was still quick, his eyes dark and dilated when he looked up at Jingyan. Jingyan held him against the bed, gentle and firm, and waited.

"Jingyan," xiao-Shu finally whispered, wetting his lips. "What...?"

"It seemed like something you wished," Jingyan answered, quietly.

Xiao-Shu took in a quick, trembling breath, eyes falling closed. "I..." He couldn't seem to find words to go on.

"If it is something you wish," Jingyan finally said, voice soft, "then you can have it." He tightened his hold on xiao-Shu's wrists for a moment.

The sound xiao-Shu made was low and rough and wanting, and the words that followed seemed shaken from him. "I do. I want it, I wanted it so much, then. For you to hold me by you, and not release me. Even when—"

"Even when what?" Jingyan prompted, when he broke off. When xiao-Shu opened his eyes, the desperation in them struck Jingyan breathless.

"Even when I pushed you back, because I couldn't stand what it would mean." Xiao-Shu's voice was raw. "To watch you watch me die... I couldn't do it. And even so, even then, I wanted."

Jingyan let his wrists go only so that he could catch xiao-Shu tighter against him, wrapping himself close around xiao-Shu, as if he could ward off even that memory with his own body. Xiao-Shu held just as tight to him, still shaking a little. Jingyan ran a hand up his back into his hair and told him, soft and fierce, "Then I will hold you by me, and not release you."

"Yes," xiao-Shu said, low and breathless, pressing his forehead to Jingyan's shoulder. "Please. Until I can believe it."

"And after, too." Jingyan smiled against his hair and stroked his thumb down xiao-Shu's neck, pressing gently over the marks he'd left, pleased by the hitch of xiao-Shu's breath—this time, there was a bit of a laugh in it.

"And after," xiao-Shu agreed, softly, and if there was still more hesitance in it than Jingyan liked, at least it was agreement. He settled xiao-Shu more comfortably against him, running slow fingers up and down his nape, soothing that flicker of tension in him until xiao-Shu sighed and relaxed against him again. And he let the knowledge sink into him, that it hadn't actually been politics that xiao-Shu had put ahead of their hearts, two years ago.

Jingyan held xiao-Shu closer and smiled, soft and open.

End

The Wandering Fire

Shen Wei's ten thousand years of watching Kunlun's lives and, eventually, finding his own. Character Study, Drama, Angst (lots of angst), I-5

So, about the Changes arc. I loved the Guardian drama, but the backstory and cosmology of the novel appealed to me mightily. I mean, really; gods and demons, ten thousand years of angst, who could resist? And when I went to think about it, the two actually fit together reasonably well, if you tinker both ends a bit. So this arc is a fusion of the drama and novel.

A fusion isn't quite like a crossover. Instead of, for example, Inu Yasha and company being dropped into the Cowboy Bebop world, a fusion means that Inu Yasha is Spike. So here we have a novel!Shen Wei who is, or becomes, drama!Shen Wei. Part of the fun is, of course, getting him from point A to point B, and the question this arc asks is: what might happen to make the novel backstory lead to the drama canon events? And what would happen next, especially to Zhao Yunlan?

To find out, forget the drama preamble, and read on.

When his love chose to release his final hold on the world, to make way for the new growth of mortal life and the spirits that life created, Shen Wei watched it happen. He watched, and did nothing to stop it, nothing to deny Kunlun's choice. But at the end of that choice, he made one of his own. He caught Kunlun's soul before it could unravel and brought it to Shen Nong.

He didn't like the price Shen Nong demanded from him, before agreeing to give Kunlun's soul to the cycle of reincarnation. To be guardian to the humans and the shadow of death to his own kind was a harsh task. He agreed to it, though, because one of those humans would be Kunlun.

And so Shen Wei watched most of Shen Nongâ€™s being shift, flow the way the material existence of gods so easily flowed, into another form. That form was an immaterial shape of potential and life-brightness rather than physical being but it still spoke to him of a wheel, an endless turning. He watched that turning catch up two souls, Kunlun and Shen Nong, both now shorn of the weight of memory and power that would mark a god, and buried his face in his hands, shaking with relief and pain both.

It was done.

Kunlun would live, if not as himself and not as Shen Weiâ€™s any more. He would move through the world as a human, terrifyingly fragile and brief, but he would live.

Live again and again, with no memory of Shen Wei.

The voraciousness at the core of Shen Weiâ€™s nature raged over that, screamed at him to seek out something to break, some power to conquer and consume that might change what was. For the first time in many centuries, he was tempted to listen. Yet, at the same time, Kunlun's parting gift, the part of Kunlunâ€™s own nature that heâ€™d poured into Shen Wei, soothed the rage a little, gentled it until Shen Wei could tell it was actually grief. Perhaps it was even what had moved Shen Nong to agree to their bargain, in the end.

Or perhaps it had just been the possibility of seeing all ghosts finally destroyed, if the seal between realms was ever broken again.

Shen Wei sighed and straightened. Whatever Shen Nongâ€™s motive, heâ€™d agreed. A bargain between gods, even if one of them was only half a god, impressed itself on the material of their very beings. Now the integrity of that seal was his to ensure. He would follow that imperative that was now half of his nature.

But first, he would follow the spark of Kunlunâ€™s soul and see where he found life again.

For quite a while Shen Wei found no difficulty in fulfilling his bargain to contain his people while also keeping an eye on Kunlunâ€™s soul. Considered frankly, few ghosts had any particular ability with planning ahead; most would seek the nearest source of power or life-warmth to attack and devour. If that source was another ghost, without the generative capability of a god or human or shape-changer, that would be cause for rage but not for plotting an escape from their realm. Shen Wei merely needed to keep a distant eye on the seal between realms, and visit now and then to check it in detail.

It wasnâ€™t until Kunlun was reborn in Shuâ€™s great inland city that Shen Wei realized he might need to do more than that. The city was far enough from the gateway and itâ€™s ancient marker tree that even he had trouble seeing that far without time slipping forward or back in his sight. Still, it wasnâ€™t too difficult to craft alarms to leave at the gate. That much use of his power drew down his ability to shield his nature and kept him further from humans than heâ€™d have preferred, but if he was careful to conceal and contain himself he could still come close enough to listen to Kunlunâ€™s current incarnation debate cosmology with his fellow priest-administrators.

â€œ...really reasonable that none of the gods could have stopped a mere flood from causing such widespread devastation as the Second Chronicle speaks of? Even Beiling could handle a flood.â€

â€œBeiling, the king who drowned and returned to life?â€ Kunlun asked dryly. â€œWho was selected by Duyu himself to watch over the people precisely because he proved to have power enough over water to handle a flood? It wouldnâ€™t surprise me at all if the Chronicle is true.â€

Shen Wei wondered, sometimes, just how much or little Kunlun truly remembered of his past existence, to be so certain the legends were true. Shen Nong had said he would remember nothing, could remember nothing lest the weight of his soul be too great for the still-fragile inertia of reincarnation to hold. But Shen Wei still wondered, sometimes.

By the time Yu of Xia started his ambitious canal project, Shen Wei had stopped wondering if Kunlun remembered and started wondering if humans in general had somehow managed to imprint a universal urge to be prepared in the re-event of catastrophic flooding.

If so, he didn't suppose he could blame them, but to Shen Wei the changing moods of the landâ€™s rivers would always remind him of Kunlun. Their summer ferocity, that surge that swept over the land and altered it, reminded him just as intensely as the calmer, nurturing flow of autumn. He loved them both.

He wondered if it was irony that Kunlun was here, heaving shovel-fulls of dirt alongside the rest of his team of canal diggers, working to tame one of his own wild rivers. Yet he knew, watching Kunlun straighten and scrub a dirt-smeared hand across his forehead, laughing at some joke from one of his men, that Kunlun had liked the wildness in humans, too, and probably would have enjoyed watching the contest between the two, no matter which triumphed.

He wished he could do more than watch, himself. That he could be down there with them, with Kunlun. That he could lay his hands on those bare shoulders, lean against Kunlun, listen to what made him laugh. The ache of that wishing grew until he thought it might cut off his breath completely.

Shen Wei watched Kunlun, a soldier this life, climb the shallow hill behind his current encampment and sprawl in the tall grass, leaning back on his hands to look up at the clear arch of the sky overhead. It was the time of evening that Kunlun had called the blue hour—after sunset but before full dark, when the sky was a sweep of shifting blue, trees and mountains stark black against it as the strongest stars began to shine.

Kunlun had always said this hour reminded him of Shen Wei himself. Dark, yes, but beautiful and changeable, all shapes knife-edged sharp but with the sky softening behind them for this brief time. Kunlun wouldn't be thinking about that right now, though. Couldn't remember it, because Shen Wei had chosen Kunlun's life over his memory, over preserving those memories as all Kunlun would be. He didn't regret doing it, but seeing Kunlun be so much himself, still, hurt like a blade slicing down Shen Wei's heart, over and over and over.

Shen Wei drew concealment tighter around him and watched over the encampment as blue slid away into blackness.

It was a handful of rebirths after that that Shen Wei first lost track of Kunlun, who had died while Shen Wei was examining the seal between realms. That was when it came home to him just how widely humans had spread themselves. It was possible that the ghost who managed to thread past the seal and take up Shen Wei's time tracking him down didn't entirely deserve to bear the full weight of Shen Wei's frustration, but if it served to deter others of his kind from trying his patience, Shen Wei would consider it a net gain.

It took him a ridiculously long time to remember that he carried a spark of Kunlun's soul with him, considering that his fingers found that bead of golden warmth at least twice a day, for comfort. By the time he'd followed the whisper of connection all the way north into the mountains of Yan, he was determined to do whatever was necessary to keep his watch over the seal without leaving Kunlun. He'd followed Kunlun's soul through another rebirth, this time in the capital of Luoyi (and hadn't the capital been further west just a bit ago? couldn't humans ever hold still?) before he finished the beacon that would connect his awareness to the sacred tree that marked the gateway between realms. It took significant power to keep up, more than his simple beacons had, but it wasn't as though he needed his power for anything else, these days.

The first time Shen Wei heard the phrase â€˜The Mandate of Heavenâ€™ he was hard-pressed not to laugh out loud. Heâ€™d never observed any mandate to guide or restrain living creatures. Gods and ghosts and humans and beasts, they all sought their own way and then had to deal with the consequences, and the heavens said nothing about it that heâ€™d ever heard.

