#if i can stave off burning out for just one more month i’ll make it but Holy Fuck Lmao

[macchiatogf]

my first draft of my capstone is a week overdue so i’m trying the ole sleep deprivation method (i.e. no sleep til it’s done) but now it’s 3am i’ve faffed my way into getting one more page done and the harsh reality that this paper is truly not going to write itself is setting in. what the fuck gives

[californiadreaminginpink]

Use me

Gator Tillman x OC

Word count: 3080

18+ Minor's do not interact.

CW: Slow burn, future smut, swearing, violence (particularly this part), assault, smoking, drinking. Don't know if i've missed anything?

Summary: A new criminal family has moved to Stark County, opening possibilities up for Roy Tillman, but only if his son can focus, which is difficult when he is intoxicated by the daughter of said family.

Part 2 - Consequences

This is a true story. The events depicted took place in Minnesota in 2018. At the request of the survivors, the names have been changed. Out of respect for the dead, the rest has been told exactly as it occurred.

The large door mat which lay at the entrance of the police station muffled the sounds of stomping boots as Gator forcefully lead out a petite Blonde woman, his hand gripped roughly to her upper arm. He winced at the brightness of the sunlight, amplified against the fresh dusting of snow as they stepped through the automatic glass doors. The blonde struggled slightly, stumbling over her inappropriate choice of footwear, heels which slid dangerously on the ice. Gator practically threw her against the exterior brick wall of the station and she yelped slightly, before rearranging her dishevel coat, scowling at him under a large pair of sunglasses which had been covering her icy blue eyes.

“You can’t just turn up at the station whenever you want Ruby,” Gator glared at her through gritted teeth, his fist clenching subconsciously. He realised what he was doing and took a step back to calm himself. Ruby knew exactly how to get a rise from him and he wasn’t in the mood for her childish games. He grabbed the vape from the pocket of his cargo trousers and took a long deliberate drag from it, staring down the woman in front of him in an attempt to look threatening. She was used to this look, it was usually followed by him grabbing her face roughly and crashing his lips against hers. She smirked back at him expectantly, however for the first time in months he simply looked away from her.

“Well, what do you expect when you ignore me huh?” She bit back, trying to find the right button to press. She was there for a reason and she always got what she wanted, especially when it came to Gator, he was so easy to get a rise from, to tease. “Least you could have done is text me that you weren’t coming over. Might have got a decent night’s sleep ‘stead of waiting up for you.”

“You’re not my girlfriend. I don’t owe you shit.” Gator said bluntly. His words stung, making Ruby bite the inside of her cheek as she felt a wave of emotion she wasn’t expecting. Sure, they hadn’t labelled anything, but they weren’t nothing. Sex involved some emotions at least, even if they were just a means to an end for each other. She hated herself as she realised in that moment she had let it become more for herself.

“Fuck you Gator,” she spat, her voice filled with venom. She shoved him harshly in the chest, desperate to hurt him, forcing him to step back. He smirked lazily looking down to the hands on his chest before shrugging them away, only to be met with a harsh slap to his cheek. He bought his hand up to the burning sensation and rolled his jaw slightly to stave off the sting.

“Whatever Ruby.” He laughed. “Whatever the fuck this is, is done. Don’t fuckin’ text me and don’t show up at the station again ya hear?” He spoke with finality, hoping to finally walk away, but Ruby continued, she really was relentless.

“I’ll remind you of that later when you’re beggin’ me like a dog shall I?” She jabbed at him with one last desperate attempt, the button she knew always worked.

“Shut you damn mouth for once in your life would ya?” Gator muttered harshly, turning back to face her, more threatening than before. His fist clenched again, but he didn’t notice this time.

He was saved from his reckless intentions, however by the loud humming of motor engines as several large SUVs pulled into the parking lot, one after the other. The convoy had caught the attention of both himself and Ruby as they passed them and parked a few rows of spaces back from the station. The doors started to scatter open as Gator blinked against the sunlight to see who it was. A few men he didn’t recognise stepped from two of the cars, stretching their stiff bones lazily and zipping up their various jackets before continuing conversations that had been started from the warmth of their cars. It was the third car that caught Gator’s eye however, as the now familiar figures of Charlie and his brother Sam exited from the back seat, either side of the car. Gator straightened up and took another hit of his vape a small frown forming on his features. He watched as, silhouetted against the sun, Charlie held his hand out and helped Rose jump down from the raised step of the car with a gentle thud into the snow. The three of them huddled together in conversation as their father exited from the driver’s seat of the car and a further man from the passenger side, the two of them continuing their own conversation.

Charlie stubbed out a cigarette on the ground, his eye catching something on his brother’s sleeve. “Did you not wash this?” He asked, eyeing the red stain that dotted Sam’s cuff, picking his wrist up for emphasis.

“’Course I did.” Sam protested grumpily, pulling his arm from his brother’s reach before eying the stain himself, picking at it in an attempt to make it less obvious. “Damn stain won’t come out. Been there since Michigan.”

Charlie rolled his eyes, “Just chuck it already.”

“No way it’s my lucky shirt!” Sam protested, hiding the shirt cuff with the sleeve of his jacket which he tugged down.

“Baking soda will get it right out,” Rose suggested simply. “let me have a go with it later, good as new I’m telling ya” she smiled, continuing to muse the benefits in her teasing way.

“Who’s that?” Ruby huffed, crossing her arms in front of her defensively with a scowl.

“When did you get so nosey?” Gator frowned, pulling his eyes away from the gathering in the parking lot for a moment to look down at her.

“Get fucked Gator.” She bluntly retorted. “Better yet, maybe I’ll try over there. The blonde is gorgeous.” Her final attempt to get a rise from Gator, no such luck.

“Good luck to ya.” He smirked, taking a final drag from his vape before turning and stalking back inside the station, not gracing her with a look back.

“Okay, ready sweetheart?” John asked, placing a gentle kiss on his daughters temple.

“Oh one second,” she said before diving back into the car and pulling out a small bunch of hand picked flowers, neatly tied with a bow and a worn enamel tin, the kind which could be mistakenly opened at a grandparents house, only to find sewing supplies instead of the desired sweet treats. “Okay ready!” She smiled warmly, a skip in her step as she made her way towards the entrance of the station flanked by several well built men, most of whom where littered with questionable scars. Ruby watched, eying the new woman up and down from under her sunglasses until she disappeared through the entrance whilst half of her party remained outside watchfully.

Though the station had recently had a fresh coat of paint, the smell of which still lingered in the air, it was still dated. The tiled carpet floor was worn and the posters on the notice boards had edges which were starting to curl. The warmth of the heater blew gently down as Rose crossed the threshold, warming her cheeks. She took a moment to take in her surroundings, noticing the scattered desks and unkempt coffee station where sticky rings decorated the surface of the table. She glanced towards the work stations and spotted him instantly. He was leaning against his desk, eyes watching her intently as he exhaled a cloud of fruity  vapour, half obscuring his face, but not enough to hide the pinking shape of a hand forming on his cheek. The right side of his lip raised in a smile and his eyes flashed cheekily, sending a wave of butterflies through Rose’s stomach as her breath caught a little in her throat. She returned the smile which soon turned into a questioning smirk as she noticed the untidy hell he was perched on; energy drinks littered everywhere with various levels of liquid and scruffy stacks of paper work covered in crumbs and coffee stains. She pulled her gaze away, following her dad and brothers up towards the reception desk, helpfully labelled in large letters, where a frumpy older woman sat, her hair tightly permed and lipstick smudged at the edges. She looked over the brim of her wire glasses at the group in front of her before giving them a welcoming smile. “Well good morning, how can I help you today sir?”

“Good morning sweetheart,” her father started, making the poor lady blush, “I believe Sheriff Tillman is expecting us. Name’s Cornell.” He lifted the heavy duffle bag he had been holding and slung it over his shoulder with ease, waiting patiently. Rose knew it was full of cash, it did make her laugh sometimes at how unsubtle her father could be.

“Bare with me just a moment,” the receptionist smiled, looking through a pink polka dot diary that was sitting next to her large mug of tea. Her finger traced down the page, along the various time slots under the day’s date and stopped by 14:20: Sherriff meeting John Cornell.

“Oh there it is. You can go straight through to the back there, it’s the office at the end of the corridor. If you wait on one of the chairs outside, I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”

“Thank you darling,” John smiled with genuine charm. He turned giving his sons a nod before moving on to find said corridor, duffle still slung over his shoulder.

“And can I help you miss?” The receptionist asked Rose, now next in line to speak to her.

“Yes, I’m looking for Deputy Clarke,” Rose asked sweetly, making sure to bat her eyelashes in a way which made her innocence shine through.

“That all for him sweetie?” The receptionist chuckled, gesturing to what Rose was holding.

“Hmm? Oh no mam, these are just a good will gesture from us to the station. We’re new to the area see. Myself, father and brothers.” Rose said gesturing to the two men standing behind her, both of whom were waiting for her to finish. “Thought they might brighten the place up a bit. They’d look just lovely on your desk here,” Rose continued handing over the flowers to the receptionist. “Oh and these are for everyone, Oatmeal raison and Choc chip. Thought you should all have a few options.” She finished handing the tin over next.

“Right… Well that’s mighty nice of you.” She took the tin graciously if not slightly confused. “I’ll just pop them in the staff room miss?”

“Rose. Rose Cornell.” The receptionist nodded, Understanding now that she had come with her father.

“Well Miss Cornell, Deputy Clarke’s desk is just over there by the window.” She pointed over to the empty desk situated next to a large dying house plant. “He’s in the staff room on break but I’ll let him know you’re waiting.” She smiled before leaving the desk.

Rose turned to her brothers, and gestured with nod of her head to follow her. She walked calmly over to wait, making sure not to look Gator in the eye, but instead emphasis her hips as she sauntered right past him, something that didn’t go unnoticed. She flicked her hair over her shoulder, making sure that fresh scent of her shampoo enveloped him as she did so. Delicately, she sat on the worn chair in front of Dan’s desk and waited patiently despite the rough fabric scratching against her skin. Her brothers remained stood either side of her like guard dogs waiting for their trigger word. This didn’t go unnoticed by other deputies at work around them. Their presence was a threat that naturally put them all on edge.

Finally deputy Dan Clarke walked back onto the open floor of the office, his movements full of false confidence, a dark grin dominating his features. He sat down heavily in his chair, stretching backwards lazily before leaning in closely on his desk.

“Deputy,” Rose smiled, hands situated neatly in her lap.

“Well well well. Couldn’t stay away huh?” Dan leered at her. She tried not to show her repulsion at the crumbs dotting his stubble and the grease stain on the front of his formally white shirt.

“Something like that.” Her smile faltered slightly and formed an annoyed pout.

“And who’s this? Boyfriends? Pimps?” Dan asked gesturing to the men behind her dismissively. Sam prickled visibly at his words, moving his jacket back to flash his gun sat comfortably on his hip before starting to crack his fingers loudly.

“These are my brothers Charlie, and Sam.” She introduced them. “Sam darlin’ don’t do that, you know it’s bad for your joints,” she added as a throw away comment.

“Brothers. Huh.” Dan smirked eying them like prey. To him it seemed their threat wasn’t real, oh how wrong he was Rose smirked to herself. “Well what brings you here? Got a crime to report or something?” Dan asked slinging a casual arm over the back of his seat, unphased.

“No. Just wanted to return this.” Rose said simply, pulling the business card from her bag, it’s edges now starting to crumple. She placed it on the table before sliding it firmly over the surface towards him, her eyes not backing down from his. “While it’s very hard to resist, I’m going to have to decline your offer.”

“You came all the way here to tell me that?” Dan scoffed, his un-earnt confidence unable to be disguised.

“Oh no silly. I came to do this.” Rose mused softly. She turned to Charlie who nodded at her and made his way to stand next to Dan behind the desk, Sam following making it impossible for Dan to find a way out as they towered over him.

“What? What are you-“ Dan started before Sam made to grab for his arm, managing to subdue him at the same time. Dan struggled against his grip before being shoved roughly by Charlie forcing him forward so that his face collided with his desk.

“No the left hand, he still has to work,” Charlie said casually to his brother, Dan’s flailing not bothering him at all as he continued to hold him down with ease.

“Right, right” Sam rolled his eyes in annoyance. He swapped the arm his was currently holding and slammed the left into the table, making sure that it was in Dan’s direct eyeline before pulling a large knife from a holster which sat on the opposite hip to his gun. The sound made Dan’s eye widen as he started to understand what was about to happen and his struggles worsened.

“What? No please! PLEASE!” Dan begged before screaming out in agony as Sam plunged the knife straight through his hand and into the table, leaving it there. The two men released him finally only for him to continue to sob and writhe in agony.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He cried, continuing to howl in pain every time he made the slightest movement.

“Fucking maniacs!” Another deputy shouted from nearby, making a move to pull his gun from its holster, only to be stopped by the rough hand of Gator holding his arm down. “Sit down. Don’t fucking move the lot of ya. This has to be, you hear?” The man reluctantly did so and looked at Gator with a mixture of confusion and obvious disgust. A look mirrored by several other deputies all watching things unfold before them.

“Jesus Christ Rose, you gotta do that in here in front of everyone?” Gator grumbled, trying not to look at Dan, still crying out in agony next to them as she stood to face him. “And he’s fucking left handed! Fuck!” He continued in growing disbelief. He knew something would happen but he hadn’t expect it to happen so soon and so publicly. He eyed Rose wearily for a moment, she wasn’t the sweet innocent girl he had originally thought, but that only made his intrigue grow. There was a danger to her which pulled him closer to her still.

“Oh shit.”  Rose grimaced mockingly. “Sorry Dan.” She called over her shoulder to him. “He’s a lefty guys!” She elaborated to her brothers.

“Who the fuck is a leftie?” Charlie questioned with a frown.

“Not anymore he’s not” Sam tried to hold back a cruel laugh but failed, smirking at him.

“You could always try and become ambidextrous?” Rose suggested, her voice dripping with sarcastic concern. She turned back to face Gator who had closed the gap between them. “You’re girlfriend do that?” She asked, genuinely curious, reaching her hand to his face as she softly brushed over the mark. “Need someone to kiss it better?”

“You done?” Gator asked starting to scowl at her. She may fascinate him, but she had also just caused him a lot of unnecessary work and inconvenience.

“We done boys?” Rose asked.

“Yeah we’re done.” Charlie replied casually, moving away.

“That’s right huh Dan?” Sam smiled dangerously at him before pulling his knife from Dan’s hand, causing a fresh wave of agony. He grabbed an old napkin from a nearby bin and wiped the knife down before re holstering it and following Charlie.

Rose turned to smile sweetly once more at Gator. “I’ll see you in Church Deputy,” her eyes lingered on his, tempting him, before she followed her brothers’ lead, dancing quickly along to catch up with them.

“Ergh this is even worse now, are you sure baking soda will work?” Sam asked as she reached him and looped her arm through his. Blood stains now flecked along the front of his shirt, not just the sleeve.

“Trust me,” Rose insisted, before turning with a sudden thought. “Oh Dan, baking soda! It’ll get rid of the blood stains just peachy, save your shirt at least, might even work on the grease stains.”

As the sliding door closed behind them a shrill scream pierced the air along with the sound of smashed crockery. Rose grimaced, “It took me ages to make those cookies!”

[dunkzillla]

New Tricks for an Old Dog (9/10)

William Regal x Wheeler Yuta, Chuck Taylor x Wheeler Yuta

I’m so sorry this chapter took a little longer to get out! I ended up getting sick and I didn’t want to put out a half hearted attempt at anything while I was in pain med induced delirium! I hope that you enjoy this anyway, we’re so nearly at the end! Thank you for all your love and support!

Title: New Tricks for an Old Dog

Pairings: William Regal/Wheeler Yuta, Chuck Taylor/Wheeler Yuta

Ratings/Warnings: Language, Eating Disorders/Disordered Eating, Derogatory statements/langue about Sex Work.

Word Count: 4,087

Summary: A painful conversation, a bag of McDonald’s, and a happy ending.

Parts: ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE | SIX | SEVEN | EIGHT

“Wheeler, I’ll ask again, who the hell was that?” Chuck asks again, and for the first time in a very long time, Wheeler sees the anger etched into Chuck’s features. Chuck hasn’t been angry in a long time, not since he got laid off from his job, and never, ever has he been angry at Wheeler.

“Could you just sit down please? So we can talk?”

Chuck dumps the laundry bag he’s brought with him at the end of the bed and sits down into the chair Regal was just occupying in such a heavy way that the feet scrape loudly against the floor.

“You’ve been cheating on me, that’s what this is, isn’t it?” Chuck accuses, arms crossing against his chest.

Wheeler feels sick to his stomach, and this time it’s not because of the pain medication he’s on or the horrible hospital food he’d eaten for lunch this afternoon. His face hurts, his wrist hurts, his body hurts, and his mind is a little fuzzy thanks to the concussion. Chuck confronting him about Regal is the very last thing he wanted at this moment in time, even though he knew it was going to happen sooner or later. But he can’t make himself wish Regal didn’t come. Because seeing the man made him feel a million times better than he did when he woke up this morning, the first thought of waking consciousness being that he’s missing work, and that he couldn’t afford the hospital bills with no insurance.

“Yes… but not, not in the way you’re thinking.”

Chuck scoffs at him, “Yeah? What’s the excuse then, Wheeler? You slipped and fell?”

It’s cruel, given the circumstances, but Wheeler feels that he does deserve it in some way. He has been cheating on Chuck. Chuck has a right to be upset.

“I’ve been… I was an escort. I didn’t work at a gas station, it never existed. I was on the street, selling myself so we could afford to live.”

Wheeler can feel Chuck looking at him but he can’t meet his eyes, he’s looking down at the bottom of the bed, where he can see his feet sticking up under the blanket.

“You’re joking with me. Wheeler, tell me you’re joking.”

Wheeler feels that thick feeling in his throat, the tell tale sign that he’s about to cry, and he shakes his head, trying to stave it away.

“I’m sorry. I know I should have told you, but it was, it was really good money, Chuck. Money that we desperately needed. Sometimes I made more at night than I did in a week at Starbucks.” Wheeler tells him, still looking down at the end of the bed because he can’t bear to look at Chuck, who’s face must be twisted with horror and disgust.

“How long? How many men?”

Wheeler swallows, fiddling it’s the end of the bandage on his wrist. It’s burned from the milk, apparently, that spilled all over him when he passed out. It’s sore and itchy and all he wants to do is rip the bandage off and scratch at it with all his might.

“Nearly a year, but I can’t tell you how many… I never kept track,” Wheeler says, feeling disgusted in himself in a way that he never has before. “Six months ago I met Regal. He came to see me one night, and he paid more than any other man ever has. He kept coming back, I became his personal escort. I attended a charity event as his date. He paid me a lot of money Chuck. Money that kept us with a roof over our head and a tiny bit of food in the fridge.”

“You didn’t need to cheat on me to do that, Wheeler.”

“Maybe not, but I was desperate, Chuck. Do you actually know how much debt we’re in? How much it costs for you to sit in the apartment all day running up the electric bill?”

“We’re not that bad off that you had to sell your fucking body, Wheeler!”

“Yes we are!” Wheeler raises his voice, instantly regretting it as his head throbs. He rubs at his eyes with his uninjured hand, feeling them damp with tears and sore from exhaustion. “Why do you think I’m in here, Chuckie? Without me working two jobs we can’t make rent, let alone any other bills and food. I’m overworked. I’m exhausted, I’m malnourished, because I don’t have the time or money to eat. I eat what I can at work. But it’s not enough. Working the street gave me the kind of disposable income that meant I could pay the rent, the bills and buy food. Regal fed me every single day, so much that I actually started putting weight on.”

“If he’s so great, how did you end up here? You didn’t suck his dick right? So he stopped feeding you?”

The words are cruel and callous but Wheeler understands that Chuck is hurt and lashing out, so he takes each blow as he picks at his fingers.

“A few months ago Regal told me that he has feelings for me. He asked me to stay with him, he told me he’d take care of me.” Wheeler says quietly, and there’s a heavy feeling in his chest as he remembers that night. How wonderful the night was until Wheeler ruined it all.

“Oh, did he now?”

“And I said no, Chuck. I said no because I knew what I was doing was wrong, and that it wasn’t fair to you. I said no because I have feelings for him too and I realised it had gone too far, so I left. I stopped escorting and I was going to look for something else, something better. I’d got a good chunk of money left from what he’d given me so I knew we’d be okay. Then we had the flood, and you spent the last of it on your set up so I had to get another job. The restaurant is real, Chuckie I promise you. The day I told you I got let go from the gas station is the day I stopped seeing him. Today is the first day I’ve seen him since then.”

Wheeler finally looks at Chuck, who’s got his head buried in his hands trying to make sense of everything that he’s being told.

“You love that old man?”

Wheeler doesn’t think he’s let himself utter the word love about Regal. Regal told him he loved him the night that he left, and Wheeler knows the feeling he’s got inside of him definitely is love, he’s just, not said it before. Not to himself and not to Regal.

“Yeah, I do. I’m sorry.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.” Wheeler answers instantly. It’s automatic. He does love Chuck. He does. He did, he always has. It’s just. William Regal is the light in his life that he so desperately needs, that he’s so desperately been searching for. He always used to see the way his father’s face lit up when he came home from work, and his mother was at the stove or helping Wheeler with his homework at the kitchen table, he’d look at her and drop everything, his briefcase and suit jacket and just embrace her, kissing her and telling her how much he’d missed her, how happy he was to be home. Wheeler’s always been searching for that feeling, and maybe he thought he found it with Chuck at the beginning of their relationship. When Chuck would get home from his stuffy office job and collapse on the couch, telling Wheeler about his bad day and saying how great it was to finally be home.

He realises now that that was just normal coming home from work talk. That as soon as Chuck started playing his video games for work that feeling went away, Wheeler was the one coming home wanting to talk about his bad day and curl into Chuck but Chuck couldn’t look away from his games long enough to hold Wheeler in his arms and make him feel better. So Wheeler lost that feeling that his father clearly had about his mother. But seeing Regal. That really did feel like that feeling. Every time he saw the Rolls Royce on the side of the curb it was like there were thousands of butterflies in his stomach, erupting into a frenzy at just the mere thought of getting into the car and seeing Regal. That’s the feeling he’s been chasing, the one he doesn’t get with Chuck.

“I do. Chuck I do love you, but, the way I feel about him is… it’s completely different.”

“Yeah, it’s to do with the size of his bank account.”

“No, no it’s not. I couldn’t care less about the size of his bank account. He’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever met. He cares about me, he cares about my day and my health and he listens when I talk —“

“I do all of that!”

“You don’t,” Wheeler’s voice cracks on the words, and he feels tears start to run down his cheeks. He’s never, ever wanted to have to confront Chuck about his failings as a boyfriend. He’s gone above and beyond just to let him live his dream, the life he wants, he never wanted this to happen. “You sit on your PlayStation more than eighteen hours a day. When I come home from work most of the time you barely spare me a glance, and when you do you’re usually trying to start something, when I’m tired and don’t have time. You eat every single bit of food I can afford and you never, ever save anything for me, you don’t make me anything or get me anything if you order food. You complain about me being skinny and tell me to eat but you don’t do anything to actively take care of me, Chuck. I pay the bills. I take care of the apartment. I work. I do everything, everything, just to let you live out this crazy dream of playing video games for a living. I resorted to selling myself, because you didn’t see that winning barely two hundred dollars a month isn’t enough to keep a roof over our heads!” Wheeler feels his head throb as he gets worked up, as he thinks about how he’s been living for the past year.

