holiday cards 2018
drop your address, I'll send you a seasonal card with some seasonally inappropriate stickers!
(no subject)
"So what's up with you and Miss Kirigakure?"
It's Shima who asks that, and though Yukio knows there's a perfectly reasonable answer to that question, (nothing, there's nothing up with him and shura), but it's Shima who's asking, and Yukio does not trust Shima. Shima is a spy with a silver tongue and questionable motivations. Shima did not just ask questions without some kind of purpose. But since Shima is still a coworker, now higher ranked than Yukio, Yukio can't just ignore him. He doesn't reply immediately, giving Shima a hard stare for a moment. Why did he feel the need to drop by Yukio's office was beyond him; Yukio didn't like him. Yukio had papers to sign, folders to file away.
"What makes you think there's anything up between Shura-san and I?" Answering a question with another question. Rude, but Yukio only has so much courtesy and patience saved up on Fridays. He can't think of anything that would be strange between them; it wasn't as if it was a secret that they had known each other for a long time. Perhaps someone had misunderstood and was spreading rumors? That was something Yukio would have to squash quickly. His shining reputation as a prodigy had been destroyed by his defection, saved in large part by the good esteem the rest of the Order held Shura in. It was one thing for Shura to dirty her name herself, but if someone was trying to get to her through him...
Shima laughs, leans in closer. Yukio dislikes the way he's grinning, as if they're about to share juicy secrets. "You don't gotta keep it a secret from me, y'know. We all saw you and Miss Kirigakure leave the bar together last night~"
Oh. That. Yukio feels a slight relief. That was easy enough to explain. He snaps the file in his hand shut, moves on to the folder in the pile. "That? I escort Shura-san home sometimes. She had an early flight this morning, so she needed to be well rested." It's an honest answer. It's convenient, her apartment being in the same complex as his. Shima might admire Shura's beauty, but he had never had to carry a drunk Shura home.
"Aah, is that so?" Shima's grin widens. Yukio feels his temper stir; he tamps down on it. Shima, like many demons, fed off of things like that. "But, Okumura-san, I heard that you've been walkin' her home most nights. She can't always be flyin' out in the mornin', can she?" That is enough to make Yukio's hand freeze mid-signature. Just where had Shima heard that? Maybe it's the expression on his face that begs the question. Shima is quick to answer. "I was chattin' with some of the others, that's how I heard~ Yer not my assignment anymore, remember? But maybe I should be keepin' an eye on ya, maybe I can get some tips on how to pick up a hot chick like Miss Kirigakure ♥"
There are several things wrong with that answer. Yukio will start with the easiest thing to settle.
"Whatever you've heard, there is no such relationship between Shura-san and myself." He says it firmly, as if scolding a child. "You and whoever you were speaking with are misunderstanding the situation." And perhaps a scolding is enough to satisfy him. Shima pulls away, slide his hands in his pocket.
"If ya say so, Okumura-san." Shima says nothing else, and for a moment, Yukio feels that relief starting to creep in again, but Shima was only taking a dramatic pause. "But if that's the case, then maybe ya should consider lettin' someone else take Miss Kirigakure home on the occasion."
"They're welcome to," Yukio replies automatically. They were. Shura was heavy after a few drinks, and Yukio himself could only turn away so many drinks at obligatory work functions. Getting home some nights was a mess.
"They're all afraid to, y'know. You won't let anyone else near her."
"Shura can find her own company if she wants."
"Not while she's bein' fussed over by you. Miss Kirigakure's pretty close to you, if ya haven't noticed."
Yukio grits his teeth. What, was Shima being serious? Was this some more of his good advice he had be so willing to dole out back in the day? Whatever it was, Yukio's about to lose his patience and his temper with it. There was no point in continuing this line of discussion if Shima was just wanting to play with him again.
"If that's all you came here to do, then I have to ask you to leave. I have a lot of work to do before I leave."
"You're so cold, Okumura-san!" Shima's whining; Yukio doesn't see how he's not ashamed of himself, acting like that. "Fine, just think about it, okay? For both you and Miss Kirigakure's sake."
With that, Shima excuses himself. Yukio gets little work done that afternoon and stays late into the evening to get even just half of his intended work done.
--
Shima returns to Kyoto the next day, and for a few while, Yukio can push his conversation with him out of his mind. With Rin on his extended assignment in Kyoto and Shura out of the country on Order business, Yukio has an entire weekend to himself. He keeps busy, doing chores around the house and training. Shiemi comes by with a delivery one afternoon, and he has a pleasant time with her, talking about her garden and the preparations she was making for the coming spring. This is the pleasant sort of rhythm he's tried to establish for himself in the past, and it's refreshing. By the time Shura returns, Yukio's convinced himself that he's moved on from Shima's friendly 'advice'. There was nothing to be concerned about; it was just some bored individuals misinterpreting innocent interactions between a pair who had known each other for years.
It may be because of Rin's absence that they're getting attention. Though he may have become more stable emotionally over the years and he hasn't absolutely loathed himself for his weakness and his jealousy for some time, and even though he prefers a quiet environment to focus on his work, Yukio hates the solitary company of himself. The silence of the apartment is suffocating in the evenings without Rin, who would be gone for the twelve months. The smell of takeout and microwave dinners is unappetizing, and he eats half of his meals mechanically, sticking the leftovers in the fridge and hoping that they'll taste okay reheated. Rin is noisy, but Rin is life.
Shura's the one who starts it, nagging at him to come over and watch a movie at her place one evening. He accepts the invitation without much thought, not wanting to deal with either her badgering or the dead air of his kitchen. She's even so generous as to offer to get pizza. It doesn't sound appetizing, but it's easy enough to justify giving in to her demands.
The movie isn't bad; the pizza is. Yukio doesn't intend to repeat the evening, but for some reason, he finds himself in Shura's living room again a few days later--he doesn't remember why now, but he remembers walking her home and following her in for a while. And maybe that was it; it was easy to walk with her to their shared apartment complex after work, simple to explain to himself that while Shura was strong and absolutely not a lady, it wasn't right to let her walk by herself at night. And if they grabbed curry on the way back, that was just convenience.
Gradually, her company spread to the weekend, a few peaceful hours on Sunday that he could have spent cleaning or doing something productive at his apartment, but it wasn't as if he generated a lot of dirty dishes. It made sense out of the oppressive quiet of his home, silenced the little biting voice at the back of his head that questioned his sensibility and self-worth. Like Rin, Shura was noisy, different but parallel. She laughed loudly, still insisted on her too small tops and shorts even in the dead of winter. She was loud, bright, completely distracting, but most importantly, Shura was comfortable.
But still, as the next few days pass, Yukio finds himself questioning things, the little things between them. It wasn't the work he found himself doing for Shura; he had long since understood that he would be under Shura's supervision for the rest of his career because of his defection. Shura was trusted, he was less trustworthy than even someone like Mephisto. That was just the path he had carved for himself. Remember her favorite coffee or knowing her break habits was just a part of working in close quarters with someone for five years. Leaving at the same time she did was also normal. Rin cooked for all of them still, and food was best hot.
It was normal. It was simple. And when they go out drinking with the rest of their coworkers, Yukio sees nothing untoward about the way he interacts with her. He kept to himself, sometimes entertaining brief conversations with the few coworkers who would speak to him casually, but mostly, he had his own corner of the table a stuck to it. Shura flitted around, the life of the party, buying one round of drinks and then the next. She started the night sitting next to him, but returned to her spot just as often as she left. She always had something to say, another drink, more teasing. It's a pattern, a ritual. It's the same on Tuesday when they go out, the same on Wednesday, and by the time Friday rolls around, Yukio's confident that nothing unreasonable is happening.
Maybe that was the misunderstanding, Yukio muses to himself that evening, an empty glass and a half-eaten plate of tempura in front of him. Shura was just trying to drag him out of his comfort zone. There was nothing more to it than that. She could ignore him all night and give him some peace if she really wanted. He would be just fine like that, if she decided to stick with someone else.
except he wouldn't be
The realization makes his mouth go dry. And it shows on his face; Shura glances over in the instant, and she's making her way to him. She teases him about having had too much so early in the evening, but Yukio can read the underlying concern in her voice, and it makes his self-loathing rise like bile in his throat. He makes his excuses, returns the barb with his own. It's a familiar pattern, one that he can fall into with his anxiety building up and one that he thinks he can make convincing enough, especially when he accepts the drink someone's pressing into his hand. She leaves him be, and he thinks he's managed to take control of himself. And perhaps he has. But his thoughts are wild horses, running and racing far too fast and far too wild for him to rein in for more than a moment. Shura's good intentions would drag her down with him, and he couldn't allow that. On a bad day, he hated her antics and capriciousness and there were plenty of other days that he didn't like her, but he always cared about her, and that was a dangerous feeling. He couldn't let her get hurt because of him again, couldn't allow her to be dragged down because of his weakness.