â€œThe true nature of the Mandate must be care,â€ Kunlun expounded enthusiastically, and probably a little drunkenly, to two of his fellow scholars. â€œItâ€™s when care for the land and people fail that Heaven withdraws its approval, thatâ€™s demonstrated time and again!â€

"No, no!" one of his at least as drunk companions complained, waving his cup. "Clearly the law is the true core of the Mandate! Care must follow the path of the law, otherwise it's blind and you'll have no balance at all."

"Only," Kunlun leaned back with a sidelong smirk at their third member, "if you let care be tainted by personal concerns."

"Which is the only natural approach, and not a corruption at all," the third man huffed.

Shen Wei leaned against the wall in his shadowed corner, arms crossed, smiling a little to himself. At least it was entertaining to listen to. Kunlun still had all of his gift for bringing the most unlikely of conversants together.

When the great states the humans had scraped back together proceeded to spend a solid couple centuries warring with each other, Shen Wei was entirely unsurprised. Neither was he surprised when the constant tide of wars sweeping back and forth, flaring all kinds of passions higher, tempted more of his kind to dare the gateway between realms. The spell he'd left to warn him of such tugged at his attention more and more over those years, and he was grateful that Kunlun's soul seemed to have settled into mercantile pursuits for a while, with only occasional forays into politics. It was easier on Shen Wei's nerves, that way.

Kunlun's idea of useful politics was often a little... unconventional. If he didn't have money on hand to use as a lever, he'd probably resort to direct action. Again.

Shen Wei wasn't sure he was ready to watch over another life of dashing banditry, yet.

Shen Wei sat beside the bed (the deathbed), curled tight in on himself, head buried in his knees.

Two years.

One moment of carelessness, letting Kunlun, letting San, realize he was present, and he hadn't been able to leave again. And for that weakness, San had died. He was human; he'd only been able to survive Shen Wei's presence at his side, in his bed, for two brief years.

And, like a fool, he'd promised to await San's, Kunlun's, return. How could he keep that promise, when it would mean Kunlun's death? Death because of him?

If only Shen Wei's nature could be sealed away, the way his people were sealed. Half of his nature was a god's nature, wasn't it? Kunlun's own nature, his last gift, taken in and made Shen Wei's own. If only there was a way to lock away the half that was ghost. He would do it, in a heartbeat, if it would prevent this grief happening ever again, prevent Kunlun dying for Shen Wei's weakness, the next time it overcame his better sense.

He knew he would never, could never, deny Kunlun, no matter what shape or name or life he wore. This would happen again, the next time their paths crossed, unless he stayed away entirely or...

His link to the gateway tugged at his attention, a flash of vision of the sacred tree Nuwa had planted to mark the gate, and Shen Wei uncoiled upright, eyes wide.

The tree.

None of the first gods lived as themselves, any longer, but the tree touched by Nuwa's hand still lived and grew. It had its own spirit; Shen Wei had felt it, when he'd set his watch-guard spell. The tree had its own share of a god's nature. And Shen Wei knew, from the working out of his bargain with Shen Nong, that deals made between gods branded themselves deep into the world. If the tree's spirit consented to help, could they perhaps create a bargain that would seal Shen Wei's ghost nature while he was in this realm? Could they, perhaps, even transmute Shen Wei's power into something that would protect humans?

The breath of hope finally unlocked Shen Wei's bleak, frozen despair, melted it back into grief, and he turned to bury the tears that stormed through him in the bed he and San had shared, fingers fisting tight in the blankets. "I will wait for you," he promised again, hoarse, when they'd finally eased. "But it can't be here." He pushed himself up to his feet, scrubbing his palms over his face, and took a deep breath.

He would try.

It took nearly thirty years. The life of trees was slow, and the kind of working Shen Wei asked for was not a small matter. It built gradually between them, not a bargain spoken once and bound in that moment, but a repeating cycle, year on year, that circled between them again and again. Again and again, Shen Wei agreed and offered; again and again, the tree accepted his power, drank it and changed it, like sunlight into sap. And as the last year drew down into the darkness of winter, Shen Wei felt the bargain crystalize between them, gain matter and reality in the world. The shape of it flickered, now a wood tile, now a pressed sheet, now stamped metal. Finally, as it dropped into Shen Wei's outstretched hands, it settled into a scroll of wood slats. Marked on the outside, as though burned there, was a single word.

Guardian.

Shen Wei smiled faintly, resting his hand on the tree. "Thank you."

The leaves above him rustled without any breeze.

Their bargain hadn't taken all of his power as a ghost. He was, after all, his people's ruler—the strongest among them. But about half was sealed away and siphoned off, now, he thought. It should allow the other half of his nature to dominate, in this realm at least, and to restrain the relentless void of a ghost's nature from consuming whatever lives of humans or shape-changers he came close to. If the human in question was the holder of the bargain's physical token, then the thing would be certain. In time, this bargain might even affect all ghosts, through him. Shen Wei straightened and lifted a hand to lay his fingertips against his pendant, listening for the whisper of Kunlun's new life.

He arrived just in time for the wedding.

Shen Wei kept himself wrapped deep in concealment as he watched Kunlun and his bride depart from the banquet, watched the wistfulness in Kunlun's eyes as he glanced around, as if looking for someone absent. He watched Kunlun pat his bride's hand, and smile kindly, if distantly, and then Shen Wei went to find the nearest bottle of plum liquor and drink himself unconscious.

When the pain in his heart had died down enough that he could face consciousness for more than an hour at a time, again, he asked among the Crow tribe to see if any of the Cat tribe had survived. Not entirely to his surprise, the Crows told him Da Qing himself was still alive; at another time, he might have been amused by their apparent glee that the dark Envoy had some business with the cat. He laid the Guardian scroll in Da Qing's hands, told him where Kunlun was starting married life, and retreated to the gateway between realms.

For years, the quiet presence of the sacred tree was the only company his freshly torn heart could endure.

It was whispers of the brutality of a budding empire that drew Shen Wei away from the peaceful company of the sacred tree again, and out into the world to follow the faint voice of his pendant until he found Kunlun's soul again.

Not to stay. Not to get close enough to be caught again; that would still be dangerous, regardless of the locks he'd put on his own power, and he wasn't quite fool enough to court that kind of pain twice. But if Kunlun was in danger, in this sudden festival of military conquest and consolidation, there were still things Shen Wei could do.

Somehow, he wasn't surprised to find Kunlun among the ranks of the new scholar-officials, still speaking on the nature of benevolence, if more quietly this life.

For all that Kunlun favored peace, he'd always had a talent for finding trouble. Just look at Shen Wei, himself.

The next time Shen Wei visited his own realm, he was honestly surprised by what he found.

"Bureaucracy? Really?" he asked, as he was shown through an already growing library of laws and precedents. Admittedly, some of those laws were his own dictates, as he saw paging through a volume or two.

"We may be creatures of chaos, but exactly for that reason we always seek form. It's one of the things we take, when we consume human life, is it not?" The one who was now calling himself only Regent paced beside him and cocked a sharp eye up at him. "And even through we are sealed away from the human realm, we are not separate. Every time one of your people looks up, we see the light of the Lamp. It was created to comfort and guide, for all that it's also a prison to us."

"And every time someone sneaks past it," Shen Wei added, dryly, "they bring back a new piece of human form to imitate." The Regent spread his hands, noncommittally, and Shen Wei stifled a sigh. He'd known he was sacrificing some control, when he chose to guard the seal largely from the other side, but someone had to be in the human realm to do so and he certainly didn't trust anyone else with that.

"Very well. But what's this about choosing a Lord?"

"Never one that could supersede you, of course." The Regent bowed deeply, and Shen We suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Clearly, the Regent had absorbed some human court manners, and likely the notion of politicking that went with them. "But laws need a final judge, do they not?" He led the way back out into the high ceilinged central hall, and gestured to the broad, elaborately carved throne at one end. "And, as you see..."

The throne had a feel of embedded power that Shen Wei recognized from the token of his bargain with the sacred tree, though on a smaller scale. He skimmed his fingers close to the seat, testing the feel of it, and jerked back. "This is—!"

"What is necessary to preserve impartiality," the Regent finished, quite evenly. "Is that not ideal? The one who wishes to take this throne will serve the needs of our realm."

Would be bound to serve, every bit of will and desire bound to the execution of those growing volumes of laws, until death. "I think you've learned a little too much from humans, lately," Shen Wei said, low and sharp.

The Regent looked back at him, calm. "Would anything less hold one of our kind to such a task?"

Shen Wei's mouth tightened. He knew the nature of ghosts; it was still half of his own nature, after all. His people were rapacious and violent, even in their hunger for some stabilizing, ordering force to form around. Those who were even capable of desiring peace were still rare, even after thousands of years of the Lamp's slow influence.

It was the reason he had never yet destroyed the Regent.

"Very well," he said, at last. "But be sure that those who seek this Lordship know the terms of it before they choose."

Unmistakeable satisfaction flashed over the Regent's face as he bowed again. "As you command, my Lord Envoy."

Staying near, but not too near, to Kunlun's incarnations was even more frustrating than watching over him from hiding close by had been, which Shen Wei hadn't previously thought was possible. To distract himself, he started listening to the local scholars and priests again. It passed the time, and watching the concept of family be re-worked to support imperial rule honestly amused him.

Really, it was no wonder his people mirrored humans so closely whenever there was contact between them. Humans had their own share of the world's darker elements, and sometimes the generative properties of their souls only went to fuel that.

It was on one of his visits to the Imperial University that Shen Wei first heard another amusing trend in philosophy.

"Of course the legends aren't literal." The mid-rank scholar he'd been listening in on gave his student a withering look. "The gods named in our legends represent universal principles. Their tales are a moral guide to be unraveled, not some kind of engineering map of creation."

Shen Wei couldn't help but wonder, wryly, just what kind of moral guide he was supposed to be, then.

After the long peace of the empire, the bloodshed that followed came as a shock, even to Shen Wei. Kunlun lost three lives in the span of little more than half a century, and frantic worry drew Shen Wei to follow his soul more closely again.

The farmer in the central plains died.

The soldier in the east died.

The small town scholar's son in the north died, and that time Shen Wei couldn't stand it any longer, tried to intervene, but he could only hold off so many unless he wanted to break his oaths, shatter his promises to Kunlun and the tree both, draw all of his power back into himself and give himself up to the side of his nature that could call down the death of a whole battlefield.

He did consider it.

In the end his memory of Kunlun, and his word, held. Barely. He took them both back to the sacred tree and left the humans to their own devices. He didn't think he could do anything else without breaking.

Even the whisper of Kunlun's soul fire in his pendant was faint and sad.

