for @starfata who asked for "Bruises or muscle strain from sex"
"Are you kidding me?"
Ilya lifts his head from the pillow to see Shane standing in the doorway to the bathroom. He's still naked after a post-coital shower and Ilya takes a long moment to admire his husband before acknowledging his question.
"What?"
Shane glares at him, gesturing at his hip where five small, red marks are blooming into a set of bruises where an hour ago, Ilya was gripping Shane for dear life as he rode him. There's a matching set on the other hip, painting a beautiful picture.
Ilya can't help but smile proudly, which only serves to make Shane look angrier. "What?" he repeats. "You said I could leave marks now."
"The team is gonna see these," Shane huffs.
"I think the team already knows we have sex," Ilya points out, very reasonably.
"I don't want them being able to picture the exact positions!"
Ilya rolls his eyes. "Moya lyubov, straight men do not know enough about gay sex to be able to do that. They have very poor imaginations."
"Not all of our teammates are straight," Shane says, unfortunately also very reasonable.
"Ah." Ilya looks back at the marks. If he squints, he thinks he can almost see the outline of his entire hand. "Well. Barrett knows that if he pictures you having sex, I will kill him. I will remind him of this tomorrow."
Shane pokes at the bruises and Ilya watches with smug fascination as his cock twitches. "...Maybe I'll shower at home until these heal."
could you write something about shane who is a little drunk (or a lot drunk) having a conversation with harris? I can't stop thinking about it since you reblogged that one post, I think they would have such fun interactions
the legendary post by @smokingrozanov
my prompts are open atm but pls be patient with me :)
-
It takes Shane's eyes a second to focus on the rainbow pin on the front of Harris' denim jacket.
"Where do you get those?" he asks. There's too much spit in his mouth, so he swallows, licks his lips. He has to scream a little; they ended up at a club with the team tonight. And clubs usually mean somebody tries to get Shane drunk.
"What?" Harris asks. Shane gestures to his pins with an uncoordinated hand. He shouldn't have taken that tequila from Bood. "Oh, my pins?" Harris' eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles. He's not really attractive to Shane at all, but at the same time, maybe he can see it after all. "I buy them whenever I see them in shops. Sometimes, friends gift me one, bring one from vacation, that sort of stuff."
"That's really nice," Shane says. Then, "How did you know you were gay?"
Harris looks amused. It's an expression Shane is familiar with on other people's faces, however, he doesn't think Harris is making fun of him right now. "Um, I guess when I was five and wanted to marry my friend Steven in kindergarten." He laughs. "When did you know?"
"When I was sucking Ilya's dick." It comes out before Shane's drunk brain can catch up with his mouth. "Oh. Sorry."
Harris laughs, reaching out to squeeze Shane's shoulder. It's nice, friendly, in a different way than all the manly, hyper-masculine shoulder slaps Shane gets from his teammates. "Not the worst way to realize!"
For some reason, this makes Shane giggle. "No, not at all. He didn't even have to tell me to do it, I just did it!"
Harris laughs. "Oh wow, good for you. And him."
Shane lets out a drawn-out, "Yeeeah" followed by a sigh. "Took me forever to be honest with myself, though."
"I'm glad you were, in the end." Harris' smile is genuine.
"Yeah, me too," Shane admits. Harris still has his hand on Shane's shoulder, which feels nice. Stabilizing. "I think maybe... I think maybe I always loved dick too much to ever be with a woman." Another sigh. "And Ilya has... he has such a great dick. It's like... so big, so hot..."
Shane's eyes drift shut at the thought. He knows he shouldn't be saying these things but he also can't stop his mouth from doing so.
"That's awesome, buddy," Harris says, and Shane can tell that he's trying not to laugh.
"Sorry," Shane sighs, forcing his eyes open. "I should shut up."
"No!" Harris pats his cheek, "Hey, I'm happy for you. You're allowed to be unapologetically gay, okay?"