He had to break this. But how? Yukio knows how to be cruel, he understands how to be cruel to be kind. A little bit of hurt might do the trick, build up the wall between them that would have been there years before if Yukio had been wiser. But mean words and actions had never worked against her. Shit, how was he going to do this? He had to--the sooner the better. Shura had bad luck with men, and her age was working against her. Decent men were rare and usually taken up long before Shura could meet them.
He mulls over this, stopping only to accept another drink. The more he drinks, the harder it is to contain his thoughts, and he really wants to refuse the fourth glass that's pressed into his hand, but it's halfway through that drink that Yukio realizes that there is a solution, one that's far more obvious than he first thought. All he had to do was play into Shura's bad habits. Though she had (mostly) shrugged the habit off over the last few years, Shura used men and left them without a second thought. It was more complicated than that, Yukio knew, but he could still use that.
A one night stand. If he could seduce her, if they had sex--they'd both regret it in the morning. Things would be awkward. But they could both blame it on feeling lonely while Rin was away--booze and loneliness made for terrible companions. It wasn't a brilliant plan, but it's not the worst idea he's ever had, either. There was the matter of his complete lack of experience, but it wasn't as if he hadn't figured out her type over the years, and he has seen a fair share of sexy scenes in movies. He would figure it out as he went. He had to.
--
They leave late, together. He had wanted to leave earlier, but there was a slight complication. The forecast that morning had mentioned rain, but it hadn't mentioned just how much. It was a downpour, the sudden kind that usually didn't last for long this time of year, and Shura had wanted to wait it out. Yukio had the foresight to bring an umbrella, but Shura had given it away to a young, bright-eyed girl who had only just recently arrived at the Tokyo branch and hadn't come dressed for this kind of weather. Shura wasn't dressed for it either in her skimpy shorts and top, but she just waived both the girl and Yukio's concerns off and sent the girl on her way.
When the rain seems to lighten up, they try to slip away, but there are no taxis in sight and the deluge resumes before long, and it isn't long before both of them are stumbling and soaked from the cold rain. The cold doesn't bother Yukio much, running hot from the booze and the way his heart is racing. Sexual lust isn't one of his sins, and he's always prided himself on having at least that much dignity, but he's letting himself linger on those thoughts, remembering a scene from a movie or three, the ones that stuck in his memory to spite him and sometimes play out in his teenage dreams. His fingers itch for something to clench on to help settle his growing uneasiness.
Shura notices and call him on it. "Got somethin' on yer mind, Four-eyes?"
It's hard to look at her when he's trying to imagine how he's going to try and get in her bed. Yukio's stomach rolls, and he swallows hard. "We could have gotten a cab if we left earlier," he growls back in reply, shoving his hands in his pockets. Shura laughs. He hates her, hates that laugh, and he can't imagine a world where it isn't ringing in his ears.
"Yer just mad I gave that umbrella away~ It wouldna' kept you dry, anyway." She's close to him, and he wonder if he should reach out and take her hand. He wonders if he should slip his coat over her shoulders. There was no way she wasn't freezing like this. He doesn't do either, only gives a grunt in reply to her. If he spoke too much, he might give himself away entirely. If he looked at her, he might start staring. It's a fine balance, an uneasy line to walk, and Shura was sharp.
The walk feels like an eternity, the dark and rain obscuring the usual landmarks to indicate how close they were to home. It's an eternity that doesn't last long enough--they take the last turn, and Shura's apartment is on of the first on the right, and--
Shit shit shit
At her door, Yukio reacts. Shura stops in front her door, looking over her shoulder to him and opening her mouth to say something, but Yukio isn't listening. He grabs her by the arm and shoves her back against the door, pinning her there with his body as he steps forward. It catches her by surprise, he can tell that much by the way she inhales sharply. He can feel the rise of her chest against him as she gasps, and he presses forward, sliding his hand from her arm to the door and leaning his weight on his forearm flat on the door.
She's pinned there, between his body and the door, and she's not pushing him away. She could if she wanted, could slip out of his grip and throw him down. She's strong enough, Yukio knows this. His heart is pounding out of his chest, but she hasn't rejected him, it's working and all he has to do is lean his head down and kiss her--
He looks down, and he freezes. He's seen her this close before, but it's never been like this. She had kissed at his neck before under Hachiro's power, but neither of them had been in control and neither had wanted it. This was different and completely overwhelming. Yukio wants to kiss her, he wants to kiss her mouth and hold her close so badly that it has his guts in knots. It's a raw heat inside, the kind that infiltrated his dreams and left him sticky in the morning and desperate to forget the embarrassment. And he's so close, if he just dipped his head a little lower, he could do it, kiss her full on the mouth. Her breath is warm on his lips, and
he
can't
move.
His head's pounding, his entire body is taut with fear. He wants to kiss her, he really wants to keep her at his side like she's always been, but closer. He's terrified because his plan might actually work and he'd hate himself forever if it did. He's a coward, unable to retreat or move forward, and he can't fight the sheer revulsion he feels for himself.
Time passes, perhaps minutes, perhaps seconds, Yukio doesn't know. He can't calm himself enough to make a guess.
Underneath him, Shura shifts, tilting her head up and closing the distance between them. A kiss on the corner of his mouth; something that's unmistakably chaste considering their position, his intentions. There's a puff of warm air on his cheek as she laughs, another as she speaks.
"Scaredy."
Yukio wilts, too tired to keep up his act when she could so clearly see through him, too exhausted to be anxious, the shock of adrenaline leaving his body. His head drops to her shoulder, and he exhales against the wet fabric of her uniform jacket, cold and wet and clinging to her skin. He can feels the muscles in her shoulder move as she reaches to the side to key in her door code, and he counts the beeps as if that will help him. It does nothing, but he's not so out of it that he can't follow her when she tugs at his hand, pulling him with her inside of her home. "C'mon, you'll get sick like this." He wants to tell her it's too late, but there isn't any fight left in him, and he lets her strip him of his wet coat and guide him to the couch where he collapses. Other words are coming from her mouth, and she's probably more drunk than he is, but he just can't focus on anything.
He shuts his eye, wills his head to stop pounding. The world would be a lot easier if he could just clear his head.
--
The world is a mess when he wakes up, made of purple bedding and sunlight streaming through the curtains and pain. Yukio does not remember falling asleep in Shura's bed, but he knows where he is even through the haze of one of the worst hangovers he's ever had. Vaguely, he can remember passing out on the couch and coming to with the knowledge that he needed to be in bed. The fact that this was Shura's bed wasn't important, only that this was a bed he could sleep in. He was alone, and it must be late in the morning if Shura had already gotten up.
Slowly, Yukio sits up, feeling his head spin. The light hurts, and all he wants to do is die, anything to get away from the nausea and pain wracking his body. His glasses are missing, and so is his eye patch, and he's about to panic. The seal had been placed directly on his eye, but the patch held additional seals just as a precaution, and he felt safer with it on. If it was lost, he'd be screwed. But it wasn't; it was right on the nightstand, kept company by his glasses, a plastic tumbler that looked to be full of water and a couple of aspirin.
Shura's kindness is akin to cruelty, and Yukio understands that it's far too late to run from it. He hates that Shima is the reason that he realizes just how deeply in it he is with Shura, but even in his spiteful, hungover mood, Yukio knows that he's the one at fault, that he was the one who allowed her in in the first place.
In retrospect, she was too comfortable, but Yukio doesn't know if he can turn back now. He can't even find a part of himself that wants to; he is jealous and greedy, the worst kind of sore loser, and Shura had let him in, let him sleep in her bed even after what he did. When had comfort turned to intimacy? Yukio doesn't know; she had always been too close to him, and now here he was, in her bed with a blinding headache and no idea of what to do next.
He'd be damned if he asked Shima for advice.
sunday afternoon, her apartment. he was scrolling through a few news articles on his tablet, occasionally pausing to take a drink from a energy drink he balances in one hand on his knee. shura, beside him and leaning back on the arm of the couch with her legs drawn up in front of her, knees bent and her toes wedged under his thigh. he doesn't say anything about that, he knows she'll tell him it's because it's cold. she could be doing something productive, but she's already had a beer and playing a new game seemed to be her only priority. considering the aggravated grunts and growls she keeps making, it doesn't seem like she's doing well. he can't see her face, on his left side where his peripheral vision no longer exists
(thanks satan)
but he doesn't have to know the kind of face she's making.
he clicks to the next article; the video has trouble buffering. shura lets out a curse, and yukio finally turns his head to look at her, sees her focused on her game. he's still childish inside, so he teases her, tells her that if it's too much for her she could ask the neighbor's kid down the hall to finish that level for her. shura flits her gaze to him, clicks her tongue, returns her attention to the game. yukio doesn't hold back his snort, a chuff of laughter. he got her attention, got a reaction. it's juvenile, but it's satisfying. he shifts, leaning over to set the mostly empty can from his knee to the side table to the side of the couch. as he sits back, his hand moves from his knee to her leg, fingers curling around the back of her calf, just under the inside of her knee. the video has loaded now, his attention is focused on the latest news story from kyoto. he pays attention to the events in kyoto more closely now, as if that will keep rin out of trouble somehow. he doesn't take mind of the way shura goes quiet, her gaze flicking back to him. he says nothing about his hand, and for some reason, that's enough to make her flush, just a little color on her cheeks.
neither of them say anything about the touch, but his hand stays there until shura finally moves, getting off of the couch to retrieve another beer. she can't play this game when she's only lightly buzzed, and she won't confront him just quite yet, not when he's still oblivious.