The humans were building a city around the sacred tree.

A city.

Over the gateway to the underworld.

Shen Wei wasn't sure whether to be impressed or to despair.

Actually, from the things he overheard among the architects and engineers, he suspected the humans were building everywhere. It seemed the centuries of strife he'd been trying not to think too hard on had finally eased, given way again to an empire of trade and construction. And also foolishness, but perhaps he should take human forgetfulness as a compliment of sorts. He had kept his part of the bargain well enough that they didn't know, any more, to fear this place.

At least, he reflected, ducking out of the tent where they kept the maps, it looked as though they planned an open space around the sacred tree. Nevertheless, he was going to have to stay in this region far more constantly than he had before. With the warmth of human lives so temptingly close to the seal, more ghosts would attempt to find their way past it.

Shen Wei drew concealment closer around him as a party of cheerfully drunk workers passed in the darkness. Perhaps it was for the best. If it kept him away from Kunlun's human lives... perhaps it was for the best.

Perhaps Shen Wei had never truly been meant to be anything but a threat of death in the shadows.

Shen Wei watched from a corner of study belonging to the senior Dragon City physician, nearly vibrating with conflicting impulses.

He should have known. He should have known this would happen. He hadn't gotten to Wan Jun in time, and this was the result. Two senior physicians and their apprentices, all clustered around a table with a dead ghost on it, exclaiming over the results of their examination.

"The temperature hasn't changed at all, in death!" The older physician sounded nearly rapturous with the medical puzzle before him. "We absolutely must examine the thyroid."

"And the structure of the eyes! Did you see how they changed color?" His younger colleague was nearly bouncing with excitement. Shen Wei rubbed his forehead and wondered whether it would really be that great a breach of his bargain if he killed them both himself.

The casual disrespect for the body of one of his own was... all right, not actually surprising. Kunlun had spent a few lives as a physician and, whatever the era, outside the presence of friends or family of the deceased, physicians with bodies in front of them tended to be either excited over something interesting to study or else furious over what they saw as a personal failure. So should he try to discourage or enable this? Would a medical study of his people arm humans better to be of at least a little assistance capturing trespassers, or would it tempt them to foolish trespass themselves?

"Do you think he might have been taking medicinal compounds to achieve this?" the youngest of the apprentices asked, looking up from the scroll where he was keeping notes.

Shen Wei stifled a snort of amusement. Perhaps he'd wait and see whether any of their conclusions even approached the truth, before deciding what to do about it.

Shen Wei stood at the back of the Yashou tribesâ€™ meeting and listened to their increasingly heated debate.

"We need some kind of help with this. There are too many of them for us alone!" the normally composed Snake Elder insisted.

The Crow Elder folded his arms, unconvinced. "Help from the humans would only be more trouble in the long run. You wouldn't even have suggested it if you hadn't taken a human lover, Fu You."

The Flower Elder waved her hands between them, looking exasperated. "Please leave off about that, already. Just because she refused you, xiao-Ding..."

"My relationship with a human only means that I am more aware of their resources than you are," Fu You said, tight and controlled. "Lay down your pride and think! If we oppose a dozen Dixingren alone, we'll lose some of our people. If we invite help from those who have it to give, we have a far better chance of all surviving this."

"I don't disagree, but the way they've found into our world is in Yashou territory." The Flower Elder wrapped her arms around herself, as if chilled. "If this keeps happening, we will take the brunt of whatever damage is done each time. Humans can't help us with that."

Fu You folded her hands on the table between them. "There is one who deals with such things, is there not? Your own people have seen him, Zhu Mei."

"Their Black-cloaked Envoy," the Flower Elder murmured, frowning. "True enough, but how could we contact him?"

Despite his own intense annoyance with the current problem, Shen Wei smiled at the perfect cue and relaxed the concealment he'd kept folded around himself to let the chill of his presence curl outward. "There is no need; I am here."

The Crow Elder shot to his feet, and even Zhu Mei stiffed, though she rose with the slow care of someone feeling her age in her bones. Fu You, on the other hand, didn't even start. "I thought you might be, Honorable Envoy."

Shen Wei was impressed, which didn't happen often. "Indeed. Trespassers in your world are my care, and I have failed to contain this incursion."

"Whatever your power, there is only the one of you." Fu You sat straight, watching him with dark, level eyes. "If we can hold off these trespassers, as you call them, can you close this breach they have made within our territory?"

"I can. It was why I came tonight." He withdrew the branch he'd spent weeks separating from the sacred tree without killing the wood, and held it out on his palm. "Once I have done so, I would entrust the key that will lock that door to the Yashou, if the Elders can agree to keep it."

A quick exchange of glances, including one blistering glare from Zhu Mei, and all three of them nodded, though reluctantly in the case of the Crow Elder. "Fu You will speak and act for all the tribes, in this," Zhu Mei said, firmly.

"Then when the passage is locked, I will entrust this to her." Shen Wei hesitated. There were actually fewer than ten trespassers, by his estimate, but they included at least three of the strongest among his kind, short of himself. "I have no wish to interfere in the Yashou's governance decisions, but I strongly suggest you do find allies in this. I expect sealing the passage to take at least a full turn of the moon, and those who broke in include several who are very dangerous."

Fu You lifted her chin and didn't even glance at her fellow Elders. "We will find what strength and allies we need." The Crow Elder's mouth was a tight line, but he bent his head and didn't gainsay her.

Shen Wei really was quite impressed.

The bigger Dragon City got, the more sympathy Shen Wei had with Kunlun's old solitary tendencies. He hadn't viscerally understood why Kunlun preferred to seclude himself, back then, though he certainly hadn't protested the opportunity to have the one who'd given his existence meaning all to himself. Now he thought he understood a little better.

Humans got into everything.

Shen Wei was finding it harder and harder to conceal his presence, or to keep even his restrained power from affecting the people of the city. There had been two cases he knew of, and probably more he didn't, of people sickening simply because his proximity had drained their life before he'd realized that the young idiots had chosen the grove his home was in—on the edge of the Snake tribe's local territory, no less—as a trysting spot! He'd considered spreading rumors that the grove was haunted, only to find there already were such rumors and that it hadn't stopped anyone. He couldn't abandon the city without missing those people, and even beasts, of his realm that managed to sneak around the seal, but something clearly had to be done.

If humans were sane creatures, he reflected rather darkly as he stalked through the back streets of the city, he might simply cease to conceal his presence and rely on the harsh chill of it to hold them at a distance. Other creatures had at least that much sense, as the sudden silence of the city's dogs at his passing demonstrated. It might even work on the majority of humans.

"Hey! Who's there?" a man's voice called from the door of one of the wine houses as he passed.

Unfortunately for Shen Wei, his bargain encompassed all of them, including those who were too bold for their own health. He slipped down a darker alley, trusting his robes to blend with the shadows there. He was too annoyed to bother with more.

A yank on those robes jerked him to a halt.

"Hey!"

Shen Wei rounded on the fool who dared to lay hands on him, power flaring outward, dark and furious.

The man who had followed him cowered back with a panicked yelp, eyes wide and staring in the darkness, and Shen Wei stopped and hauled his power back in, closing his eyes for a breath. He hated his own people's fear of him, even when it was what let him rule them, let him keep his word. He wasn't any more fond of humans' fear, no matter how short his temper this evening.

"Go," he told the man, low. He didn't have to say it twice; the man scrambled back toward the faint torchlight of the road without a word. Shen Wei sighed and turned to walk on, slower now.

The city wasn't going anywhere, and he could hardly rely on humans suddenly becoming sensible. He needed a way to move among humans without harming them. An innocuous disguise that would pass without notice, without challenges that might stir his temper. That, and some way to keep his power turned inward, limit it in ways even his bargain with the sacred tree didn't. This would all be much easier if more of his nature were Kunlun's, were fluid to his will and intent, the way the gods' forms were.

Shen Wei paused in mid-stride, struck by that thought. Easier, yes, but wasn't that half his nature already, by Kunlun's gift? Could he re-shape that part of him, fold it around the ghost half of his nature? He smiled and touched his pendant, letting himself really listen to the whisper of Kunlun's soul-fire for the first time in centuries. Kunlun, who had liked humans because of their troublesome nature, not in spite of it.

It was worth an attempt.

A little trial and error, and another forty years spent in concealment waiting for the inconveniently observant councilman Lei Min to die, demonstrated that Shen Wei could spend most of his time in his human form. Dragon City had enough trade passing through that an allegedly itinerant scholar or artisan choosing to settle down there wasn't unusual. As long as he didn't choose the same profession or the same district to live in two generations in a row, no one remarked, and he'd certainly seen enough trades, shadowing Kunlun's lives, that he had a considerable store of knowledge to choose his own lives from.

What he hadn't expected was how comfortable it was.

The cool quiet of his current workroom soothed both his human and his deeper senses, and it was easy to lose himself in the scent of medicinal ingredients and the rhythm of preparing them. One final pass with the pestle wheel, and the sound told him the licorice root was ready to measure out. It didn't take any long, drawn-out planning or violent action or make his heart catch in his throat over a risk to one he loved. It was simple. Straightforward. Easy. The weight of the Guardian token's binding even felt lighter, in this form, with his power folded underneath as it was.

A polite tap on the doorframe made him look up with a faint smile. Sure enough, it was young Li, the eldest apprentice in Dragon City's tiny branch school of medicine. "Mr. Shen? Dr. Huang asks—"

"Yes, yes." He waved toward the shelf by the door, where a paper parcel waited. "I prepared it earlier this morning." The open relief on her face made him chuckle. Huang was the most irascible, as well as the most senior, physician of the school, and Li was an earnest young woman who often took his snapping and barking to heart. She snatched up the parcel, bobbed a grateful bow to him, and hurried out.

Perhaps next time someone asked the city's new apothecary to take an apprentice, he'd consider it.

Shen Wei sat in a quiet corner of his favorite tea house, staring down at the cup between his fingers, and thought fast.

The thing he'd been half waiting for, for centuries, had finally happened. One of his people had talked just a little too much, before Shen Wei had caught her, to humans who'd survived the experience. The volume of medical records and case encounters that resided in the city's Records office had been growing bit by small bit over the years, but never with any conclusions that would present a threat to either ghosts or humans. Now that had changed. A report had been added suggesting that his people lived underground, probably underneath Dragon City itself, which was close enough to the truth to get untold numbers of humans in trouble.