Suddenly, there are tears in Shane's eyes and his throat is closing up because hearing this from another queer person is... something. Something Shane suddenly feels deep in his chest, amplified by the booze in his system. He reaches out, hugging Harris. "Thank you for saying that."
"Oh-" Harris freezes for a split-second, but immediately hugs him right back. It's a good hug; he's soft and he smells nice and he's stroking Shane's back. Shane sniffles, and Harris squeezes him harder. "Of course, buddy. It's okay to love dick."
Shane laughs. When he pulls back, Harris quickly wipes his tears away.
"You're too nice for Troy," Shane sighs; this time, Harris laughs for real.
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that, Shane." Before Shane can say something else, Harris adds, "How about we find your husband now?"
Shane nods, perking up at the mention of Ilya. "I'd like that."
"Okay. Come on." Harris grabs his hand, pulling Shane towards the club's dancefloor.
she’s never with them when they wake up. the first few nights, it’s easy to explain away—she’s lying, but the explanations make sense, at least.
i got restless so i went to the gym.
please wake us if you go to the gym. stupid of them. they should have been less specific.
i got restless so i went for a run.
they should have asked about the restless part of it but.
please wake us if you go for a run.
the tenth morning, she’s making breakfast. something she rarely does—rumi has never once, in seven years of knowing her, made breakfast. when it comes to eating it, she doesn’t like to eat before nine. and when it comes to making it, she’s always said she doesn’t like the variety. if the girls liked specific breakfasts maybe that would be okay but they cook or order different things every day and it’s a serious headache to keep track of. or so rumi has always said.
when mira wakes up, zoey is curled tight into her side, fingers twisted into mira’s oversized shirt. her body is warm and solid and mira feels so settled. it’s rare to feel like that. like, she’s confident and sure all day, every day (most days, mostly) but it’s always go, go, go and the energy gets a little frenetic around performances and it’s just—whatever happens outside, the penthouse, and this bed, is the safest, calmest spot in mira’s life.
except rumi isn’t here.
again.
and the worry takes the feeling mira wakes up with and shoves it an inch to the left and the cold seeps into the gap where rumi ought to be.
‘she’s been gone for a while,’ zoey tells her, barely a whisper.
‘yeah?’
‘since before i woke up.’
mira blinks up at the ceiling. then cranes her neck to check on zoey. she jostles her a little, and then again until zoey huffs and looks up at her, and she pokes her cheek under puffy eyes.
‘how long have you been awake?’
zoey shrugs. rolls half on top of mira to hides her face in her shoulder. mumbles something.
mira jostles her until zoey gabs strong fingers into her side.
‘ow!’
‘stop that! i’m sulking!’
mira slips her hand up the back of zoey’s shirt. there’s nothing suggestive about it. she just wants to feel her. zoey sighs, the stress in her body unravelling as mira drifts her hand up and down the ladder of her spine.
‘i don’t think sulking is the right word. i think you might be sad.’
‘no—‘
‘i am,’ mira offers, and then she waits. drifts her hand up and down. waits through quiet shuddering, and the slightly unpleasant feeling of tears soaking into her shirt, until zoey says,
‘i don’t know how to fix it. i don’t—and as bad as it is for us, she’s all alone. and every morning we’ve been going after her but she keeps lying and i - i really h- i don’t like it. it feels like being back with my parents, i hate it,’ zoey lets herself say, though still very quietly. ‘she’s looking for reasons not to be with us and i don’t get what i did wrong.’
when did talking get so hard? mira wonders. she wants to tell zoey it’s not her fault—but both of them threatened rumi. she wants to tell her that rumi isn’t going to leave—but she has been, every morning. and zoey is right. because mira doesn’t know either. she knows the demon stuff isn’t going to be settled right away but rumi climbs into bed with them every night. she holds them and stares at them like there’s nowhere she’d rather be and mira lets that reassure her, every night, that tomorrow will be different. this time, rumi will stay.