It's Shima who asks that, and though Yukio knows there's a perfectly reasonable answer to that question, (nothing, there's nothing up with him and shura), but it's Shima who's asking, and Yukio does not trust Shima. Shima is a spy with a silver tongue and questionable motivations. Shima did not just ask questions without some kind of purpose. But since Shima is still a coworker, now higher ranked than Yukio, Yukio can't just ignore him. He doesn't reply immediately, giving Shima a hard stare for a moment. Why did he feel the need to drop by Yukio's office was beyond him; Yukio didn't like him. Yukio had papers to sign, folders to file away.
"What makes you think there's anything up between Shura-san and I?" Answering a question with another question. Rude, but Yukio only has so much courtesy and patience saved up on Fridays. He can't think of anything that would be strange between them; it wasn't as if it was a secret that they had known each other for a long time. Perhaps someone had misunderstood and was spreading rumors? That was something Yukio would have to squash quickly. His shining reputation as a prodigy had been destroyed by his defection, saved in large part by the good esteem the rest of the Order held Shura in. It was one thing for Shura to dirty her name herself, but if someone was trying to get to her through him...
Shima laughs, leans in closer. Yukio dislikes the way he's grinning, as if they're about to share juicy secrets. "You don't gotta keep it a secret from me, y'know. We all saw you and Miss Kirigakure leave the bar together last night~"
Oh. That. Yukio feels a slight relief. That was easy enough to explain. He snaps the file in his hand shut, moves on to the folder in the pile. "That? I escort Shura-san home sometimes. She had an early flight this morning, so she needed to be well rested." It's an honest answer. It's convenient, her apartment being in the same complex as his. Shima might admire Shura's beauty, but he had never had to carry a drunk Shura home.
"Aah, is that so?" Shima's grin widens. Yukio feels his temper stir; he tamps down on it. Shima, like many demons, fed off of things like that. "But, Okumura-san, I heard that you've been walkin' her home most nights. She can't always be flyin' out in the mornin', can she?" That is enough to make Yukio's hand freeze mid-signature. Just where had Shima heard that? Maybe it's the expression on his face that begs the question. Shima is quick to answer. "I was chattin' with some of the others, that's how I heard~ Yer not my assignment anymore, remember? But maybe I should be keepin' an eye on ya, maybe I can get some tips on how to pick up a hot chick like Miss Kirigakure ♥"
There are several things wrong with that answer. Yukio will start with the easiest thing to settle.
"Whatever you've heard, there is no such relationship between Shura-san and myself." He says it firmly, as if scolding a child. "You and whoever you were speaking with are misunderstanding the situation." And perhaps a scolding is enough to satisfy him. Shima pulls away, slide his hands in his pocket.
"If ya say so, Okumura-san." Shima says nothing else, and for a moment, Yukio feels that relief starting to creep in again, but Shima was only taking a dramatic pause. "But if that's the case, then maybe ya should consider lettin' someone else take Miss Kirigakure home on the occasion."
"They're welcome to," Yukio replies automatically. They were. Shura was heavy after a few drinks, and Yukio himself could only turn away so many drinks at obligatory work functions. Getting home some nights was a mess.
"They're all afraid to, y'know. You won't let anyone else near her."
"Shura can find her own company if she wants."
"Not while she's bein' fussed over by you. Miss Kirigakure's pretty close to you, if ya haven't noticed."
Yukio grits his teeth. What, was Shima being serious? Was this some more of his good advice he had be so willing to dole out back in the day? Whatever it was, Yukio's about to lose his patience and his temper with it. There was no point in continuing this line of discussion if Shima was just wanting to play with him again.
"If that's all you came here to do, then I have to ask you to leave. I have a lot of work to do before I leave."
"You're so cold, Okumura-san!" Shima's whining; Yukio doesn't see how he's not ashamed of himself, acting like that. "Fine, just think about it, okay? For both you and Miss Kirigakure's sake."
With that, Shima excuses himself. Yukio gets little work done that afternoon and stays late into the evening to get even just half of his intended work done.
--
Shima returns to Kyoto the next day, and for a few while, Yukio can push his conversation with him out of his mind. With Rin on his extended assignment in Kyoto and Shura out of the country on Order business, Yukio has an entire weekend to himself. He keeps busy, doing chores around the house and training. Shiemi comes by with a delivery one afternoon, and he has a pleasant time with her, talking about her garden and the preparations she was making for the coming spring. This is the pleasant sort of rhythm he's tried to establish for himself in the past, and it's refreshing. By the time Shura returns, Yukio's convinced himself that he's moved on from Shima's friendly 'advice'. There was nothing to be concerned about; it was just some bored individuals misinterpreting innocent interactions between a pair who had known each other for years.
It may be because of Rin's absence that they're getting attention. Though he may have become more stable emotionally over the years and he hasn't absolutely loathed himself for his weakness and his jealousy for some time, and even though he prefers a quiet environment to focus on his work, Yukio hates the solitary company of himself. The silence of the apartment is suffocating in the evenings without Rin, who would be gone for the twelve months. The smell of takeout and microwave dinners is unappetizing, and he eats half of his meals mechanically, sticking the leftovers in the fridge and hoping that they'll taste okay reheated. Rin is noisy, but Rin is life.
Shura's the one who starts it, nagging at him to come over and watch a movie at her place one evening. He accepts the invitation without much thought, not wanting to deal with either her badgering or the dead air of his kitchen. She's even so generous as to offer to get pizza. It doesn't sound appetizing, but it's easy enough to justify giving in to her demands.
The movie isn't bad; the pizza is. Yukio doesn't intend to repeat the evening, but for some reason, he finds himself in Shura's living room again a few days later--he doesn't remember why now, but he remembers walking her home and following her in for a while. And maybe that was it; it was easy to walk with her to their shared apartment complex after work, simple to explain to himself that while Shura was strong and absolutely not a lady, it wasn't right to let her walk by herself at night. And if they grabbed curry on the way back, that was just convenience.
Gradually, her company spread to the weekend, a few peaceful hours on Sunday that he could have spent cleaning or doing something productive at his apartment, but it wasn't as if he generated a lot of dirty dishes. It made sense out of the oppressive quiet of his home, silenced the little biting voice at the back of his head that questioned his sensibility and self-worth. Like Rin, Shura was noisy, different but parallel. She laughed loudly, still insisted on her too small tops and shorts even in the dead of winter. She was loud, bright, completely distracting, but most importantly, Shura was comfortable.
But still, as the next few days pass, Yukio finds himself questioning things, the little things between them. It wasn't the work he found himself doing for Shura; he had long since understood that he would be under Shura's supervision for the rest of his career because of his defection. Shura was trusted, he was less trustworthy than even someone like Mephisto. That was just the path he had carved for himself. Remember her favorite coffee or knowing her break habits was just a part of working in close quarters with someone for five years. Leaving at the same time she did was also normal. Rin cooked for all of them still, and food was best hot.
It was normal. It was simple. And when they go out drinking with the rest of their coworkers, Yukio sees nothing untoward about the way he interacts with her. He kept to himself, sometimes entertaining brief conversations with the few coworkers who would speak to him casually, but mostly, he had his own corner of the table a stuck to it. Shura flitted around, the life of the party, buying one round of drinks and then the next. She started the night sitting next to him, but returned to her spot just as often as she left. She always had something to say, another drink, more teasing. It's a pattern, a ritual. It's the same on Tuesday when they go out, the same on Wednesday, and by the time Friday rolls around, Yukio's confident that nothing unreasonable is happening.
Maybe that was the misunderstanding, Yukio muses to himself that evening, an empty glass and a half-eaten plate of tempura in front of him. Shura was just trying to drag him out of his comfort zone. There was nothing more to it than that. She could ignore him all night and give him some peace if she really wanted. He would be just fine like that, if she decided to stick with someone else.
except he wouldn't be
The realization makes his mouth go dry. And it shows on his face; Shura glances over in the instant, and she's making her way to him. She teases him about having had too much so early in the evening, but Yukio can read the underlying concern in her voice, and it makes his self-loathing rise like bile in his throat. He makes his excuses, returns the barb with his own. It's a familiar pattern, one that he can fall into with his anxiety building up and one that he thinks he can make convincing enough, especially when he accepts the drink someone's pressing into his hand. She leaves him be, and he thinks he's managed to take control of himself. And perhaps he has. But his thoughts are wild horses, running and racing far too fast and far too wild for him to rein in for more than a moment. Shura's good intentions would drag her down with him, and he couldn't allow that. On a bad day, he hated her antics and capriciousness and there were plenty of other days that he didn't like her, but he always cared about her, and that was a dangerous feeling. He couldn't let her get hurt because of him again, couldn't allow her to be dragged down because of his weakness.