Archeology, he decided. He'd need to be a scholar of archeology for his next 'life'. It was starting to be popular, and therefore well-funded, thanks to the imperial court's recent fad for relics of ancient kingdoms. As an archeologist, he could 'discover' a treaty stipulating separation of his people from humans. With official documentation, especially one with the imprimatur of one of the ancient kingdoms so beloved of the current government, it shouldn't be too hard to steer local law enforcement around to keep people from getting too curious for their own good. Especially if he appeared in his own person, to confirm the alleged treaty. Ma Gui, of the Dragon City guards, had already made a bit of a hobby of investigating rumors of Shen Wei's people; he'd make a suitable local contact.

Shen Wei took a slow breath, and a sip of his tea, finally settling back on his bench. That should work. He might need to intimidate a few physicians to keep from being interrogated about the source of his people's abilities, but it should work.

Perhaps, he thought with another slow sip, he'd better wear a mask when he appeared.

A bare generation later, he heard the name Dixing for the first time and had to laugh, if a bit harshly. It suited well enough, given his people were created from the darkest elements of the earth. Dixingren.

So be it.

Shen Wei sat with his back against the sacred tree, arms braced over his knees, and let his head hang down.

That way he didn't need to look at the smoke rising from the city.

He'd forgotten how much this hurt. In the long years since he'd made himself turn away from Kunlun's side, since he'd confined himself to the whisper of Kunlun's soul-fire under his fingers and the knowledge that his love would always live again, he'd let himself forget how much it hurt to lose human companions to violence and upheaval rather than simple age. Dragon City wasn't one of the great urban centers, wasn't home to any branch of the imperial court or regional governors. The last two ruling clans had brought only peace to the city Shen Wei watched over. The greatest threats had been a scant handful of ghosts who found their way past the seal.

He'd let himself forget that humans had their own share of his people's nature within them, had violence and destruction in their core, as well.

A shift in the wind brought the smell of smoke to him again, by turns harsh with the household goods that burned in the wreckage of buildings and queasily rich with the scent of bodies that burned there as well. Shen Wei's hands flinched into fists, and his next breath shook in his lungs. He didn't look up.

There was nothing he could do. All his bargains were to guard humans from ghosts, not from other humans. To guard humans from ghosts, including himself. To keep his bargains, he must do nothing.

He hoped, bitterly, that Shen Nong appreciated this result of the bargain he'd demanded.

Shen Wei listened to the whispers through his open outer screens and smiled as he painted the last tree in the landscape commission he'd been working on this week. He didn't usually think of himself as an artist, but the fashion lately was stylized enough for a steady hand and good eye to stand in for inspiration. There was enough demand to make a viable career, even in the still-small rebuilt city, especially since his favorite occupation of scholarship was not in demand. Rather the reverse, lately.

And the city's children loved to watch him.

He laid aside his brushes, chuckling under his breath at the faint scramble behind him as today's audience hid behind the azaleas that edged his veranda. He made his way out to the pump and carefully kept his back to the little sounds of interest as he washed his brushes and palette.

This 'life' might be one where he took an apprentice. He usually didn't. Anyone that close was the most likely to notice his odd absences, and the times he forgot to let his human form age. But if he wanted to encourage stability, in the city, and reduce the temptation for his people to dare the seal... well, he could do worse than help one of the little ones watching him on their way to a livelihood. For all his power, sometimes the only things he could change were small ones.

Sometimes he wondered if this was the real reason the first gods had chosen to leave the world.

Shen Wei's visits to his own realm had been more frequent, of late. The more he tried to make small places of peace, in his human form and lives, the more he found himself trying to do the same among his own people. Trying to support the few—still so few, but slowly growing in number—who had found little pieces of love, or beauty, or care within them. The girl who lived in the neighborhood nearest the wastelands, who played flute in her open window, music that seemed to calm the passers-by. The archivist he always made a moment to speak with, when he was in the Palace, who mentioned sidelong which cases might need or deserve a touch of the Envoy's intervention. The tea house run by the couple who had never strayed from each other's sides, for centuries, that he left off his formal robes to visit. They were the ones who had taken bits of light, whether from humans or from the distant comfort of the Lamp itself, and nurtured rather than merely devouring them. They were the ones who gave him some faint hope he wouldn't have to spend all of eternity being the threat of a bared blade to his own kind.

Sometimes, though, he had to admit that his people's tendency to adopt every passing trend from humans took him a bit aback.

"Are you saying our own people think the seal is a matter of treaty, now?" he asked, staring at the Regent where they'd stopped short in one of the Palace's halls. "Do they not remember their own lives and beginnings?"

"The greatness of your power blinds you, my Lord Envoy." The man gestured them on down the hall with an obsequious bow at odds with the sharpness of his glance. "You forget that many of our kind, especially those of lesser power, spend most of their capacity for order on keeping their physical forms; they have none to spare for things such as long memory. Many have already taken on that new human name for us—Dixingren, isn't it?" He sniffed, waving his fingers as if to brush away something inconsequential. "If they think themselves some kind of mortal creature, well it will be true enough should they dare the seal between realms won't it?"

Shen Wei's mouth tightened. "Yes. It will." He still held to that. And for a ghost, death meant utter destruction.

The Regent nodded, perfectly agreeable and without a hint of mercy in his cold eyes. "Then all is well. And if the Palace archives keep a copy of this 'treaty', then it's one more thing to give them pause before they attempt it."

"I suppose so," Shen Wei acknowledged, low, and paced on through the halls in silence.

The city's university had been re-built in the new style, and was finally large enough again for Shen Wei to return to his favorite occupation of scholarship without creating many ripples. And just in time, it seemed; the newest school of thought, with its focus on explicit evidence, offered hours of entertainment.

"Obviously, Xu Min's emphasis on the process of learning aligns him with the School of the Heart..."

"But surely you noted," Shen Wei dropped into Feng Gang's pause for breath, "that in his second chapter he refers repeatedly to essential principles." The pause got longer, and he smiled at Feng with an inviting tilt of his head.

"Well," the old blowhard drew himself up, and Shen Wei's smile got a touch wider, "perhaps, but if you read closely, young man, I believe you will observe that Xu frames his concept of principles as static ideals rather than creations of dynamic tension."

"Clearly you have studied him closely." Shen Wei waited for Feng to settle back and start to look smug, and then added casually, "You do not feel, then, that Xu's concept of principles runs counter to the mind as the source of reason?"

A little whisper of interest ran through the room and Feng immediately puffed up again. Shen Wei leaned back and folded his hands, looking just as politely interested as possible.

Hours of entertainment.

The next time Shen Wei circled back around to a medical career, he found the profession had made another of its periodic leaps in knowledge while he was away. There had even been a scholar who'd written on the possible physiological roots of his people's powers, as observed over the centuries in Dragon City, though this was stored right next to several more volumes of disdainful dismissal of the 'legendary' Dixing race. Shen Wei indulged in a quiet laugh over those, as he browsed the additions to the university library.

The new study that truly startled him, though, was the one that held his people must have come to this world from another one entirely. Which, given the separation of realms, wasn't actually all that far off except for the alleged means of transportation.

Which was a spaceship.

Shen Wei had no idea what expression was on his face as he stared at the text in his hands, but it caused a passing student to glance at the title and then laugh.

"Oh, you found Zhang Tao! He's actually getting more of a following, you know; his archeological studies are first rate." The boy waved at the open book. "Even that would be decent circumstantial evidence, at least, if the species he was talking about were actually real."

"Indeed." Shen Wei shook his head, and set the book aside. "I was actually looking for Professor Sun's text on cell biology."

The boy instantly looked sympathetic, which amused him; students were the same whatever the era. "Two shelves over. Good luck; Professor Sun is a real stickler for details and evidence!"

Having spent several 'lives' leading scholarly disputants in circles based entirely on available evidence, Shen Wei just smiled. "I'll be sure to study carefully for him, then."

At first, he thought the rumors of change and unrest were simply another tiresome round of the humans outgrowing another ruling clan (or party as they were calling it now), and he merely kept an eye out for sudden changes in news or fashion that might follow.

When the news that came was of yet more widespread war, and whispers of weapons that might break the very heavens again, he started to prepare a close to his current 'life'. If whispers were even close to truth, the seal between realms might be at risk again. He remembered the chaos and upheaval, the last time the seal broke—the seas upending into land, the air and earth twisting to change places as the fabric of the world itself strained and tore. If it happened again... well, he would keep his bargain and his duty, even if it meant the death of his whole people and most likely of himself too.

But if it happened, he would seek out Kunlun, before he went.

This time, though, it wasn't the fabric of the world that tore. It was the fabric of human lives and minds.

The waves of madness that swept the land shocked him the way no war or simple destruction before them had, shocked him with the way rage and fear twisted together, fired by the generative power of human souls to a reaping edge even his own people's nature could hardly match. He abandoned any thought of keeping a human life or form and clung to the gateway, to the anchoring presence of the sacred tree, fighting for years at a time to damp the resonance of fear and hunger and desperation that consumed the land.

Let his people taste that, and no threat of his would stop them from besieging the seal.

When the taste of madness finally ebbed from the very air, and Shen Wei dared to leave the gate again, he found Dragon City still there. Many of its people looked very like he felt, though—like people who had lived through catastrophe, dazed and uncertain whether the ground under their feet was reliable. A quiet visit to the municipal library revealed an alarming breadth of destruction behind the neat shelves and now far fewer cases. Even if it had been some time since he'd bothered to read them, it was still a shock to see that the history texts had largely disappeared, replaced by slim new volumes purporting a history he barely recognized. The 'treaty' was among the missing documents, and Shen Wei was surprised at his own sense of loss, considering he'd forged the thing himself, centuries ago.

He'd meant to start thinking about a suitable new 'life', but that night he pulled concealment around his true form and retreated to the sacred tree. That presence, at least, was still constant. That night it felt as though the tree leaned into him as much as he did against it, and he reached up to pat the trunk. The madness of the recent years couldn't have been much easier on something of the tree's nature than it had been on him.

The slow, vibrant life of the tree nudged at his thoughts, a gentle press that felt like his own sorrow, threaded with a sip of bright comfort. The feeling slowly shaped itself into an image—the scroll he'd held in his hands, long ago, the token of the bargain between them. Shen Wei smiled faintly.

"Yes," he answered, voice soft in the darkness. "We are still here. Our bargain still holds."

Gradually the image hovering at the edge of his thoughts changed, flattened into a heavy sheet of pressed paper, characters stark and black, seals in red marching along the bottom. Shen Wei blinked at the words, in his mind's eye. They were the same words he'd composed for the 'treaty'. A feeling of offering and comfort curled through his perception, like a new leaf unfolding, and he laughed out loud for the first time in what might be decades.