‘we need to talk to her.’
zoey bites her shoulder. hard.
‘ow! what was that for!’
‘i don’t want to,’ zoey whines. ‘i just want everything to be magically better and back the way it was. except not, actually, because i like the cuddles and the hugs and all the rest.’ she’s confused herself. zoey goes cross-eyed to make mira laugh.
loud enough that the noise in the kitchen gets a touch louder, performative in the way rumi always has been.
don’t worry! here i am!
‘we have to get up.’
zoey whines again. flings a leg over mira.
‘carry me.’
‘no.’
‘carry me.’
‘no! lazy ass.’
‘why don’t you love me!’
‘zoey, i love you so much. but last time i carried you, i sprained my ankle.’
‘that wasn’t my fault. you shouldn’t have kicked the footboard.’
‘you literally tickled me while i was walking.’
‘well, i promise i won’t do that this time. carry me?’
mira knows two things with absolute certainty. one: she loves her girls. two: when she dies, it’s probably going to be because zoey smiles at her and says trust me. because she will. against all evidence to the contrary, she will.
‘fine.’
//
they make it to the kitchen unharmed and unmolested (mostly. mira’s boob would beg to differ, and also would kindly request that next time she cops a feel, zoey doesn’t say “honk” like a clown.) rumi grins at them, lopsided; it’s relieving because that’s rumi’s real smile; it’s concerning because she’s not even putting effort into looking less tired. and she does. look tired. tired and small in mira’s oversized hoodie. sleeves to her wrists. hoodie clutched around her throat. pyjama pants tucked into huntrx branded tube socks. the only visible skin is the tips of her fingers and her face.
it’s been at least two hours. the kitchen looks fucking spotless, which explains what rumi has been doing. and there’s an extensive breakfast spread, like rumi started cooking and couldn’t stop.
mira means to go about it more gently but rumi asks them what they want to drink and turns away without even saying good morning or trying to explain and it’s just - zoey cried. into her shoulder for a solid ten minutes.
‘can you tell us why you’re never in bed with us when we wake up?’
zoey freezes. her arms tightened to a stranglehold around mira’s neck.
‘what are you doing?’ she hisses.
mira shrugs. she can’t meet anyone’s eyes. she doesn’t want to see rumi looking like an animal on the slaughter block. she doesn’t want to see zoey’s look of horror as yet another argument gets started. she doesn’t want them to see how close to tears she is. all she wants is to wake up and know her family is safe. how come rumi doesn’t want that?
‘i—‘
the kettle clatters back into its spot.
‘i made y- made us breakfast.’
‘that you won’t eat. like you won’t stay in bed. do you have another job lined up so you can leave halfway through?’
‘mira…’
‘i didn’t leave the house! i didn’t go to the gym or anything, i - i’m right here!’
‘but you’re not!’
‘okay everyone, stop!’ zoey drops to the floor, throws out her hands in between them. ‘please! i’m seriously going to throw up if you guys fight. can we have breakfast? can we talk?’
‘will rumi stay and eat with us?’
‘mira,’ zoey hisses again.
mira rubs her eyes. ‘sorry. yes. this looks really good, rumi.’
‘…thanks.’
‘pass the rice please.’
‘can i get you a drink?’
‘sit down, rumi. tea? zoey, you’re not getting anything caffeinated before nine.’
‘boo! juice then, please.’
‘juice. good. don’t touch my egg—rumi, protect it with your life.’
‘en garde, lady rumi.’
‘retreat, thou cowardly cur. death before dishonour. my life for this egg.’
‘…i’ll give you—‘
mira turns back at the sudden silence to find her egg trading places. she squawks.
‘what the hell, rumi?’
rumi shrugs, a smug smile curving her lips. ‘sorry. she made a very enticing offer. what was i supposed to do?’