He had to break this. But how? Yukio knows how to be cruel, he understands how to be cruel to be kind. A little bit of hurt might do the trick, build up the wall between them that would have been there years before if Yukio had been wiser. But mean words and actions had never worked against her. Shit, how was he going to do this? He had to--the sooner the better. Shura had bad luck with men, and her age was working against her. Decent men were rare and usually taken up long before Shura could meet them.
He mulls over this, stopping only to accept another drink. The more he drinks, the harder it is to contain his thoughts, and he really wants to refuse the fourth glass that's pressed into his hand, but it's halfway through that drink that Yukio realizes that there is a solution, one that's far more obvious than he first thought. All he had to do was play into Shura's bad habits. Though she had (mostly) shrugged the habit off over the last few years, Shura used men and left them without a second thought. It was more complicated than that, Yukio knew, but he could still use that.
A one night stand. If he could seduce her, if they had sex--they'd both regret it in the morning. Things would be awkward. But they could both blame it on feeling lonely while Rin was away--booze and loneliness made for terrible companions. It wasn't a brilliant plan, but it's not the worst idea he's ever had, either. There was the matter of his complete lack of experience, but it wasn't as if he hadn't figured out her type over the years, and he has seen a fair share of sexy scenes in movies. He would figure it out as he went. He had to.
--
They leave late, together. He had wanted to leave earlier, but there was a slight complication. The forecast that morning had mentioned rain, but it hadn't mentioned just how much. It was a downpour, the sudden kind that usually didn't last for long this time of year, and Shura had wanted to wait it out. Yukio had the foresight to bring an umbrella, but Shura had given it away to a young, bright-eyed girl who had only just recently arrived at the Tokyo branch and hadn't come dressed for this kind of weather. Shura wasn't dressed for it either in her skimpy shorts and top, but she just waived both the girl and Yukio's concerns off and sent the girl on her way.
When the rain seems to lighten up, they try to slip away, but there are no taxis in sight and the deluge resumes before long, and it isn't long before both of them are stumbling and soaked from the cold rain. The cold doesn't bother Yukio much, running hot from the booze and the way his heart is racing. Sexual lust isn't one of his sins, and he's always prided himself on having at least that much dignity, but he's letting himself linger on those thoughts, remembering a scene from a movie or three, the ones that stuck in his memory to spite him and sometimes play out in his teenage dreams. His fingers itch for something to clench on to help settle his growing uneasiness.
Shura notices and call him on it. "Got somethin' on yer mind, Four-eyes?"
It's hard to look at her when he's trying to imagine how he's going to try and get in her bed. Yukio's stomach rolls, and he swallows hard. "We could have gotten a cab if we left earlier," he growls back in reply, shoving his hands in his pockets. Shura laughs. He hates her, hates that laugh, and he can't imagine a world where it isn't ringing in his ears.
"Yer just mad I gave that umbrella away~ It wouldna' kept you dry, anyway." She's close to him, and he wonder if he should reach out and take her hand. He wonders if he should slip his coat over her shoulders. There was no way she wasn't freezing like this. He doesn't do either, only gives a grunt in reply to her. If he spoke too much, he might give himself away entirely. If he looked at her, he might start staring. It's a fine balance, an uneasy line to walk, and Shura was sharp.
The walk feels like an eternity, the dark and rain obscuring the usual landmarks to indicate how close they were to home. It's an eternity that doesn't last long enough--they take the last turn, and Shura's apartment is on of the first on the right, and--
Shit shit shit
At her door, Yukio reacts. Shura stops in front her door, looking over her shoulder to him and opening her mouth to say something, but Yukio isn't listening. He grabs her by the arm and shoves her back against the door, pinning her there with his body as he steps forward. It catches her by surprise, he can tell that much by the way she inhales sharply. He can feel the rise of her chest against him as she gasps, and he presses forward, sliding his hand from her arm to the door and leaning his weight on his forearm flat on the door.
She's pinned there, between his body and the door, and she's not pushing him away. She could if she wanted, could slip out of his grip and throw him down. She's strong enough, Yukio knows this. His heart is pounding out of his chest, but she hasn't rejected him, it's working and all he has to do is lean his head down and kiss her--
He looks down, and he freezes. He's seen her this close before, but it's never been like this. She had kissed at his neck before under Hachiro's power, but neither of them had been in control and neither had wanted it. This was different and completely overwhelming. Yukio wants to kiss her, he wants to kiss her mouth and hold her close so badly that it has his guts in knots. It's a raw heat inside, the kind that infiltrated his dreams and left him sticky in the morning and desperate to forget the embarrassment. And he's so close, if he just dipped his head a little lower, he could do it, kiss her full on the mouth. Her breath is warm on his lips, and
he
can't
move.
His head's pounding, his entire body is taut with fear. He wants to kiss her, he really wants to keep her at his side like she's always been, but closer. He's terrified because his plan might actually work and he'd hate himself forever if it did. He's a coward, unable to retreat or move forward, and he can't fight the sheer revulsion he feels for himself.
Time passes, perhaps minutes, perhaps seconds, Yukio doesn't know. He can't calm himself enough to make a guess.
Underneath him, Shura shifts, tilting her head up and closing the distance between them. A kiss on the corner of his mouth; something that's unmistakably chaste considering their position, his intentions. There's a puff of warm air on his cheek as she laughs, another as she speaks.
"Scaredy."
Yukio wilts, too tired to keep up his act when she could so clearly see through him, too exhausted to be anxious, the shock of adrenaline leaving his body. His head drops to her shoulder, and he exhales against the wet fabric of her uniform jacket, cold and wet and clinging to her skin. He can feels the muscles in her shoulder move as she reaches to the side to key in her door code, and he counts the beeps as if that will help him. It does nothing, but he's not so out of it that he can't follow her when she tugs at his hand, pulling him with her inside of her home. "C'mon, you'll get sick like this." He wants to tell her it's too late, but there isn't any fight left in him, and he lets her strip him of his wet coat and guide him to the couch where he collapses. Other words are coming from her mouth, and she's probably more drunk than he is, but he just can't focus on anything.
He shuts his eye, wills his head to stop pounding. The world would be a lot easier if he could just clear his head.
--
The world is a mess when he wakes up, made of purple bedding and sunlight streaming through the curtains and pain. Yukio does not remember falling asleep in Shura's bed, but he knows where he is even through the haze of one of the worst hangovers he's ever had. Vaguely, he can remember passing out on the couch and coming to with the knowledge that he needed to be in bed. The fact that this was Shura's bed wasn't important, only that this was a bed he could sleep in. He was alone, and it must be late in the morning if Shura had already gotten up.
Slowly, Yukio sits up, feeling his head spin. The light hurts, and all he wants to do is die, anything to get away from the nausea and pain wracking his body. His glasses are missing, and so is his eye patch, and he's about to panic. The seal had been placed directly on his eye, but the patch held additional seals just as a precaution, and he felt safer with it on. If it was lost, he'd be screwed. But it wasn't; it was right on the nightstand, kept company by his glasses, a plastic tumbler that looked to be full of water and a couple of aspirin.
Shura's kindness is akin to cruelty, and Yukio understands that it's far too late to run from it. He hates that Shima is the reason that he realizes just how deeply in it he is with Shura, but even in his spiteful, hungover mood, Yukio knows that he's the one at fault, that he was the one who allowed her in in the first place.
In retrospect, she was too comfortable, but Yukio doesn't know if he can turn back now. He can't even find a part of himself that wants to; he is jealous and greedy, the worst kind of sore loser, and Shura had let him in, let him sleep in her bed even after what he did. When had comfort turned to intimacy? Yukio doesn't know; she had always been too close to him, and now here he was, in her bed with a blinding headache and no idea of what to do next.
sunday afternoon, her apartment. he was scrolling through a few news articles on his tablet, occasionally pausing to take a drink from a energy drink he balances in one hand on his knee. shura, beside him and leaning back on the arm of the couch with her legs drawn up in front of her, knees bent and her toes wedged under his thigh. he doesn't say anything about that, he knows she'll tell him it's because it's cold. she could be doing something productive, but she's already had a beer and playing a new game seemed to be her only priority. considering the aggravated grunts and growls she keeps making, it doesn't seem like she's doing well. he can't see her face, on his left side where his peripheral vision no longer exists
(thanks satan)
but he doesn't have to know the kind of face she's making.
he clicks to the next article; the video has trouble buffering. shura lets out a curse, and yukio finally turns his head to look at her, sees her focused on her game. he's still childish inside, so he teases her, tells her that if it's too much for her she could ask the neighbor's kid down the hall to finish that level for her. shura flits her gaze to him, clicks her tongue, returns her attention to the game. yukio doesn't hold back his snort, a chuff of laughter. he got her attention, got a reaction. it's juvenile, but it's satisfying. he shifts, leaning over to set the mostly empty can from his knee to the side table to the side of the couch. as he sits back, his hand moves from his knee to her leg, fingers curling around the back of her calf, just under the inside of her knee. the video has loaded now, his attention is focused on the latest news story from kyoto. he pays attention to the events in kyoto more closely now, as if that will keep rin out of trouble somehow. he doesn't take mind of the way shura goes quiet, her gaze flicking back to him. he says nothing about his hand, and for some reason, that's enough to make her flush, just a little color on her cheeks.
neither of them say anything about the touch, but his hand stays there until shura finally moves, getting off of the couch to retrieve another beer. she can't play this game when she's only lightly buzzed, and she won't confront him just quite yet, not when he's still oblivious.