“You should have come to me before you decided to get fucked by other men for money, Wheeler! I would have sorted something, gotten a job or —“

“No you wouldn’t.” Wheeler almost whimpers, rubbing furiously at his eyes. “When the apartment flooded and I begged you not to use the money I’d made to buy your set up, I told you to get a job and pay for it yourself and what did you do? You spent the money! That’s why I had to take the job at the restaurant. The money you used was my last bit left over from Regal and I was trying to ration it until I could get a better paying job than Starbucks. I asked you to get a job and you didn’t.”

“I think if you’d have told me you were having thoughts of being a whore for money I would have gotten a job, Wheeler.”

Wheeler shakes his head. Chuck doesn’t see it, does see that he basically gave up his own life for Chuck to have his.

“I love William, Chuck. And I don’t care whether he’s got a massive bank account or not, I’ll work until the day I die to make my own money because I’m not looking for a pay day, I'm looking for someone who loves me more than anything in the world. And I’m not saying you don’t love me, but William… he… he would do anything for me. And I mean anything, whether it had monetary value or not. He will go to the ends of the earth to make sure I know he loves me.”

“So you’re leaving me, huh?”

“Chuck, I’m sorry, I love you I —“

“Honestly Wheeler I’d say I can’t believe it but Trent and Orange warned me about you, and I guess I was too stupid to see it.”

Wheeler nearly gives himself another concussion with how quick he whips his head to look at Chuck when those words come out of his mouth.

“Excuse me?”

“They always said you were looking to be a kept boy. I mean, you had nothing when you came to this city, and they always said you made a beeline for me cos’ I look like a big dumb bear who’ll fall for anything. I took care of you, I looked after the little lost kid who was sleeping on the floor of a friend's apartment. I helped you when you had no one else, Wheeler. And they always said you’d leave me when you could but I always told them they were wrong, that you loved me. I should have listened to them.”

Wheeler feels something inside of him crumble and crack. He’s always known Trent didn’t like him, there was just something about him that made Trent pick at him whenever they were around each other, especially if there was beer involved. Orange wasn’t much of a talker, and he’s generally a laid back guy who didn’t make Wheeler feel like there was any animosity at all. So to know that both of them have been talking behind his back, telling Chuck that he’s looking to be a kept boy, that, that really hurts.

“Chuck, this is not about —“

“You say you love me but you’re leaving me for a man who has all the money in the world to give you what you want, you whored yourself —“

“Don’t you dare! I know you’re angry and I know you’re upset and you have every right to be but do not make this out to be something it’s not. I never, ever looked at you as someone to take care of me like that. I did not and do not want to be kept by anyone. I fell in love with you the day I met you, you were this big, loveable goof who made my cheeks hurt from smiling and my stomach cramp from laughing. I wanted to build a life with you, we started to build that life, I worked, you worked, we managed to buy our apartment, we were creating something special, Chuck. I have never, ever asked you to take care of me. I gave my quality of life for yours, because I loved you so goddamn much, I loved you so much that seeing your face when you talked about getting accepted into tournaments and winning money made having to cram myself into footwells of cars in the middle of the night sucking random dick for twenty dollars worth it. I did absolutely everything and anything I could to give you your dream life. It has damn near killed me. You can be angry at me for cheating on you and falling in love with someone else, that’s fine, but don’t you, or your stupid, enabling little friends, ever, ever accuse me of wanting to be yours or anyone’s kept boy.” Wheeler spits the last words, they taste horrible and dirty in his mouth.

“Wheeler—“

“Just, go, Chuck. Please just go.” He says, exhausted and hurt, both physically and emotionally.

A voice that Wheeler wasn’t expecting speaks instead of Chuck, the door to the room opening.

“This lowlife causing trouble, kid?”

Jon Moxley is standing in the doorway, an overfull bag of McDonald’s stuffed under his arm. He’s staring at Chuck with a hard look on his face, the hand on the door handle is white from how hard he’s clenching it.

“Mox, what—“

“This someone you fucked for a box of twinkies?”

“That how much you think he’s worth, Chuckles? Doesn’t surprise me, considering you’ve melted your brain away playing a goddamn kids game.”

“It’s not—“

“I don’t give a shit. Get outta here. And if you show your face again I ain’t letting you walk away with it intact, got it?”

There’s a moment of hesitation before Chuck is pushing his way past Mox and leaving, his tall frame disappearing out of the door and down the hall. It’s not the end of it, Wheeler knows that, there’s still a million more things he could say, that Chuck could say, but they won’t change anything, so it’s enough for now. It’s about as much as Wheeler can take right now, anyway.

“What are you doing here?” Wheeler asks as Mox dumps the McDonald’s bag into Wheeler’s lap and slumps down into the chair next to the bed.

“His lordship needed someone to bring his car here seeing as Bryan drove him over. Thought I’d bring you some real food while I did, I know this place gives out slop and calls it high quality food.” Mox says, his hands shoved into his pockets and his whole body relaxed and loose in the chair.

“Thank you,” Wheeler says, and he opens the bag, finding it crammed with boxes of fries and burgers. He takes out a pack of fries and a cheeseburger before handing the bag to Mox.

“I brought it for you, kid.”

“I’ve been eating a wheat cracker and out of date sandwiches for months, I won’t be able to eat all this. Eat with me?”

Mox makes a face before reaching for the bag. He digs into the fries like a man with no food manners at all. It makes Wheeler smile, because the first thing he thinks is that Regal must tell him off all the time, he can practically hear it in his head. Wheeler unwraps the burger and takes a small bite. It tastes heavenly. He hasn’t eaten McDonalds in so long.

“I’m sorry, for how I treated you.” Mox says. It’s quiet and around a mouthful of fries, but Wheeler hears it.

“You don’t—“

“Nah, I do. It wasn’t fair. I’m very protective of the old man, found him in a bad way when we first met and me, Bry and Claudio don’t want anything to happen to him to get him back that way. And I saw a lot of guys take him for his money, he’s a soft touch and he’ll just hand it out like he’s candy. I don’t wanna see him taken advantage of,” Mox says as he munches down fries.

“But I didn’t listen to him when he told me you weren’t like that. Shouldn’t have called you a whore, either. I had… my own stuff with em’ once upon a time but I shouldn’t have taken that out on you.” Mox says. Wheeler takes another bite of his burger, savouring the taste and not wanting to get full up too quick by eating too fast.

“Thank you, but I understand. I’m glad he’s got people like you and Bryan to look after him. He is generous, way too generous, but it’s a big reason why I love him.”

Mox shoves half the burger into his mouth. “You really love im’?”

“Yeah, yeah I do.” Wheeler says. Just because he hadn’t said it or really thought about that word concerning Regal before now doesn’t make it not true. He does love him. He loves the man so, so much. “And I want to be with him, in any way he’ll have me. I promise I’m not trying to take advantage of him. I'm not looking for his money. I know it’s probably empty words from someone who was paid to be with him but… I really, really love him.”

“You walked out on it when you knew it was getting rough. He told me you wouldn’t let him give you anymore money. I know, kid. I’ve just been a stubborn ass.” Mox sighs, finishing off his food and tossing the wrappers into the paper bag. Yuta takes another bite of his burger and chews on a couple of fries. His stomach’s already starting to get full but he knows that he’s not going to be wondering where his next meal comes from, and that makes him feel so, so much better.

Mox talks to him while Wheeler eats, managing to finish the burger and only leave a handful of fries, which, once he sees Mox eyeing them he offers them to him and they disappear.

Mox is in the middle of telling him about his boyfriend Eddie’s three am drunken antics when Regal comes back into his room, his eyes widening a little at seeing Mox sitting in the chair.

“Jonathon, what are you doing here? If you’ve been harassing—“

“Ah don’t fret, old man. I brought you your car like you asked, and got the kid some McDonalds cos’ I heard he’s malnourished.”

“Thank you, Jon, for bringing my car, though Wheeler needs real food, not your American fast food, to build up strength.”

Mox rolls his eyes, “Yeah yeah, Swiss is already working on some stuff. But look at him. Brighter already!”

“What happened with Mr Taylor?” Regal steps further into the room, and Mox stands up to give him the chair.

“He was being a huge asshole so I told him to take a hike.” Mox grumbles.

Regal looks at Wheeler and takes his hand, which is still a little greasy from the fries. “Are you okay?”

Wheeler nods. “It wasn’t easy, he said some really horrible things. Like apparently his friends always thought I was trying to make myself his kept boy and he’s completely disgusted by me but. I said what I needed to.”

“Trying to make yourself a kept boy? You worked two jobs to —“

“I know, I know,” Wheeler says, squeezing Regal’s hand to calm down the anger that’s so clearly threatening to boil up. They don’t need to do that right now, he just needs him, by his side, making him feel like he’s walking on air. “It’s over now. I’m yours now, William, if you’ll have me.”

“Always, darling, always.”

“Okay gross I’m leaving. Old man, your car’s on the top floor of the parking lot, like the fourth row down on the end.” Mox says, passing Regal the keys to his car. He takes them with one hand, the other is still cradled in Wheeler’s on the bed.

“Thank you, Jonathon. I appreciate it, I really do.” He says, and Wheeler knows he means more than just dropping off his car for him.

“Ah don’t, it’s nothing. I’ll see you back at home. Take care of yourself, kid.”

Wheeler smiles. Mox has some misplaced anger at escorts, and misplaced fears about what Wheeler is really like, but he’s trying to make up for that, and he’s thankful for it, and glad that he’s so fiercely protective of Regal. “Thank you.”

Mox gives them a wave before he’s ducking out of the room and down the hall. The room falls silent for a moment, both of them watching Mox disappear before Regal turns back to him.

“Oh darling. I can’t believe you’re mine.”

Wheeler squeezes his hand again, lifting his injured one up to run through the short hair at the side of Regal’s hair. “I’m sorry I left before. I really thought I could fix everything, that Chuck… might change.”

“My love, I understand, you don’t have to explain yourself to me. It was selfish of me to ask you to stay like that when we hadn’t even spoken about our feelings for each other, and you were still with Chuck, no matter how rotten he is. That was selfish of me and I’m sorry. But we can put that behind us now, Wheeler. And if you are mine, I’d really like to start building our future.”

“I am yours, and I’d really like that too.” Wheeler says, and he does, he really likes it, he really, really likes it and he wants nothing more than to just be with Regal.

Regal kisses his palm. “May I kiss you, darling?

Wheeler feels all his insides warm and his heart tries to burst through his chest. He’s missed this feeling so much. Missed the feeling of waiting to be kissed by Regal, missed the feeling of being kissed by Regal. Missed being loved by him, and now he gets it back. He can have Regal.

“Forever William. You can kiss me forever.” He whispers.

[azritesx3]

Touch Starved - Shane&Cassie

Description: Due to what happened to him in the city, Shane decides to close himself off from the rest of the world. He was one step away from completely shattering, and he didn't want to let anyone in just to disappoint them in the end.

And he was doing just fine in keeping up this facade, until she moved in.

—---------

FebuWhump2023 - Day 1: Touch Starved

~~~

A/N: Hello! I try not to make goals for myself for the new year since I cannot seem to keep them…but I want to get back into writing. One random day I came across the "FebuWhump2023" challenge on Tumblr and thought…why the hell not? I have no idea if I'm writing a "whump" fic correctly…but I'll just roll with how I'm feeling and try to remember "whumps" aren't supposed to be "happy happy joy joy" and it's ok to let my evil/dark side out.

AO3

~~~

The spring season was finally in full bloom. Wild animals started emerging from their months-long stay in their dens. Birds flew and sang almost non-stop throughout the day. The wildflowers bloomed and the trees grew back their leaves. Everything came back to life in the spring.

And Shane hated it.

Every spring reminded him of how he came to be in this situation. How years prior his life was falling apart while the earth came back to life. Now he was back in the valley where he spent the majority of his childhood. A place that now held his only good memories, though those memories were soured with the lifestyle he chose to live. 

It's incredibly difficult to stay closed off in a place that was so small and the people in it so caring. Especially now that she's officially moved in.

It's 7 pm now on a Friday night. Most of the villagers have all trickled in by this point. Shane's made it a habit to watch them from "his" spot at the dark end corner of the bar, fireplace and Gus's wood-carved bear statue behind him.

Cassie Nova, the new owner of Universe Farm, walks into the saloon. Gus and Emily warmly greet her, as well as the other patrons nearby. Shane grunts and rolls his eyes as she greets them back. She walks up to Gus to place her order, then sits at the bar and idly chit-chats with Emily while she waits. Shane sulks as he watches them chat, and various other villagers come up to chat with the new girl in town. Just like everyone else, the new farmer was touchy too. Light touches on the shoulder, small pats on the back, and feather-like touches on hands at some funny joke.

It infuriated him. Contrary to what he's now made himself to be, Shane used to be just like them. Funny how one experience can change a person, break a person. He still craved small affections like that but continued to force himself to push everyone away. He can't let himself be hurt like that again. It may just very well end him, and he was already hanging on by a very, very, thin thread.

The hardest person to ignore was his niece, now turned God-daughter. But he does it. He hates himself even more for it, but continues it.

Who knows how long he has left anyway. Best not to give the girl hope only for it to be crushed…again.

Movement on his left peripheral brought him back from his thoughts. He looks and starts at the sight of Cassie placing her food and beverage down next to him. She looks at him and gives a half smile, "This seat taken?"

She's just barely sat on the stool and it's already too much for him. He feels like he's physically burning in the heat that her body is radiating next to him. He musters up as much of his coldness as he can trying to stave away the heat in his cheeks, which seems to be unsuccessful.

"Fuck off." He mumbles, clutching his beer and staring hard at the wood bar counter. He can feel her stillness, lasting only a second before she gives a humorous huff. He looks back at her with a questioning stare. He watches her move her plate and drink one spot over to the left and sits down. One bar stool between them.

"Alright alright." She says before giving him a soft smile with concerned eyes, then focusing on her meal.

Shane cracks a little bit more inside and returns to his drink. He knew keeping this up was going to be difficult, but now with her here it was going to be damn near impossible.

He may just die from the struggle alone.

[pippytmi]

I really love what you wrote for prompt #5 for supercorp , if you are still accepting them how about #10 for a fake dating clebrities? Love your work!

While Lillian Luthor is being arrested in front of every new station in the country (and fucking TMZ, of course), Lena is facing an equally humiliating form of punishment: a business meeting.

“You can’t be serious.” Lena looks right at Jack when she says it—he may be her manager, but he’s always been her friend first, and she needs that side of him now.

Jack merely shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Lena, you know we wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was right,” he says quietly.

Abruptly, Lena turns to Sam for her opinion. Sam gives her an emotionless shrug in response, takes another long drag of her cigarette that no one will dare tell her off for smoking. The stuffy old man beside her has no qualms in showing his disgust, mouth twisted into a sneer, and Lena almost longs for the days where Lillian would waltz in and fire anyone who she didn’t like the look of.

(Almost, because Lena could never be so cruel, and besides—that is why she’s in this mess, halfway to agreeing to date Kara Danvers).

“You want me,” Lena repeats, still in utter disbelief, “to date…her.”

Kara Danvers, the honest-the-God childhood star turned America sweetheart sitting across the table, glances up as if startled—she has been texting on her phone for quite some time, and at the sight of Lena, kind of flushes red. She has not been able to keep eye contact with Lena for more than two seconds, as if Lena is decidedly beneath her, and Lena hates her right away.

“Just for a few months,” Winn Schott chimes in, taking on the mantle of another equally overbearing manager. “And not for real, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously,” Lena all-but-mocks, and Sam has to hide a laugh behind a fake cough.

“Lena.” Jack is rarely solemn, but with the serious expression he’s donning now, he looks older than he is. “I hate to say it, but this is damage control at this point. The tabloids are going to go crazy over you because of your mother, but we can shift some of that attention towards a relationship if we play our cards right. You know unlikely Hollywood couples sell papers—maybe even more than a scandal does.”

Lena swallows thickly, suddenly feeling like a little kid all over again, fingertips grasping for a hand that briskly pulls away every time she’s close. “I don’t want her controlling my life,” she says. “Let them run as many stories as they want, Jack. I don’t care anymore.”

On her right, Sam wordlessly holds out her cigarette, and Lena accepts a drag if only to stave off the stupid, burning tears that threaten to bubble over. On her left, Jess places a gentle hand on her wrist, and Lena shuts her eyes because now she really is in danger of crying.

“You know I don't want you to go through that, Lena…”

And with the taste of smoke heavy on her tongue, the burn in her chest slowly easing, Lena opens her eyes. This time, she pointedly makes eye contact with Kara Danvers. “And what do you get out of this?” she asks.

Kara blinks back at her, tell-tale pinkness forming on her cheeks. “I—well, nothing. I just offered to help,” she says, as if it’s as easy as that. This woman won an Emmy when she was twenty-one, but she is an awful liar.

Lena turns back to Jack. “What was your pitch?” she demands. “Clearly you had an idea how they'd spin this on her end.”

Jack sighs. “Come on Lena, it just makes sense,” he says. “All we want are headlines—good ones for you, good ones for her. With the Oscars coming up, any extra press is good press for Kara, and it will turn the tides on your story. It’s the best solution we can think of.”

Kara nervously adjusts her glasses—ones Lena cannot remember her ever wearing in public—and she does not smile.

“Fine,” Lena says. “Fine. I’ll do it.” And she does not wait around for the outcome of her announcement, merely stalks out into the hall to suck in a much-needed breath of fresh air.

Seconds after the conference door clicks shut, Lena hears it groan with the effort of re-opening, and she huffs in frustration.

“Jess, I don’t need a pep talk right now,” she says without looking back, already forming an escape route in mind: first the elevator, then a Lyft, and then a bar. Any bar.

“Oh, I…I’m not…”

Lena has to pause just to exhale. “Well fuck me,” she mutters. “What else do they need?”

Kara Danvers stares, bewildered, right back. “Nothing, I just,” a pause, “wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Right.” Lena shifts, back against the wall, for a better vantage point to scrutinize her new girlfriend from head to toe. “Is that you asking, or your manager?”

“Me?” It comes out posed as a question, and for all of her faults, Kara appears sheepish. “I’m sorry. You know, for the record. I know I must seem like an insensitive asshole for agreeing to this.”

“As long as you’re aware of it.” But as much as she hates to admit it, Lena’s anger has begun to thaw; she can’t blame Jack for this, really, and she can’t even blame Kara Danvers’ management team for jumping at the opportunity when she knows her own team would have done the same. In retrospect, the only thing she hates is that it was a surprise—she’s had a few too many of those lately. “God, no, I’m sorry. I don’t mean that.”

“You sure?” And as Kara smiles, it strikes Lena that this is a rare sight; this is not the picture-perfect Hollywood smile, it is decidedly softer, genuinely nicer than Lena deserves.

Lena sighs, and her whole chest seems to ache with the effort. “You’re not an asshole,” she says. Admits. “I might be, for overreacting. It’s just…” She pauses, can’t seem to find the word for what this is, until: “Acting. They’re just asking us to act.”

“But not for a paycheck,” Kara points out, while Lena does not resist the urge to give a dry, curt laugh in response.

“Sure we are—in some way or other.” Lena goes quiet, and Kara looks at her, with eyes that are blue and curious but ultimately understanding. “Why did you really agree to this?”

“Will you call me an asshole again if I tell you?”

“Probably,” Lena says—can’t resist smiling back—and Kara bites her lip but goes on.

“I don’t think I was on the list of options, originally. My sister mentioned that your team approached one of her exes, and she was telling me about it…” Kara trails off. “Anyway, Maggie said the word was getting around that no one could really commit to the agreement, so…I offered.”

It feels strange, after the truth is revealed, that Lena can’t decide if she should be offended. “Wait,” she says. “They wanted me to fake date Maggie Sawyer? That's even worse than you.”

“That's what you're taking from this?”

“Well, obviously,” Lena mutters. “It would be such a cliché for me to date Maggie, she's like—every gay girl in Hollywood’s first relationship.”

Kara tilts her head and considers this. “She was my sister's first gay relationship, actually.”

“Not to mention no one would believe it, she's not really my type,” Lena adds. Pauses. “Come to think of it, you and I might be in trouble. You're not exactly the type I go for either.”

“Wow, okay,” Kara laughs, but not in a manner that seems hurt, just amused. “I'll try not to take offense to that.”

“Not in a bad way.” Lena watches as Kara moves to mirror her stance, back against the opposite wall, as if to appraise her right back. “You're the kind of girl I would take home to my parents, but unfortunately, I'm in my rebellious phase. I only date anyone they won't approve of.”

Kara smiles again. “So would your parents like me?”

“Maybe not,” Lena relents. “My mother likely won't add me to her visitor list so I can ask, but I imagine she would hate you for being blonde alone.”

“Darn,” Kara says, “foiled by DNA.”

Well who knew—Kara Danvers is charming. The worst part is, Lena can't figure out if Kara is even trying to be. “My dad might like you though,” Lena says decidedly. “I'm pretty sure he's a fan of that…what was it…war movie you were in.”

“Why do I feel like you weren't a fan?”

“Probably because I wasn't,” Lena says unapologetically. “We might as well be honest with each other now, since we're going to be together 24/7 for the foreseeable future.”

“That sounds fair,” Kara agrees, shoves her hands in her pockets in a way that Lena can only categorize as nervously. “And also in the spirit of fairness, you know…if you don't want me to do this, I'll pull out. Anytime.”

Lena crosses her arms and considers this offer very carefully. “So you just told me you gallantly saved my ass when no one else could,” she says, “and now you're saying you want to dump me?”

Kara's mouth falls open. “Um…”

And her panicked look is enough to make Lena crack; maybe Kara Danvers is not as stuck-up as she thought. “Kidding,” Lena takes pity on her. “Despite what the tabloids think, I have a sense of humor sometimes.”

“Oh,” Kara laughs, just soft enough to convey relief, and she shyly rubs the back of her neck with one hand. “I just mean, I know you don't want to do this at all, but if it's me you have a problem with—”

“Ten minutes ago I would have taken you up on that,” Lena says, delighted by the way Kara seems to stiffen, “but I think I’ll keep you, Kara Danvers. Even if it’s only for a few months.”

Slowly, Kara begins to smile again. “Because I’m not your type?”

“Exactly—unless you get a few tattoos and flip off the paparazzi within the next hour.”

“I’ll work on that,” Kara promises, and Lena can’t figure out if the flirting is intentional too, but she decides she likes it, so the world must be ending if the prospect of dating good girl Kara Danvers just might end up being fun.

(And also, for the record...Kara very much is Lena's type).

[iliveiloveiwrite]

My Love, My Soulmate

Request: Hi there - I see your requests are open! Would you consider a Marauders era Sirius x reader for a Soulmates au? With Sirius resisting of course! Tattoos, colour, dreams - I don’t mind which you choose. Nice angsty/fluff mix with a tiny bit of zest?! 💕 - @fific7

A/N: Here’s your request! I hope you like and I hope it meets your expectations! There’s a little bit of fluff, little bit of angst and a little bit of zest. I’m unsure of whether my explanation of soulmates makes sense but I still like it nonetheless. Also, I 100% believe that the teachers at Hogwarts had like a bet on which students would end up together and that they thrived on gossip.

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader

Warnings: swearing, making out, eludes to sex, angst. If there is anything I've missed, let me know and I’ll add it immediately.

Word count: 3.4k 

It starts as a burn. As if you’ve caught yourself on your curling wand. A short, sharp shock of pain and it’s over.

Pulling your wrist from your chest, you peek at the two letters now engrained onto your skin. A mark no bigger than the size of a muggle penny coin details your soulmate’s initials. There in magical black ink are the letters: S.B.

You lie back with a groan, pulling your pillow over your face to hide away the emotions. It seemed the fates were playing a sick game with you when they decided to make Sirius Black your soulmate.

The initials of your soulmate appears on your wrist on your seventeenth birthday. As far as you know, it is only a phenomenon that occurs within the wizarding community. Muggles, for the sake of their hearts, believe in soulmates but will spend their lives trying to find their perfect match. For wizards, the soulmate mark is the result of the countless hunts for witches and wizards across history. As society progressed and began to hunt those who did not seem to fit with the norms, the fates decided that every witch and wizard would find their soulmate at the age of seventeen as a way to protect the population. It would manifest in a bond between the soulmates; only felt between the two individuals.