‘i’ll never forget this treachery,’ mira tells her gravely, and settles rumi’s tea very carefully down in front of her. she pauses before retreating, catching rumi’s golden eyes with her own. leaning forward, ever so slowly, she presses her lips against rumi’s brow. the skin is hot where a pattern strikes though it. mira lingers for a second before she turns away to get the juice from the fridge.
when she finally takes her place, rumi’s cheeks are a faded, fine pink but zoey’s grin is completely unchecked. splitting her face cheek to cheek.
rumi jabs at her own carefully prepared rice bowl. she barely eats anything and mira is determined not to be worried about it because in seven years, rumi has never eaten this early. it’s a good thing, she decides. she’s here, with them. she’s not leaving.
mira catches zoey’s eyes.
zoey lifts a brow.
mira shrugs.
zoey scrunches her lips up tight beneath her nose.
‘girls,’ rumi says, without looking up from her bowl, ‘i don’t think it really matters who goes first.’
‘admit that you have a favourite,’ mira demands, cheekily. ‘it’s me, right?’
‘WHAT!’ zoey slams both hands down on the table. she levels her spoon at mira like a shin-kal. ‘no way! it’s definitely me!’
rumi rolls her eyes. ‘girls, girls, you’re both pretty,’ she teases, then looks panicked, then doesn’t look panicked anymore. she laughs at them and pushes her bowl to the side when she sees they’re both basically finished. ‘i guess we should talk now.’
zoey sits back down. ‘yes. key word being talk. not yelling.’
‘okay.’
‘okay,’ rumi agrees, though she looks like she might want to throw up instead.
mira thinks straight forward is probably best.
‘you keep leaving.’
‘I—‘
‘if you don’t want to sleep with us, you don’t have to,’ mira continues, trying very hard to sound non-judgemental and kind. it turns out that’s easy to do when rumi is hiding her face but her fingers, the tiny bit still visible, are shaking. ‘rumi. hey. what’s going on? we don’t—if you don’t want to cuddle with us, you don’t have to. but when we wake up and you’re not there—it’s really scary. can you - if you need to be gone, i get it. but i really, really need you to wake me up. wake us up.’
‘you keep—‘ zoey stops, looking surprised at herself.
rumi tilts her head in her direction. she reaches a slow hand over and zoey latches onto it. bolstered, zoey presses on.
‘you keep saying that you’re restless. is it — is that why? you can’t stay in bed?’
rumi is silent for a long time. then, what little of her face is visible riddled with guilt, she shakes her head shrugs. starts to shake her head no and stops to shrug again.
‘can you - can you tell us what it is? because we can - if there’s something we’ve done—‘
‘it’s not you,’ rumi says. rasps, words rough, lol they have to be forced out. she sounds worse than when she had lost her voice. ‘it’s—stupid.’
‘never.’
‘probably. ow! that nearly got me in the eye, zoey!’
‘don’t be mean!’
‘it was funny! rumi is literally laughing.’
‘she’s laughing because you squeaked like a chew toy.’
‘i didn’t!’
‘you did.’
‘you did,’ rumi agrees, the traitor. she uncurls. comes out of her hoodie enough to flash a happy grin. ‘i—really love you guys.’
the words slip out, unplanned.
mira knows because she has front row seats to rumi’s instant dismay; she would have run away except zoey is now clinging to her hand tight.
‘we love you too,’ they tell her immediately.
rumi smiles, nods. mira can’t help but think there’s something they haven’t understood. something she hasn’t said. but she’s not quite sure what.
‘i keep waking up and…’ rumi’s eye glints. ‘i don’t know. i don’t know. i have to leave.’
‘leave the bed? leave us?’
‘i don’t know.’
rumi is lying. she looks so miserable about it that mira can’t bring herself to point it out; from the thoughtful look on her face, zoey has noticed it too. probably she’ll figure it out before mira. before rumi does too. confusion sits cloudy and soft on rumi’s hard expression, full of blame.