(no subject)
Sometimes, she prefers him drunk. Alvin was never an easy man to deal with--even after he had decided that his loyalties lay to Milla and Jude, he never truly lost his sly veneer (he was still, end the end, a businessman, a mercenary, whatever he wanted to be called now)--, but sometimes, when plied with a little too much beer, his feelings became a little less elusive, his face a little more honest. It doesn't change him entirely, of course, but when he's tipsy, safe, and secure, he's more willing to show his sincerity in all the ways he can.
(it was the way this first happened between them. too much whiskey, too much wine, and the sheets were so soft, and why shouldn't they stay so close together when the coals in the stove were so close to burning out on that cold winter night?)
Sometimes, though, that drunk sincerity is smothering, overwhelming. He focuses on details, and can't let go. It can be anything, from the the tiny rip on his designer scarf to problems with his new line of work. Anything and everything can catch his eye, and for the most part, Leia takes the troubled nights in stride--after all, she too has her drunken foibles--, but then there are nights when his muddled distress become much more intimate.
(his hands are roaming, and all she has on is his coat. he always grins so cockily when she wears it like this, acts so boldly and confidently. she whimpers as his fingers slowly trail over ticklish spots and his laugh is a low rumble she can feel in his chest--he likes to tease, likes to draw it out, though he doesn't seem to care when she does the same to him--, and then he stops, fingers faltering over the slight rise of that one particular scar on her shoulder.)
The evening is always over when he trips and stumbles over their memories. Leia tries to console him, to coax him back in the the vanishing warmth, but there is little that can be done for a man who cannot (will not) forgive himself for his sins, no matter how far he has come. It hurts--her best will never be good enough, will it? Like Agria, he falls away from her hands, oscures his heart into shadows. These nights always make her wonder--if her best isn't good enough to soothe him, then why does he keep returning to her?
But morning comes, the suns rises and shines through the pretty curtains on the windows, and while nothing is forgotten from the night before, the sudden blinding pain of their shared hangovers is often enough to shove any potential awkwardness away.
(it was the way this first happened between them. too much whiskey, too much wine, and the sheets were so soft, and why shouldn't they stay so close together when the coals in the stove were so close to burning out on that cold winter night?)
Sometimes, though, that drunk sincerity is smothering, overwhelming. He focuses on details, and can't let go. It can be anything, from the the tiny rip on his designer scarf to problems with his new line of work. Anything and everything can catch his eye, and for the most part, Leia takes the troubled nights in stride--after all, she too has her drunken foibles--, but then there are nights when his muddled distress become much more intimate.
(his hands are roaming, and all she has on is his coat. he always grins so cockily when she wears it like this, acts so boldly and confidently. she whimpers as his fingers slowly trail over ticklish spots and his laugh is a low rumble she can feel in his chest--he likes to tease, likes to draw it out, though he doesn't seem to care when she does the same to him--, and then he stops, fingers faltering over the slight rise of that one particular scar on her shoulder.)
The evening is always over when he trips and stumbles over their memories. Leia tries to console him, to coax him back in the the vanishing warmth, but there is little that can be done for a man who cannot (will not) forgive himself for his sins, no matter how far he has come. It hurts--her best will never be good enough, will it? Like Agria, he falls away from her hands, oscures his heart into shadows. These nights always make her wonder--if her best isn't good enough to soothe him, then why does he keep returning to her?
But morning comes, the suns rises and shines through the pretty curtains on the windows, and while nothing is forgotten from the night before, the sudden blinding pain of their shared hangovers is often enough to shove any potential awkwardness away.
(no subject)
It began with an incident with one of Olba’s sisters—she had come back to the palace, weeping, and no one, not even Olba himself, could console her. It took some hours, but eventually, Olba was able to get the story from her. Nisreen—the sister in question--, had fallen in love with a young merchant, and the feelings were reciprocated. The problem came up when the idea of marriage was discussed. Though Sindria was a country of refugees, the young merchant’s father absolutely refused to consider Nisreen as a suitable bride for his son, who had received a proper education befitting his status. Nisreen was dirty, poor, and uneducated—not to mention an ex-pirate! There was no way he could allow such a union to occur. The news enraged Olba, but time and experience had tempered him. Instead of killing the fat old merchant at once, Olba petitioned Alibaba. No one but Alibaba and the old merchant knew exactly what happened after Olba spoke to Alibaba, but the next day, Alibaba paid a visit to Nisreen, encouraging her to get up and wash her face, as it would be bad luck to take a crying girl shopping for her bridal trousseau.
No one knew, but everyone could at least guess that Alibaba had paid a prompt visit to the old merchant. Alibaba’s reputation proceeded him—he had conquered several dungeons, had helped destroy Al-Sarmen and bring down the Kou Empire—the list went on. It was hard to say no to Prince Alibaba—especially when he promised a sizeable dowry. After he took Nisreen out, Alibaba also proceeded to ensure that the rest of Olba’s sisters would also have proper dowries—the ones who had already married were given proper gifts to make up for their lack of dowry. It wouldn’t be fair, after all, to not give equally to everyone. It was the right thing to do. And that’s all Alibaba would say when asked. There was no other answer for him; he simply did what should have been.
Morgiana knew this would be his answer; she heard the story shortly after Alibaba had left with Nisreen. Later, the next day when they had lunch together, she didn’t mention what she had heard. If Alibaba wanted to talk about it, he would mention it. And he did.
“You know Nisreen, Olba’s sister, right?” He asked; Morgiana nodded. Alibaba looked up to the sky, something odd in his eyes. “She reminds me a lot of Cassim’s little sister. She has the same kind of personality that Maryam did.” There is a sort of lonely look in Alibaba’s eyes, something very sad. “I paid her dowry, and bought her a few things for her wedding yesterday. I think I went a little overboard because I couldn’t do anything like that for Maryam.” Morgiana listened intently to him. ‘A few things’ was an understatement; he had bought all sorts of household goods and clothing for Nisreen, not to mention the trinkets. She didn’t contradict him about that detail. “And so, I was thinking,” he continued, fidgeting a little as he spoke, “That I should do the same for you.”
Morgiana was stunned, and it took a moment for her to respond. “That will not be necessary,” she said, trying to find the right words. Alibaba freed her, had let her become his strength, and had protected her so many times. Truth be told, she should be the one paying for his dowry. “I still have money of my own.” Which was also true.
Alibaba shook his head. “No, someone should do it for you. Your father isn’t around, so someone else has to do it.” He paused, thinking for a moment. “Or do you think it would be better for Masrur to do it?” Morgiana shook her head. It would be more appropriate, but she didn’t want that, either. Alibaba looked to her, confused. It couldn’t be—“You are going to get married, right? You’re a hard worker, and cute to boot. If you wanted, you could find a husband in an hour.” Morgiana blushed, puffing her cheeks. She wasn’t prepared to take this kind of conversation. Not with him, at least. He was quiet for a moment, but said one last thing: “Just think about it, okay? We’re meeting Aladdin at the port tomorrow; we can leave early and just look and see if there’s anything there for you.”
Morgiana frowned; she didn’t want to. But it was hard to turn down Alibaba, especially when he was being so earnest like this. It wasn’t as if there wasn’t anything neat to see in the market, besides. “Just to look,” she said, very firmly. There wouldn’t be anything for him to buy.
No one knew, but everyone could at least guess that Alibaba had paid a prompt visit to the old merchant. Alibaba’s reputation proceeded him—he had conquered several dungeons, had helped destroy Al-Sarmen and bring down the Kou Empire—the list went on. It was hard to say no to Prince Alibaba—especially when he promised a sizeable dowry. After he took Nisreen out, Alibaba also proceeded to ensure that the rest of Olba’s sisters would also have proper dowries—the ones who had already married were given proper gifts to make up for their lack of dowry. It wouldn’t be fair, after all, to not give equally to everyone. It was the right thing to do. And that’s all Alibaba would say when asked. There was no other answer for him; he simply did what should have been.
Morgiana knew this would be his answer; she heard the story shortly after Alibaba had left with Nisreen. Later, the next day when they had lunch together, she didn’t mention what she had heard. If Alibaba wanted to talk about it, he would mention it. And he did.