As witches and wizards went underground and hid their identities, the soulmate mark and the subsequent bond became a thing of fairy tales told before bedtime. Little girls and boys lulled to sleep with the idea that somewhere in the big, wide world there was someone waiting for them.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sirius sees the initials on his wrist and knows immediately whose they are. Your face flashes in his mind and he groans as he falls back onto his pillow.

For so long, he has dreaded this day. He believed in soulmates, he did. His own parents were soulmates; their initials marking each of their wrists. But they were completely wrong for each other, and he slowly saw his mother become poisoned with his father’s vitriol. From a young age, Sirius had always questioned the magic behind soulmates. If they partnered someone as lovely as his mother with someone as mean as his father then he couldn’t put much stock in the whole institution.

He watches you that day; checking for any reaction for whether his initials had been marked onto your wrist. The day ends with him feeling disappointed; you either hadn’t got the marks yet or you were an exceptionally good actress. Your face gave nothing away the whole day other than curiosity when you caught his eyes on you for the third time.

You were the complete opposite to him. He loved heavy metal music; you preferred the crooning sounds of artists such as Frank Sinatra and Louis Armstrong. Sirius had heard you hum their songs under your breath enough that he was sure he knew the lyrics to them.

You think pranks are childish and they have the potential to be a real danger; he disagrees, he thinks that pranks can be a work of genius if the right amount of planning and preparation is put into it.

Sirius frowns; he didn’t think he paid you this much attention. You had never flowed in the same social circle; conversations between the two of you limited to classes where communication was only necessary if you were sat together. He found you attractive, that much he could not deny. But the fear of turning out like his parents loomed over him; prevented him from taking it any further.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“He couldn’t be any more my polar opposite!” You moan to your friend, Jude.

It had been a month since Sirius’ initials had appeared on your wrist, and for all of your wondering, you could not figure out how Sirius worked out to be your soulmate. There was so little you had in common. The only things being your academic status and a love of books. It was rare to see Sirius with a book when he was in a crowd, but when it was him and the Marauders in the common room, he could be found with a leather-bound book open on his lap. His eyes would scan the pages so fast, you wondered if he was truly reading the words on the page.

Jude pats your head, “Yes, you’ve mentioned.”

“Jude… I need a little more sympathy here, please.”

She frowns, “It’s hard to dredge up more sympathy when all you’ve done is complain since you found his initials, my dear.”

You frown back at her, “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. I’ve been an arse about this – who knows? Don’t they say opposites attract?”

Jude smiles at you, “I do believe that is the saying.”

“Well let’s hope it’s true then.” You murmur, your eyes landing on the shaggy-haired Marauder sat further down the table from you. His friend, James, elbows him, pointing over to you when Sirius protests his elbow. Your heart starts to race the minute you lock eyes with Sirius; for a singular moment, everything else seems to fade away and your vision solely focuses on him.

The moment is broken when Sirius turns away with a scoff.

The hope that had begun to grow within you quickly dims. You let your head fall onto your arms, “I don’t think he likes me, Jude.”

Jude tuts, sending a glare down the table to where the Marauders sit, “Then he’s a prick.”

“That’s my soulmate you’re talking about.”

Jude shrugs, “He’s still a prick. If you were my soulmate, I’d be over the moon.”

“You’re too good to me, Jude.”

“I know.” She states, “Now, come on, we’ve got Charms first and I want to practice the Deletrius charm, I’m certain it’ll come up on the summer exams.”

You let her drag you out of the Great Hall by the hand, feeling Sirius’ eyes on you with every step you take.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Filius Flitwick was an exceptional teacher and an interesting man – but he was also notorious for loving gossip. The staff room at Hogwarts was always rife with gossip when another pair of students had found their soulmate in each other. Professor McGonagall would always claim that she had known from the start; Flitwick was not one to argue with her. Besides, she was probably right.

The staff room was positively rioting when news hit of Sirius Black finding his soulmate in (Y/N) (Y/L/N). Professor Flitwick wanted to question the match given how at odds they were to each other, but he knew never to argue with the fates.

Professor Flitwick had changed the seating plan.

He changed the seating plan so Sirius would be sat next to (Y/N). The teachers at Hogwarts all promised to not intervene with soulmates, yet they all did. Professor McGonagall would be happy to hear of this prompting; she had been worrying over Sirius Black finding his soulmate for longer than she cared to admit.

Walking into Charms, you saw that the class was lined up against the back wall. You grumbled to yourself; the last thing needed was a new seating plan. You got on well with the Ravenclaw girl you were sitting next to, you didn’t want any more change.

Your stomach dropped to the floor when Professor Flitwick announced that your new place would be next to Sirius.

You felt as if you were in two minds. Since seeing his initials on your wrist, you were drawn to him – wanting nothing more to be in his orbit. Yet, the look on his face as he turned away from you in the Great Hall had dread unfurling in your stomach as you walked towards your new seating place.

“Sir, what was wrong with the old seating plan?” Sirius asks, refusing to take his seat next to you.

“Seating plans need to change to better fit the needs of the students, Mr Black. Please take your seat next to Miss (Y/L/N) so I can begin my lesson.”

Sirius grits his teeth as he slides into the seat next to yours. His entire body tense while he opens his parchment and prepares his quill and ink.

It doesn’t take long for the atmosphere to change between the two of you.

It’s like electricity, or so you think. The space between the two of you hums to life and you can feel the change. You gasp involuntarily, biting your lip as goose bumps break out across your skin at the mere notion of having Sirius this close to you. You know he hears your gasp and you know he feels the same as you; he shifts imperceptibly to try and stave off whatever he’s feeling but he’s finding it harder and harder to resist you.

It’s the bond between soulmates, you think to yourself. The bond was a living, breathing thing between the pair whether it was accepted or not.

The class drags on for what feels like hours. Sirius gives up trying to pay any attention to Professor Flitwick and instead, focuses on resisting the urge to drag you from the classroom.

He practically throws his things into his bag when Professor Flitwick dismisses the class at the sound of the bell.

“Sirius, I need to talk to you.” You call, following him from the classroom.

“I know what you want to talk about, and believe me, I was just as shocked as you were when I found your initials on my wrist.”

“But what do we do about it?” He can hear the hope in your voice and see the promises in your eyes.

It almost breaks him when he says, “Nothing. We do nothing.”

Your mouth drops open, “What? Why?”

“I didn’t choose you.”

“It isn’t a choice, Sirius. The fates decide soulmates, everyone knows that.”

“Still. I didn’t choose you.”

His words land this time; each one a blow to your heart. Tears prick at the corner of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall, gritting your teeth to stop them. You would not show an ounce of weakness in front of him. Anger rises within you, turning your blood to flame.

You glare at the teenager in front of you, spitting the words, “I wouldn’t have picked you for me either, but the fates did Sirius and it’s something that we both have to live with.”

You turn away from him, leaving him there in the corridor. You barely make it to the common room before the tears start to fall and your breath falls short due to the sobs heaving from your chest. You blindly make your way to your room, pausing now and then to wipe the tears from your eyes and to berate yourself for crying over a silly boy.

But he isn’t a silly boy; he’s your soulmate and he rejected you. That lone thought has the tears beginning all over again as you hide yourself under your duvet, making sure to pull on all the curtains around your bed.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His rejection of the bond did nothing for your feelings. If anything, they made them stronger, but you knew that you could not act on it. Sirius had made his feelings for you clear so you settled for loving him from the sidelines; watching as he hid his wrist whenever he started to flirt with other girls.

It destroyed you, but he had made his decision. You would not push him on this.

In such a short amount of time, you had gone from barely recognising Sirius as a friend to being his soulmate to being completely in love with him. Whenever you thought of your feelings for the Marauder, you felt dizzy because of how fast it had all happened. If this was the magic of soulmates, you felt whiplashed.

Jude remained your rock; handing you tissues and listening to your complaints. She had found her soulmate; a Slytherin named Poppy. And yet, Jude remained by your side through it all. Poppy joining her more often than not, and a close friendship developed between you both. You felt like a burden to them; ruining their happiness with your sadness but they assured you that they would have a lifetime to be happy. But they wanted you to be happy too – which you were working on.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sirius felt awful. Truthfully, he felt empty. And he had done since he said those words to you after Charms class.

He felt the idiot; he felt the fool. He could see how it was affecting you and knew that it was mirrored on his own face. He was just so scared of turning out like his parents; of fulfilling the cursed cycle all the couples in his family seem to take. First, loving each other passionately before turning to hate each other down the line. If that happened with you, he would never forgive himself.

He watches you from across the room. Your nose stuck in a book that he’s seen you read a thousand times over the last month; as if this particular book is a comfort read. He takes a deep breath before walking over to you.

“Can we talk?” He asks you, motioning to the stairs that lead to the boys dormitories – the only place in Gryffindor tower where there is privacy.

You nod, not trusting your voice around him. You wanted so badly to say no, that he has to earn that right but looking into his eyes, seeing the small light of hope there. You had to say yes. Your mind rebelled, throwing every logical reason at you, but your heart won out and you were following him up the stairs before your mind could catch up.

Sirius holds the door open for you. You duck inside, stopping in the middle of room. Tensing slightly as you hear the door shut.

“Can I be honest with you?” He asks, joining you in the middle of the room.

“Of course.”

“I didn’t want to reject the soulmate bond.”

“What?” A hot flash of anger pangs through your body – how dare he say that? How dare he say that after the pain you’ve been through watching him with other girls and keeping your mouth shut.

“I didn’t want to reject the soulmate bond.”

“Then why did you? Why have I sat by for a month with a broken heart?”

He voice is small when he replies, “I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t want us to be like my parents,” He confesses, “They’re soulmates yet entirely wrong for each other. It’s like that with every couple in my family, and I would never forgive myself that happened to us. So I pushed you away, told you I didn’t want the bond and then flirted with other girls to dig it in. It was a shitty move, and I am so sorry, but I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to stay away from you, I want to be with you.”

“Sirius, I just spent the last month of my life wondering what was so wrong with me that you couldn’t possibly love me. I sat by and tried to be happy for my best friend who had found her soulmate, but I couldn’t because my heart was in pieces. I watched you flirt with other girls as if I was nothing to you and it broke me. And it was because you were scared? Sirius, you should have talked to me. I know that we didn’t socialise much before, but you should have told your fears when my initials showed up on your wrist. I am your soulmate; I am supposed to help you through it all.”

Sirius falls to his knees before you, pressing his face to your stomach, “I know, I know. You’re right, and if I need to I’ll stay on my knees and beg for your forgiveness even though I don’t deserve it. But we can do this right? We can be together?”

Your hands begin to card themselves through his hair without thinking, “Sirius…”

He shakes his head, “There aren’t enough words in the English language for me to tell you how sorry I am. I felt it too; I felt the heartbreak and the sadness. I shouldn’t have done it, but my fear outweighed my logic.”

“We aren’t going to be like your parents.”

“But how do you know?” He whispers, fear creeping into his voice.

Your hand cradles his cheek, “Because I’ll remind you… every single day if I need to. I’m not saying I forgive you immediately, but I want this to work. The fates gave me your initials for a reason; I felt our bond in Charms, we are destined to be together.”

Sirius presses his face into your hand, dropping a kiss to the palm, “I didn’t mean it, you know. If I had to pick anyone to be my soulmate, it would be you. I am honoured that it is you.”

“You mean it?”

“I do. You’re perfect for me, and I think I’ve already fallen in love with you.” He states, eyes shining with unshed tears.

You close your eyes, his words feeling like balm spread over the gaping wound of your heart, “Thank god, because I’ve fallen in love with you too. I didn’t mean it either, I would always pick you.”

You are in his arms in an instant; his mouth hot and insistent on yours. His hands roam over your body. Your hands in his hair, grabbing a handful to keep him pressed to you. At the feel of his touch, all previous reservations fly out of your mind – the only word running through your brain is his name being repeated like a prayer. His touch feels so right, and you simply give in to what your heart has wanted since the night you saw his initials.

He walks you back towards the bed, never once pulling his lips away from yours. He only pulls away when he lays you down on top of his covers; you lie underneath him happily, enjoying the feeling of his lips leaving open mouthed kisses down the expanse of your neck and collarbone. His hands undo the buttons to your shirt, and you shift so he can push your shirt from your shoulders. He latches his lips back to your collarbone, sucking a mark there that will surely be a dark bruise by morning.

Your hands shove the hem of his t-shirt up; he pulls away from your body for long enough to take the shirt off. The minute its gone; your hands run over the expanse of his stomach, savouring the feeling of his muscles contracting at your touch. You pull his face back to yours, desperate to feel him. Your lips glide together seamlessly; as if made for each other.

Sirius runs his hands down your sides; memorising every curve of your body, grinning into the kiss as you shiver underneath him. You bite down on bottom lip; a move that has him moaning into your mouth.

“I need to know…” He whispers into your mouth; the words barely heard as they’re swallowed by you.

“What?”

“Do you want to do this?” He asks, pulling away from your mouth to run his eyes over your face, checking for any hint of hesitation whilst simultaneously asking for permission.

Your eyes sting with the tears at his care for you. You kiss him sweetly, lovingly before looking into his eyes, “I want this. I want it to be with you.”

That’s all he needs to know before he’s casting a silencing charm on the room and locking the door.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sirius finds it hard to keep his hands off you after the acceptance of the bond. He has to be touching you at all times whether it’s a shoulder pressed against yours, his hand holding on tight to yours, or his arms around your waist. It keeps him grounded, it keeps him calm when the stresses of life begin to settle in.

He thinks back to the beginning of your relationship; how cruel he was, and he looks at you in awe because he still doesn’t understand how you could forgive him – let alone, love him. On the days where those thoughts plague his mind, he places kiss after kiss on the mark on your wrist where his initials sit.

You know the meaning behind these kisses, knowing he’s torturing himself internally. On these days, you draw his attention from your wrist to your mouth instead where you remind him of how much you love him and how you’ve forgiven him for those early days.

His fears are quashed and his love for you only grows. You’re his soulmate, he’s yours. It’s as simple as that.

*******

General (HP) taglist: @the-hufflefluffwriter @obsessedwithrandomthings @kalimagik @summer-writes @lupins-sweater @slytherinprincess03 @mischiefsemimanaged @soleil-amaryllis @masterofthedarkness @bforbroadway @chaotic-fae-queen @peachesandpinks @nebulablakemurphy @haphazardhufflepuff

Sirius Black taglist: @cheapglitter @fific7

[bumirang]

Turtle, Duck, Dragon, Horse: Ch. 8 excerpt

It’s a chilly afternoon when Bumi sits in on Hana’s worst training session since she arrived at Air Temple Island.

Under Jinora’s supervision, she and six other novitiates were walking the circle in a coordinated effort to create a sphere of solid wind nearly twice her height. Intimidating, but she’d managed it before. She actually wasn’t doing too terribly, until she caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye. Maybe it was excitement or performance anxiety or just the distraction, but that’s when it all went wrong. She immediately fell out of step with the others, but the more she tried to correct for it, the more unstable their formation became, until the sphere was a roiling squall-ball they were struggling just to contain.

Master Jinora stepped forward and summoned a gust with thought alone. “That’s, uh, impressive, but if you’ll slow down and back away, I can safely disper—”

Then it exploded, with a roar like a thunderclap in reverse. Thankfully, they were shielded from the worst of it by a barrier whipped up by their teacher, but it was a close thing.

Hana’s ears are still ringing when she makes in Bumi’s direction, ignoring the accusatory glances from her fellow novitiates. It’s obvious to all of them who messed things up, but they can’t prove anything, so whatever. Bumi, in contrast, just waves happily, absentmindedly petting Bum-Ju on his shoulder.

She stops five feet away from him and plants her hands on her hips. “What’re you doing here?”

“Hi to you, too,” he replies, slightly offended.

“Sorry, that sounded… I mean, did you need me for something?”

“Nope.”

“So, what, you popped by to watch me be a screw-up?”

“Well, I like to get a feel for where the newbies’re at. Didn’t think you’d be out with ‘em.”

She deflates a bit. “You saw how hopeless I am. I’ll be stuck with the newbies forever at this rate.”

“Nooo, no… Your bending’s just, uh, chaotic.” His smile is wide but not very convincing. Oh no. He’s trying to be nice. Her face burns at the realization. Pity is the last thing she wants from him, of all people.

He continues, “Form was great, though. Right, buddy?” He glances at the dragonfly-bunny, who shrugs. “Yeah, he thinks so, too.”

“…Thanks.” She stares past him, at the ground, wishing she were anywhere else. At the same time, Bumi’s easily her favorite person on Air Temple Island, and it’s usually such a treat being the focus of his attention. If only she could be anything other than a pathetic misfit in his eyes.

He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, kid, don’t get hung up on it. We’ll figure it out.” His voice has gone all serious, worried.

“You don’t have to… be nice to me.”

“…Huh?”

“Because you feel sorry for me. I don’t want…” She feels her eyes flood with hot tears. In a panic, she slaps a hand over her face, harder than she intended. “Ow.”

Bumi clears his throat and calls over her head, across the courtyard, “Hey, Jinora, gonna steal Hana for a bit!”

“Oh, we’re all done!” she calls back, sounding less rattled than she probably feels. “No theft required.”

“Great! Seeya at dinner!” His hand slides down to Hana’s arm, sending a wave of goosebumps shivering along her shoulders and neck. She almost jumps when he mutters into her ear, “I know a good place to talk. No lookie-loos.”

Then they’re hurtling through the air, and she forgets about her shame for a sweet thirty seconds. His grip on her arm is firm, but she latches onto him anyway. Just survival instinct, she reminds herself, as she hears him laugh with her ear against his chest. He wraps an arm around her then, and she feels safer than she ever did on the ground.

Bumi sets them down in a little grassy clearing on the eastern edge of the island. It’s not far from one of his favorite places to have class, but without any obvious paths to it, you’d have to survey the island from the air to even know it exists. Or just know its layout like the back of your hand. It’s late afternoon, leaving most of it in the shade from nearby trees. What sunlight there is glows gold on dead grass. Framed by two stunted trees jutting from the cliff’s edge is the skyline of Republic City, painted gold as the grass. Bumi pulls a little ta-dah pose in front of it, which gets a smile out of her.

“That’s more like it,” he says, wearing his own smug grin. “Now what was that about you not wanting me to be nice?”

“I just meant…” She grasps at the air, like the words she needs to complete her thought are buzzing around her. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to go out of your way. For me.” It seems like a moot point now.

“Why not you?”

“I’m not cut out for this. You’re wasting your time.”

He laughs softly to himself and crosses his arms. For a moment, Hana’s terrified that he might be mocking her, but when he looks back up at her, his eyes are kind, and a little sad. “I know how ya feel,” he says with a shrug.

“How could you poss—”

Bumi just raises an eyebrow at her, and she slaps her hand over her face again. It stings worse than the first time, but she figures she deserves that.

“Fu— Nngh! I’m such an—” Hana drops down onto her haunches, holding her throbbing face in both hands. Maybe with enough pressure, she can shove the tears and snot back where they belong. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.”

She hears him sit down across from her. “M’not mad, kid. Like I said, I’ve been where you are. More or less.” She steals a glance at him, seated maybe a foot away and wearing the city itself like his own personal aura. “I see you busting your ass to do what comes so easy to others, and I know what that does to ya. Shame and doubt. Anger. A lot of anger. It can make ya feel worthless…”

She nods and eases into a cross-legged sit, mirroring him.

“S’not true, though. Everyone’s worth something. You’re worth a lot. Trust me, I’ve got an eye for talent.” Bum-Ju, who’s been hovering at a respectful distance, picks that moment to park himself on her head. “See? So does he.”

Hana wipes her runny nose, trying to hide it at first, but Bumi’s expression is so genuinely affable that she feels silly for thinking he might judge her. He’s on her side. A goopy face won’t change that. For lack of better options, she wipes up with a sleeve.

Hands dry, she reaches up, tentatively, to pet the dragonfly-bunny. “Is it okay if I…?”

“That’s up to him.”

The spirit doesn’t flee at her touch. In fact, he leans into it. She gasps as she runs her fingers through his fur, which is easily the softest, silkiest texture she’s ever felt, like yarn spun from cloudstuff. To her surprise, he gives a happy little chirrup and plops into her lap, landing on his back.

“He says to tell you he wants belly rubs.”

“Heh. Okay.” Petting Bum-Ju is supremely soothing, like lemonade on a summer’s day. His quiet little chirps merge and blend into a purr, and she smiles again. How could she not?

“It… It’s humiliating. I knew training wasn’t gonna be easy, but this is like being a little kid all over again.” She runs a finger along the edge of one of the spirit’s strange insectoid wings. Like the fur, it doesn’t feel entirely substantial. “I was supposed to be an earthbender, y’know.”

“Yeah? Says who?”

“…My dad.”

“Hah! Ain’t that always the way?”

“Heh…”

“You don’t give me earthbender vibes at all. You’re too… squishy.”

Her head shoots up to glare at him, and she notices how the sunlight’s shifted since they arrived. Twilight’s creeping up fast. “Did you just call me squishy?”

She’s caught him off-guard, and he blushes at the unflattering implications of such a word choice. “That’s to say… Well, the way rocks aren’t, right? Does that make sense?”

“No…?”

“You’re, I dunno, airy.”

“So I’m squishy like air…?”

Bumi runs a hand through his hair in actual frustration. “Forget I said you were squishy!” He looks relieved when she giggles and clues him into her teasing.

“My point being,” she continues blithely, “I may be the worst airbender here, but I had no earth talent whatsoever. Dad was not pleased. I never even wanted to do it, except to please him.”

“Sorry.”

“I have a little brother, though, and he’s brilliant with earth. Stone, glass, metal. You name it. Guess it worked out for Dad in the end, but I always… Even though it was crazy, I always wanted to fly. Not in an airship, but like the birds do. It never seemed fair.” She winces at how naive that sounds. “After Harmonic Convergence, I thought, y’know, finally. This is who I’m supposed to be.” Sympathy fills the lines around Bumi’s eyes and mouth, and she looks back down at the fuzzy spirit in her lap. She gives him some experimental chin scritches, which seem to go over well. “But it’s been more than three months now, and I’m still… I’m just a screw-up.”

“You’re the best teaching assistant I’ve ever had.”

Hana blinks. “Aren’t I the only one you’ve ever had?”

“Nah, I used to spend summers teaching new recruits arts ‘n’ crafts.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Says somebody who has no idea how boring it can get on a tour of duty! Keeping your hands busy staves off Sea Madness. And fistfights… Well, that is until somebody badmouths another guy’s macramé. I’ve been called as a witness at some crazy court martials, lemme tell ya.”

“I… Wow, okay. I guess you’d know.”

“And before I forget, let’s get one thing clear,” says Bumi, leaning forward and pointing right in her face. “I like being around you. Aren’t we friends?”

What’s the appropriate response to that? “You… friend… with me?” Well, it’s definitely not that. “I guess I didn’t… I thought you were just trying to figure me out. What’s wrong with me, I mean.”

“That, too, but hey! We have fun, right?”

“Yeah?”

“There ya go! Friends!”

She laughs. She can’t help it. Seeing the way Bumi’s face lights up only makes her laugh harder. Bum-Ju launches clear of her lap as she doubles over. Collapsed on the grass, she finally admits, “Okay! We’re friends! I guess!”

“So…” Only when she sees his shoulders relax does Hana realize how tense he’s been this whole time. “You always wanted to fly, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. More than anything. Thought I could grow up to be a bird if I put in the effort, but I was forced to develop an overactive imagination instead.”

“Sounds like a fun story.”