‘rumi, when it happens again—if it happens again—please wake me up. or zoey. just so we know.’
‘i’ll try.’
//
their bedroom is painted in midnight blues. zoey is snoring and fighting in her sleep, hands and feet twitching like the dream lord owes her money. images come to mira disjointed, flashes of understanding between slow slow blinks.
the muted night.
the dip and lift of the bed.
a face, far from hers, crumpled in distress.
‘rumi?’ mira rasps. ‘y’leavin’?’
rumi shuffles a little closer. there’s heaven in her eyes. something shining. shining.
‘you okay?’
rumi nods. she’s lying. it’s not so distressing when mira knows. it’s just sad.
‘can i ask you something?’ rumi whispers. her fingers are so cold when she takes mira’s hand.
how long as she been awake? how long has she been out of bed?
‘what?’
‘can i ask?’
‘yeah. yeah, i’m— awake. what’s wrong?’
rumi stares down at her. she’s so pretty. mira doesn’t mind that she’s curling weirdly to accommodate rumi, perched on the side of the bed. she’ll sleep like this forever if rumi wants.
‘what’s up?’ she prods when rumi doesn’t move.
rumi touches mira’s hand slowly to her face. fingertips to the pattern curling over her chin. it’s warm. compared to the rest of her. zoey would have questions about that. mira’s too sleep to think anything but how nice it would be to hold her.
‘do you want me to stay?’ rumi asks her. unblinking. her eyes are shining.
mira snorts. a mean little laugh.
‘of course. don’t be dumb. pee ‘n’ come back t’ bed,’ she mumbles, pats rumi’s cheek. ‘okay?’
rumi’s mouth tilts at the corner.
‘okay.’
//
there’s a weight on the shoulder. stunningly warm and heavy. zoey must be sleeping like a fucking rock because mira’s arm is dead. she groans. jostles her.
rumi groans back.
‘stop moving.’
‘get off my arm, i’m gonna have to amputa—rumi?’
‘shut up.’
‘oh. oh my god.’ mira rubs her knuckles into her eyes. sits up fast enough to dislodge rumi, who turns with an angry groan and drags the blankets over her head. mira whips her head in the other direction to find zoey tapping away with lightning speed on her phone. ‘zoey?’
‘hi, babe. rumi stayed. i’m inspired. three new songs. don’t talk to me.’
‘got it.’
‘don’t talk to me.’
‘got it,’ mira huffs again, and flops back down. she peeks again at the lump beside her. twists around to drape her arm over blanketed rumi. ‘five more minutes.’
Danny is a young adult studying at Gotham University. He leads a quiet, normal life, just the way he likes it
For some reason, the Waynes took notice of him. They investigated him (why?) and analyzed his DNA (how?!)
It turns out he's Daddy Bruce's biokid. Now those arrogant entitled people won't leave him alone, calling him “their brother” and “my son”
Thank God he's legally an adult, so they can't force him to live with them. Danny wants nothing to do with them, but for some reason his refusal only attracts them more (and one of them claims that all this serendipity and his attitude is a ploy to get closer to them?! Fuck off!)
The reason they took his DNA is because Tim noticed Danny looked suspiciously like Bruce, and was a bit trigger-happy after some past incidents with lookalikes. He didn’t necessarily think the chances were high that something was amiss, but better safe than sorry.
But then he found Danny was Bruce’s kid, and things went off the rails. Several surreptitious background checks later, and he decided to meet up with their new brother.
***
“Is this seat taken?” asked an unfamiliar voice, the other young man already sitting down across from Danny at the cafe table and setting his bag down beside him.
“No…?”
“Good. I’m Tim Drake.”
Danny’s eyebrow shot up. “The billionaire? Yeah, right. What’s next, ‘Danny, I urgently need you to buy in on my next big corporate endeavor, you’ll make millions’?”
Tim flushed. “No, really. I’m not trying to scam you. I actually am Tim Drake. And I need to talk to you.”