“You know Nisreen, Olba’s sister, right?” He asked; Morgiana nodded. Alibaba looked up to the sky, something odd in his eyes. “She reminds me a lot of Cassim’s little sister. She has the same kind of personality that Maryam did.” There is a sort of lonely look in Alibaba’s eyes, something very sad. “I paid her dowry, and bought her a few things for her wedding yesterday. I think I went a little overboard because I couldn’t do anything like that for Maryam.” Morgiana listened intently to him. ‘A few things’ was an understatement; he had bought all sorts of household goods and clothing for Nisreen, not to mention the trinkets. She didn’t contradict him about that detail. “And so, I was thinking,” he continued, fidgeting a little as he spoke, “That I should do the same for you.”
Morgiana was stunned, and it took a moment for her to respond. “That will not be necessary,” she said, trying to find the right words. Alibaba freed her, had let her become his strength, and had protected her so many times. Truth be told, she should be the one paying for his dowry. “I still have money of my own.” Which was also true.
Alibaba shook his head. “No, someone should do it for you. Your father isn’t around, so someone else has to do it.” He paused, thinking for a moment. “Or do you think it would be better for Masrur to do it?” Morgiana shook her head. It would be more appropriate, but she didn’t want that, either. Alibaba looked to her, confused. It couldn’t be—“You are going to get married, right? You’re a hard worker, and cute to boot. If you wanted, you could find a husband in an hour.” Morgiana blushed, puffing her cheeks. She wasn’t prepared to take this kind of conversation. Not with him, at least. He was quiet for a moment, but said one last thing: “Just think about it, okay? We’re meeting Aladdin at the port tomorrow; we can leave early and just look and see if there’s anything there for you.”
Morgiana frowned; she didn’t want to. But it was hard to turn down Alibaba, especially when he was being so earnest like this. It wasn’t as if there wasn’t anything neat to see in the market, besides. “Just to look,” she said, very firmly. There wouldn’t be anything for him to buy.
(no subject)
He says let’s talk a little longer—Alibaba’s a little tipsy when he says this, but the night is young, and though most everyone else has gone off for the night, Morgiana still doesn’t feel tired. Maybe because she’s a little tipsy, too? She can’t find any proper reason to say no—tomorrow is another holiday, a day of rest, and he’s already tugging at her arm, urging her to get up. She follows. Why not? The courtyard is mostly empty—a few servants cleaning up the mess from the dinner, but maybe he wants somewhere different?
He guides her through the halls, and it takes a moment for it to click, but she does realize that he’s leading her down the hall to his room. She can smell it; her room and Aladdin’s are closer to the sea, so the scent of the salt water is stronger there, but Alibaba’s is closer to a garden, so it has a slightly more earthy smell. And a more Alibaba smell. Morgiana doesn’t question or hesitate—just lets him lead.
He flops on his bed rather unceremoniously, laughing as he pulls Morgiana down with him. She settles down with somewhat more grace than he does, taking her usual corner of the bed. It feels slightly empty, just the two of them. Normally, when they have late night chats, Aladdin is there with them. But Aladdin is in his own bed, having turned in early. She moves closer to Alibaba, feeling slightly more secure there. Her knee bumps his—maybe she moved a little bit closer than she thought, or maybe he felt the emptiness, too? She doesn’t know, and doesn’t care.
They talk. Alibaba tells stories from when he was little, when he and Cassim were little, from when his mother was still alive. Morgiana listens aptly; she doesn’t have as many stories to tell. At least, none that she particularly wants to. She does mention an incident that happened on the way to Katargo, one that she had forgotten about until now. Together, they remember they had last week with Aladdin, one about a very frustrated tourist and an impatient vendor. Alibaba stands on his knees, puffing out his chest in imitation of the tourist, who had been a rather short and stout man. It was a spectacle—both the original scene and Alibaba’s play act. Morgiana laughs at both Alibaba and the memory.
And then it happens. Alibaba, still tipsy, stumbles, tumbling straight on to Morgiana, whose own reaction time has been dulled by the fine wines served earlier in the night. For a moment, it’s quiet, but Alibaba quickly mumbles an apology. He doesn’t get up. Morgiana is still—she barely hears the apology, but she does feel it against her neck. His jaw is rough against her throat, and she realizes that Alibaba has stubble. It’s something that she’s never noticed before. She turns her head towards him, burying her nose in his hair and inhaling a noseful of that Alibaba smell that was so particular to him. His mouth moves—she can feel the moist puff of air, but can’t tell if he meant to say anything. She can’t focus; there are goosebumps crawling up her spine. They might be from the hand on her hip, which seems to be spasming, unable to decide between relaxing and grasping the fabric of her dress. Finally, she hears her name, first a mumble against her skin, then more clearly as he pulls away, just far enough to look at her face. “Morgiana,” he repeats, his eyes searching her face. Morgiana swallows, feeling slightly embarrassed that all she can think about is just how close he is, and just how easy it would be to just lean forward and just—kiss him. Like she just did. Alibaba stills, his hand fisting in her dress. Suddenly shy and ashamed, Morgiana pulls away, turning away from him.
“You—you really want—“ Alibaba’s voice is quiet, and there is something weak about it. Morgiana looks back, and there is something very confused in his face. But there is something else. Morgiana doesn’t know what to say, but she nods. She doesn’t see the wave of emotions that cross Alibaba’s face, amazement, then confusion again, then happiness tempered with something else. But Morgiana, turned away and trying to think of the best way to slip out of the room, doesn’t notice this, and doesn’t notice Alibaba’s shift in position until he’s already begun to pull her down with him to the bed. It’s not a far distance, and she lands rather ungracefully on top of him, but he’s smiling all the way.
He calls out her name again, and the hand that was clenched at her hip is now on her back, making slow motions against her back. She hears her name again. It’s her name, she’s heard it thousands upon thousands of times, but this time is different. He says it lowly, almost beckoning. She looks to his face, meeting his eyes. It’s difficult to see, but the moonlight seeping through the windows is just enough to make out his expression; a sort of pleased look, tinged with something she can’t quite name, but it makes her shiver. His hand moves up her back, across her shoulder, and his fingers trail up her neck and jaw, and there is something akin to wonderment in his face. His hand stops before he can touch her lips. “Can I—“ He trails off, unsure of what to ask. Morgiana just nods. There really isn’t anything that she wouldn’t say yes to right now, if she were honest.
This kiss is soft and sweet, lingering, but not long. Some part of Morgiana regretfully wishes that this had been her first kiss, but she doesn’t want to think about that day in Aktia right now. Alibaba is the one to pull away, wiggling beneath her. “Up, up,” he mumbles, pulling himself up to sit upright. He won’t admit it, but if he stays down like that and keeps craning his neck, he was going to wake up with a crick in his neck. Morgiana follows, shyly settling in front of him, their knees touching. She misses the body contact almost immediately, but she doesn’t know how to as, and he doesn’t know how to invite her to come closer. Alibaba tries to think of anything Cassim told him to do, but everything comes up blank—planning an imaginary encounter is completely different from actually having a woman in front of him. He clears his throat, looking away for a moment, trying to think of how Sinbad would deal with this.
He guides her through the halls, and it takes a moment for it to click, but she does realize that he’s leading her down the hall to his room. She can smell it; her room and Aladdin’s are closer to the sea, so the scent of the salt water is stronger there, but Alibaba’s is closer to a garden, so it has a slightly more earthy smell. And a more Alibaba smell. Morgiana doesn’t question or hesitate—just lets him lead.
He flops on his bed rather unceremoniously, laughing as he pulls Morgiana down with him. She settles down with somewhat more grace than he does, taking her usual corner of the bed. It feels slightly empty, just the two of them. Normally, when they have late night chats, Aladdin is there with them. But Aladdin is in his own bed, having turned in early. She moves closer to Alibaba, feeling slightly more secure there. Her knee bumps his—maybe she moved a little bit closer than she thought, or maybe he felt the emptiness, too? She doesn’t know, and doesn’t care.
They talk. Alibaba tells stories from when he was little, when he and Cassim were little, from when his mother was still alive. Morgiana listens aptly; she doesn’t have as many stories to tell. At least, none that she particularly wants to. She does mention an incident that happened on the way to Katargo, one that she had forgotten about until now. Together, they remember they had last week with Aladdin, one about a very frustrated tourist and an impatient vendor. Alibaba stands on his knees, puffing out his chest in imitation of the tourist, who had been a rather short and stout man. It was a spectacle—both the original scene and Alibaba’s play act. Morgiana laughs at both Alibaba and the memory.