She pushes herself back into a sitting position and picks bits of grass out of her hair. She could do with a trim, now that she’s thinking about it. “Not a whole lot to tell. I was basically a toddler, and I don’t remember much.”

“Yeah?” Bumi’s grinning at her. He grins a lot, to be fair, but he has a different style for every occasion. Goofball, smart-ass, encouraging, nervous, and so on. This is a pure look of amused contentment, just for her. It makes her feel all gooey inside, but in a nice way, no snot involved.

“Hm. Well, okay. Mom did tell me about one time she found me eating worms out of the garden.”

“Hah! What’d it taste like?”

“Slimy dirt, probably? I only know it happened from Mom. Like I said, toddler.”

Bumi scratches his neck and looks off to the side, like he’s debating something with himself, then says, “I jumped off cliffs a lot.”

“Wow. Dark.”

“Into the water! Got pretty good at climbing. Diving, too, but that’s just, y’know, falling with style.”

“Umbrellas.” He looks at her expectantly, eyes glittering like chips of ice. They might be the palest she’s ever seen, and if they aren’t the most beautiful, they’re definitely in the top five. That’s a strange thought. Despite his age, he’s actually quite handsome. In fact, the wrinkles themselves emphasize his features in a way she didn’t realize she appreciated until just now. They tell a story of a life well-lived.

A quirk of his eyebrows reminds her that she’s in the middle of a conversation, during which she’s just said “umbrellas” and stared at him for ten seconds.

“W-well. Um. I saw this character in a storybook who flew around with an umbrella, so I found the biggest one I could and ran down the street, screaming my head off the whole time.” Hana feels herself blush at the admission. “That part seemed important for some reason. I was, like, five.”

“How’d that go?”

“As I recall, I broke the umbrella, and several people called the cops. They thought I was escaping from a murderer or something. Can’t imagine why.”

Bumi just laughs. Hana revels in it until he quiets enough to keep telling him embarrassing things about herself.

“Then there was the time I spent a month collecting loose feathers around my neighborhood and stuffed them all in my shirt,” she says, with a bit of added pantomime. “Was gonna jump out the apartment window, but I chickened out.”

“So… it worked?”

“Shut up. You are horrible, and I hate you now.”

“Minus 57 points for disrespecting your elder.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault they dress me like a giant baby.” She tugs at a corner of the scarlet shawl sewn around the shoulders of her standard-issue Air Nomad pajamas. They both snicker.

Then Bumi sits up straight like he’s been struck by lightning. “I got it!”

“Hm?”

“A wingsuit. Try one on!”

“That’s not really allowed unless you’ve qualified, though.”

“Eh, if you get in trouble, I’ll smooth it over,” he says with a little hand wave. “It could be just the confidence boost you need to get over whatever mental block is tripping you up.” He gestures at his own outfit. “Think about it. The right uniform can totally change how you see yourself. And I should know.”

“That’s a good point, but…” Hana shrugs and makes various non-committal noises. What she doesn’t mention is her discomfort at the snugness of the wingsuit’s fit. As ridiculous as the pajamas look on her, they’re at least loose and comfortable. Squeezing into a skintight flight suit to practice—probably clumsily as ever—is just another humiliation waiting to happen. It does give her an idea, though.

“Remember when I told you how I’ve had a bit of Kyoshi Warrior training?” she asks with a little smirk.

“I remember you not flipping me, even after I asked nicely.”

“Well, I might still have my fan lying around somewhere…”

[sparkandwolf]

Oblivious (read on ao3)

Pairing: Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale Rating: General Summary: “What is all… this?” Stiles asked, dropping his work bag on the floor and shutting the door blindly behind him. “Why do you look all--” Stiles’ gulp interrupted his words and he said nothing else.

“I just figured…” Derek began, clearing his throat when anxiety reared its ugly head.

Stiles sniffed the air and said, “Is that Honey Garlic Chicken?” Before Derek could answer, Stiles catapulted himself down the stairs and lifted the cover to the crockpot, inhaling the mouthwatering aroma. “It is. And--” Stiles sprinted toward the table to sniff at the flowers adorning it. Derek had to pull him away when he got a little too close to the flames burning the candles on either side of it. “Flowers and candles, Derek? What is going on?”

For @sterekvalentineweek day two: Anniversary

When Derek woke up in the morning, it was one of the first times he rose with a grin on his face in weeks. He had the entire day planned out. Stiles was sleeping over - as he usually did on Fridays and Saturdays - and should arrive at the loft right after his workday was done. He had always packed an overnight bag prior to this unspoken agreement, but he had left enough stuff at Derek’s place throughout their relationship that he could just come by whenever he wanted. 

The thought alone made Derek’s heart warm and his smile widen as he tore his sheets off the bed, ready to replace them with fresh, clean ones that Stiles always seemed to appreciate. He thought back to the first time Stiles spent the night in his bed and couldn’t help but laugh at the surprise that always seemed to shine in his eyes when Derek made the loft more theirs than his. He always had Stiles’ favorite sheets on the bed and dinner ready for when he got home - to Derek’s place, really - and it was usually a meal Stiles had expressed craving the week before. 

Derek wasn’t sure why Stiles had chosen him a year ago when they had decided to take their relationship to the next level. It was so gradual that Derek almost wasn’t sure Stiles was actually interested. The kiss they had shared in this thick of battle with that month’s big bad was one that ran through Derek’s mind almost every single day since it had happened. They didn’t kiss often, usually when Stiles was too tired to think about it or when Derek got up the nerve to initiate it, but when they did, it knocked him off his feet. 

He wanted to do that to Stiles, which was why his loft was getting a full treatment that day. He had cleaned the night before, putting away anything and everything that might make the place seem solitarily Derek’s so that Stiles would feel more comfortable saying yes when Derek asked him to move in. He thought they had reached that point. Stiles spent as much of his free time he could during the week there and it was rare that their entire weekends weren’t spent with each other. It just made sense, especially since it had been exactly a year since their first kiss. 

His phone chimed brightly, signifying a text that would only be from Stiles, and he beamed down at it as he opened the message. 

If Parrish makes us stop for coffee one more time during this shift, I’m going to lose it. I’m gonna be so hyped up when I get to your place, the message read. Derek laughed and remembered the last time Stiles had been almost high on caffeine. He crashed so hard that night, they barely had time for a goodnight kiss before Stiles slammed his head into the pillow and was out like a light. 

Derek responded quickly, I’ll have plenty of food to help counter your caffeine hangover, promise. 

And he did have a lot of food. He might have gone a bit crazy with the anniversary meal if he was honest with himself. He had gotten a special recipe from Stiles’ father - one that his mother used to make him for special occasions as a kid - that was already prepared in the crockpot, just waiting to be turned on and readied for their candlelit dinner. 

Derek felt ridiculous when he walked down the stairs to see his loft sparkling like a professional cleaning service had been hired to tidy it up. He had worked hard; he bought an extra dresser, cleaned out half of the closet for Stiles to hang his flannels, made room in the cupboards for the snacks Stiles would definitely make Derek carry if he decided living together was a good plan. He was prepared to take this step with Stiles and truly hoped Stiles was ready to do the same. 

Hours ticked by and Derek found himself increasingly nervous as he set up the vase of flowers the florist in town convinced him Stiles would love. They were a mixture of blues, purples, and whites and aptly named Beautiful in Blue. Derek liked them immediately as Stiles was the only one who seemed to prefer the sapphire color of his eyes over the more common golden hue. The florist wiggled his eyebrows at Derek and asked who they were for and seemed more than surprised he was buying them for Deputy Stilinski. He didn’t think they were keeping their relationship a secret by any means, but the sheer shock on the florist’s face irked him enough to toss the money across the counter and run out with the vase as quickly as he could. 

When the door started to slide open, Derek adjusted the skinny black tie around his neck, feeling suddenly suffocated by the choice in accessory. He had Cora help him with his outfit. She chose dark skinny jeans and a skinny tie to match but left him on his own with the rest. He’d chosen a dark tan shirt that Stiles had once commented on liking and didn’t think about it any further. He was regretting that, too, as Stiles’ eyes widened considerably, barely glancing away from Derek as he walked in. 

“What is all… this?” Stiles asked, dropping his work bag on the floor and shutting the door blindly behind him. “Why do you look all--” Stiles’ gulp interrupted his words and he said nothing else. Derek’s nerves only increased. It wasn’t often he had Stiles speechless and he couldn’t tell if it was a good thing at that moment or not. 

“I just figured…” Derek began, clearing his throat when anxiety reared its ugly head. 

Stiles sniffed the air and said, “Is that Honey Garlic Chicken?” Before Derek could answer, Stiles catapulted himself down the stairs and lifted the cover to the crockpot, inhaling the mouthwatering aroma. “It is. And--” Stiles sprinted toward the table to sniff at the flowers adorning it. Derek had to pull him away when he got a little too close to the flames burning the candles on either side of it. “Flowers and candles, Derek? What is going on?” Derek froze and found himself surprisingly frustrated that Stiles had forgotten. He was well aware that they hadn’t celebrated an anniversary before but it had been an entire year and Derek thought that feat in itself was worth a bit of celebration. 

“You don’t remember?” Derek asked, resting his thumbs in his pockets to try and stave back the claws threatening to break through. He had worried something like that would happen - that he had made mountains out of molehills again - but he didn’t expect that Stiles would look so… scared. “God, I’m so stupid, I’m sorry. I just figured it had been a year since--” 

“Since we kissed, the first time,” Stiles whispered, glancing around the room like he was continuing to take everything in. 

“Yeah,” Derek agreed in a whisper. He took a step toward Stiles and sighed heavily before continuing, “A year since we first kissed, a year since we made our feelings to each other known, a year that we’ve been together.” At that admission, Stiles gasped loudly and held onto the table beside him as if to steady himself. Derek was more concerned than anything as Stiles’ breathing turned to hyperventilating. 

“Oh my fucking god,” Stiles exclaimed, running his hand over his face which was a motion Derek was familiar with when he had gotten anxious. 

“It’s really okay, Stiles, we can just--” 

“We’ve been dating! For a year! We’ve been in an actual relationship for a year and I--” Stiles pressed his hands against Derek’s chest when he made a move to get closer, wanting nothing but to comfort Stiles through whatever panic had overtaken him. “I didn’t know. Jesus Christ, Derek, I didn’t know!” 

Derek raised an eyebrow at him, too stunned to say anything besides a choked, “I’m sorry?” 

Before the words could fully register, Stiles gripped onto Derek’s tie and to Derek’s surprise, pulled him into the most passionate kiss they had ever had. It was not dissimilar to their first one - both of them injured and still fighting, but needing to let the other know they were gonna make it through - in the way that it wasn’t planned and it poured every ounce of emotion each of them were feeling. Stiles ran his other hand behind Derek’s head and threaded his fingers through his hair, holding on like if he didn’t, Derek might float away. 

He couldn’t imagine pulling away from a kiss like that, though. His hands gripped at Stiles’ waist, one sliding around to hold the small of Stiles’ back if only so Derek could pull him closer. Their tongues brushed together timidly like they had never kissed like that before and Derek’s heart jolted when he felt Stiles get lost in it. They kissed for what felt like hours as if they were making up for the last year of subtle pecks and slow, sleepy presses of lips that could have been so much more. 

When Stiles finally pulled away, his cheeks were flushed and his lips reddened and even plumper than they usually were. The sight was so beautiful, Derek had to convince himself not to bring Stiles to his bed right then and there. Stiles’ mouth opened and closed like he was searching for an apology or words he couldn’t quite capture in his mind and Derek leaned their foreheads together, taking a deep breath before he could bring himself to speak. 

“I was going to ask you to move in with me,” Derek whispered, keeping his eyes closed because he was scared of Stiles’ reaction. He heard the sharp intake of breath and the only reason he opened his eyes was because Stiles tugged the hair on the back of his head none too gently. 

“We’ve been dating for a year and I’ve loved you for longer,” Stiles said once their eyes met. Derek’s heart leaped and he squeezed Stiles a bit harder. “I’ve been practically living here for months and from what I’ve gathered, you don’t mind that?” 

Derek shook his head and replied, “I want you here more.” Stiles let out a laugh that sounded relieved and Derek was grateful for that. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Stiles asked, smiling softly at Derek. 

“Everyone else knew, Stiles. It was obvious to literally everyone! I asked your dad for your mom’s old recipe and he asked if it was for our anniversary. I asked Scott how much room you would need to move in and he came over and helped me rearrange. I didn’t think it needed saying!” Derek said, frustration clear in his voice. He wasn’t mad at Stiles, though. He couldn’t be mad when he could see Stiles beating himself up inside. He placed a gentle kiss on Stiles’ lips to stop the internal monologue he didn’t want to take away from their happy moment. 

“I always thought you were the oblivious one. I spent years pining after you before we finally kissed. I had this whole plan; in a few months, I would really kiss you, when neither of us could ignore it or play it off. Then I would ask you on a few group dates before gaining the courage to go out to dinner with me alone. Then I would convince you to let me move in and we’d live happily ever after,” Stiles explained. He had calculated every moment that had already been happening and Derek couldn’t help but laugh at the overanalysis that was so entirely Stiles. 

“We’ve done most of that, you idiot. We’ve gone out with the pack, we go on dates by ourselves, we cuddle on the couch for Christ’s sake. Can we skip that and just have you move in right now?” Derek asked. He was done waiting and he wasn’t about to start over with Stiles. He was ready for Stiles to be in his life forever and he wanted forever to start as soon as possible. 

“How does Sunday sound?” Stiles asked, checking the watch on his wrist. Derek rolled his eyes but nodded, grinning widely as the timer on the fridge indicated dinner was ready. 

“Are you gonna let me romance you like I planned now?” Derek retorted, placing one final chaste kiss on Stiles’ lips. Stiles chased after him as he pulled away, but Derek was already making his way to the kitchen. 

“Does this plan end with me in your bed?” Stiles asked, wiggling his eyebrows as he followed and wrapped his arms around Derek’s waist. 

“I even put on your favorite sheets,” Derek responded and Stiles’ groan of contentment made it all worth it. Stiles seemed attached to Derek the entire night and if Derek thought things were perfect before, he knew they were then. 

[yupuffin]

I’ve been cosplaying for ten years now and an important aspect I haven’t seen discussed much is preventing burnout. In many cases, it can be even more important than making your cosplay perfect. Yes, challenging yourself with each project is good for honing your skills, but so is maintaining enough enjoyment so that you don’t start hating the hobby--it’s supposed to be fun! That’s why it’s called cosplay!

The last two cosplays I made (Dimitri from Fire Emblem Three Houses, part 2 and Albedo from Genshin Impact) were indeed challenges and somewhat above my cosplay-making skill level. For me an ~average~ cosplay will take about 50-60 hours of work over roughly four months to complete, unless I’m feeling particularly inspired, in which case I can finish one in a matter of a weeks.

When making Dimitri, I lost count at 120 hours of work, and constructing that costume took me a year and a half from start to finish, because trying to figure out what the heck I was doing burned me out so badly that I progressed at less than a turtle’s pace. Overall the process wasn’t as enjoyable as those of my other costumes, and by the time I got around to completing it, I had already lost motivation to execute a lot of my performance ideas.

So by the time I took up the challenge of Genshin Impact cosplays (notoriously intricate character designs) and started on Albedo, I knew I’d have to change something to avoid a recurrence of the burnout problem. Albedo was still in the top three for difficulty of costumes I’ve made ever, but I managed to finish his cosplay in about seven months with 80 hours of work, and I was very happy with how it turned out!

(photo by blackfirerei on Instagram)

The major changes I made when constructing Albedo involved tackling the costume only one or two pieces at a time, and simplifying any part of the design that gave me an overwhelming feeling of bewilderment just by resting my eyes on it--especially if the detail that gave me this feeling wasn’t particularly visible on the final costume. Of course, this means sacrificing a bit of accuracy--but only enough to stave off burnout, and not enough that, unless you’re making a direct comparison with a zoomed-in reference photo, it’s immediately obvious that something is different.

I think the primary example in my Albedo cosplay is the markings on the vest--particularly around the neck, where, on the original design, they are the most intricate, and at the same time, usually covered by the hood of the jacket. In the actual costume I made, those are merely approximated, which saved me a lot of frustration in the construction process, without subtracting from the image of the cosplay as a whole. Even with such modifications, making this costume was still enough of a challenge for me that I felt I was able to grow my skills and learn things to apply to my future cosplays, and I had fun doing it! And finally, I’m left over with enough motivation to jump right into making my next cosplay without feeling exhausted.

At this point, many cosplayers would probably complain about losing accuracy points when they enter the costume in a competition. Ultimately, any decisions about a costume rest with the individual cosplayer, but based on the trends I’ve noticed in current cosplay culture, I’d encourage every cosplayer to critically consider their enjoyment of the hobby and what an ideal cosplay life where fun comes first looks like for them. Competitions are just one aspect of the cosplay world, and, as with any other form of art, trying to express cosplay in numerical scores alone inherently trivializes other aspects that are nevertheless quintessential. Also, consider: are those accuracy points really worth it if it means every part of your body starts loudly demanding you quit doing something you really love?! (The glorification of ~the grind~ is worth its own post, honestly, so I’ll leave it at that.)

With this reflection in mind, I’m already much happier with the prospects of my cosplay life going forward, so I’d encourage every cosplayer--no matter how long you’ve been cosplaying--to consider my point as well!

[slvault]

Ship: Sung Jin-Woo/Woo Jin-Chul

Tags: Post-Canon AU, Future Fic, Canon Divergence AU, Immortality, Fluff, Smut, Anal Sex, Marathon Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Getting Together, Friends to Lovers

Summary: Almost twenty years after they first met again, Jin-Chul gets his fair share of good-natured ribbing about being an eternal bachelor, while Jin-Woo’s parents would like to know if he’s ever going to give them grandchildren or even just a daughter- or son-in-law. Both of them smile, deflect, and carry on. Sometimes, when they’re out for drinks or a meal or a break in the middle of the day to feed the ducks, they even like to laugh about it.

Read on AO3

-0-

They’re not feeding the ducks this time. Winter has dug its roots in, covering everything under a fine layer of snow and chasing most people indoors whenever possible. So of course, it’s a fine day for a stroll outside in the peaceful quiet of the cold afternoon. Scarves and jackets and a cup of coffee each are enough to stave off the chill.

They end up in the same park, taking a seat on their usual bench by the lake once they’ve swept the snow off. The water isn’t quite frozen over, but there are bits of ice already floating on the surface.

For a while, they sit in silence, and neither of them feels the need to break it. Two decades they’ve known each other, across two lifetimes, as colleagues and friends and comrades tied together through circumstance and memories and the knowledge of a whole universe full of monsters that consider their planet easy pickings. With a foundation like that, they’ve both long since grown comfortable with simply existing in one another’s presence.

Days like today are normal for them. Not a week’s gone by since Jin-Woo was sixteen and Jin-Chul was twenty-four that they haven’t met up at least once every weekend, sometimes just to check-in, more often to catch up. Usually, they meet up on other days of the week too.

Unlike those days however, Jin-Chul carries an air of anticipatory determination today as he stares out over the lake, and Jin-Woo watches him out of the corner of his eye, patient in a way only a man with all the time in the world to spend can be. Eventually, Jin-Chul stirs, takes a distracted sip of his drink, and then glances over to his left, smiling faintly when he finds Jin-Woo already waiting.

“So, how have you been?” He asks, more as a lead-up than anything else. Jin-Woo had texted him just this morning to tell him about Jin-Ah’s newest boyfriend and the interns he’s thinking of hiring, as well as to pass on some information that looks to be connected to a case Jin-Chul is working on. It was a good day for Jin-Chul’s precinct when Jin-Woo received his private investigator license.

Jin-Woo answers him anyway. “My dad’s thinking of taking my mom on a cruise for their anniversary this year. Jin-Ho’s probably going to get disowned again for introducing his cousin to the joys of breaking into the house of that CEO we’ve been looking into, which probably means I’ll have to hire her sooner or later. And another Gate appeared in America yesterday, on the east coast, so that was an exciting two hours of my life.” He hides a smile behind his drink. “What about your week?”

Jin-Chul stares for a moment, then huffs out a laugh. “Nowhere near as interesting as yours.”

Jin-Woo shrugs lazily. “I keep telling you, you should come with me more often. I can barely get you out of your office once a month.”

Jin-Chul hums noncommittally. It’s not agreement, but it’s not a refusal either. In truth, he has no issues with tagging along whenever Jin-Woo has to go deal with yet another alien intruder or invasion, but there’s only so much responsibility he’s willing to dump on his subordinates, if only because he doesn’t trust them to run everything smoothly in his absence, and if something gets blown up or set on fire while he’s gone, three guesses who would be the one forced to clean up the aftermath.

The whole matter actually segues nicely into what he wants to talk about today though, and for a moment, he levels a searching gaze on the other, taking in the spark of mana in his irises and the flicker of a passing silhouette curling along his jawline and the figures limned in ghost-light that sometimes like to wave at him from the shadows all around them.

All if it is familiar to him these days, all of it dear, all secrets that Jin-Woo shares only with him, and Jin-Chul guards each and every one closely, more precious to him than any jewel or priceless artefact.

“I will be forty-four next week,” He says abruptly.

Jin-Woo blinks once, slow and deliberate, expression near-inscrutable. “I know. I’ve already made a reservation at that restaurant you like in Florence.”

Jin-Chul almost has to laugh at that too. He thinks he’s missed a few things over the past several years. Or maybe not missed. He’s always known; he just hadn’t registered all of what it had meant.

“One of my coworkers was actually complaining about it just a few days ago,” He reveals with good humour. In contrast, he keeps a sharp eye on Jin-Woo, not just his face because reading him is a whole-body endeavour, so Jin-Chul watches him, which has never been a hardship. “Even asked for skincare tips. She was joking of course, but I wouldn’t have been able to give her any either way. It’s apparently terribly unfair though, how I can get to this age, in my profession, and still pass for someone at least a decade younger. I even checked for grey hairs, when I went home that evening. Not a one to be found.”

Jin-Woo stares at him. Jin-Chul stares back, and when he doesn’t get any reaction, or rather, he gets a very resolute non-reaction, he drops his gaze to his coffee and lets the realization that should’ve occurred to him years ago finally crystallize in his mind.

Another smile tugs at his lips. When he looks up again, Jin-Woo has turned his gaze to the lake, the surface so still it seems as if time has frozen in its stead.

“...I’ll stop, if you want me to,” Jin-Woo says at last, and there are shadows in his eyes, dark as storm clouds and a hundred times more deadly. His words are light and inflectionless, but Jin-Chul has never known him to be anything less than honest when speaking to him.

“I should’ve asked first,” Jin-Woo continues, not quite apologetic, not at all regretful, but the admission itself feels like a wound, a surrender, a bended knee, and Jin-Chul’s fingers twitch with the urge to lash out and rip it to shreds.

He doesn’t consider himself a particularly violent man, not even back when he’d still been a Hunter, but anything that can make Jin-Woo sound like that has no right to exist between them.

“I should’ve guessed,” Jin-Chul corrects him, and Jin-Woo’s gaze finally slides back over to him, unwavering, mana-bright and almost fervent with something unspoken and straining against its leash. Jin-Chul shrugs lightly. “To be honest, I was going to ask. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up, but it probably would’ve been soon, if you didn’t mention it yourself first.”

He pauses, absently turning the cup around between his hands as he studies the micro-expressions flitting across Jin-Woo’s features.

“You have to have known,” Jin-Chul says quietly. “Not from the very beginning perhaps, but it’s been obvious for a while now, I think, that this was always where we were going to end up, sooner or later.”