"That would certainly be a lot harder to burn than mere paper, wouldn't it? If I find who holds it now, can we change it?"

The image of the treaty strengthened sharply in his mind, wrapped around with a hint of smugness like incense lingering on the paper.

"You've done it already?" he asked, softly, astonished that the ancient life he'd bargained with so long ago would reach out with such immediate kindness to him.

Leaves rustled over his head, and he reached out carefully with the side of his nature that protected, touching the tree's own life with his gratitude. This one thing would not be lost. It was a small thing, but it helped.

Remembering what else had helped, the last time the city had been razed, he looked thoughtfully toward the quarter where the university still stood. Perhaps, when he went forth again in his human form, he would return there—not simply as a scholar, this time, but as a teacher. Perhaps, that way, he could make a small place of peace for the young ones, again.

First, though, he should visit his own realm, and try to calm whatever echos of the humans' madness had leaked through.

Shen Wei stared up at a dark sky, dark and flat as a stone ceiling, heart cold within him.

The light of the Lamp, the whisper of Kunlun's presence and the brilliance of his sacrifice, was gone.

"The disruption was immense," the Regent complained, at his shoulder. "I'm too old to deal with this nonsense." He backed a step as Shen Wei's furious gaze fell on him, holding up his hands. "It affected all of us, my Lord Envoy, is all I mean to say. Many lost what form and memory they'd managed to hold and fell on each other again, like our first days of existence, consuming each other to regain power and shape. You will see many new faces, and almost all have had to start over, to absorb thought and history from the echoes of the human realm that seep down to us here.

Shen Wei stilled, cold turning sharp in his chest. "And my brother?"

"The Pillar held." The Regent fidgeted as Shen Wei stared at him, flat and demanding. "With, perhaps, some mild wear. His voice should not reach beyond the wastes, though."

Shen Wei took a slow breath for calm. "I see." Lower, hating it but unable to see any other way to keep his bargains, he added, "Do whatever is necessary to keep what peace and stability we may. I will seek the Lamp. And the other Holy Tools, in case they can show the way to it. If you know who, of our people, might manage to live among humans for a time without breaking, tell me now."

That would not, he was grimly certain, be an easy charge. But he didn't see that he had a great deal of choice. The longer his realm remained dark, the worse things would get.

The Ministry's new Special Investigations Division was more dangerous and prone to snap judgements than the tiny Office of Dixing Affairs Shen Wei had encouraged into existence long ago, but at least they were just as dedicated to containing the occasional trespasser. With a little extra emphasis on the non-interference clauses of the 'treaty', he could work with that. He was less certain about the Institute, also Ministry sponsored, that his erstwhile mentor Professor Zhou kept trying to convince him to join, but if that was going to cause problems, well he'd deal with them when they happened.

Between the current dead-end of the search for the Lamp and the constant, low-level unrest of his people under their dark sky, he had plenty of problems already.

Today, though, he would set all that aside for a few hours. Today was his first day of teaching a class of his own in this life, and he was already smiling when he opened the door to his classroom.

"Good afternoon, Professor!" his students chorused, most of them already answering his smile, and he let himself relax in the simple brightness of their interest. He laid his notes out on his lectern and glanced around the room, nodding approval for all the pens already poised.

"Good afternoon. Today we'll be discussing a brief history of the biological sciences..."

Epilogue

Shen Wei stood with his hands and forehead pressed against the sacred tree, uncaring of the roughness of bark against his skin. He held nothing in his mind but his need and his hope. Need for a weapon, a trap strong enough to hold his twin brother, whose power had always matched his. Hope for aid, for permission, for blessing.

The rustle of the tree's leaves was sharp and unsettled.

"I know," he whispered, eyes closed against the pain of that knowing. "I know this will probably mean my death. My dissolution. But Ye Zun's madness will kill me just as surely, injured as I am now, me and everything I love."

He had been a fool to think that he could use one of the Holy Tools as a human might. Had he let himself forget, in the years of living human-like lives that he had no generative core to his being, that it wouldnâ€™t be merely years of life he gave up? The Dial had done exactly as they'd asked, broken off part of his being to heal Yunlan, and unless Shen Wei wished to shatter all his oaths and bargains in one blow and find a living being whose energies he could consume, he was now at a serious disadvantage.

If he could use his remaining being to conceal a power inimical to ghosts, though...

Grief shook him harshly, grief he'd felt ever since he made this decision. It took him a moment to realize it wasn't just his own, this time.

"Forgive me." He reached out to the tree with as much of the divine side of his being as he could, unbalanced as he was by what the Dial had reft away. "I'm abandoning our charge, our bargain, and yet I have the selfishness to beg the gift of its power."

The image of their bargain's physical token settled into his mind, soft as a leaf falling, and Shen Wei's breath caught short at the ease of that permission. "Thank you," he whispered, voice choked tight.

Slowly, as the night wore on, he matched his remaining power with the tree's, just as they had to create the bargain, and together they drew the token of it back. Like an endless breath in, like winding gleaming thread back into a spool, they drew the token back and fed it into Shen Wei's being until he felt the pressure of that bright power running through every vein, pushing against the part of his nature that was ghost. Pushing so hard he finally called his sword to him and nicked his wrist to release some of the pressure twined so tightly with his blood.

Comfort brushed over his heart—comfort and trust, and he closed his eyes, leaning against the tree.

He could only hope he had earned enough of Zhao Yunlan's trust, as well, to see this through to the end.

End

The Marriage of Lightning and the Lake

Zhu Hong works on how to be Chief Elder, and falls hard for Ya Qing in the process. (Her uncle may have a point about her terrible taste.) Fluff, Romance, Character Study, Drama with a Pinch of Action, I-3

Now

Zhu Hong had been brought up as the precious daughter of the Snake tribe. Her uncle had spoiled her, especially after she lost her parents. Her older cousins had doted on her, and she'd never lacked for indulgent eyes watching over her. She'd been the uncontested princess of the children her own age, and ruled over her playmates with careless ease. She'd been taught the history and arts of her people until that had bored her, and then been allowed to go among humans for schooling in the greater world. When she'd stumbled across the Special Investigations Division while they chased a life-stealer, she'd decided she wanted to work for the Division Chief who'd taken the time to make sure she was safely away before closing on the culprit. She'd gotten her way.

Zhu Hong had perfected the pout, the winsome look, and the hard fist as tools to make the world go her way, and she knew exactly how to use them. As time went on, and sheâ€™d started wanting to be stronger, she'd honed her natural abilities until she could do almost what any of her fully-transformed cousins could. She'd learned human ways so well she could blend in as completely as she wished.

None of that told her the first thing about how to be Chief Elder of the Yashou people.

Then

â€œ...never learned a thing about ruling, I never even took any classes on politics.â€ Zhu Hong twisted her hands together, pacing her uncleâ€™s small outer room. â€œIs this really a good idea?â€

He sat back in his chair, face perfectly neutral the way it almost never was with her. â€œDo you wish to abdicate, then?â€

â€œNo!â€ Zhu Hong bit her lip. She didnâ€™t want to give up on the way forward Zhao Yunlan had probably hoped for, for the Yashou. But... â€œBut if itâ€™s the right thing for the tribes,â€ she said, slow and reluctant, â€œI should.â€

An unimpressed sniff from the open door sent her spinning on her heel to see who would be eavesdropping on the Elder of the Snake tribe. Sheer black draperies stirred, just outside, and Zhu Hong stiffened. Of all the people she shouldnâ€™t let overhear the slightest lack of confidence!

â€œYou donâ€™t need learning, for this, little snakelet.â€ Ya Qing didnâ€™t look around at her, only stood with folded arms and her back to them. â€œWe have that. What you need is wisdom.â€ Now she turned her head, and raked Zhu Hong head to foot with a cutting gaze. Another sniff. â€œI suppose you have enough of that to be going on with.â€

As Zhu Hong stood there, stunned, the breath sheâ€™d taken in to protest caught short in her throat, Ya Qing spread her arms and leaped into the sky.

â€œThat one always did have a taste for drama,â€ her uncle snorted, and stood to come and take Zhu Hongâ€™s shoulders. â€œSo? What do you want to do, a-Hong?â€

Zhu Hong took another breath, trying to ignore the tangle of flattery and annoyance making her stomach flutter. â€œI want to try.â€ And then she couldnâ€™t quite help asking, â€œDo you think sheâ€™s right?â€

Her uncle smiled. â€œI think she could be.â€

Zhu Hong smiled back, a little shy, and repeated. â€œIâ€™ll try.â€

Now

Honored Chief Elder...

Zhu Hong stifled a groan. It was getting so she felt a headache coming on just reading those words. And there'd been three letters waiting for her, this week, when she visited her uncle's house. Three! For the Chief Elder, bypassing the tribe Elders completely!

Unfortunately, a glance at her office computer showed no new cases miraculously appearing to cause a plausible delay in dealing with these. She sighed and unfolded the first letter.

Then

Zhu Hong paced back and forth across the roof of the University's east classroom building, trying not to move too fast or clench her hands or be otherwise obviously nervous, but unable to be still. She still wasn't sure this was an entirely good idea.

Neither was anyone else. Her uncle, and even Ying Chun, had offered to come with her. When she'd refused that, her uncle had tried to send a cousin with her as a bodyguard. She'd had to argue for ten solid minutes to avoid that. She'd have felt better for some backup, yes, facing someone of Ya Qing's power, but... taking someone from her own tribe just felt wrong, and bringing the Elder of the Flower tribe would make her look like a child hiding behind her aunt's skirts. So instead, she'd done the next best thing and just had to hope it wouldn't backfire...

"Interesting choice of location."

Zhu Hong whipped around, biting back a hiss of surprise. She hadn't even seen Ya Qing approach, let alone change. There she was, though, leaning against the roof safety rail with her arms crossed, black gown ruffling in the wind.

Smiling.

Zhu Hong settled back on her heels. Ya Qing's smile was sharp and crooked, but it looked more amused than mocking. So Zhu Hong took a breath and lifted her chin. "It seemed suitable, to meet in neutral territory at first."

"And to remind me which of us chose the winning side?" Ya Qing flicked dismissive, gloved fingers when Zhu Hong started to protest. "It was a clever choice. So? What does the Chief Elder want with me?"

