It was late in the Land of Nowhere and consequentially in the citadel of Chase Young.

Appropriately, the warlord was in his bedroom, lying still beneath several thick, warm blankets though he was not yet sleeping.

He was too preoccupied for sleep, his eyes locked on the dozing creature that was his bedmate.

Spicer looked positively angelic in sleep he noted, his golden eyes adept at seeing even in darkness.

In a welcome change from other nights, the youth had fallen right asleep upon getting comfortable and was not so much as drooling on the pillow or snoring, habits that were normally somewhat endearing but made the goth exponentially more charming when absent.

The boy was so incredibly pale, the man mused, a result of his albinism which granted him the delicate and frail appearance of death or near it without the off-putting blue of the lips and coldness of the body, something the dragon lord had always found fascinating. His ruby eyes were sealed shut in slumber, dark lashes fanned over his cheek bones and the young goth’s hair splayed about the pillow and his face.

Chase had requested that Jack cease the treatment of his hair only a few months ago. He had been specifically referring to the gel with which the boy slicked his hair as it felt, plain and simply, gross upon his fingers whenever he made the mistake of touching the stuff. The goth, however, had taken the request to mean that he should not do anything to it period, and soon enough, his true hair color began to show amongst the napalm-orange, the palest shade of blonde in existence.

The warlord had not corrected the misconstrued order because Jack looked surprisingly lovely with hair whiter than the most platinum of blondes.

Knowing how heavy a sleeper his Jack was, the man felt no compunction in pulling the albino from his current place on the bed, holding him close.

Chase had long marveled at how perfectly the goth’s body fit his.

He himself was a warrior and a warlord, something that hinged directly on strenuous upkeep of his physical form: a week of complete inactivity could quite literally ruin him should one of the Xiaolin decide to challenge him afterwards.

Jack, however, had no need for this: he was a scientist and a mechanic, these things hinging most largely on the upkeep of his mind (his body needing only minimal stretching and the exercise yielded in the fighting with the monks to be able to perform the tasks that were needed of it) and this thereby allowed him the privilege of consistently sleeping in, staying up late, eating junk food, and spending entire days doing nothing more than laying on the couch watching television.

Were his metabolism not so naturally quick, he would assuredly have a problem with his weight, but to the chagrin of any supermodel or weight-obsessed teenager, Jack was one of those people who could eat a fully-stocked kitchen of food and not gain an ounce.

As it was, though, the youth’s physical form, though thin, was incomparable to Chase’s own and marked by a complete lack of musculature in all areas. The warlord was often able to compare Jack’s arms to noodles and the goth was completely unable to combat the metaphor because he could find no way to deny it.

However, the lack of muscle-definition did afford the youth some positive aspects as well, namely malleability. Because his body was not firm and rigid as Chase’s was and he had taken a gymnastics course a decade or so back, he was wonderfully flexible, a fact for which the warlord thanked every god and goddess to have ever existed. In addition to that, Jack’s form would easily comply with the warlord’s unyielding body because it had little firmness in and of itself and offered equally little resistance to Chase’s flesh.

This directly resulted in a perfect fit between their bodies as the goth, unlike a more muscled individual, could essentially mold up against him as if he were no more than Play-Doh, forming a flawless connection between the two of them when Chase held the goth like this.

There was no expanse of skin along their fronts that would not touch, thus making it a seamless union that the warlord likened in his mind to the fit of two pieces of a puzzle: Jack Spicer was the meek to his bold, the modern to his ancient, the hope to his despair, the light to his dark...the white to his black…

…the yang to his yin

Spicer…truly completed him, didn’t he?

Jack’s features scrunched abruptly as he was at last drawn into consciousness by the feeling of eyes upon him, a soft noise of irritation escaping him as his own eyes flickered open to see his lover staring seriously at him.

“Chase,” he inquired in a tired slur, “you okay?”

The warlord did not answer and instead took the youth’s lips with his own in a deep, unhurried kiss, pleased as he was received eagerly, if perplexedly.

“You are never to leave me,” he demanded upon pulling away, his firm tone leaving no doubt that this was an order of the highest caliber. “I forbid it.”

“Sure,” Jack murmured in response, settling back amongst the pillows and already half-asleep again. “Don’t have to tell me twice: I don’t wanna leave...”

“Good,” Chase stated quietly, content in the knowledge that the one who had turned out to be the keeper of his black heart had no plans to escape him any time soon.

~~~~~~~~ Back to Xiaolin Showdown ~~~~~~~~


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