It’s why Jin-Chul has never thought about finding a wife and settling down and starting a family, why he’s never been worried that Jin-Woo might one day take one of the ridiculous number of men and women constantly vying for his attention as far back as when he’d still been in university seriously. They’ve both dated occasionally here and there, but never for long, less and less as time went by, and basically not at all in recent years. With Jin-Woo, Jin-Chul has never pushed for more, for faster, content with the pace they’ve set, with friendship and companionship because those were just as important to him as the promise of something more that’s always been waiting for them to catch up one day.

There has never been any forks or detours along the path of their relationship. Their road has always only ever had one destination. And perhaps, when it comes down to it, it would be most accurate to say that Jin-Chul has never doubted his place in Jin-Woo’s life, because he has always known exactly where he stood in it.

Jin-Woo is still as stone for the longest time, and even when he moves again, Jin-Chul only catches the slight easing of his shoulders and the release of tension from his brow because he knows Jin-Woo, and he knows what to look for to understand such an emotionally contained man.

“I didn’t want to assume,” Jin-Woo says, more carefully than Jin-Chul’s heard from him in a while.

His eyes flicker away, then back, and something of that horrifying loneliness that had been far more persistent at the beginning of their re-acquaintance yawns open behind them like a bottomless pit.

“Humans weren’t made for eternity,” Jin-Woo tells him, and his voice rings with that otherworldly echo of the legacy he’d inherited. There is nothing human in his face now, not in the quicksilver flash of his teeth, not in the foxfire burn of his eyes. Someone with more sense would probably have run a long time ago. But Jin-Chul has never been afraid of Sung Jin-Woo, no matter what he looks like or what he’s become, and a godhood made visible isn’t going to change that.

“Then,” Jin-Chul says simply, steadily, with all the confidence of someone demanding what’s his by right. “Make me into something not human. You’ve already stopped me from aging; you might as well go the rest of the way. If you were waiting for me to catch on and give my permission, then of course you have it.”

He pauses, then adds, as earnestly as he knows how to be, all steel and steadfast calm, “I plan to stay with you for as long as you’ll have me, Jin-Woo, in any capacity you can accept. I hope you know that that’s a decision I settled on quite a few years ago, and it was never a particularly difficult one to make.”

He pauses again, just for a moment, for the space of time between the stutter of his heartbeat in his chest as his pulse races, and then he forges on, unfaltering because this too is a truth he feels down to his bones, and no matter how well they know each other, some things should still be said.

“You are very easy to love,” Jin-Chul admits, and he feels a little less nervous as Jin-Woo’s eyes widen, looking gratifyingly stunned, like he’d never expected Jin-Chul to say it outright. If this is the response he gets though, Jin-Chul can definitely see the appeal. “For me, there’s been no one else in a long time. I don’t find anyone else half as interesting, and certainly there is no one whose company I enjoy as much as I do yours, if that wasn’t obvious enough, with the amount of time I spend with you. And I don’t think I’ve been overly optimistic in believing that you feel the same-”

And that’s as far as he gets because the shadows around them are suddenly surging, swamping the snow at their feet, slithering over the bench and drifting over their legs. Half a second after that, his coffee is falling to the ground because there’s a hand in his hair, and another cradling the curve of his jaw, and there are lips on his lips, and Jin-Chul is far too occupied with pulling Jin-Woo even closer to think about where his drink has gone.

He’s short of breath by the time the kiss eases off into something less intense. Jin-Woo is little better, half-sprawled over Jin-Chul’s lap, eyes gleaming with naked hunger even as his fingers press near-bruises into Jin-Chul’s skin. Jin-Chul’s grip on the other’s hips is equally possessive, and even the winter chill around them doesn’t do much to cool the heat simmering between them.

“You have to be sure,” Jin-Woo says, voice gone rough around the edges. He’s still close enough to kiss, and that’s exactly what he does, licking into Jin-Chul’s mouth again with just a hint of teeth at its heels, and Jin-Chul groans under the onslaught, biting back into the kiss, one hand moving up to curl around the back of Jin-Woo’s neck to keep him in place. When they part again, his lips feel as swollen as Jin-Woo’s look. Jin-Woo stares back, eyes half-lidded and dark with arousal despite the flare of mana ringing his pupils, and Jin-Chul can’t help shuddering under that regard.

“You have to be sure,” Jin-Woo repeats. “If I-” He stops, blinks, and then forges on in low, almost urgent tones, “Twenty years ago, you regained your memories, and the first thing you chose to do was to let me know. You could’ve just kept pretending, you could’ve asked to forget - it would’ve been easier. But instead, you let me know that you knew, and that you were there, and that I could talk to you about any of it if I wanted to, and you kept coming back. Do you even how much that meant to me? Especially after I’d just spent twenty-seven years fighting a war, and then even my own dad came back one day remembering nothing, and the only people around me every day were a bunch of kids I could barely relate to. But then you were there, and you wouldn’t let me carry it all on my own, and I didn’t even realize how much I needed someone else to know until you insisted.”

He stops again, and Jin-Chul can’t look away from that fierce, near-blinding gaze.

“That’s why I need you to be sure,” Jin-Woo says once more. “Because if you tell me I get to keep you, I don’t know if I can be strong enough, and nice enough, to let you go if you end up changing your mind one day.”

And this time, it’s Jin-Chul who takes the initiative to kiss him, coaxing Jin-Woo into something less desperate and more gentle, humming approvingly when he feels the other melt into it. He’d love nothing more than to get his hands on more skin, but they’re still outside, and dressed for the weather to boot, so this will have to be enough for now.

“You’d let me go,” Jin-Chul murmurs against his lips. “You are kinder than you give yourself credit for.”

“And as always, you have too much faith in me,” Jin-Woo retorts, but some of the underlying apprehension from before has disappeared.

This is something they’ve long since agreed to disagree. Jin-Chul leans back, hands coming up to frame Jin-Woo’s face, thumbing over the faint flush in his cheeks with something like reverence.

“You’d let me go, if I asked,” Jin-Chul says with conviction. “But I would never ask, so what does it matter?”

Jin-Woo pulls back a little, still watching Jin-Chul like he’s looking for any trace of a lie. Eventually, he sighs, and one of his hands rise to brush back a few stray strands of Jin-Chul’s hair, tugging lightly before tucking them behind his ear. “This is getting long.”

“Hm, I haven’t had time to go to the barber’s,” Jin-Chul replies, turning his head a little into the feather-light touch of Jin-Woo’s fingers at his temple.

“But I like it like this,” Jin-Woo remarks, gaze slanting briefly to the way the longest strands fall just below Jin-Chul’s shoulders.

Jin-Chul smiles indulgently at him. “Then I’ll just go for a trim.”

Jin-Woo’s lips press together like he’s trying not to laugh, and then he shakes his head and chuckles anyway. He leans in and kisses Jin-Chul again, a brief brush of lips this time that Jin-Chul has no time to return before it’s over.

“Take the day off,” Jin-Woo murmurs, and the sly curve of his smile is all temptation.

As if Jin-Chul could go back to the office now of all times. He’d be distracted at best for the rest of the day, and the itch of it - of finally, openly acknowledging what Jin-Woo is to him, what he is to Jin-Woo, of knowing he can reach out and take - would seethe under his skin until he succumbed to it.

“Take us home then,” Jin-Chul says, and doesn’t bother specifying which. His apartment or Jin-Woo’s - they’ve both spent equal amounts of time in each.

Familiar arms pull him close, and shadows rise up all around them, blocking out the light of day, but Jin-Chul has never been afraid of the dark.

The two of them disappear, leaving an empty bench behind.

-0-

For someone normally so restrained, Jin-Woo kisses like he’s starved for touch and heat and pleasure. He gives Jin-Chul a moment to call in sick (”You were fine before lunch, sir??”), and then they’re tumbling into the bedroom, half their clothes already shed along the way.

Jin-Chul groans as Jin-Woo settles on top of him, and he doesn’t hesitate to run his hands under the other man’s shirt, over all that glorious bare skin he’s finally allowed to explore. Jin-Woo arches into his touch and kisses him again like he wants to stake a claim, like Jin-Chul isn’t already his. Their hips rock together for a moment, and then Jin-Chul makes a frustrated noise before nudging Jin-Woo back long enough to undo his belt and toss it to the floor.

“This is what you get when you need to wear a suit to work every day,” Jin-Woo mumbles as he dives in again, setting teeth to his neck and leaving a trail of stinging pleasure in his wake. Jin-Chul thinks briefly of reminding Jin-Woo that he can’t go into work with his throat all marked up, and then decides that high collars and scarves were invented for a reason.

“You love me in a suit,” Jin-Chul counters, busying himself with stripping Jin-Woo out of his shirt, and then rolling his eyes when Jin-Woo returns the favour by ripping his shirt down the middle and sending buttons flying. “Really?”

“I love you out of a suit too,” Jin-Woo says by way of explanation, sounding unrepentantly smug about it. He nips at Jin-Chul’s bottom lip, then flicks his tongue out to soothe the sting. “I’ll buy you another one later. You have a million of them in your closet anyway.”

Jin-Chul sighs somewhat helplessly before hooking a foot around Jin-Woo’s ankle and then flipping their positions. Jin-Woo doesn’t fight him, lying back complacently as Jin-Chul straddles him and smooths his hands down the firm lean muscles of his chest and abdomen.

“You are disgustingly perfect,” Jin-Chul laments. He keeps up with his own exercise, and now that he thinks about it, staying in shape is probably easier for him than other men his age, but Jin-Woo has the physique of a Hunter, and it shows.

Jin-Woo hums, reaching out with one hand to touch as well, smirking when Jin-Chul shivers as a calloused palm slides over his nipple before trailing down the ladder of his ribs, only stopping once he gets to the waistband of his pants.

“You’re pretty gorgeous yourself,” Jin-Woo tells him with that maddening sledgehammer candor he likes to pull out every now and then, and under the combination of a blatantly appreciative gaze and the fact that the man who said it has never been one for flattery, excessive or otherwise, Jin-Chul can feel a flush of embarrassed pleasure rising in his cheeks.

He covers it by stripping them both out of the rest of their clothes. Jin-Woo seems to sense it anyway because he laughs, amusement gentled with delight, and when he draws Jin-Chul into another kiss, it lingers in a way none of the previous ones had, slow and sensual as if he could never get enough. Jin-Chul moans into it, shifting his hips down to grind his cock against Jin-Woo’s, and it’s easy to get lost in it, in the slide of a body against his own and the building pleasure pooling in his gut. When he reaches between them to wrap a hand around their cocks, Jin-Woo finally makes a quiet noise at the back of his throat, one that becomes an aborted groan as Jin-Chul strokes them both to completion.

It barely takes the edge off, even if it does leave Jin-Chul a little breathless in the aftermath. Jin-Woo on the other hand doesn’t even get soft, and he’s driving them into a second round almost immediately. The world tilts as Jin-Woo flips them so that he’s on top again, eyes bright with mana once more as he stares Jin-Chul up and down like he doesn’t know where he wants to start.

Jin-Chul makes an amused sound and spreading his legs wider in clear invitation, one that Jin-Woo takes with heated eyes and a ripple of air as he retrieves some lube. And then his head dips, and Jin-Chul swears as teeth scrapes over one of his nipples before a hot mouth closes around it and sucks until he’s arching into it, swears again when Jin-Woo stops only to do the same to the other. And then there are slick fingers at his hole, and the world dissolves into heat and lust and pleasure as Jin-Chul drags the man back up for another messier kiss even as he rocks down on those fingers opening him up for more.

Jin-Woo spends long minutes prepping him, or rather, Jin-Chul squirms impatiently as a third finger teases at his prostate, never enough to satisfy, right up until he presses an insistent heel to Jin-Woo’s lower back and urges, “Come on, I’m ready, Jin-Woo, please-”

It gets him a searing look as Jin-Woo finally obliges, grasping his hips and lining up and sinking into him, thick and relentless and spreading him wide until Jin-Chul is gasping from the stretch.

Above him, Jin-Woo stills, eyes like foxfire even as he studies the shifting nuances of Jin-Chul’s features like he’s looking for any hints of aversion. Jin-Chul laughs somewhat breathlessly and clenches deliberately around Jin-Woo’s cock, pushing back to take him that much deeper just to get a feel for it. He releases a long pleased hum that in no way hides the stutter of Jin-Woo’s breath or the minute jerk of his hips, the latter of which only serves to make Jin-Chul close his eyes from the jolt of pleasure snapping up his spine.

Opening them again, he arches an eyebrow at the man looming over him. “Are you going to fuck me or not?”

Jin-Woo scoffs out something that could be amusement but mostly just comes out hungry. His grip on Jin-Chul’s hips tighten, and then he’s pulling back, only to snap his own hips forward a moment later, shoving a garbled cry out of Jin-Chul that Jin-Woo swallows as he catches his lips in another kiss, licking into his mouth like he wants to conquer him.

Jin-Chul wouldn’t be able to keep back all the noises he makes even if he wanted to as Jin-Woo fucks him into the mattress, hard and fast and just as greedy for it as Jin-Chul. His cock is hard and leaking, and he can feel himself hurtling towards his next orgasm even as he tightens his legs around Jin-Woo’s waist and pushes back into each thrust and bares his throat when Jin-Woo nuzzles at his neck. He comes just as Jin-Woo bites down, the shock of pain twining with the overwhelming pleasure as he shakes apart on Jin-Woo’s cock, choking on a moan when Jin-Woo never slows, fucking him straight through it.

Jin-Chul cusses and claws at Jin-Woo’s back but does nothing to stop him as his nerves buzz from the onslaught, and he tastes the ghost of laughter on Jin-Woo’s lips when they kiss again. By the time Jin-Woo groans and comes in him, Jin-Chul’s reaching his third peak, and a hand on his cock and half a dozen strokes is all it takes to topple him over the edge once more.

“So lovely,” Jin-Woo murmurs against his lips as Jin-Chul’s legs fall back to the bed, and he’s trembling as much from the quiet reverent words as he is from the way Jin-Woo is still rocking against him, slow, gentle, shallow thrusts that prevent Jin-Chul from coming down from the high of his climax. It goes on and on until cum is leaking from his ass and his voice is cracking on a plea, to stop, to keep going, and he’s all but spasming around the other’s cock, wanting to get away, wanting more.

Jin-Woo makes a smug but enquiring noise from somewhere above him. “Should I stop?”

Jin-Chul forces his eyes open, feeling shaky and wrecked, drenched in sweat and twitching from overstimulation. But he meets Jin-Woo’s gaze and licks his lips, somehow finding the breath to chuckle when Jin-Woo’s attention drops to the flash of his tongue like he can’t help himself.

There’s no way Jin-Chul is coming again, and even the tiniest movement from JIn-Woo feels like electricity dancing under his skin. But he stares up into the glow of power in Jin-Woo’s eyes, and feels the possessiveness in the hypnotic brush of a thumb over his hipbone, and Jin-Chul just... wants. Jin-Woo is still mostly hard inside him, and Jin-Chul wants him to take and take until there’s nothing left for Jin-Chul to give, wants to be consumed by the abyssal depths of Jin-Woo’s desire, wants most of all for this god-king to claim him and keep him and show the world exactly who Jin-Chul belongs to.

He releases a shuddering exhale before tilting his hips up and summoning the energy to squeeze down around the length inside him despite how loose and fucked out he feels. Jin-Woo’s eyes flutter, and his lips part, expression splintering with startled pleasure. Jin-Chul will never get tired of this, of how much Jin-Woo is willing to show around him when he’s so very controlled and reserved around everyone else. Part of that is Jin-Chul knowing how to read him since Jin-Woo has never been an overly expressive man anyway, but he’s also willing to bet that even Jin-Woo’s former bed partners hadn’t seen him like this. Jin-Woo would never have allowed it.

“One more,” Jin-Chul says hoarsely. He can’t come again, but Jin-Woo can, and Jin-Chul wants to feel it, the ache of it, wants to be forced to take it. He digs his nails into Jin-Woo’s shoulders and widens his legs like a challenge. “I can take it.”

Jin-Woo smirks down at him, a wicked curve that promises exactly what Jin-Chul is asking for.

“Brace yourself,” He says, and that’s all the warning Jin-Chul gets as strong hands slide under his back and haul him up until he’s sitting in Jin-Woo’s lap and impaled on that thick cock, and all the breath leaves his lungs in a string of curse words that may or may not be all in Korean. He’s held down, forced to adjust to the new angle, to how deep Jin-Woo feels inside him like this, and the burn of pain-pleasure leaves him whimpering and clutching at the other’s shoulders.

He feels more than hears the rumble of Jin-Woo’s laughter in his chest, and it takes a few hazy seconds for Jin-Chul to realize what’s caused it - his stamina is flagging, and his nerves are on fire, but he’s already shifting a little, rising a few inches up off that cock before sliding back down on it, riding him in small hitching motions of his hips until the sharp twisting ache of his hole is all he can focus on.

“You like this then,” Jin-Woo muses in even thoughtful tones that’s just unfair. Fingers feather over his balls before one of them skirts around the trembling rim of where they’re connected, not pushing in but applying a teasing sort of pressure anyway. Jin-Chul closes his eyes and doesn’t ask for it, but he doesn’t need to look to know that Jin-Woo is cataloguing every single one of his reactions, and indeed, Jin-Woo sighs almost wistfully but says, “Next time.”

When you’re less breakable, he doesn’t say, but Jin-Chul hears it anyway, and a part of him almost wants to lament the last clinging remains of his humanity.

And then even that slips away as hands find his hips again, lifting him up like he weighs nothing until only the tip of Jin-Woo’s cock is still inside him. Jin-Chul has time to catch a glimpse of a knife-sharp smirk and burning eyes, and then he’s being yanked down just as Jin-Woo drives his cock up, right into the core of him, and Jin-Chul howls with the feel of it, jerking futilely between Jin-Woo’s hands, no mercy to be found as Jin-Woo fucks him in steady demanding thrusts that hurts in all the best ways and sends the most excruciating pleasure coiling through the rest of his body.

He can’t come again, but he feels it when Jin-Woo does, feels the warmth of it inside him, hears the breathless moan in his ear, and sobs when a hand finds his half-hard cock and a thumb rubs over the wet head, and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, but that hand is merciless, another comes up to tangle in his hair and tilt his head back before teeth and tongue ravage his mouth, and all of it drags him slowly but inexorably towards a fourth shattering orgasm.

It takes countless agonizing minutes before Jin-Chul finally comes again, jolting with the force of it, still split open on a cock so he has nowhere to go, a soundless cry trapped in his throat as he collapses into Jin-Woo’s chest, shivering uncontrollably from toomuchsogoodmorenomore oversensitivity.

He sinks into oblivion after that, too exhausted to fight it, and the last thing he registers is the press of a kiss to his temple and the comforting weight of an arm wrapping securely around him.

-0-

He wakes, hours later, loose-limbed and sated and clean, still shirtless but in fresh pajama pants, with bruises on his hips and the twinge of sore muscles just setting in. His tomorrow’s self will probably hate him. Or maybe not, because there’s water and a potion waiting for him, the latter of which just leaves him pleasantly sore instead. Even the marks on his neck only fade a little. Good thing it’s winter.

“I might have pushed too hard,” Jin-Woo admits as he bustles in with... Jin-Chul checks the clock - ah, dinner.

He also rolls his eyes and pulls Jin-Woo down for a brief kiss. “If I’d really minded, you would’ve known. Don’t fuss.”

He really did enjoy it, and he’d enjoy it more once he has the stamina to at least last a few more rounds.

“If I didn’t fuss, you wouldn’t get dinner in bed,” Jin-Woo points out dryly, and then laughs when Jin-Chul immediately holds out his hands for one of the trays.

Jin-Chul lingers on that, on how relaxed and open Jin-Woo looks right now, on how easy joy comes to him in this moment.

Jin-Chul would kill anyone who tries to take this away from him. He may have been a Hunter with more lines in the sand than most, but he’d also been the head of the Monitoring Division of the Korean Hunters Association, and one didn’t essentially become half-referee, half-babysitter of a country’s worth of murder-happy psychopaths by not knowing when to stand firm, when to yield, and when to make someone disappear. And when it came down to it, Jin-Chul had been Awakened at the very top of A-rank. He had a better handle on it, but it wasn’t as if he’d ever shied away from murder either, even if his position had always made it seem like a justifiable necessity to outsiders looking in.

(It’s why he calls Jin-Woo kind. Because Sung Jin-Woo never does anything he doesn’t want to do, what he says is what he does is what he means, and the choices he’s made each time lives are on the line speak for themselves. Jin-Chul doesn’t think him kind because he’s altruistic or heroic or particularly benevolent, although one could make arguments for all three. But no, Jin-Chul thinks him kind because Jin-Woo’s first instinct has always been to protect, and for a Hunter, no matter the rank or even class, or even just for a human, the extent of the protection Jin-Woo has always been willing to offer is rare. After all, how many people turned a blind eye to Jeju Island? How many did the same to Japan? And how many others would’ve turned back time and fought a near-thirty-year-long war on their own just to spare their fellow man all that future tragedy? Considering their track record, Jin-Chul would daresay not fucking many.

Jin-Woo once told him that becoming the Shadow Monarch stunted his emotions. Jin-Chul finds it ironically hilarious that someone with stunted emotions cares more than literally anyone else Jin-Chul has ever met in either of his lives.

“At least half the reason I went to Japan was because I wanted to fight the Giants, you know.”

“People aren’t one-dimensional, and you don’t hear me calling you a saint. You can want to fight and want to save lives at the same time.”

“You’re so stubborn.”

“We make quite the pair then.”)

These days, he has no higher priority than Sung Jin-Woo. Killing someone in the name of hoarding all the secrets - big and small - that Jin-Woo leaves in his possession, knowingly or otherwise, is a negligible matter. Fortunately for everyone involved, Jin-Woo has never had the habit of divulging anything personal to veritable strangers. Only his family and his closest friends get the privilege, and even then, only Jin-Chul knows everything.

They spend the next few minutes eating in companionable silence, but Jin-Chul is well aware of Jin-Woo’s gaze on him, even if he doesn’t make it obvious. He finishes off half his plate before setting it aside and then reaching out to snag Jin-Woo by the wrist.

Jin-Woo makes it obvious this time.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Jin-Chul says with a mild sort of reproach. “So unless you have, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

He feels Jin-Woo go still for a second, two, and then the man pulls back, but only far enough to regard him with ghost-light eyes. Finally, he shakes his head, then again as if for emphasis before offering a rueful smile. “No, I haven’t changed my mind. Sorry. I guess I’m still getting used to the... certainty of it.”

Jin-Chul scoffs. “It’s been certain for years.” But he does understand, so he also squeezes Jin-Woo’s wrist before letting go. “Although, there will be a problem if I stay looking this young forever.”

“Oh, that,” Jin-Woo waves a dismissive hand. “I can slowly age you on the surface, and you can do it yourself once you learn how. Well, not exactly the way I do it - pushing death back is the Shadow Monarch’s domain. But the stronger your mana, the longer your lifespan, and illusions - even ones that affect the physical plane - shouldn’t be too hard to get a hang of.”

Jin-Chul stops halfway from reaching for his food again. “...I don’t think my powers fall within that purview.”

Jin-Woo is already shaking his head. “I won’t be Awakening you the same way the Rulers did.” He pauses like he’s gathering his thoughts, and Jin-Chul turns back attentively because this is new information. “In the previous timeline, whenever Hunters Awakened, they were basically borrowing a certain amount of power from the energy that the Gates gave off. That’s how Norma Selner could remove your ‘limit’, so to speak - she had the ability to expand the amount of power that a Hunter could take in and use, but even then, there was a limit. That power, that mana, technically didn’t belong to the Hunter, so of course there was always a point where they couldn’t get any stronger, even after a Reawakening or an upgrade. Even class divisions were because it was easier on the human body when manipulating mana if Hunters just went with what they were best at. An Awakening like that can only ever be a substitute. I won’t be doing that.”

He leans forward, and this time, it’s Jin-Chul who goes motionless as the other man rests a hand against his chest, over the thud of his heartbeat.