Zhu Hong crossed her arms with a huff, because she couldn't actually deny she'd hoped the lingering shadow of the Black-cloaked Envoy would keep things calm. She also tried to ignore the little curl of pleasure that the Crow Elder thought her clever. "I just want to know. What exactly is it that you want? Snake, Flower, they're both pretty content with how things are. The Snake tribe is happy if they're left alone, and the Flower tribe already goes anywhere they please. What is it that Crow wants?"

Ya Qing pursed her lips, looking thoughtful, and pushed away from the rail to stroll over to Zhu Hong's side. "You could have asked your uncle, or Ying Chun. They've heard it often enough."

"Maybe." Zhu Hong's hands tightened on her elbows. "I want to know what you say, though. To hear it in your own words." That was basic investigation, after all; she hoped it was basic politics, too.

And it seemed like it was, because Ya Qing relaxed a little, the feathers of her cloak rustling as her shoulders eased from their tense poise—flight-ready, Zhu Hong realized. Maybe she wasnâ€™t the only nervous one? Ya Qing turned her face up to the sun.

"I want to stop hiding," she said, quietly. "In the last hundred years, humans have turned further and further away from us, forgotten that they live in the same world as us, and we... we have let them. We've withdrawn and hidden from them. Even when we've been caught in their catastrophes, like the killings that swept the land these last fifty years, we've done nothing but hide ourselves away deeper." She looked back down, and Zhu Hong took a step back. Ya Qingâ€™s eyes burned, dark and furious. "I am sick of it."

Zhu Hong wet her lips. She recognized that fury, had seen it so often in the SID's investigations, and she'd seen it drive terrifying explosions of violence. Very softly, she asked, "Who did you lose?"

Ya Qing laughed once, short and hard. "Such a smart little serpent." She looked away, over the University's central lawn. Zhu Hong waited, trying not to feel fear of the fire she was standing so near. "My eldest sister," Ya Qing finally answered, low. "The one who should have been our Elder. She liked to go among humans—said their gossip was more fun to listen to than ours. But someone saw her change, and that was a time when the slightest deviation was feared, attacked." She swallowed, sharp and convulsive. "They mobbed and killed her."

Zhu Hong's hands closed tight on each other. "I'm sorry for your loss." After the way the public had been turned on the SID, she had an unpleasantly visceral idea of how that might have gone. How much, she suddenly wondered, had Ye Zun turned Ya Qing against him, with that order? Had that been why Ya Qing had surrendered so easily to the branch's choice of Chief Elder?

"She's gone," Ya Qing said, dry and distant, not looking at her. "There's nothing to be done about that. But I can try to keep it from happening again." With a quick breath, she seemed to come back to the present. "Or at least I can argue for it."

"So," Zhu Hong said slowly, "you want humans to know about the Yashou? So they're less afraid of us?"

Ya Qing gave her a cool smile. "Precisely."

The smile was cool, but there was a gleam in her eye that made Zhu Hong think that the matriarch of the biggest eavesdroppers and gossips in the world probably knew full well what Zhao Yunlan's thoughts had been, when it came to informing the populace. Zhu Hong tried, but she really couldn't hold back her laugh at the sheer nerve and grace of Ya Qingâ€™s dance across the lines of friend and foe. Ya Qing's smile curled wider, and she set a hand on her hip, smug (preening) in her success.

"You look like a cat," Zhu Hong giggled, and Ya Qing ruffled up.

"Bite your tongue." A faint sniff and she settled again, serious again but without all the fierce, edged focus of her first appearance. "So?"

Zhu Hong missed the teasing smile with an unexpected pang, but she took a breath and thought about it. Zhao Yunlan had chosen something right for humans; was it right for Yashou?

An image drifted through her mind, of going out to eat, maybe even with company, and being able to order a raw meat dish. And maybe some of the other diners would be disgusted, and maybe some would be fascinated, but what if she could know that the server would only hesitate a moment, and the cook would maybe even be excited to make something unusual, and that her companion would expect it. Might even have taken her out specifically for this treat.

Ya Qing's smile flashed through her head, and she stuffed it immediately away, trying to pretend there was no blush on her cheeks. "It seems reasonable," she said hastily, to Ya Qing's raised brows. "At least as long as our territory is respected. But how... I mean, it seems like the kind of thing we could only do through negotiation with the human Ministry."

Ya Qing smiled, slow, cocking her head. "What an ambitious scope you think in, Chief Elder," she purred. "I think I like it."

Zhu Hong tried very hard not to squeak, or blush any more, or really react at all. She was pretty sure she was failing. "Then..." she cleared her throat and forced the breathlessness out of her voice. "Then I'll consider, with the other Elders, how this might be done to everyone's satisfaction."

Ya Qing laughed softly. "Everyone's? You're an idealistic child. But I think perhaps I will like that, as well. Better than the reverse, at least." She gathered her cloak about her. "Perhaps that ancient bit of wood truly does judge our natures." In a flash of wings, she was gone.

Zhu Hong sat down abruptly on the short wall around the edge of the roof, careless of how her pants were going to get smudged, and pressed her palms over her cheeks. Ya Qing was just teasing. Of course she was; she thought of Zhu Hong as a child—she'd even said it. Typical of a Crow.

Of course, that must be it.

Now

The first letter was complaining of a human trespassing on the edge of Snake territory, and Zhu Hong had to wrestle with a strong urge to stab the paper with her pen, or possibly even bite it. They had a process for this kind of thing, and it did not include bending the ear of the Chief Elder!

She muttered under her breath as she hammered on the keyboard, sending a query to the police to see whether this had been reported (in which case the complainer might just live) or had been sent straight to her and no one else (in which case someone was about to get his tail tied in a knot, just see if she didn't).

Then

"This will require re-writing parts of the treaty between the races."

"I know."

"We don't even have contact with Dixing, right now, to fully ratify it again."

"I know."

"A-Hong, this will make things far more complicated—"

Zhu Hong exploded up out of her chair, in her uncle's front room. "I know that! But Ya Qing has a point! If we really had stayed neutral, this time, how do you think the humans would have looked on us, if they'd won? Do you really imagine we'd have been able to wave the treaty at them and say 'neutral!' and they'd have just accepted that?"

Her uncle sat back, brows rising. "We could have hidden," he said, but he sounded more thoughtful now.

"Where?" she demanded. "And for how long, before we ran out of places? Humans hunt their enemies; it's something they have in common with Dixingren. And the less they know us, the more we withdraw, the more we look like enemies."

Ying Chun finally looked up from her hands, folded on the table before her. "What if they do know of us, though? What will that mean for my people who don't wish to be treated like some rare plant display, or fenced off?"

Zhu Hong chewed on her lip. What public suspicion might do to them all was one of the things she didn't quite know what to do with, yet. "What if... what if no one had to reveal themselves immediately? Only the ones who want to, at first, and we just... don't mention everyone else?" Professionalism nipped at her, and she added, "Unless someone has witnessed a crime."

Ying Chun shook her head, kind but firm. "That will touch off a hunt, the first time someone has to come forward who had stayed hidden until then."

"All or nothing," Zhu Hong murmured, mostly to herself, and flopped back down into her chair with a sigh. There seemed to be danger both ways. If only the Yashou had anything resembling local patrolmen, anyone who was used to looking after large groups of people... Abruptly she sat up again, eyes widening. "Oh! We could use their's!"

"A-Hong?" her uncle asked, cautious in a way that reminded her of his reaction to her attempts at creating medications, when she was young. She huffed at him, disgruntled.

"The police! The ones who patrol on the street, and have their own neighborhoods to look after. They're the ones who could look out for trouble, and make sure everyone was safe; it's their job!"

"Could we rely on human patrolmen to look after us?" Ying Chun asked, hesitant.

Zhu Hong sat forward, hands tight on each other with excitement as the thought unfolded further. "We could ask for liaisons from our people. The same way I am, to the SID." Her hands broke apart, reaching as if she could hold this idea between them. "Maybe even use that as a way to get those of us who want to live closer to humans a start, introduce them and let them see how things work!"

Her uncle was back to looking thoughtful. "I suppose there are a few of the youngsters who might try. And sending them around with a human in authority would protect them, too."

"Borrowing human authority to smooth our own way. I like that idea." Ying Chun smiled at Zhu Hong. "I think I see why Qing-jie has started to approve of you more."

Warmth flashed through Zhu Hong, like basking in the perfect beam of sunshine, and her breath caught on it. "She has?" Both her uncle and Ying Chun paused, staring at her, and she promptly blushed. That had probably been more gleeful than she should sound about Ya Qing's approval.

"A-Hong." Her uncle, in his turn, sounded alarmed, and she slid down in her chair, not meeting anyone's eyes. "You're not... you're not really..."

Ying Chun burst out laughing, sweet and light, and Zhu Hong tried to sink through the floor. "Oh, no wonder she looked so pleased with herself!"

Uncle started half up from his chair. "If Ya Qing thinks she can trifle with my niece...!"

Ying Chun crossed her arms, stubborn as wood. "What's wrong with it? Qing-jie is a good person! She wouldn't lead anyone on."

That made Zhu Hong look up from the start of her plan to slink under the table and escape. "Really?" Her uncle sagged back with a groan, which Zhu Hong firmly ignored. Ying Chun patted her arm with the kind smile that had made Zhu Hong tag along after her whenever she visited, when Zhu Hong was a child.

"Really. It's been a long time since she looked at anyone like that, actually. I'm glad she is again." Her smile turned impish. "And she thinks you're cute."

Zhu Hong could feel the smile taking over her face, bright and hopeful as the feeling in her chest.

"I believe her exact words were, 'more guts than brains, but she does have some brains, and it's a cute look on her'."

"Auntie!" Zhu Hong pressed her hands over her face, blushing so hard she thought she might faint.

"Stop teasing your Chief Elder," her uncle grumbled. Zhu Hong couldn't help noticing she only seemed to be Chief Elder when it was convenient. "If we're really going to plan on revealing ourselves and sending some of us among the humans' patrollers, we need all three Elders here to discuss it."

All right, maybe not just when it was convenient.

"I'll send a message to Qing-jie." Ying Chun rose and patted Zhu Hong's shoulder as she left, which was comforting even if she was still grinning.

"A-Hong." When she peeked out from between her fingers, her uncle was leaning toward her, serious. "Are you sure about this?"

"I didn't mean to," she said, voice smaller than she'd quite like. "It just happened! When we talked, she smiled at me, and I just... And she liked my ideas, and she's never treated me like a lesser threat or went easy on me, even when she's so strong, Uncle, and—"

"All right, all right." Her uncle was rubbing his forehead, and Zhu Hong chewed on her lip some more. "When you spoke," he said, at last, "she truly wasnâ€™t just toying with you?"