Danny began to edge towards the corner of his seat, but Tim continued, seemingly oblivious to his obvious desire to leave. “Look, this is going to sound weird, but… it turns out you’re my brother.”
Danny snorted. “Pull the other one, it’s got bells on.”
“No, seriously.” He pulled out a sheet of paper from his bag, unfolded it, and slid it across the table. Danny’s eyes flicked across it, catching upon a few words such as “Bruce Wayne” and “paternal match”.
Okay, this was getting creepy. “How the hell did you even get this? I sincerely doubt my DNA is on public record.”
Tim bulldozed past the question. “I’ve already taken the liberty of informing the others and setting up a time for you to meet them this weekend. Just show up at Wayne Manor at lunchtime and Alfred’ll let you in. Or I can send a car to pick you up at—”
Danny stood up abruptly, cutting him off. “No thank you. I like my family plenty much, and I don’t need you fruitloops butting in. Good day.”
He bundled up his belongings and left the cafe in a rush.
Tim sat there for a moment, and sighed. He pulled out his phone and dialed. “You won the bet; we’ll need to pick him up.”
Sexting for the sleepover smut prompts? Hucklerabbot? <3
Robby's already having a rough fucking day. He doesn't especially want to be here at work. Especially when Whitaker isn't here for him to … well. For the kid's mere presence to make him feel better about the world and worse about himself.
Dirty old man. Perverse. Wrong. Half your age, Michael, young enough to be your son.
His phone buzzes, and he swipes open the notification from Jack without even thinking. Muscle memory.
He's greeted with a photo that might burn his eyes out. Loads immediately, none of this slow buffer shit he remembers from trying to get off in the 90s.
Jack is naked, it's clear. Sweaty and grinning up into the camera. His curls are all mussed and a little matted.
Robby can't see his cock though, because Whitaker is between his legs, his mouth wrapped around it. Christ, he's sucking Jack down so deep that there are greying pubes brushing against his face.
Robby closes the message on instinct, worried someone, anyone might see.
Then he ducks into a bathroom, locks himself in a cubicle, and opens it again.
You were right, brother. He is lovely.
Fucking hell.
The rage shouldn't get him hard, but, the combination of anger and blood flooding to his dick, and this fucking photo. He's practically straining out of his scrubs.
I told you not to make a move until I was around.
He's so turned on it's almost hard to tap the words out.
Jack sends him another message, near-instantly.
This time, the photo has Whitaker looking up, right up, at him. His eyes are watering and his mouth is stretched obscene around Jack and fuck, Robby wants to be both of them.
He was too tempting. How long left on your shift? Better get home before I wear him out.
Shen Yuan should transmigrate as Qiu Haitang!
He *could* break himself and SJ out of the horrible Qiu household, but Qiu Haitang showing up “early” only to kidnap SQQ’s littlest disciple would also be funny.
"Why are you here?" Shen Qingqiu asks flatly, as he leaves the bamboo house with Ming Fan in tow.
"I heard that you took on a new disciple," says the woman before him.
Qiu Haitang does not meet his eyes. She has not looked him in the eye for the better part of twenty years—not since that first murder on the road, when she came to bring him a basket of food and found Shen Qingqiu and Wu Yanzi with blood still dripping from their hands—but even so, her avoidance of him has never grown easier to bear.
"I did," Shen Qingqiu replies. "What of it?"
"I told you not to," Qiu Haitang says, her hands curling into fists. "That—Li Haoran was to be the last. You promised me."
"Ning Yingying wanted a shidi."
"I don't give a damn what Ning Yingying wanted," she says sharply. "You swore you would never take in another boy."
Silence.
"If I go into the house," Qiu Haitang continues, her voice deceptively calm, "tell me, Shen Jiu—what will I find?"