“Every living thing in the universe is born with mana,” Jin-Woo explains. “It could roughly be translated to soul energy. It’s just that for humans, it’s still dormant because your species as a whole hasn’t developed far enough, and your bodies wouldn’t be able to handle it. It would be like... introducing a second circulatory system into your body on top of what you already have. The human body hasn’t figured out a way to support that yet.”

“But... I would be different,” Jin-Chul says slowly.

Jin-Woo shrugs. “You already are. I can’t change someone with a snap of my fingers - I’d probably blow them up or something. It’s a gradual process, and I’ve been working on you since-”

He breaks off abruptly, coughs, retrieves his hand, and then looks down at his food almost awkwardly. Jin-Chul stares at him for a moment before huffing a laugh, even as a thrilled sort of pleasure rears its head inside him.

He wonders, sometimes, which of them decided they wanted to keep the other first.

“It doesn’t hurt you,” Jin-Woo assures, as if that’s even a concern. “We could go our separate ways right now and the only thing that would happen is that you’d start aging again. Your mana would just stay dormant.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Jin-Chul scoffs. “Do I have to do anything?”

“To Awaken? No, that’s on me.” Jin-Woo blinks at him. “Um. Now?”

“No time like the present,” Jin-Chul says blithely.

Jin-Woo’s eyes narrow, but after a moment, he pushes aside his own food, rolls to his knees, and shuffles over until he’s right beside Jin-Chul. Jin-Chul blinks, moving easily when Jin-Woo curls a hand around the back of his neck and draws him close until their foreheads touch.

“It’s been certain for me too, for years,” Jin-Woo says bluntly. “I wouldn’t have bothered changing you if I wasn’t. Even my family - I’ve only slowed their aging down, nothing else.” He stops, and his grip tightens briefly. “You told me I didn’t have to be alone. I’m going to spend the rest of eternity holding you to your word, so I really hope you’re prepared.”

And then, before Jin-Chul can do more than take note of the way a last lingering knot of anxiety unravels inside him, Jin-Woo’s other hand is back against his chest, shadows flaring around them like stygian dusk-light, and all Jin-Chul can hear as he instinctively closes his eyes is the thunderous beat of his heart and the calamitous whispers of the dead and the savage roar of the eternal void that Jin-Woo commands.

When it happens, Jin-Chul almost misses it, and yet, at the same time, there’s no way he could. He remembers the first time he was Awakened in his previous life - it had been sudden and explosive, an overwhelming dizzying rush of power that had made him feel invincible, at least in the moment, and like everything around him was as fragile as glass and one wrong move might break it. Even after he’d settled, and the initial flood of mana had levelled out, he’d always been very aware of its presence, unmistakable and distinct, almost demanding to be used in the way Jin-Chul sometimes felt increasingly agitated if he went too long without entering a Dungeon. He’d thought it was just restlessness, sitting behind a desk too long, but on hindsight, with what he knows now of mana and Rulers and Monarchs and their eons’ worth of war games, perhaps that urgent need to hunt hadn’t all been his own.

It’s different, this time. This time, his Awakening feels like a sigh of relief in the dark, like puzzle pieces slotting into place, like the first breath of mountain air on a winter dawn. It fills his chest, fills his lungs, fills his whole body, and nestled behind his ribcage, behind his heart, in the depths of his soul, something blooms, all shades of purple like the horizon at sunset and just as ephemeral, delicate like the wings of a butterfly, but vibrant like birdsong and mountain streams and the first touch of colour on a cold spring morning.

Jin-Chul’s eyes fly open, and he’s gasping like he’s just run up a dozen flights of stairs. He feels the burn of mana in his eyes, familiar and foreign all at once, and when he looks down at his hands, purple light glitters faintly in his palms. It takes effort though, far more than he remembers ever needing, to regulate his mana, like flexing a muscle he’s never used before. He releases his grip on it then, lets it sink back into the tiny pool of power inside him, and it goes without protest, patient as bedrock and infinite in potential.

When he finally looks up again, Jin-Woo is watching him, smiling faint and pleased. Jin-Chul breathes in, then out, and somehow, it’s like he’s gained a piece of himself that he’d never noticed was missing before.

“I didn’t realize it was supposed to be like this,” Jin-Chul murmurs in a daze.

Jin-Woo hums something like agreement. “The Rulers’ method was pretty clumsy and heavy-handed. To be fair, they didn’t have the luxury to change the internal-” He waves a hand at Jin-Chul. “-of an entire species. But yeah, if that timeline had continued, with no more Gates to draw energy from, and human bodies that couldn’t generate the stuff without outside interference but were also already forced to accommodate mana, even in the best-case scenario, Hunters would’ve imploded on their own in a few more years.” His eyes darken. “People aren’t clay, but the Rulers pretty much stretched and moulded them like they were.”

Jin-Chul... is suddenly even more glad Jin-Woo had managed to convince the Rulers to turn back time. He’d never realized just how many problems the Rulers and Monarchs had brought with them to earth.

“Anyway,” Jin-Woo continues more briskly. “Your mana will grow the more you train it, just like anything else.” He flashes a surprisingly boyish smirk. “Maybe one day, you’ll even beat me.”

Jin-Chul straightens, the first stirrings of interest bubbling up inside him. They’ve gone to the gym for spars over the years, but obviously, it was never with mana on Jin-Woo’s part, and Jin-Chul has admittedly missed the sort of battles one could only ever get as a Hunter. The incessant urge to hunt had probably been something instilled in him by the Rulers. But he knows himself well enough to acknowledge that the desire for a good fight is all his own.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get strong enough to surpass Jin-Woo. The Shadow Monarch isn’t someone you just defeat. But if the only limit Jin-Chul has now is his own willpower, then he’s confident that he’ll at least be able to give Jin-Woo some decent competition one day.

Something of his thoughts must show on his face or seep into his mana because Jin-Woo’s eyebrows go up, and then he positively grins, all teeth and challenge, and the interest Jin-Chul feels not only doubles but also puts heat in his veins.

Out loud, in contrast, he only says demurely, “Perhaps. In the meantime though, I’ll be in your care. Do train me well.”

A moment later, almost faster than his eye can follow, he’s been knocked over and pinned to the bed, and it makes Jin-Chul laugh, breathless with rising excitement. Jin-Woo hovers over him, bright-eyed and smiling and beautiful.

“Mana signatures are troublesome,” The man tells him. “They broadcast a bit too much.” He squints with faux-accusation. “You’ve had four hours and a healing potion to recover. When did I become the voice of reason in this relationship?”

“I’m no longer the head of the Monitoring Division,” Jin-Chul says in deadpan tones. “I need to make up for all those years I spent soothing injured egos and cleaning up temper tantrums. I think it’s only fair you hold the position for a while.”

Jin-Woo snorts even as Jin-Chul adds, “Besides, I think the Awakening healed me the rest of the way.” He isn’t even sore anymore. Shame. He peers slyly up at Jin-Woo, who’s suddenly gone predator-still. “I was expecting to take another day off on account of not being able to walk properly, but I suppose if that’s not going to happen, I can just-”

Jin-Woo cuts him off with a growled, “You asked for it,” and then Jin-Chul has no more words as a fierce devouring kiss turns his laughter into a moan.

Instead, he winds his arms around his lover and arches up into the hard lines of his body, movements fuelled by lust but lacking any urgency.

They have all the time in the universe now, and Jin-Chul plans to savour every last minute of it.

[unbridgeabledistances]

here is a part 2 of my valentine’s day one-shot from the other day!! part 3 of them actually celebrating is coming fri, but wanted to make it a lil countdown:) also big creds to @udontfuckangie for their post about ian getting mickey stargazer lilies for valentines bc it… truly made me feel so many things and i had to write this

--

Ian didn’t really remember ever celebrating Valentine’s Day for real— not like everyone else in middle school or high school, like when Lip was off buying flowers for girls or Mandy was trying to get the guy she liked to ask her out— but he definitely remembered celebrating it as a kid, when he’d have to scrounge up some shoebox from under his bed and bring it to his overcrowded classroom to cover with colorful construction paper and make shitty valentines to swap with his friends. Those were the days when Frank was around some, and so was Monica— he remembered one year, when he was maybe 5 or 6, when Monica was there and he had come home with a thin pink slip of paper from his teacher saying that he needed to bring in valentines for his class. Monica had whisked him down the street to the dollar store where they’d ransacked the rickety shelves of all the art supplies they could carry, and then they sat at the kitchen table for hours gluing glitter to cut-out hearts.

So maybe that’s why Ian’s heart had melted last Sunday, when Franny had mentioned that she needed to buy valentines for her class at school— Ian knew it was stupid, or whatever, but he knew how far a few solid childhood memories could go in this neighborhood, how those types of moments were the stuff you lived on for years afterwards when things got harder and darker. So while he’d been caught up in so much shit lately, for a couple of hours on that Sunday afternoon all Ian wanted was for Franny to soak up that feeling like a sponge—to make memories with her like the good ones that he’d had with Monica, the ones that stood out and burned in his chest like a hot branding iron when he remembered them.

And then a yawning, sleep-soft Mickey had stumbled into the kitchen, and the three of them were nestled beside each other at the table doing fucking arts and crafts; and for some reason it made Ian’s blood run hotter than usual, and got him thinking about how fuck it, he wanted to give Mickey a Valentine’s Day this year— not in the weird, heteronormative bullshit way, but in the way that he could just kind of… show Mickey how much he meant to him, how Mickey still made his heart feel like it was going to explode out of his ribcage even after the years they’d been together. This was the longest time that he and Mickey had ever been together consecutively, the longest time they’d slept side by side before something dark curled its fingers around them and pulled them apart, and he wanted to do something to acknowledge that— something to start their forever, as fucking cheesy as that sounded.

Of course, Mickey had no concept of Valentine’s Day or any of that shit, which made the whole thing all the more perfect— Ian wanted to catch him off guard, wanted to pull them both out of the funk that had been hovering over them for the months after the wedding, when everything turned brittle and stale once the bills started to pile up. They were better now—or at least they were trying to be— but it still meant something that half of their time being married had been spent navigating a fucking global pandemic and squabbling with each other and barely making ends meet.

So now it was the day before Valentine’s Day, and Ian was standing on a busy Chicago street corner in the bitter cold, watching the bundled passersby briskly walk by to scramble inside and stave off the chill. Ian hadn’t been to this neighborhood since his days working at the club, or maybe once or twice when he was hanging out with people from the youth center; the pristine glass storefronts with minimalist displays nearly blinded Ian’s eyes after the past ten months of being accustomed to the crumbling paint-chipped architecture of the South Side. But he was here on a mission; in front of him stood the high-end, boujee as fuck florist’s shop, one of the top-rated ones in the city according to the quick search he’d plugged into his phone.

Ian normally didn’t give a shit about stuff like this— to him, a flower was a flower, and a chair for a wedding was just a goddamn chair— but he knew Mickey, for some reason this sappy shit was a whole lot more important to him, no matter how hard Mickey tried to hide it. All the symbols and the fanfare meant something to Mickey—it meant that they’d made it, that they got to have a normal fucking life together, beyond both of their wildest dreams. So if Ian had to brave a stupid, gentrifying flower shop on a chilly Friday afternoon to make Mickey happy, then that was what he was going to do.

A soft bell tinkled as Ian entered the shop, immediately surrounded by the nearly-bare shelves of minimalist bouquets. The store was incredibly cramped and narrow, with overly-peppy music playing low, and was packed tight with wire-rimmed glasses wearing, re-usable bag toting hipsters standing in a line all the way to the counter. Shit. This line was going to take all day—and who the fuck knew if they even had what Ian was looking for? A looming pang of desperation started to churn in the pit of his stomach as he lurked by the doorway. Fuck it, he had to do this.

Before Ian really processed what he was doing he was quickly darting past the line, getting a series of dirty looks from everyone he shuffled by.

“S’cuse me, coming through, floral emergency.”

Finally, he reached the counter, sliding in beside some girl in her mid-twenties with a punk haircut. “Uh, sorry, can I just ask if they have what I’m looking for real quick?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “If you’re desperate enough to cut the fucking line, I’d say you’re worse off than I am. Men are fucking clueless.”

Ian nearly grimaced, but tried to twist his face into a soft, grateful smile. “Thank you.” He turned to the cashier at the counter, a dude with a man bun and a floral button-up shirt who looked pretty amused by this whole situation.

“It’s the day before Valentine’s Day, honey. Everyone here is in a floral emergency.” The cashier sighed, looking Ian up and down appraisingly. “What’re you looking for?”

“Uh. I think they’re called… stargazer lilies? The ones that bloom at a specific time, or something? We were supposed to have them at my wedding, but then the venue got burnt down by my husband’s homophobic father, so we kind of had to pull the whole wedding thing together on short notice— it’s kind of a long story, but I really, really need to get these flowers for Valentine’s Day.” Ian leaned in close over the counter, hoping he didn’t look too desperate. “It’s our first one together and it’s been a fucking shitty year and it would just— it would mean a lot.”

Ian finally exhaled, and hoped by some miracle that this cashier, or someone in the fucking universe, would take pity on him.

The cashier pulled his glasses down to the bridge of his nose, tapping away at the iPad on the counter before glancing up. “Hmm. I’m sorry honey, you’re fresh out of luck. Those lilies bloom in the summer mostly, and no one around here really has them. You could maybe check one of the little flower shops down the street, they do special orders and stuff this time of year—but I’ll be honest, I don’t know if you’re gonna get these flowers by tomorrow.”

Ian felt disappointment bubble up inside him. Of fucking course there were none of these obscure flowers in Chicago the day before Valentine’s Day— he’d had this grand idea of giving Mickey a perfect Valentine’s Day, of starting off on the right foot, and he still put this shit off until the last minute and couldn’t give Mickey what he deserved. Mickey would’ve never made this mistake.

Ian cleared his throat. “Shit. Well, uh, thanks anyways.”

He turned, heading for the door and getting ready to be assaulted by the bitter cold again. Okay, there were a couple flower marts down the street, he could try that— but he had a sinking feeling that the results would be the same, that he’d be left empty-handed tomorrow with nothing to give.

Okay. Focus. I’ve gotta plan a bunch of shit for Valentine’s Day by tomorrow.

What would Mickey do?

**

The flat drone of the dial tone made Mickey’s head buzz, the same dull vibration he’d heard dozens of times that week. Finally, he heard the click of someone answering.

“Hello, this is Sizzlers, how may I help you?”

“Hi, it’s, uh, it’s Mickey Milkovich. Again. I’m just checking in one more time to make sure we’re all good for tomorrow?”

There was a silence on the other end of the line, like the hostess was taking a moment to compose herself. “Yes, Mr. Milkovich. Since this is the… seventh time you’ve checked in in the past week, I believe, everything has definitely been arranged as you requested.”

Mickey cleared his throat. “Uh, good. Thanks. We’ll be there for our reservation at 8.”

He clicked his phone off and flung it down onto the bed. It had been nearly a week since he’d decided he was going to try to give Ian some kind of Valentine’s Day like the normal fucking couple Ian wanted to be, but he had to admit, this shit was hard work; he had to think of the perfect place he wanted them to go, had to call and make a reservation and arrange everything perfectly— and then there was the matter of deciding what to get Ian, because apparently married people also got each other fucking gifts on Valentine’s Day, which sounded like overkill to him. He’d been scrolling through Buzzfeed “Valentine’s Day Gift” lists for the better part of the afternoon, and even snuck some of Debbie’s chick magazines into the bathroom to sift through articles like “Ten Things to Get Your Man for Valentine’s Day” or “Best V-Day Gifts for Newlyweds.” Finally, after fucking days of plans stirring in the back of his mind, Mickey finally thought he had all of the pieces together; the reservation was made, the timing was set, and he’d even stopped by some fancy fucking chocolate shop on the other side of town on the way home from the Alibi earlier that afternoon.

Everything was planned—now there was just one thing left to do.

Mickey grabbed the crumpled piece of paper he’d set on the bedside table, the one he’d been staring at all week. Fuck it. He grabbed a discarded pen from the windowsill, from the collection of pencils that Ian kept next to his notebooks.

Mickey sighed as he put the pen to the paper. Now comes the hard part.

part 1 is here! and part 3 is here!

[worldwidemochiguy]

expectation ≠ reality (18+)

When you first met Jungkook, he was so kind, with wide eyes and a sweet smile, but soon enough he dragged you into a tumultuous marriage where you were barely allowed to draw breath on your own. But, when you meet Taehyung, the cute delivery boy with blond hair and a penchant for flirting, you start to wonder if you’ve found your second chance.

Masterlist

Warnings: Yandere behaviour, possessive behaviour, slight dub-con, graphic penetrative sex, DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE A MINOR pls im not tryna get arrested or anything

Word Count: 4K 

a/n: thanks to @gucieguciekook​ for requesting !! hope u enjoy lol <3

Expectation ≠ Reality

You have had enough.

From the moment you agreed to marry him, Jungkook had been getting steadily worse and worse. He had always been possessive to a fault, but you mistakenly saw it as a sign he truly cared and treasured you. You cooed over his obsession with littering hickeys all over your neck, blushed when he called you ‘Mine. Only mine.’ When he asked you to move in way too quickly, you thought it was a sign he was committed to your relationship.

How wrong you were.

Not that he isn’t committed, of course. God, if there was ever a word to describe Jeon Jungkook, it was committed. He is obsessed with you. He slowly started cutting you off from the outside world, persuading you to stay in when your friends invited you out, and convincing you they were terrible people when they inevitably stopped interacting with you. You had cut out everyone else in your life because of him. 

Your parents:

babe, they don’t approve of our relationship because they don’t want you to be happy with your own life, they want to control you and treat you like a kid. you don’t need them anyway, you have me. 

Your coworkers:

i called in sick for you today, babe. you don’t need to go there anymore, i have more than enough money for the both of us. 

Even your pet:

your cat? oh, i’m sorry baby, she got hit by a car. no, don’t cry, baby, now you can give all of your attention to me instead of that rancid furball. 

Jungkook had isolated you and exhausted you to the point where you agreed to marry him, convinced it could not make your life any worse. 

Again, you were wrong. 

With his ring on now your finger, Jungkook is even more assured of his ownership of you. You are no longer allowed to cook or go into the garden, both deemed as dangerous activities where you could somehow be harmed by a vegetable peeler, or maybe grass cuttings. You have no access to the internet, and the only books you are permitted to read are simple, dull books with no plot or dusty old historical text books, obviously the only things Jungkook is certain wouldn’t give you ‘silly ideas to confuse your pretty little head.’ 

~~~~

“Jungkook,” You murmur, voice muffled as he presses your face into the pillow.

“Yeah, baby, say my name just like that.” He grunts, attempting to tug off your skirt with one hand while the other is fisted in your hair. You roll your eyes and shift your weight so he can take it off properly. After he had separately ripped all your pants at some point in his haste to take them off you, you had realised it was simply easier to wear something less finicky.

As soon your lower half is bared for him, he starts running his large palms greedily over your skin, for his own benefit rather than yours.

“Fuck, look at you.” He mutters, before digging a thumb into a bruise he had left on your ass. You yelp and he chuckles lowly behind you. Just as you expect, he presses firmly on the bruise and you clench your teeth, burying your nails in your palms and refusing to make a noise. He waits for a second, but you remain stubbornly silent. 

“Huh,” he says, “I guess baby’s pain threshold has risen a bit, yeah?” He strokes a possessive hand between your shoulder blades and you repress a shiver, before he loops his arm around you and lifts you onto your hands and knees.

“I guess I’ll just have to fuck you harder then.” He resolves, before shoving himself into you roughly.

Jungkook is not small, putting it lightly, though you hate to afford any kind of praise to that bastard. He is long, and thick, and you really hadn’t been very turned on at all, just letting him do what he wanted so that he’d leave you alone, so you don’t blame yourself too much when a scream bursts out of your lips. You can barely hear his smug laugh behind you over the burning sensation in your core. He doesn’t give you any time at all to adjust, roughly pumping himself in and out as you try to hold in your whimpers.

“So fucking tight, baby.” He grunts in your ear, punctuating his words with harsh slaps against your thigh, “You sure you can handle my cock?” This is his offer: Admit that I’m hurting you, admit that you’re weak and at my mercy, and I’ll stop. That’s all you have to do.

You clench your teeth and press your face into the pillow again.

He sighs behind you, though you can tell he’s quietly pleased, before pulling out of you and walking away. Him yanking out and leaving you roughly stretched and exposed to the cold air is almost as painful as when he shoved into you in the first place, and when he returns you resent yourself for feeling the slightest hint of relief. 

He is carrying a bottle of lube, normally used for when he decides he wants to fuck your ass instead. You tense up, preparing to swallow your pride and beg him not to — it’s been a while and you’re not sure you can take the pain — but he senses your fear and smirks.

“Don’t worry baby, I’m just gonna make it a bit easier for you.” As he speaks, he’s slicking up his cock and soon enough he’s getting back up on his knees and taking ahold of your hips, pushing himself in slightly gentler this time. 

The coolness of the gel soothes — but doesn’t eradicate — the burn and Jungkook has started to move in long, rolling strokes inside you that are almost pleasant. 

“See, baby?” Jungkook coos as his hands move around to stroke your stomach, “I don’t want to hurt you, you have to know that. I hate hurting you, but you never tell me to stop. You have to know your limits, baby girl. You’re just not strong enough.”

His words — though patronising, and awful, and the kind of thing that make you want to whack him in the neck with one of those massive historical tomes he provides you — are spoken in that soft, Jungkook tone that he used to make you fall in love with him. It reminds you of those days when he was just Kookie, your cute study partner with a bunny smile and a pretty singing voice and broad muscly shoulders that flushed along with the rest of his body when you complimented him.

The Jungkook that you know him as now — the one swiftly bringing you to a reluctant and resentful orgasm — is the opposite of soft. He is rough and impulsive and controlling and you honestly fear what would happen if you tried to ask him for a divorce. He wouldn’t let you go, probably. He’d just laugh at you, and then shove you down and fuck you to make you remember who you really belonged to, like he is doing now.

You try to contain your pants as Jungkook starts a series of staccato thrusts. You are sure Jungkook would hear you, even over the obscene sound of his hips slapping into the back of your thighs, and would be obnoxiously proud about it for the next month. He would already be smug enough having made you come, which you have given up trying to stave off because Jungkook — damn him — is really good at fucking you until you can’t remember your own name. 

He reaches around to pinch your clit harshly and you decide that now is as good a time as any to give up your last remaining vestiges of pride. You come with a piercing whine, clenching around him rhythmically until his hips stutter and you feel the unpleasant sensation of warmth spilling into you. He doesn’t stop, pumping every last drop into you and then dropping on top of you, pinning your body to the mattress. 

After a while he rearranges himself so that he is spooning you, arms wrapped stiflingly tight around your waist, and his now-flaccid cock still tucked inside you. You grimace. Jungkook had always fallen fast asleep after sex, but now you are wide awake, hyperaware as he snores behind you. You don’t know what you’ve become. You hate him. But sometimes he says things that make you wish he wasn’t a monster, that make you wish he was the boy with soft smiles and expressive eyes that you had fallen in love with. You live for the resurgences of that humanity, because it is the only thing you have to look forward to, apart from the eventual day when Jungkook finally snaps and kills you.

~~~~

“Jungkook,” you say over breakfast, and he looks up with his cheeks full of pancake.

“Yes, my angel?” He asks, eyes twinkling — he loves when you say his name — and your breath catches, and for a second everything is perfect and you are having breakfast across from a boy who loves you more than anything. And then you see the annoyed glint in his eye — you hadn’t immediately answered his question — and you come crashing back to bitter reality. 

“I-” You start, then stop, unsure of how to phrase the question into a compliment, that way Jungkook is more likely to give you what you want.