"I asked about what she had lost." Zhu Hong looked down at her hands. "About what had hurt her. And she told me. She didn't yell at me or insult me, even though she was so angry I could taste it. Instead she said I had good thoughts, that I was clever." Very softly, she finished, "She said maybe the branch judged us rightly."

Her uncle heaved a sigh and muttered something under his breath. Zhu Hong thought she caught the words "terrible taste" and bridled, but when he looked up he was smiling, even if it was crooked. "All right. No one has ever been able to change your mind, once you made it up. But think about the politics you're going to have to deal with, being the Chief Elder carrying on with one of the tribe's Elders."

Zhu Hong sat very still, eyes wide. "...oh." She hadn't thought of that. If the Chief Elder was known to favor one of the Elders who were under her, that... that could be bad, couldn't it? Favoritism. That could mean resentment, even people thinking Ya Qing had found a way to rule from behind Zhu Hong. Maybe if she was careful to be seen listening to the Elders of Snake and Flower? Or especially Flower, since she was a Snake herself, and she hadn't thought about that either...

"Here we are!" Ying Chun slipped back into her chair, followed by Ya Qing ducking through the door hanging in a rustle of silk and feathers. When she straightened, she looked straight at Zhu Hong, smiling faintly, and her eyes were warm.

"You keep your word, it seems. I like that, too."

Zhu Hong smiled back, helplessly, feeling like she was floating in a cloud of happy warmth that made it easy to ignore her uncle rolling his eyes and Ying Chun stifling laughter.

She'd figure something out.

Now

The second letter was from one of the patrol liaisons, which soothed Zhu Hong's temper a little. That, at least, was something that was supposed to come to her eyes. This time, it was from one of the more adventuresome young Flower men, who seemed to be picking up his police-partner's attitudes quickly. The letter read like an incident report, especially the part about the two Crows in his neighborhood who had had a "domestic disturbance" that annoyed the neighbors. Zhu Hong smiled over that part.

Who'd have thought, a year ago, that two Yashou shifting on the street, especially to have a fight, would be called something so common by the humans around them? The Crow tribe did seem to have a knack for that making that change happen, though.

Then

Zhu Hong had thought that things would move slowly. That there might be lingering glances, and perhaps gradually sitting closer at meetings of the Elders, and possibly even a visit to her home if she were out on the balcony or roof.

Instead she got Da Qing tearing through the offices just as everyone was packing up for the day, nearly yelling, "Ya Qing is out front!"

The new staff jumped, and lao-Chu stood slowly, eyes narrowed, and xiao-Guo started chewing on his lip, and Zhu Hong realized abruptly that she hadn't told her co-workers anything about recent events except that she was working on improving Yashou-human relations.

"Stop!" Everyone turned to look at her, but at least no one was reaching for a weapon or for his power any more. Zhu Hong heaved a quick sigh of relief and let her outstretched hand drop. "It's not... I mean... Look, just let me handle this, all right?"

"Are you sure?" Da Qing demanded, actually looking serious for once.

"Yes, I'm sure." She spun on her heel and marched out to the front door. The new staff, at least, stayed where they were, but Da Qing crowded after her and lao-Chu was sauntering after him. Zhu Hong could tell already this was probably going to be embarrassing. She wasn't used to doing things she needed to keep others informed of!

Ya Qing was across the street, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed and a sharp quirk to her lips, and Zhu Hong supposed Da Qing could be excused for thinking her threatening. But Zhu Hong could see the brightness of amusement in those dark eyes as they raked over the small crowd on the SID's steps. She elbowed Da Qing back and stepped forward, hands clasped to keep from fidgeting.

"Elder. Was there something you wished from the SID?" She did her best to sound dignified, but the way Ya Qing's mouth curled up made her heart skip a beat.

"Indeed, I think there is." Ya Qing pushed away from the wall and strolled closer. "Perhaps later for that, though." A wave of tingles ran over Zhu Hong when she caught the implication, and Ya Qing's smile got a little wider. "For now, I simply wished to see my High Elder safely home for the day."

Da Qing looked quickly back and forth between them. "Wait a minute. You came just to walk her home?" He started to grin, and dodged back when Zhu Hong tried to grind her heel into his toe.

"Did something happen?" Lao-Chu, thankfully, was looking more thoughtful, though there was a definite sardonic tilt to his brows that Zhu Hong ignored with all her might.

Ya Qing flicked dismissive fingers. "A few of my people are having difficulty moving with the times."

Zhu Hong's eyes widened, but the flash of worry that the Crow tribe might not accept the compromise the Elders had reached ran straight into the realization that Ya Qing had come to protect her, and drowned there. "Oh," she managed softly, hands clasping on each other tighter.

Laughter flashed in Ya Qing's dark eyes again. "So go get your things, and I'll walk you home."

"Yes." Zhu Hong barely noticed Da Qing's snickering. "I'll... yes." Lao-Chu was rolling his eyes when she turned around, and she glared at him. It wasn't like he had any room at all to talk, not with xiao-Guo draped over his shoulder, now giving Zhu Hong his brightest puppy-dog smile as she stalked past to grab her shoulder-bag.

"Have a good night," Da Qing prodded as she passed, and skipped back with a laugh when she hissed at him.

There was a definite smirk tucked up at the corners of Ya Qing's mouth, and she ushered Zhu Hong down the last step with a hand just barely touching her back. Zhu Hong tried not to blush and failed completely. As they walked, though, and Ya Qing let the quiet deepen between them, Zhu Hong felt herself relax into the ease of it. Ya Qing walked close to her, and her arm curved behind Zhu Hong once or twice when they turned a corner, but it wasn't teasing any more. Just... nice. Protective, but quietly, not the overbearing way her older cousins tended to these days.

"Do you think there will really be trouble?" Zhu Hong asked as they turned down her street.

"Possible, but not likely." Ya Qing cast a sharp eye over the rooflines of Zhu Hong's block and nodded, looking satisfied.

"Why did you come, then?" Zhu Hong dared to ask, eyes fixed on her keys as she sorted out the one for the front door. A sidelong glance showed Ya Qing's smile getting that teasing curl to it again.

"I did wish to see you home safe. You've shown yourself a reasonable and intelligent person, as we've planned the Yashou's revelation, and I want to encourage that." She reached out and set a finger under Zhu Hong's chin, lifting her head. Zhu Hong fumbled her keys with a tiny gasp as a thrill of excitement ran through her. "I also simply wished to walk with you. Would you prefer I didn't?"

It took Zhu Hong a moment to find words again. "No, I..." she swallowed and dared, "I liked walking with you." The knowledge that she walked in Ya Qing's protection had made her feel warm, all the way home. Even Ya Qingâ€™s teasing fit in so well with the way the SID teased each other all the time that it made Zhu Hong's heart turn over at how easy it felt.

Ya Qing's teasing smile melted into a deeper, quieter warmth. "Then perhaps I'll come to walk you home again."

Zhu Hong wet her lips, intensely aware of the gloved finger resting under her chin. Her voice came out soft and breathless when she said, "I'd like that."

"Then I will make sure it happens." Ya Qing stepped closer, and Zhu Hong's eyes went wide, lips already parted on a quick breath when Ya Qing leaned in and brushed the lightest of kisses over them. "Sleep well," she murmured, as she drew back, and was gone into the shadows of the evening before Zhu Hong could even squeak.

Zhu Hong took a deep breath and found her key again. She walked steadily up to her apartment and let herself in, locking the door carefully behind her. She set her bag down and sat composedly on the couch.

And then she covered her face with her hands and squeaked.

Now

Their rapidly assimilating Flower patroller had added a post-script asking if he could double up with a friend, who he thought would work well with his current police partner. Zhu Hong chewed on her lower lip as she thought. It would be a good thing, if a trusted partner could introduce the next one in line, but would it be seen as unfair? Not all Yashou wanted to try out a human partner, by any means, but among those who did the competition for who would get to learn human-style policing next was pretty stiff.

Or perhaps this was exactly the gesture she needed, to make sure the Flower tribe felt equally treated? That had been getting to be more of an issue, she knew, ever since...

Well, it had been getting to be more of an issue.

Zhu Hong kept her head bent over her desk as she wrote a note to herself to discuss it with Ying Chun, privately. Less chance of lao-Chu or Da Qing noticing how she was blushing, that way.

Then

Zhu Hong was glad the series of attacks the SID had been called to look into weren't actually the doing of a Dixingren. She was glad they didn't have to subdue someone with the kind of power a Dixingren might have, and even more glad they didn't have to try to figure out what to do with the man after since there was no Black-cloaked Envoy to hand him over to any more.

With her growing political awareness, she was entirely sure that the human Minister was even more glad to not be faced with that question.

But, while it meant that she and Da Qing had not cornered a Dixingren in a blind alley, it did mean she and Da Qing had cornered a crazed human with metal claws of some kind strapped to his hands. One who had attacked three women with them, and was staring at Zhu Hong with a mad, fixed gaze.

"We'll be all right," Da Qing muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "If he charges you, can you push him back? I'll jump on him while he's open."

Zhu Hong sucked in a deep breath, ignoring how it shook, and nodded sharply. She could do this. She could. She'd kept up her training, and she could hold off even other Yashou most of the time. Claws wouldn't be a problem.

The man smiled nastily at her, and she tensed.

The moment he stepped towards her, though, black fell out of the sky like the shadow of lightning, bursting between them in a swirl of power and feathers. Six black feathers shot forward and pinned the man to the brick behind him by his jacket.

"You dare." Ya Qing's voice was low, but cut through the man's shout of outrage like a knife. Another handful of feathers hovered over her outstretched hand, gleaming and sharp. "You dare raise your hand to her?"

All of Zhu Hong's coiled tension unwound in a soft shock of warmth. "Qing-jie," she whispered.

Ya Qing glanced over her shoulder, eyes raking up and down Zhu Hong. "You're well. Good." She flicked her fingers, and the hovering feathers nailed a few more handfuls of cloth to the brick, pinning the struggling man more firmly. "I suppose I'll refrain from killing him, then."

"Yeah," Da Qing put in slowly. "We do kind of try to do that."

Ya Qing sniffed. "Make yourself useful then, Cat, and take care of him."

Muttering under his breath about bossy birds, Da Qing edged wide around her and went to clout the man smartly, like a cat stunning a mouse it wanted to play with. Ya Qing watched closely until the man was zip tied at wrists and ankles, and finally sighed, relaxing with a shake of her shoulders that resettled her feathers. "You're our Chief Elder," she scolded Zhu Hong, coming to take her shoulders and look her over more closely. "You should be better guarded than this, when you're out working."