At this, Ming Fan steps forward and stretches out his hands in supplication. "Shiniang—"
"Be silent," she snaps. "Your shifu is a lost cause, and that can't be helped; but if Disciple Ming cannot learn from his mistakes, then you don't need to speak in front of me. Did you even think of coming to fetch me when you saw that he had picked up another little shidi to bully?"
With that, Qiu Haitang snorts and sweeps past him into the bamboo house, where Luo Binghe is still kneeling in the middle of the front room with tea trickling down his tearstained cheeks.
"There, don't cry," Shen Qingqiu hears her whisper. "You didn't do anything wrong. Can you look up so that jiejie can dry your face?"
"Shizun—shizun told me to kneel," the little wretch in the house replies, half-sobbing. "It's this lowly one's fault. I offended him, so of course this disciple should stay here and reflect."
"You didn't offend anyone," Qiu Haitang says gently. "He has a terrible temper, and he never learned how to control it. It's not your fault."
"But—!"
Qiu Haitang hushes Luo Binghe again, after which Shen Qingqiu hears nothing further: for at that moment, his wife seemed to have recalled the existence of the bamboo house's privacy wards—but later that evening, she returns to the house with a sheaf of papers and flings them down on Shen Qingqiu's desk.
"Sign these," she tells him.
Shen Qingqiu glances at the first page in bemusement. "What are they?"
"Dissolution papers for Luo Binghe's discipleship. What else?" Qiu Haitang's lip curls. "From now on, I'll be his Shizun instead."
He lifts an eyebrow. "Did Yue Qingyuan give you these? He approved when I asked for that little beast, you know."
"He must have thought you'd wait at least a week before doing something to the child," Haitang says coldly. "I told him that he could either give Binghe to me or send him to Bai Zhan; and he was determined to save face for you, so he chose me."
And then, when Shen Qingqiu does not reply:
"Sign them, Shen Jiu. You don't want to know what I'll do to you otherwise."
At this, Shen Qingqiu picks up a brush and signs his name at the bottom of the dissolution form: for the last time he and Qiu Haitang fought in earnest, she fed him a cursed tonic that had him babbling in tongues before a hundred-odd dignitaries at Huan Hua.
"Thank you," she bites out: and with that, she turns on her heel and blows out of the bamboo house like a gust of chill wind.
Not for the first time, Shen Qingqiu finds himself wishing that he had left Qiu Haitang behind at the Qiu estate when he fled with Wu Yanzi. But her father and brother were dead, and she believed that she was betrothed to him; and when he saw her great brown eyes staring at him through the flames of her home, some power beyond Shen Qingqiu's own had prevented him from turning his back on her.
She was not meant to accept when I offered to take responsibility for her, he thinks dully, watching through the open window as his wife strides towards the women's compound on the other side of the mountain. She hated me then, and she hates me now—so what was it all for?
Shen Qingqiu has pondered upon that question night and day since he and Qiu Haitang first bowed to one another, not long after his instatement as Qing Jing's head disciple; and he is no nearer to the answer by the morning he is widowed, nearly a decade later.
What point was there in saving her? he wonders, as a grown Luo Binghe weeps in the streets of Hua Yue with Qiu Haitang's still body cradled to his breast. Would it not have been better for her to die after the first betrayal, rather than live to be betrayed twice?
"Why are you all just standing there?" he hears Ming Fan roar. "That's our Shiniang! What are you afraid of? At most, that white-eyed wolf she raised will just beat us all to death!"
"Leave it."
Ming Fan stares at Shen Qingqiu in dismay, his eyes so swollen with tears that he scarcely seems able to see through them. "What is Shizun saying? What do you mean, leave her? She's our only Shiniang—she's your wife!"
Shen Qingqiu gazes at the cooling corpse in Luo Binghe's arms for a little while longer; and then, at length, he turns away.
"Your Shiniang's end was of her own making, Ming Fan," Shen Qingqiu says, already starting towards the group of screeching cultivators trapped behind the wards at the other end of the street.