“Say what you want to say, baby. You know how I hate to be kept waiting…” He gives you a shark’s smile. 

“I… I really loved all the books you gave me.” You tell him, making sure your voice is exactly the correct tone of gushing admiration.

“Really?” He replies, a pleased expression on his face as he strokes your hair back gently.

“Yes, and I- I was wondering if maybe… I could have some more?” 

His hand drifts down to rest at the hollow of your throat. It curls slightly.

“N-not that I’m not grateful-” You stammer, “B-But… I liked them all so much I read them too quickly, and now I have nothing else to do with you’re gone.” You end the statement with a playful pout, and you feel your self-loathing level up a notch. 

“Baby, you have to remember to take your time with things like that.” Jungkook grinned, standing up and getting his briefcase. You move to the door where you are supposed to administer a farewell kiss before he goes to work, just like always. 

He smiles, satisfied, before looking sideways slightly so you can get up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He reaches around to squeeze your ass quickly, smirking when you squeak in shock.

“Don’t be greedy baby, take what you’re given.” He tosses a ‘Love you!’ over his shoulder as he goes, and when you call it back the words taste sour on your tongue. You wonder if you had ever uttered those words sincerely. 

~~~~

You had been thinking Jungkook had forgotten about your request for books, so when the doorbell rings at six o clock and you answer it to see a cute delivery boy with a bundle of books tucked under his arm, you are surprised to say the least. 

“D-Delivery for Jeon Jungkook?” He stutters, and you had been expecting him to have a slightly high, nervous voice so the deep, thick drawl shocks you in more ways than one. You can feel yourself melt just looking at him. His eyes are so… innocent, just like Jungkook’s when you first saw him. His nose cutely scrunches as his blond hair — longer than Jungkook’s — falls in soft clumps over his eyes. He huffs a lopsided breath and the light strands flutter about momentarily, before settling back just where they were. You think you’ve fallen in love.

You realise you’ve been staring at him this entire time, but to be fair, he has been staring right back, and you feel yourself become flustered.

“Uh, yeah, that’s me. That’s my package.”

“Sorry ma’am,” He starts in his honey voice, before grinning. He seems to gain confidence due to your flustered state. “-but this package is addressed to a Mr Jeon Jungkook, and you certainly don’t look like a ‘Mr’.” He mutters as his eyes drag up and down your form. You are only in your nightie — Jungkook always likes it when you wear pretty, flimsy things — and this stranger’s gaze is making you blush in a way you know Jungkook wouldn’t be happy about.

“Yeah, that’s… uh, that’s my husband. Jeon Jungkook.”

“Your husband, huh?” The delivery boy does not seem put off by the mention of a husband, in fact, he seems almost spurred on by it. “And where is Mr Jeon Jungkook right now?”

“He’s working late. He would normally be back by now but he called and said he’s spending the night at the office.”

“Working late, huh?” The delivery boy repeats in that cocky drawl, and oddly enough, it reminds you of Jungkook. “You know, if I had a wife like you waiting for me to come home, I don’t know if I’d even make it out of bed long enough to go to work in the morning, let alone stay there overnight.” 

Your eyes widen as your cheeks darken, and his open, bright laughter is the nicest thing you’ve heard in months.

“What happened to the nervous delivery boy?” You spluttered indignantly, and his laughing slowed down, though his eyes were still twinkling. Just like Jungkook’s used to do.

“He relaxed when he realised you were just as affected by him as he was by you.”

“Who says I’m affected by you?” You ask boldly, and then immediately retreat a step when he moves towards you. 

“You’re giving yourself away, sweetheart.” He smirks, before advancing another step into your home. “You know… empty house… husband at work… it seems a waste not to use this opportunity.” He waggles his eyebrows at you, and you scoff, forcing him back with both hands until he is outside the door again. He lets you push him with a brow raised lazily.

“That sounded like a line from a bad porno, and I’m pretty sure Jungkook would literally kill me if he found out.” You fake a laugh, covering up your very real and valid fear that Jungkook would actually kill you.

“Jungkook’s the possessive type, huh?” 

Yes, you scream internally.

“Well, I’m pretty sure no husband would like delivery boys sleeping with their wives.”

“What about delivery boys visiting their wives during the day?”

You pause, hands floating in midair, about to take the parcel out of the delivery boy’s hands.

“Huh?”

“I could come around in the day while your husband’s at work-” He sped up when you raised your brows, “-not to do anything, or at least, anything that you’re uncomfortable with, but just to talk. I can tell you’re lonely.” You scoff and roll your eyes, ignoring the fact that he’s absolutely correct. You turn back to him, ready to decline his offer, when you see his puppy eyes. Your resolve crumbles.

“I don’t know,” You had no way of telling what punishments Jungkook would submit you to if he found out. He didn’t even let you talk to your parents, so you could hardly imagine he’d be pleased with you chatting to young, attractive men while alone at your house.

“Come on!” The delivery boy wheedled. “He’d never know. He’s practically asking for it, he leaves you alone day after day, all you have for company are these stupid books!” A dismissive gesture to the collection of Austen, Dickens and Shakespeare you are carrying. “Aren’t you bored? Don’t you want a little excitement?”

You tiredly fumble around for an excuse.

“I don’t even know your name.”

“My name’s Taehyung.” He introduces himself promptly. “I’d like to visit you tomorrow at lunch time, if that’s alright.”

“You sure you don’t have a delivery then?” You ask hopefully.

“I don’t.”

You release a weary sigh.

“You’re going to come no matter what I say, aren’t you?” He responds with a blinding grin.

“I love that we’re learning things about each other! You can already anticipate my actions,” He starts listing off ‘facts’ on his fingers, “you know my name, I know you’re trapped in an unsatisfying marriage-”

“I’ll see you tomorrow Taehyung.” You shut the door firmly, cutting him off.

You hear a muffled ‘can’t wait!’ from the other side of the door and if you happen to blush and giggle like a lovesick schoolgirl it doesn’t matter because no one else is there and therefore it cannot be proved.

~~~~

Taehyung starts paying you regular visits. He keeps up his job obligations even when he’s off the clock, bringing you food that Jungkook wouldn’t let you eat, newspapers since Jungkook doesn’t let you know what was going on in the outside world, and even snapshots of his day. 

Taehyung is an aspiring photographer. He has a small apartment outside of the city and an obsession with strawberries and a dog called Yeontan. He has a life, a life that you are desperately beginning to yearn for. Taehyung tells you once that he wishes he could take a photo of you outside, because he knows this perfect spot — a field full of wildflowers and sunshine that would compliment your beauty perfectly — and you burst into tears. 

You tell him, as he rocks you gently in his arms, that you are trapped by Jungkook. That you hate your husband more than anything. That you can’t remember the last time you felt the sun on your skin. And so, quietly, carefully, the two of you begin to plot.

It is not as simple as calling the police. Jungkook has enough money that there is no crime he cannot buy his way out of, no officer he cannot bribe into submission. No, you have to disappear completely. You begin passing along your possessions to Taehyung so he can take them back to his place, gradually, so that Jungkook doesn’t notice you are withdrawing from his life one pair of shoes at a time. 

You daren’t risk taking any money of Jungkook, but Taehyung tells you it isn’t a problem, which is slightly strange since you know Taehyung must have quit his delivery boy job so that he could see you every day, and surely he could do with some extra cash. You tell yourself it’s sweet that he doesn’t care about material things, he just cares about you.

“What are these?” Jungkook asks one morning, when he is greeted not with eggs sunny side up and a kiss, but a stack of papers.

“A divorce contract.” You tell him, trying to ignore the waver in your voice. He only raises an eyebrow at you, and you blanch.

You had been expecting yelling, threats, maybe even violence. Taehyung had begged you to just leave without a trace, and abandon Jungkook to his own horrid life of loneliness, but you just can’t do that, even if it is the safer option. There is still a small, pathetic part of you that clings to the idea of Kookie, the boy with wire-rimmed glasses and carefree smiles who always accepted your help with questions he couldn’t answer. Even though you know that side of him is now long-dead, if it ever even existed in the first place.

However, Jungkook is currently subverting all of your expectations. He sits there calmly, leafing through the papers.

“These don’t make any sense.” He remarks. You attempt to snatch them back, but he holds them out of your reach.

“Yes, well, I wasn’t really expecting you to read them.” You reply, embarrassed. The fake contract had been your idea, a way of telling Jungkook you wanted a divorce without actually saying the words. Of course, you had expected him to fling them into the fire, or something equally as dramatic, not read through them carefully and snort at all the typos. 

“I understand.” He declares eventually. “You want my attention, so you’re pretending that you want to leave me. Very funny, baby.”

“That’s not true!” You burst out, cheeks burning. “I am leaving you, divorce contract or not.” 

“Hush, baby, you know I don’t like it when you lie.” Jungkook purrs, his eyes burning dangerously.

“I don’t care what you like anymore, Jungkook.” You respond, suddenly furious, “I’ve spent so many years as your wife, being terrified by you, being controlled and miserable. Now I’ve got Taehyung, and I’m finally happy! I love him, Jungkook, not you. I’m leaving.” 

You turn away and storm to the door, but hesitate when you hear Jungkook chuckle.

“If you think you are liberating yourself by going to Kim Taehyung… you are wrong, baby.” 

“H-How do you know his family name?” You ask, fear starting to invade your mind.

“I know a lot of things about Mr Kim,” Jungkook spits, and his anger starts to bleed through. “He is not who you think he is, baby. Are you sure you want to go?” His patronising tone is the last straw for you. 

“I’d rather die than stay here with you.”

“Who knows, baby, Mr Kim might just fulfil your wish.” You blanch again, hesitating with your hand on the lock, a breath away from freedom.

“Y-You’re just trying to scare me.” You stutter, and you hear him sigh behind you.

“No, baby, I’m trying to warn you, but you insist on being so, so dumb. I don’t like to see you hurt, remember? But, if this will teach you a lesson about how lucky you are to have me, I guess I’ll have to let you go. Just remember, baby, when you’re with him and it’s not all you expect it to be, I will be coming for you.” As he speaks, he rises from his seat and moves across the room until he is right behind you, his breath ghosting on the back of your neck as you stubbornly refuse to turn, hand still poised on the latch.

“I’m not coming back.” You whisper, and you feel a huff of laughter against your neck.