And then it happens. Alibaba, still tipsy, stumbles, tumbling straight on to Morgiana, whose own reaction time has been dulled by the fine wines served earlier in the night. For a moment, it’s quiet, but Alibaba quickly mumbles an apology. He doesn’t get up. Morgiana is still—she barely hears the apology, but she does feel it against her neck. His jaw is rough against her throat, and she realizes that Alibaba has stubble. It’s something that she’s never noticed before. She turns her head towards him, burying her nose in his hair and inhaling a noseful of that Alibaba smell that was so particular to him. His mouth moves—she can feel the moist puff of air, but can’t tell if he meant to say anything. She can’t focus; there are goosebumps crawling up her spine. They might be from the hand on her hip, which seems to be spasming, unable to decide between relaxing and grasping the fabric of her dress. Finally, she hears her name, first a mumble against her skin, then more clearly as he pulls away, just far enough to look at her face. “Morgiana,” he repeats, his eyes searching her face. Morgiana swallows, feeling slightly embarrassed that all she can think about is just how close he is, and just how easy it would be to just lean forward and just—kiss him. Like she just did. Alibaba stills, his hand fisting in her dress. Suddenly shy and ashamed, Morgiana pulls away, turning away from him.
“You—you really want—“ Alibaba’s voice is quiet, and there is something weak about it. Morgiana looks back, and there is something very confused in his face. But there is something else. Morgiana doesn’t know what to say, but she nods. She doesn’t see the wave of emotions that cross Alibaba’s face, amazement, then confusion again, then happiness tempered with something else. But Morgiana, turned away and trying to think of the best way to slip out of the room, doesn’t notice this, and doesn’t notice Alibaba’s shift in position until he’s already begun to pull her down with him to the bed. It’s not a far distance, and she lands rather ungracefully on top of him, but he’s smiling all the way.
He calls out her name again, and the hand that was clenched at her hip is now on her back, making slow motions against her back. She hears her name again. It’s her name, she’s heard it thousands upon thousands of times, but this time is different. He says it lowly, almost beckoning. She looks to his face, meeting his eyes. It’s difficult to see, but the moonlight seeping through the windows is just enough to make out his expression; a sort of pleased look, tinged with something she can’t quite name, but it makes her shiver. His hand moves up her back, across her shoulder, and his fingers trail up her neck and jaw, and there is something akin to wonderment in his face. His hand stops before he can touch her lips. “Can I—“ He trails off, unsure of what to ask. Morgiana just nods. There really isn’t anything that she wouldn’t say yes to right now, if she were honest.
This kiss is soft and sweet, lingering, but not long. Some part of Morgiana regretfully wishes that this had been her first kiss, but she doesn’t want to think about that day in Aktia right now. Alibaba is the one to pull away, wiggling beneath her. “Up, up,” he mumbles, pulling himself up to sit upright. He won’t admit it, but if he stays down like that and keeps craning his neck, he was going to wake up with a crick in his neck. Morgiana follows, shyly settling in front of him, their knees touching. She misses the body contact almost immediately, but she doesn’t know how to as, and he doesn’t know how to invite her to come closer. Alibaba tries to think of anything Cassim told him to do, but everything comes up blank—planning an imaginary encounter is completely different from actually having a woman in front of him. He clears his throat, looking away for a moment, trying to think of how Sinbad would deal with this.
(no subject)
The first time, he was eleven years old, and with the help of Kassim and the other friendly residents of the slums, Alibaba had managed to build himself a remarkably nice sort of life. Though there had initially been some worry over whether or not Alibaba’s gentle spirit could survive the trauma of losing his mother and being turned out, but he had managed to pleasantly surprise the whole alley by thriving in the harsh reality of the streets. With every year, he grew a little bigger, and his smile a little brighter. Admittedly, he was still prone to crying, though anyone who thought to comment on that often found themselves with Kassim’s fist in their face.
It happened in the evening; Alibaba had just escorted a young couple back to their in. It wasn’t a fancy hotel, but it was known for discretion—so long as there was no blood, the innkeeper didn’t care what his clientele did. Harlots were known to frequent this area, looking for a client who was in the mood. It was here he ran into Sana, an old acquaintance of his mother’s. She had entered into the business a few years after his mother had, but the business hadn’t been kind to her. Alibaba could vaguely remember her being quite pretty, quite popular, but he didn’t remember the pockmarks on her cheeks.
Sana cooed over him, fawning over Anise’s dear boy. She had a son herself—but he hadn’t survived. Seeing Anise’s dear boy made her a little sad, thinking about her lost child, but it was good to see that Alibaba had managed to take care of himself. Alibaba fussed at the attention—he wasn’t a baby anymore!
“Of course not,” Sana said, smiling in a knowing way. “You’re almost a man, now, aren’t you! Or,” she said, a sly grin crawling over her lips, “Are you one already? Alibaba dear, if you want, we can make you one tonight.” The comment was mostly joking, but Sana would have gladly helped out Anise’s dear boy if he needed. Either way, the comment was enough to make Alibaba choke and freeze up, panic clear in his eyes. Sana kindly held back her laughter, tugging on his cowlick before letting him go. Alibaba, unable to think properly and terrified, quickly stuttered out a goodbye before dashing back, back to the alley and the safety of his tent.
Time passed. A week later, Alibaba would be on his way to the palace; a year later, Sana would be buried, victim to the plague that would also take Mariam and so many others.
It happened in the evening; Alibaba had just escorted a young couple back to their in. It wasn’t a fancy hotel, but it was known for discretion—so long as there was no blood, the innkeeper didn’t care what his clientele did. Harlots were known to frequent this area, looking for a client who was in the mood. It was here he ran into Sana, an old acquaintance of his mother’s. She had entered into the business a few years after his mother had, but the business hadn’t been kind to her. Alibaba could vaguely remember her being quite pretty, quite popular, but he didn’t remember the pockmarks on her cheeks.
Sana cooed over him, fawning over Anise’s dear boy. She had a son herself—but he hadn’t survived. Seeing Anise’s dear boy made her a little sad, thinking about her lost child, but it was good to see that Alibaba had managed to take care of himself. Alibaba fussed at the attention—he wasn’t a baby anymore!
“Of course not,” Sana said, smiling in a knowing way. “You’re almost a man, now, aren’t you! Or,” she said, a sly grin crawling over her lips, “Are you one already? Alibaba dear, if you want, we can make you one tonight.” The comment was mostly joking, but Sana would have gladly helped out Anise’s dear boy if he needed. Either way, the comment was enough to make Alibaba choke and freeze up, panic clear in his eyes. Sana kindly held back her laughter, tugging on his cowlick before letting him go. Alibaba, unable to think properly and terrified, quickly stuttered out a goodbye before dashing back, back to the alley and the safety of his tent.
Time passed. A week later, Alibaba would be on his way to the palace; a year later, Sana would be buried, victim to the plague that would also take Mariam and so many others.
(no subject)
Encounters of the intimate sort are infrequent between North Italy and England. There are some very good reasons for this; notably that England is not a pretty girl to Italy’s tastes and also that England, though at times extremely needy and libidinous, considers Italy far too annoying to be worth any amount of effort, regardless of randiness. The last encounter, both countries being quite drunk, went something like so:
“Veee,” Italy, groaned, staring blearily at the sight before him. He had had quite a bit of wine, but he had never hallucinated before! Well, there was that one time where he thought Germany’s manly and muscular chest might secretly be hiding some beautiful breasts, but Italy doesn’t really remember that very well. But this? What was this? “England, did you stick caterpillars in your underwear?” Italy asked, poking at the little hairs. Was it some kind of British aphrodisiac? No wonder no one ever got any there…
“I-idiot!” England grunted, clenching his teeth. Normally, he didn’t prefer to be very forward, but some indecency was required when handling Italy. “Just stick it in!” All the while, the part of England that was slowly sobering up was desperately trying to remember where the nearest spot he could get a cup of tea was.
Italy didn’t obey—England’s first mistake was trying to engage in a tryst with Italy. One of the (many) other mistakes he made was trying to order him around. “Are these handles,” Italy asked, now trying to tug at the little butt hairs. It took a little focus, but Italy was soon able to get a good grasp on England’s rear. England, caught between extreme pain and extreme pleasure, could only let out a small, girlish, squeal. Italy giggled at the sound, continuing to tug.
Eventually, England was able to gather enough strength and presence of mind to rear back up, consequently backwardsly headbutting Italy. Italy, unused to any sort of pain, let alone concussive blows in the middle of sex, was promptly knocked out. England, not particularly caring at this point, left him there on the floor of the hotel, collecting his things and sneaking out the complimentary soaps and shampoos as he left.
The maids could clean up the rest.
“Veee,” Italy, groaned, staring blearily at the sight before him. He had had quite a bit of wine, but he had never hallucinated before! Well, there was that one time where he thought Germany’s manly and muscular chest might secretly be hiding some beautiful breasts, but Italy doesn’t really remember that very well. But this? What was this? “England, did you stick caterpillars in your underwear?” Italy asked, poking at the little hairs. Was it some kind of British aphrodisiac? No wonder no one ever got any there…
“I-idiot!” England grunted, clenching his teeth. Normally, he didn’t prefer to be very forward, but some indecency was required when handling Italy. “Just stick it in!” All the while, the part of England that was slowly sobering up was desperately trying to remember where the nearest spot he could get a cup of tea was.