"I can take care of myself," Zhu Hong protested, though not as strongly as she might have. "And there are so few of us who can do field-work at all..."

On his way back past them, phone out and lifted to catch some reception, Da Qing paused and took a second sniff. A smirk spread slowly over his face. "Once a princess, always a princess, I guess. You liked being rescued, didn't you?"

Zhu Hong delivered a swift kick to his ankle and hissed when he hopped away, still laughing. She couldn't meet Ya Qing's eyes.

Until lace-gloved fingers caught her chin and turned her face back. Qing-jie was smiling. "Did you, then?"

"Only because it's you," Zhu Hong said, caught in those dark, laughing eyes, and then blushed harder when she realized what she'd admitted.

"I'm glad," Qing-jie murmured, just between the two of them, stepping closer. "Perhaps I shall watch over you myself, then."

Zhu Hong wet her lips and reached slowly out to tuck her hands under Qing-jie's cloak, around her waist. "That would take up a lot of your time, though, wouldn't it?" Not that she was actually protesting, just... trying to be a little bit responsible.

"Time spent guarding our Chief Elder would not be wasted." Qing-jie's thumb traced just below the curve of Zhu Hong's mouth, and her lips parted on a soft gasp for breath as her heart tripped. "Time guarding you would not be wasted." She closed the last centimeters between them, and Zhu Hong melted into the kiss, dizzy with the heat of knowing this magnificent, powerful woman wished to protect her, to hold her safe—and yet would not stand between Zhu Hong and her chosen work.

It felt so sweet.

When Qing-jie let her go, Zhu Hong pressed closer for a moment, snuggling against her just for one breath before she drew back and stood on her own feet. Qing-jie's smile was warm and proud, and Zhu Hong smiled back shyly.

"Tell me, when you go out on work." Qing-jie smoothed a lock of Zhu Hong's hair back. "And I will watch over you."

Zhu Hong ducked her head and promised, "I will."

"Then I will see you tonight." Qing-jie's voice was soft with a promise of her own, and the warmth of it lingered even after she vanished back into the sky in a rush of wings.

"So, is it safe to look yet?" Da Qing called from the entrance of the alley.

"Shut up," Zhu Hong snapped, brushing her blouse straight with brisk hands. "How long until someone comes to take him off our hands?"

Tonight couldn't come fast enough, for her.

Now

Zhu Hong jotted down another note to herself to ask Ying Chun to send a small thank-you to her tribesman's human partner. The man seemed to be getting along well with Yashou in general, and she wanted to encourage that as often as possible. She added a note at the bottom to ask Qing-jie to make certain someone spoke to the Crow couple. Relatable squabbles were one thing, but a serious fight in the streets would only set matters back.

And then she doodled the characters of Qing-jie's name in the fanciest style she knew, smiling over them until she caught lao-Chu smirking from two desks away. She scowled at him and folded the note up.

She'd keep the SID up to date on Yashou affairs that might land on their desks, but what she felt about Qing-jie was nobody's business but her own.

Even if it did tend to overlap with her official business an awful lot.

Then

It had taken months of planning, and then another month of concerted arguing with one after another administrative assistant to the new Minister, but Zhu Hong had finally done it. There was a new treaty document written out, and it was going to be signed on Yashou territory.

She stood in the back room of her uncle's house, examining her makeup and twitching her flowing black vest into place and trying not to hyperventilate.

"Calm yourself, Hong-er." Qing-jie's hands slid over her shoulders from behind. "Haven't the tribes all agreed to this? Even the old hold-outs?"

Zhu Hong took another quick breath. "Yes."

"And hasn't the human Ministry agreed to our draft? Hasn't their Director of Administration spoken in favor of the patrol liaisons?"

Zhu Hong nodded at her reflection, breathing a little slower. "Yes."

Qing-jie leaned against her back, warm and light, and purred in her ear, "Wouldn't your uncle squawk, if I kissed you right here?"

Zhu Hong burst into helpless giggles. "Qing-jie!"

She could hear the smile in Qing-jie's voice. "Hmm?"

Zhu Hong took a breath and let it out, feeling her shoulders drop under Qing-jie's hands. "Yes." She turned and wound her arms around Qing-jie, holding tight and feeling the strength of Qing-jie's arms around her, and then leaned back. "I'll be all right. You go ahead."

She'd learned not to arrive with Qing-jie, not to meetings with other Yashou, the same way she'd learned to be careful what she ate in front of humans and to restrain her hiss when she was surprised or angry. She didn't like it any better, but at least it was for a better reason. She didn't want the tribes to doubt that she was keeping everyone in mind, not just Qing-jie, that she was doing her best as Chief Elder.

And Qing-jie smiled at her approvingly for it, and touched her cheek gently. "That's our thoughtful little serpent. I'll go argue with the other two about where we'll hold the next market." She did kiss Zhu Hong, then, but light and swift, and was gone with a rustle of feathers.

When Zhu Hong ducked out of her uncle's house, the three Elders were indeed arguing, around his small table. Zhu Hong gave Qing-jie a narrow look and snorted at her lover's tiny smile; yes, Qing-jie had done it on purpose. Well all right, then.

"The three of you must have been arguing for decades," she declared. "Aren't you tired of it, yet?"

All three of them laughed, which made her think Qing-jie wasn't the only one trying to tease her back to calm. Zhu Hong took a breath and came to stand beside the table, straight and sure, and finally spoke the words officially.

â€œAs your leader," and then she looked at Qing-jie's smile and couldn't help teasing back, "she who had a crush on the Lord Guardian and competed against the Black-cloaked Envoy," Qing-jie and Ying Chun both snickered, and even her uncle's mouth tugged into a smile. "I've taken time on my day off to come here in order to host an important meeting, you know. It's not like it's easy, with two jobs!" Qing-jie gave her an indulgent smile, and Zhu Hong laughed a little herself.

"All right, a-Hong," her uncle started, and she glowered, "yes, yes, Chief Elder," he amended, patting the air with mollifying hands. "Our mistake. It's your turn; go ahead."

Zhu Hong sniffed, arms folded. "That's more like it." She took a deep breath and stood straight again. "My charge to our tribes is this: we will seek peace and pursue development through internal reforms and exchange of ideas with other peoples." She lifted a hand as if escorting a new age in. "Let the first convention we will host begin!"

They all applauded, good natured, as Zhu Hong heard the first crunch of human footsteps through the old leaves that carpeted the forest ground. She wound her hands tight together, nerves leaping up again. The brush of lace-gloved fingers over her wrist made her look down to find Qing-jie looking up at her. In that steady gaze Zhu Hong saw both ferocious determination and a quiet faith that made the whole world stand still around her for one second.

Including her nerves.

Zhu Hong smiled, soft and small with her thanks, and lifted her chin to step forward and greet Minister Guo for the first time as an equal, feeling the whole weight of the tribes behind her, pushing her forward. If she didn't know all of how to carry that weight, yet, she would learn.

Her Elders would teach her.

Now

The third letter was a demand that the Chief Elder mediate an inheritance dispute.

Over a cloak pin.

Zhu Hong finally gave up and groaned out loud, flopping down across her desk in despair, and never mind how Da Qing would undoubtedly laugh at her. No matter how much she ignored or schemed or yelled, these just would not stop coming. Letters asking her to fix family affairs. Letters asking her to solve a quarrel with a spouse. Letters asking her to tell someone's child to straighten up. Did she look like some kind of avatar of the heavens, here to solve everyone's personal problems? No! But the letters wouldn't stop.

"Does someone want you to solve their love life?"

Zhu Hong sat bolt upright, staring, because that had sounded like...

And it was, in fact, Shen Wei, who had paused by her desk on his way past and whose mouth was quirked in a tiny, commiserating smile.

Zhu Hong tried to wrap her mind around the idea that, apparently, some Dixingren buttonholed the Black-cloaked Envoy with this same kind of nonsense, and felt her eyes trying to cross. "You... I mean, they really...?" she asked weakly, waving the letter.

"The Regent takes a certain pleasure in saving them for me," he said, dry. "If you wish to learn from my mistakes, just ignore them all with as much dignity as you can manage."

She looked up at him, caught by the implication that he had ever been in her position—a young ruler, maybe not consulted all that much about what he really wanted, trying to learn how to do right by his people anyway. And she heard again the words Qing-jie had murmured in her ear, one evening as they lay together, talk meandering through Yashou into Dixing politics.

"I didn't learn as much as I would like, from Ye Zun, but one thing he said repeatedly. That Shen Wei had never wanted to be his people's ruler. That he only did it because of Kunlun. So I think it must be true that that's how the Envoy began. But I watched what he did all last year, too. He has a short temper, and little mercy for enemies, but for his own... for his own, he can show great compassion. He loves his people, now, in his own way." Qing-jie stroked her fingers gently through Zhu Hong's hair. "I respected that. In the end, I wished it had been him I went to, listened to." She'd leaned up on an elbow, smiling down at Zhu Hong. "And more than that, I wish you could have known more of him and his experience, now that you've taken on such great responsibilities."

Zhu Hong had curled closer and admitted, softly, "So do I. He... he was kind to me. Even when I was being foolish and jealous, he was kind. I wish I could ask him things, sometimes."

And now here he was, offering that experience freely.

Zhu Hong's eyes fell from the level darkness of his. "Thank you..." Her gaze flickered up and down again before she could stop it, and she made herself take a breath and look back up to finish, "...Shen da-ge?"

She couldn't help ending on a question, unsure he would accept such familiarity. Would even want or understand the apology she was trying to give. There seemed to be so much age, so much time in the weight and quiet of his gaze.

After a long moment, though, he smiled faintly and lifted a hand to rest on her head. "You're welcome."

Zhu Hong broke into a relieved smile, ducking her head under his hand, shy and pleased.

She could feel lao-Chu smirking from two desks over, and tossed him a glare as Shen Wei turned away toward the Chief's office. Lao-Chu looked irritatingly smug. "I told you," he said. "Didn't I tell you?"

"Oh shut up," Zhu Hong huffed, turning back to her own screen for a report to finish or something. The office already had a fan of the Envoy, it wasn't like she needed to add anything there.

She was going to tell Qing-jie, though, when she came to pick Zhu Hong up tonight. She thought Qing-jie would approve.

Zhu Hong was smiling as she tucked the last letter away and opened her files.

End