Italy didn’t obey—England’s first mistake was trying to engage in a tryst with Italy. One of the (many) other mistakes he made was trying to order him around. “Are these handles,” Italy asked, now trying to tug at the little butt hairs. It took a little focus, but Italy was soon able to get a good grasp on England’s rear. England, caught between extreme pain and extreme pleasure, could only let out a small, girlish, squeal. Italy giggled at the sound, continuing to tug.
Eventually, England was able to gather enough strength and presence of mind to rear back up, consequently backwardsly headbutting Italy. Italy, unused to any sort of pain, let alone concussive blows in the middle of sex, was promptly knocked out. England, not particularly caring at this point, left him there on the floor of the hotel, collecting his things and sneaking out the complimentary soaps and shampoos as he left.
The maids could clean up the rest.
(no subject)
There are quirks, and then there are quirks. America has a possibly unhealthy obsession with butter in the bedroom (or dining room table), France is, well, France, and England happens to have an extreme erotic spot in the form of what appears to be an extra set of eyebrows on his ass. Considering the weird things France has suggested to him and the insane amount of calories America has consumed during sex, it’s remarkably tolerable. Canada, though no one ever remembers this, happens to be one of the best lovers in the world and is more than happy to indulge England in his kinks and quirks, provided they don’t involve dressing up like America and crying. That one might be a little too weird. But massaging England’s tender, but firm and supple, cheeks with a gentleness England has rarely known? It’s pleasurable, both to England and to Canada. Really, the only problem with rubbing him off like that is that he tends to not last very long, and so Canada is often left unsatisfied.
Actually, when he thinks about it, it’s not too different from when he and England get it on in less-kinky fashion. It’s not something he really likes to focus on—if he wanted an attentive partner, he might seek out Ukraine or someone more willing to attend to him and remember whose name to call out in the middle of things. Instead, he likes to remember the aftermath—England, when exhausted and satisfied, has the odd and remarkably cute habit of curling up to his partner like a kitten.
It almost makes the entire thing worth it.
Actually, when he thinks about it, it’s not too different from when he and England get it on in less-kinky fashion. It’s not something he really likes to focus on—if he wanted an attentive partner, he might seek out Ukraine or someone more willing to attend to him and remember whose name to call out in the middle of things. Instead, he likes to remember the aftermath—England, when exhausted and satisfied, has the odd and remarkably cute habit of curling up to his partner like a kitten.
It almost makes the entire thing worth it.
(no subject)
It’s not something she’s embarrassed of, but Liechtenstein doesn’t like to admit it, either. She is, all considering, fairly inexperienced in intimate matters. Though all sorts of hijinks may have occurred while she lived in Austria’s house, she blissfully remained unaware of them. It was a proper sort of national childhood. However, when it came time for her to venture out into the world of sex and other such things, she had very little knowledge to rely on. Belgium, the kind and helpful country she was, had been happy to discreetly give her a few lessons, but some things Liechtenstein could not bring herself to ask anyone about. There was one quirk about England, that above all other things, she could not figure out, nor could she even think of the words to use to ask about even if she did manage to pull up the courage. She knew that body hair wasn’t uncommon, especially on men, but… in such an odd place, in such an odd shape! It wouldn’t be really much of a problem if she could just… avoid it, but England seemed to get more pleasure out of her rubbing the hair on his rear than he ever got out of the actual act of intercourse, or even receiving oral! He liked it, and he seemed almost hesitant to ask her to touch him there. Surely, he knew that it was an odd sort of thing… that or he was unaware of the oddity, but embarrassed because he never lasted very long when she rubbed him like that.
But still, he had always been very kind to her. He was a gentleman, and he treated her like a princess. And sometimes, when he had been drinking just a little and was mostly still sober, he’d go even farther and not treat her like a fragile little thing. She would deal with it—or learn to, shortly. It wasn’t really that big of a deal—surely, other male nations out there had similar quirks.
Right?
But still, he had always been very kind to her. He was a gentleman, and he treated her like a princess. And sometimes, when he had been drinking just a little and was mostly still sober, he’d go even farther and not treat her like a fragile little thing. She would deal with it—or learn to, shortly. It wasn’t really that big of a deal—surely, other male nations out there had similar quirks.
Right?
(no subject)
It’s hairy. Hairy and disgusting. Hairy and digusting and just flat out unsightly. Switzerland doesn’t want to be doing this. Switzerland can’t believe he’s doing it. Rubbing England’s coarse ass hairs like he would comfort a sick goat. It’s downright sickening. But damn it all, England has power. England has influence—England can do more for Switzerland and Liechtenstein with one fist than Switzerland could do with all his might. There is a war going on outside, and the only thing Switzerland has to protect himself is patriotism and dying hope.
So Switzerland will massage England’s hairy ass until he comes. He’ll rub England’s hairy ass until he comes twenty times in ten minutes, if that’s what it takes to guarantee his and Liechtenstein’s safety.
It’s all he can do.
So Switzerland will massage England’s hairy ass until he comes. He’ll rub England’s hairy ass until he comes twenty times in ten minutes, if that’s what it takes to guarantee his and Liechtenstein’s safety.
It’s all he can do.
(no subject)
There are a few hard and fast rules in most antique shops, probably the most well know of which being ‘You break, you buy.’ It was one of those rules Arthur followed devoutly, which is precisely why he never spoke to the pretty young clerk in the little corner shop. Quite frankly, she looked like she was made of a special sort of glass, a trinket from the collection of Queen Victoria. He would never purposefully say something cruel to her, but somehow wrong things always tumbled from his mouth; whatever formed in his brain somewhere along the line to his throat, his words twisted into some sort of monstrous waterfall of failure.
However, not touching did not preclude not looking. That was something he could do very well, angling himself in a specific way while looking at a teapot while glancing at her indirectly. It almost felt like some sort of perverted game, watching her talk to another customer out of the corner of his eye, imagining what he would say to her in response. "Yes, we found that teapot in a quaint little village near Bern, isn't it lovely?" "Well, how charming. Would you want to use it in a tea party with me?"
He was never very good at finding proper responses. To be quite honest, he wasn't fond of the teapot she placing back on the bureau after the old biddy was distracted by some other shiny object, but he could put up with it if she liked it so much. Certainly, though, not for Sunday tea. It wasn't proper enough for that.
Perhaps because he was watching it only so vaguely, Arthur was able to notice that the teapot was just slightly off of the dresser--the fragile little clerk, distracted by the old biddy's questions about some hat or other, let go of it a little too soon. Fortunately, he was close enough to reach out a hand to catch and steady it, pulling it back up and placing it back on the bureau. The girl had barely enough to gasp before he saved the teapot, and she smiled at him with a sort of gratitude Arthur thought had been lost with the old Victor radio console hidden in the corner of the shop.
He couldn't help but wonder--you break, you buy was simple enough to understand, but what if it was the other way around? What sort of consequence would result for saving? He wasn't entirely certain, but really, if he imagined just right, then he could see that teapot in his home, being used for a nice outdoor tea. It was the sort of thin that was nice enough to show guests, but not the sort of thing that would be missed if by happenstance if the table was knocked over by the family dog. Of course, she would miss it, but Arthur was sure that he could find something better to amuse her in no time. It'd be the advantage of helping run a little antique shop with his little clerk wife, of course.
However, not touching did not preclude not looking. That was something he could do very well, angling himself in a specific way while looking at a teapot while glancing at her indirectly. It almost felt like some sort of perverted game, watching her talk to another customer out of the corner of his eye, imagining what he would say to her in response. "Yes, we found that teapot in a quaint little village near Bern, isn't it lovely?" "Well, how charming. Would you want to use it in a tea party with me?"
He was never very good at finding proper responses. To be quite honest, he wasn't fond of the teapot she placing back on the bureau after the old biddy was distracted by some other shiny object, but he could put up with it if she liked it so much. Certainly, though, not for Sunday tea. It wasn't proper enough for that.
Perhaps because he was watching it only so vaguely, Arthur was able to notice that the teapot was just slightly off of the dresser--the fragile little clerk, distracted by the old biddy's questions about some hat or other, let go of it a little too soon. Fortunately, he was close enough to reach out a hand to catch and steady it, pulling it back up and placing it back on the bureau. The girl had barely enough to gasp before he saved the teapot, and she smiled at him with a sort of gratitude Arthur thought had been lost with the old Victor radio console hidden in the corner of the shop.
He couldn't help but wonder--you break, you buy was simple enough to understand, but what if it was the other way around? What sort of consequence would result for saving? He wasn't entirely certain, but really, if he imagined just right, then he could see that teapot in his home, being used for a nice outdoor tea. It was the sort of thin that was nice enough to show guests, but not the sort of thing that would be missed if by happenstance if the table was knocked over by the family dog. Of course, she would miss it, but Arthur was sure that he could find something better to amuse her in no time. It'd be the advantage of helping run a little antique shop with his little clerk wife, of course.