“No, baby, I’ll rescue you, and take you back. I promise, you’ll be counting the days until you’re in my arms again.”

~~~~

Jungkook watches from the window as your harried form disappears into the distance. Cursing softly to himself, he turns on his phone and pulls up a number he is loathe to possess. 

“So, she left you, huh?” A cocky voice drawls across the line.

“Shut it, Kim.” Jungkook snaps, “She’s still my wife, she still belongs to me.”

“Oh? You didn’t sign the divorce papers?”

“Yes, very funny by the way, Kim. ‘I hereby announce that Kim Taehyung has been our mother’s favourite from the moment of his conception.’ You should’ve become a comic instead of a criminal.” Jungkook reads a line from the fake files. 

“Well, I could say the same to you, baby brother, allowing your wife to leave you like this. It’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in years.”

“Half-brother.” Jungkook growls. “And she hasn’t left me.”

“The tracker I planted on her begs to differ.”

“She’s just…” Jungkook huffs, “Confused.”

“No, she’s just got good taste, obviously.”

“You really are pathetic, stealing your little brother’s toys like this, hyung.” Jungkook taunts. “Soon, very soon, I’m going to come and get her back. I better not find her too broken when I get there.” 

Jungkook hangs up, mutters a curse under his breath, and then starts planning the inevitable gang war he’s going to have to embroil himself in because his wife can’t keep her damn legs closed.

[jeeperso]

D&D Quotes Without context

Miscellaneous Edition, for those quotable lines from between sessions

"All I wanna do, is fork a giant woman! A giant woman!" "Jonni, I'm pretty sure she is some type of undead, probably a vampire. Are you sure that is a good idea?" "If I don’t get turned into a blueberry it won’t be my worst date." "Okay, but if you have to defend yourself just don't burn the place down for once." "Oh, Nyx. Sweet summer child. I never make promises we both know I won’t even try to keep." "Jonni, if I wake up to my bed surrounded in flames again I'm short-sheeting your next bed every night for at least a month." "I know you're trying to score here, but Lady Dimitrescu's daughters are literally vampires AND bugs. I can overlook one, but as a Paladin, it is my sacred duty to burn this place to the ground and stir the ashes."

"We don't let Marshall make breakfast anymore." "Those waffles are well-fortified." "I'm going to be charitable and call it hardtack." "We can use these waffles as melee weapons." "Well if we need to deflect siege engines they'll be good to have." "This is still carbon based and digestible by human systems without any poisons." "I can't serve this. It'll cause ... death." "Marshal we've been over this. This Pizza has 10% less of a lethal amount of grease." "Plus they signed the waivers when they bought a ticket. It's fine." "And don't forget to push the Cakeon." "Cakeon being slices of cake wrapped in bacon." "The special sauce is a mixture of mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, ranch, horseradish, cheddar cheese, sour cream, and anything unfortunate enough to fall into the mixing vat."

"You do have a copy of the legal code I requested in my letter? As landed gentry you should actually have legal avenues to... I'm sorry did you say Burning child?"

"First I'm going to nail a crossbow bolt through your heart. Then I'm going to mount your balls to walls on opposite sides of this chamber." "I need Three Barrels of Butter" "Are you serious? Those Claws could crush an elephant in full plate!" "You're Right!" *Turns to first person* "We might need more than three barrels of butter."

"So Ioun is the patron of poor college kids. that scans "

"its hardtack or a mug of molten cheese-fried... something in a woven mug of bacon. your choice."

"Welp, all this coke ain't gonna snort itself..."

"Right hand me that dress and the bail money. I'll get Jonni." OOC: Well I mean they allow men in the city. Its just no men live in the city. "I stand by my statement. I'm allowed to look pretty every now and then." OOC: And dragons are the most unprejudiced lovers of anyone after bards.

OOC: Well I mean come on, its Ravenloft: saying a place is of death and madness is like making the observation the day ends in y. "Going out. Getting laid." "Jonni, she’s a werewolf." "Going out, forking a werewolf." OOC: Well Lycanthropy isn't usually sexually transmitted. Its just that Mercedes is a biter. OOC: ...I don't have an appropriate response to that.

"You seriously think I’d turn on my friends for a pile of gold?!?" "sigh I’ll show you my tits. "Hot damn, let’s get these murders done!" "No, Jonni, stay good. Besides, there are plenty of other girls who will do that without asking you to murder us." "Hmmmm… this is the moral quandary of my life…" "I’ll give you five bucks." "Scales tipped!" "Phew, I thought I was going to have to cover her next trip to the topless bar." "No, no, I have the bail money right here."

Nyx: So what’s the inside of Jonni’s head like? Edmund (with thousand yard stare): Imagine every ladies only smut magazine you’ve ever heard of going on forever into infinity while everything is on fire. Food was good though.

"It’s cool. They stole it." "And you know this how?" "Magic." “90% of Ravenloft deaths are mysterious vanishings.” "Why does everything come out covered in glitter and … is that …" "Lube. I’ve got a few theories." "Please don’t share them."

OOC: This is a plan that ends with Strahd having fewer brides, his castle is in flames, and he’s lost his cape.

OOC: Our team consists of a horny pyromancer, a gnome who can fillete you in five seconds, an HP lovecraft protagonist with actual magic backing them up, a literal slab of iron with a face, and a guy with a "I went to the eternal city of Ryleth and all I got was PTSD and this lousy T shirt". Gorbash smashing his shield into their face: "Have! You! Considered! Therapy!" OOC: Good news is you guys will no longer be the most conspicuous guys at the masquerade now. Jonni: Challenge accepted! "Nyx, the bounty on stealing his fake mustache is still on."

"Vanilla is the king of flavors. What does it say about society where vanilla is considered just 'regular'?" "That they have a lot of vanilla." Lash: "Don’t you want wishes?" Jonni: "Do I need wishes to get to see you naked?" Lash: "No?" Jonni: "Fuck ‘em." Vesh: "Oh dammit its my arranged fiance." Pit Fiend: "Milady." Vesh: "An extra wish to whoever punches this douchecanoe in the nards." Jonni: "I wish…for Bigby’s clenched fist of nard punching."

Soth: "Oh, gods, why am I on fire and why is Immigrant Song playing?" Jonni: "Take a guess." Hazlik: "Okay, so its a partridge, stuffed inside a chicken, stuffed inside a duck, stuffed inside a turkey, and the whole thing is fried on a stick. Congratulations, that's the most horrible thing I have ever seen, and I once crossbred an elephant and an owl." "I give him the 'itis, and we run like we stole something." OOC: ...weirdly Curse of Strahd has stats for Strahd zombies but not Strahd Skeletons. Or Strahd's skeletal Steed. Strahd once went to a branding seminar hosted by Bane and it changed his life.

"Are we on a high enough floor that if I throw him through the window he'll be killed by the fall?" "Oh, but when I say stuff like that it’s all 'Jonni, murder is wrong.'" "When they say pick your battles they don't mean to pick all of them. That's too many battles Jonni. Put some back." OOC: He's technically already got a symbiote. OOC: They can get married. Gorbash: "I'm increasing the rent." Venom: "Can I keep the pool table?" Gorbash: "I'm not a monster." Giant Brain: "Jonni… I have summoned you here for… WHY AM I ALREADY ON FIRE! PUT ME OUT! PUT ME OUT!"

"Hello We're the party-crashers. This is Jonni, she's here to steal your women and burn your shit down. That's Nyx, she's going to repatriate certain items from the premise. Marshal over there, is here to studiously ignore our shenanigans. This is the New Guy. He seems pretty chill. I'm Gorbash... and I have been distracting you."

"Will you walk into my parlour?" said a spider to a fly. Jonni: "Hold up. Trying to sex a spider." Nyx: (throws her hands up) And then Jonni wakes up with a spider venom hangover webbed to a wall waiting to be eaten. Jonni: "Eh, I’ve had worse one night stands. I’m not a fucking blueberry." OOC 1: Hey, where does your weed elf grow [her] crops? OOC 2: She probably just grows them in the room she hasn’t paid rent on. OOC 3: Because I was also considering a circle of spores druid tortle. OOC 2: We could be partners! We could turn this into road to el dorado staring Cheech and Chong. OOC: Wait, I just realized five people are hanging out in a pirate bar, and none of us are rogues. We are gonna need someone to get thieves tools. OOC: We have a barbarian with a big stick.

"Are we Foxhound now? Blunderbuss Octopus." OOC1: You want to put the stoner in charge of food. OOC2: Eyup. OOC1: I see no way this can go wrong! OOC3: We need the four basic food groups. Beans, Bacon, Whisky, and Lard. “We pray to Almighty Darkseid! Give us a sign! Thumbs up, for the triumph of the human spirit! Thumbs down to begin the everlasting reign of darkness!” “Where did you find this guy?” “Me? I thought you hired him.” OOC: Yup, nature, arcana, history, investigation and religon at +6. MJ got baked and watched the Discovery Orb a lot. Tordek: "But we have a cleric, Jozan, over there." Strahd: *sigh* Snaps fingers, and suddenly one of Strahd's brides sucks Jozan out the window, cue screaming. "Oh look, you suddenly have an opening, how fortunate." Tordek: "We also have a druid...." Vadania: "SHUT UP, TORDEK!" Edmund: "I think the first order of business may be to discuss your Human Resources strategy..." Strahd: "I have a guy for that too."

"When someone as smart as him talks with himself, it's not crazy...They call it monologing." "I thought it was soliloquy?" "No, soliloquy is when you're talk at someone else when your talking to yourself." "Most people would run from a demon, you run towards it to study it." Professor: "THIS IS ABSOLUTELY FASCINATING! A FROGHEMOTH, AND RIGHT UP CLOSE, IT WILL BE AMAZING TO SEE THIS PERFECT KILLING MACHINE IN ACTION." OOC: Also note the Professor is Lawful Good, Archie is Chaotic Good, so collectively they balance out to Neutral good. OOC: That's good. "The incinerations will continue until morale improves!" “You never incinerate the women!” “Because I’m fucking them!” “I… was not expecting you to be so honest about that…”

"You got what you wanted....but you lost what you had...." "Yes, I'm familiar with how capitalism works."

OOC: Dragons are like, “That’s Krandor the shiney. He only fucks other dragons. Weirdo.”

Gorbash: "D'awww, so tiny... perfect size... FOR PUNTING!" *boots tiny mind-flayer into the horizon*

"Dracula hasn't been spotted in almost recently. Whats he gonna do, destroy all we know and love like he definitely can?" "... my god you people are too stupid to live." "What are you doing in my house?" Gorbash: "...well Edmund has been reading your books, I've been sorting through your armory, Nyx and Irost has been going through your other shinies, Marshal has been cleaving anything monstrous that gets too close, and Jonni has been lighting things on fire to stave off boredom." Gorbash: "Okay Marshal, Jonni. Rock, paper, scissors over who gets [to kill] the bishop."

Jonni: "Did you really think this would make up for what you did?" Nima: "I… killed everyone you grew up with." Jonni: "Yeah, and I’m still not forgiving you for what you did to Eddie." Nima: "I am missing some key context here…" Nima: "Also I committed identity theft on you by having my new undead army tell everyone you are running the show." Jonni: "Oh, no. You’ve fooled the boar tribe. Who still haven’t figured out shitting in a hole." Nima: "Yeah I noticed that. I ruined two pairs of shoes attacking their camps."

[cyhyr]

Whumpas In July: Secret

Fandom: Naruto

Rating: E

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka

WC: ~5910

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Notes: Sleep deprivation, dissociation, it-happens-in-a-dream domestic violence, blow jobs, hallucinations, stalking, night terrors, nightmares, therapy, mental health issues, lying, secrets, open ending, TBC

A/N: It's a day late, but it happened! I may have missed a tag or two, please let me know if you catch something I'm posting this and I'm very tired :(

A sequel to “Support”

For @whumpmasinjuly prompt list

Read on The Archive

~

Sitting against his new headboard, in his new bed, alone in his new house, Iruka tips his head back to the ceiling and sighs heavily through his nose. It’s late, and he has classes to teach in the morning, but gods he can’t sleep. He wants desperately to blame this bout of minor insomnia on Kakashi’s absence; his partner left a week and a half ago on a mission above Iruka's clearance, which can only mean S-rank. And yes, of course he’s worried, but Kakashi’s also still within the clocking estimate for the mission parameters, so he’s not… he’s not that worried. Kakashi’s the best for a reason. He was assigned to the mission for a reason.

That’s not why Iruka can’t sleep.

His hands rest on his thighs, lower back aching. He’s been sitting here, in this position, for hours. First he was reading, then he was meditating; now he’s… shit, he’s not sure, but he’s definitely keeping himself awake deliberately at this point.

Because every time he falls asleep, he sees Mizuki hovering over him again. And he can’t. He can’t sleep, knowing that that’s waiting for him in his dreams.

~

It started ten days ago—the same day Kakashi left for his mission, oddly enough—when he brought the mail in. He wasn’t expecting much; junk, new utility set-up, perhaps a polite correspondence from the principal mentioning his move. What he hadn’t expected was a letter from the Konoha prison.

At first he thought it was for the previous tenant, that they had failed to file the paperwork required to forward their mail in time and so the post office sent Iruka the wrong mail. A perfectly normal mistake. But. The letter was addressed to him. Umino Iruka. It even had the new address written out, not his old one; so it hadn’t been forwarded.

That was what made Iruka pause and his heart throb and his breath stutter. He hadn’t yet filled out the mail-forwarding paperwork either, a task he meant to do that night and file in the morning. No one besides the utilities and the Academy had his new address listed as official. The prison certainly didn’t.

He went inside and put his back against the door, locked it and set the wards, and only when he felt safe did he open the letter.

DID YOU REALLY THINK LEAVING WOULD RID YOU OF ME

Iruka dropped the paper and slid down the door. He blacked out.

~

“How is the new house?”

“I’m adjusting,” Iruka says. “It’s a lot more space. It’ll be better when Naruto comes home.”

“I understand Hatake-san is out of the village.”

Iruka nods.

“I also understand that you have the clearance to know the clocking estimate, but not the mission details.” Rikona holds up her hand to stop his question. “I don’t know about it either. You know more than I do, actually. Having once had Sandaime’s ear has put you in quite a unique position, hasn’t it?”

Iruka settles. “It does. Tsunade-sama also trusts me with a considerable amount of information well above my rank.”

“Do you feel that this is a source of anxiety for you?”

“No. I would worry more if I didn’t know.” Iruka scratches his scar with one finger. “I worry anyway, especially if the shinobi out on mission are former students of mine. But I think it would be worse if I didn’t have the clearance to check what they were going into.”

“Some of your students will be of age soon to be tapped for ANBU service,” Rikona prompts.

“I try not to think about that.”

“Your file says here you also were considered for service, should you advance in rank,” she leans her head into a propped hand, elbow balanced on the edge of her desk. “You could have met Hatake-san much earlier.”

“I’m not a good fit for ANBU, Rikona-sensei, and we both know that,” Iruka grins. “I’m… too soft.”

“Hmm. I don’t think that’s true. I think, maybe, you’re too human.”

“Too—?”

“ANBU, being the Hokage’s sharpest tools, have to separate themselves from their own humanity.” She smiles. “We’ve only been doing these sessions for about two months, but in my professional opinion, that separation would be particularly difficult for you.”

Iruka nods hesitantly. “I understand. I… I can, should a mission require it, but…”

“But that separation doesn’t come easy enough.” Rikona makes a note—a scribble, really—in the notes on her desk. “In our world, that weakness is pretty significant. But for your own profession, as a teacher of young people, that humanity is essential. Keep holding onto it.”

“Thank you,” Iruka nods. “I’ll certainly try.”

“We have five minutes left. Is there anything else you want to discuss quickly before we part for the week?”

Iruka thinks, briefly, about the letter in his genkan. He hasn’t been able to move it. It’s stuck under the edge of the table against the wall, one placed specifically for dropping keys and gloves and mail and hitai-ate onto when he gets home. The very edge of it laughs at him every time he leaves or enters his house.

“No. Nothing else comes to mind.”

Rikona nods. “Then I’ll see you next week, same time.”

“Thank you, Rikona-sensei.” He stands and bows, and then sees himself out.

~

He turns his face with the force of the slap—they learned that punches left bruises, but slaps only left red marks that faded by morning. His back meets the wall, the bookshelf, a picture frame; something crashes.

“Do you like making me mad Iruka?”

He’s pulled up by his shirt and slammed back into the wall again, this time the back of his head hits hard and he stands dazed for a moment. Mizuki cups his cheek, red and hot from the slap just a minute ago, and kisses him.

“I hate hurting you, but it seems like it’s the only way to make you listen.”

The kiss turns into a bite, Mizuki gnawing at his throat. He gasps, sobs, tries so hard to be quiet; they’re not in the bedroom yet why is Mizuki doing this they’re not in the bedroom yet—

“I give you all you could want, and you can’t even spare one evening for us to be alone?”

Mizuki won’t punch him in the face anymore; that doesn’t mean he won’t punch him elsewhere. His fist digs into Iruka’s stomach; he leans over, hugging his middle. He starts to slide down the wall at his back, the fabric of his shirt riding up as it scratches against the texture of old paint.

Mizuki halts him with a hand in his hair. He lets out an involuntary, soft cry.

“You only have me. Stop trying to replace me, so I won’t have to remind you who you belong to.”

Mizuki softens his voice, but tightens his hold on his hair.

“I don’t like hurting you, Iruka. But you make me so mad I can’t stand it. I’m the only one who can love you, okay?”

“Mizu—”

“I’ll be in the bedroom. Don’t make me wait too long.”

Then he lets go of his hair and Iruka slumps the rest of the way to the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest and burying his head in his arms. Gods what did he do to anger Mizuki so?

…

Iruka wakes with tears stuck to his cheeks and eyelashes, his mouth dry as his own attempts at baked goods, and a deep-set chill which no amount of tea and blankets will stave off.

He really hopes Kakashi comes home soon. This sleeping alone thing is bullshit.

~

Iruka doesn’t sleep for the rest of the weekend. On Sunday evening he fills out a request for a substitute and leaves it on the principal’s office door, and then heads back home. It’s the sloppiest form he’s ever filled out, but he needs to try and sleep. He’s hoping he’s exhausted enough, being awake for over forty hours with the aid of food pills and meditation, that he’ll sleep dreamlessly tonight and tomorrow.

And then he goes to unlock his door and a pair of arms encircle him, and a soft voice rumbles in his ear, “Hello, Love,” and fuck he’s glad his reflexes are shit right now because his instinct screams danger! but his heart cries Kakashi—

He slumps back into Kakashi’s arms, sighing. “Welcome home,” he murmurs.

“Iruka?”

“Hmm. Really tired.”

“Me too. Bed?”

“Just to sleep.”

“Of course.”

Kakashi walks them inside and sets the wards while Iruka drops his keys and vest and takes off his sandals. The letter glares up at him from under the table; he subtly toes it further underneath, so Kakashi doesn’t see it.

The man already has it out for Mizuki. This would just push him over the edge. Better not.

Warm hands slip his hitai-ate off his head and gently untie his hair. He hums, and leans into Kakashi’s chest beside him.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks.

“I’m okay,” Iruka says. “Just having an… adjustment period. With the new place. Haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Ah. I understand.”

He takes Iruka’s hands and kisses his wrists. Just about a month and a half ago, they’d been torn up with rope burn from the three days he’d spent in captivity. Now, there are just a few pale scars there. Kakashi kisses them every chance he gets.

He pulls Iruka along to the bedroom. “Do you need to eat first?” Iruka asks.

Kakashi shakes his head. “I had a ration bar on the way home. I’ll be alright until morning.”

Iruka opens the door and leads the way in, turning to face Kakashi once the door is shut behind them. He brushes his fingers along his partner’s mask, asking, “Is this—?”

“Take it, Love.”

He wets his lips and pulls the fabric down, and gently thumbs at pale cheekbones, lips, the mark at the corner of Kakashi’s mouth. More than anything else, getting to bare Kakashi’s face feels so intimate, so charged. He kisses him softly, chastely; Kakashi holds him around his waist and walks them back to the bed.

They strip each other quickly, touches and kisses growing heated. “I thought we were just going to sleep?” Kakashi chuckles.

“I missed you,” Iruka murmurs, moving to trail kisses down his jaw and throat, pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed. He follows, dropping slowly to his knees and dragging kisses across the expanse of Kakashi’s pale chest. “Maybe I missed you too much,” he presses into Kakashi’s skin.

“Gods, Iruka, you—you don’t have to—oh, please,” Kakashi leans back on his palms, breath starting to come heavier. Iruka swirls his tongue around one nipple, bracing a hand on Kakashi’s lower back.

“I know I don’t have to,” Iruka sighs, licks his way to the other nipple and sucks harshly to pull a strangled gasp from his partner. “But I definitely want to, if it’s alright?”

“Yes. Yes, please, absolutely alright.”

He dips his head lower, nosing at Kakashi’s stomach and letting the man fall back onto the bed; first, to his elbows, then all the way flat on his back. He mouths around the base of Kakashi’s cock, breathing him in, feeling the lithe muscles of his thighs under his palms.

He’s still exhausted. But this. This he can stay awake for.

Iruka asks, lips against Kakashi’s reddened cock, “Can I put you in my mouth?”

“Please. Please, yes, yes, Ah—fuck, oh-oh shit—”

Normally, Iruka would simply slide Kakashi into his throat and hold him there, comfortably in his mouth, until Kakashi needs to come. Tonight, though… tonight he tries—more. He slides his lips down, down, down until they meet wiry curls, until the head of Kakashi’s cock, indeed, slips down his throat. And then. Then, he moves.

~

“Ah, yes, so nice. Perfect, Iruka; love you, love you, love—oh, oh shit, love what are you—OH GODS—”

Kakashi throws his fist into his mouth and bites down to keep from screaming as Iruka starts fucking his mouth on his cock, gliding up and down with spit-slicked lips and such warm, open, wet heat—it’s… it’s…

And then Iruka starts to speed up. He braces himself on Kakashi’s hips and bobs his head just out of Kakashi’s range of view—he could open the sharingan and see it perfectly but gods that would be cheating and he has no doubt in his mind that knowing he’s not being watched is actively helping Iruka avoid an episode so he won’t, he can’t. But oh, he wants.

“More. More, please. Whatever you can give me, please love,” Kakashi whines. “Fuck, Iruka.”

Iruka hums, tongues at him more, and pulls him into his throat to hold him for a moment. Breathes, in, out, in—out, and his mouth slides back up the shaft to the head. He stays there for a while, sucking and lapping at his slit and Kakashi pants heavily, reaching down with one hand blindly to touch Iruka’s hair. As Iruka begins to bob slowly again, Kakashi reaches even further to thumb at the corner of Iruka’s mouth, stretched around his cock. Iruka tips his head just slightly to the side, to lean into the touch.

“Can I—” Kakashi licks his lips, his breath hitching, “Can I use the g-word tonight?”

Iruka taps his hip… and then taps it again.

Kakashi nods. “Okay. Okay, Gods, but. Just. Oh. Fuck. Amazing. Literally Breathtaking, Iruka fu-uck.”

Iruka hums along his length; it sounds almost like a laugh.

“I’m. I need to. Love, please, I—”

He picks up his rhythm, faster now. His hand comes into play, touching his thighs and cupping his balls and fuck; his other hand holds the base of his cock and together with his mouth, Iruka—“Iruka, oh just-just like that please.” He’s not going to last. Fuck, he never lasts long with Iruka but this… this is turning out to be embarrassingly short.

“I’m gonna come. I’m gonna. Please. Iruka, Love, I know you don’t like—oh-oh-aah—like to swallow, but-but can I come in your mouth? Please, please don’t stop, please,” Kakashi knows he’s practically sobbing, but it’s staggering how wonderful this is, and he wants to come so bad but he’ll hold back until he has Iruka’s permission.

One tap on his hip. He waits. And waits. No… no second tap.

One tap means yes.

One tap means yes.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, oh yes, Iruka—!”

~

The flood of come in his mouth, while he is prepared for it, is still extremely unpleasant. He holds Kakashi’s dick as it pulses, until his mouth is full, and then he quickly pulls off and continues getting him off with his hand. He turns his head aside, pulls close a box of tissues from under his nightstand, grabs a handful, and spits. Once his mouth is clear, he pulls another few tissues from the box and starts cleaning Kakashi up.

He made quite the mess. Iruka smiles. His chest is heaving through his glow, both eyes gently closed. Iruka wipes away come from his groin and off his softening cock, also sopping up a bit that landed on his stomach. He bends over and presses a kiss to Kakashi’s navel, and says, “Be right back.”

Kakashi hums in response.

Iruka chuckles, and leaves for the bathroom. Tissues are fine to get rid of much of the mess, but it won’t clean up the residue. Plus, even if he didn’t just have come in his mouth, he’d have to brush his teeth.

He brushes quickly, washes his face, and as he lifts his head to look in the mirror—his heart stops.

“Sucking someone else off doesn’t mean I don’t still own you.”

Iruka turns, arm tight in a fist and aimed for the throat. But—all he hits is air.

All he hits…

Oh.

Iruka sags back against the vanity. He’s gone so long without sleep he’s hallucinating. He thought he saw—Mizuki—

A hand shoves the bathroom door open, Kakashi there with sharingan open and a kunai in hand. He takes in the room quickly, and then steps in and stands in front of Iruka. “I felt killing intent,” he says. “Are you okay?”

Iruka, through a rapidly drying mouth, mutters, “Just. I think I really need to get some sleep. Sorry. Thanks for coming and checking on me.”

Kakashi slowly crosses the bathroom to him, and presses a kiss to his forehead; he says, “If you’re sure,” and then leads them out.

Iruka fights the chill that runs down his spine as he turns off the light. He lays down, rests his head on Kakashi’s shoulder, and breathes in his partner’s comforting scent. All the while, he accepts being bundled in lithe arms and a thin blanket.

“Sure I can’t reciprocate?” Kakashi asks, voice hopeful.

“Not tonight,” Iruka mutters, pressing a kiss to Kakashi’s collarbone.

Maybe, if I can get some sleep… soon

He closes his eyes and lets his breath even out.

~

Kakashi wakes to someone flaring their chakra—he’s instantly alert and hovering protectively over Iruka, reaching for the same kunai he had grabbed earlier, kept at the edge of the mattress. He takes in the room quickly, searching for the threat… and finding none.

Below him, Iruka whimpers in his sleep, and his chakra flares. Kakashi sets the kunai down and eases himself back to Iruka’s side. A glance at the alarm clock shows that they’d barely been asleep for an hour. There are tears gathering at the corners of his eyes; Kakashi carefully brushes them away.

“I’m here, love,” he murmurs. “It’s just a dream.”

He lays an arm over Iruka’s waist to draw him closer—

Iruka, still asleep, pushes back. He thrashes, grits his teeth and nearly screams; Kakashi takes his wrists to keep Iruka from hitting him.

“Iruka, dear, wake up,” he tries again. Iruka, now on his back with Kakashi hovering over him again, his wrists pinned by his head, tosses his head side to side, crying in his sleep. It makes Kakashi’s chest hurt to see his partner so scared, so pained. “Love, please; it’s just a dream, shh, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—”

Iruka’s chakra flares dangerously, like it does when he’s about to activate a seal. But there’s no…

That’s never stopped him before.

Kakashi flickers away from Iruka, across the room, landing in front of the closet in a crouch. Just in time, it seems—the modified barrier seal pops into place where he had just been. The seal hangs, empty, like a bubble, for two or three seconds; and then flickers away once it registers the lack of a captured chakra signature.

Iruka’s breath stutters from the bed and the crying quiets; Kakashi approaches carefully. His hands are covering his face, and he’s turned onto his side, curled gently in Kakashi’s direction.

“Iruka?”

He sniffles, curls tighter. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Are you awake?”

Iruka nods. “Gods, I hope I am.”

Kakashi frowns. “Have you been having night terrors like this since you moved in?”

Iruka doesn’t answer immediately, but eventually shrugs. He takes his hands away from his face. “Not always… like that. Sometimes I remember the dreams. Those times are worse, honestly.”

“You don’t remember what happened just now?”

Iruka shakes his head. “Just the fear. The horrible, overwhelming fear.”

Kakashi sits on the bed beside Iruka and lays a hand on his shoulder. “What do you dream about, when you remember?”

“I… Kakashi, I’m just tired, can we do this tomorrow?”

“Not if you’re just going to have another nightmare or night terror as soon as you fall back asleep.” Kakashi usually wouldn’t press, but that… that honestly shook him a bit, seeing Iruka in the throes of his night terror. Talking about it won’t make it magically go away, but maybe Kakashi can help ease his mind a little.

Iruka sighs. “It’s so stupid.”

“Love.”

“Just. It’s Sato, okay? I don’t know, a change of scenery and now I’m just. Thinking about it again.”

Kakashi glowers. He leans down and presses a harsh kiss to Iruka’s hair, his temple, gently nudges him to his back so he can reach the rest of his jaw and face. “We never have to worry about that again.”

“I know.”

“I’ll never let that happen to you again.”

“Don’t promise me that,” Iruka says. “You can’t promise me that.”

“I’ll promise you what I need to to make you feel safe.”

“Promise to try your best. Promise to do everything you can.” Iruka sniffles, and wipes at his face, and then with his other hand he carefully cups Kakashi’s face. “I love you, but you can’t always be at my side. You can’t promise to keep me perfectly safe; that’s not how the world works.”

Kakashi leans into Iruka’s hand, turns his face and kisses his palm. “I’ll keep you in one of your own barrier seals if I have to,” Kakashi whispers with a grin, knowing Iruka will hear the humor in his voice.

Iruka, indeed, chuckles. “If you can even use them.” He tugs on Kakashi’s hand, and Kakashi comes back to lay down next to him. “I don’t remember having more than one dream each night,” he mutters. “We should be okay for the rest of the night.”

Kakashi hums and leans his head on Iruka’s chest. His pulse is finally settling down. He closes his eyes again and falls back asleep to Iruka pushing fingers through his hair.

~

Iruka gets the mail again the next day, finally feeling mildly refreshed after sleeping most of the night. Kakashi left before he was supposed to leave for school, so he didn’t have to explain himself at least. There’s only one letter in his box, unmarked with a forwarding stamp and in a standard white envelope, not the blue ones in which utility bills are sent. It’s been twelve days in this new place; maybe it’s from his landlady. She mentioned sending her tenants bills for rent around mid-month, to remind them to pay by the first.

It’s not.

He gets inside, and the letter is return-addressed from the Konoha prison. Iruka leans his back against a wall and scrubs a hand down his face. Looks at the letter in his hand, then to the ceiling, and back to the letter.

He puts it down on the kitchen table. This is going to need some pre-emptive cleaning.

After the kotatsu has been vacuumed and the quilt changed, all the floors swept and mopped, and every piece of wooden furniture Iruka owns has been polished—only then does he dare look at the contents of the letter, undoubtedly from Mizuki.

He takes it in quickly. And then he drops the paper and slides back out of his chair and turns to tuck his face into the sink to throw up.

Mizuki wants him to visit. For a conjugal visit, specifically.

He can’t… he can’t keep this to himself now.

He rinses his mouth, gathers his wits and the letter, and then also grabs the letter from under the table in the genkan. He takes his time putting his vest and hitai-ate on.

Iruka heaves a sigh, and leaves his home.

Rikona-sensei said he can visit anytime in an emergency. This… this feels like an emergency. He feels floaty and loose, like he could slip away and dissociate at any time. He hopes he makes it to the hospital first.

~

Kakashi is just about to take the mission scroll from Tsunade when a rapid, unrepentant knocking comes on the office doors. Tsunade motions for Shizune to let whoever it is in, and keeps holding the scroll out for Kakashi regardless.

“My apologies, Tsunade-sama,” the hospital messenger says, bowing deeply. Then, she turns to Kakashi and says, “I have a message for you, Kakashi-san.”

Kakashi turns and gives the messenger his attention, leaving the scroll hanging from Tsunade’s fingers. “Go ahead.”

“As of 14:21 today, Umino Iruka has checked himself into mental health crisis care with Rikona-sensei. He’s listed you as his emergency contact for the duration of his stay.”

Kakashi dropped his hand away from the scroll. “I’m needed elsewhere,” he says, and waits only until Tsunade gives him a single nod before jumping out of the window and bounding across the village to the hospital.

What the fuck happened between last night and this afternoon that Iruka felt the need to-to—

He should have stayed. He should have slept in, should have held him longer, tighter. Whatever happened, Kakashi could have stopped it. Could have prevented it.

...Right?

He stops at the front doors and walks in, waving to the nurses at the administration desk while he moves to the stairs. Rikona-sensei’s office is on the third floor, along with the rest of the mental health clinic.

When he gets there, it’s quiet. Not many people use the mental health services the village has, himself included. But there are a smattering of civilians, and a single pre-teen genin bouncing her knee anxiously while she sits in a corner. The admission desk has a receptionist filing paperwork in manila folders. Kakashi taps on the desk to get her attention.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asks.

“No,” he says, “I’m here to see Rikona-sensei about my partner, Umino—”

“Rikona-sensei is in crisis management right now and is unreachable,” the receptionist drawls. “If you want to leave a message I’ll see that she gets it as soon as she’s available.”

“Miss.”

“Hmm?”

“Please look at me.”

She rolls her eyes behind her glasses, tosses pale blonde hair back over her shoulder, and picks up her chin to finally look at him. Her eyes bulge and her mouth drops open—just a bit, just enough to notice.

“Hatake-sama,” she starts, but he cuts her off.

“I’m here. To see my partner, Umino Iruka. He’s with Rikona-sensei. Please, could you point me in the right direction, that I could go see him?”

She visibly collects herself, and then says, “I’m very sorry, Hatake-sama. But Umino-sensei is in crisis. That means he can’t be disturbed until Rikona-sensei gives him a clean bill of health, or unless the Hokage overrides and calls him to service.” She ducks her head and pulls out a folder, opening and seeming to reference it. “He did list you as an emergency contact, so if his health takes a turn for the worse you’ll be notified, and if he becomes unable to make decisions regarding his own care you’ll be brought in to conference with Rikona-sensei to decide the direction of his treatment. Until then, the best thing you can do is be patient and wait for a messenger.”

Kakashi sighs. It was worth a shot.

He shrugs, and turns away. He takes a careful, chakra-enhanced sniff; Iruka’s scent is faint, but here, and tinged with fear-sweat. Kakashi leaves the clinic waiting room like he’s going to follow the receptionist’s instructions, and once he’s in the hallway he ducks out a window and walks along the outside of the building until he comes to the window where Iruka’s scent is strongest.

He stays beside it, not daring to look inside yet. The fear-scent lingers in the air here. Rikona must have aired out the room recently.

Kakashi flares his chakra, knowing that Iruka will feel it.

…

And then a small flicker comes back in return, and Kakashi can breathe easy again.

~

“I need. I need to know how he found me.”

“As soon as you’re calm, I will find that out for you,” Rikona says.

She closes the window and sits back down beside him. He'd needed air flow just a minute ago, but now that the panic threat has passed, he asked her to close it again.

He should have grabbed his fūinjutsu kit before leaving the house. He needs to seal the room.

“I am as calm as I'm going to get,” Iruka says.

“You have been having a moderate anxiety attack since we settled in this room. You are safe here.”

“I was supposed to be safe at home!”

“Iruka-sensei, please. I understand your frustration, but yelling is only going to work yourself up even more. You need to settle yourself.”

“When can I see Kakashi?”

“When you’re out of crisis.”

Iruka gets up and paces the width of the small office. “What if. What if he never stopped.”

“Iruka—”

“What if he has other people following me, watching me. ‘Did you really think leaving would rid you of me.’ Of course not,” Iruka laughs. “Of course he wouldn’t let me just-just move—”

“Mizuki is in prison. He has had no control over you for years, if he ever had any at all,” Rikona says. “Moving was a choice you made, not only to get away from the memories of Mizuki in your old apartment, but there were other reasons, were there not?”

Iruka pants, his rant having been halted but his heart still pounding. He stops his pacing and taps his fingers against crossed arms. “I… yeah, but—”

“What were those reasons?”

“I really don’t—”

“Saying them aloud again would be beneficial. Please, sit. Fidget, if you must. But sit.”

Iruka takes the other chair and faces the window. Drumming his fingers along his arm and fighting back a flush, he says, “Naruto is going to need a bigger room when he comes home.”

“That’s right. What else?”

“Kakashi likes to cook, and my old kitchen wasn’t… he commented that it didn’t have a lot of counter space.”

“And the new house, you made sure it has plenty of space in the kitchen for your partner.”

“He loves the new kitchen,” Iruka says.

“Anything else?”

“The yard.” Iruka stops fidgeting, shifting forward to put his elbows on his knees. “Kakashi’s ninken ran laps around it the first day for three hours. The whole pack. They’re so sweet. You know they call me ‘Boss’s Boss’?”

Rikona laughs. “High praise, I’m sure.”

“Kakashi hates it,” Iruka chuckles along softly. “He was like, ‘My boss is the Hokage?!’ and Pakkun—he’s the pack beta, I think?—he says, ‘yeah, for missions. At home, Sensei’s Boss.’”

Rikona reaches out for his wrist. He lets her touch his pulse quietly for a few seconds. She smiles.

“Keep going. You’re doing great.”

Iruka leaves his hand palm up on his lap within easy reach. With his other hand he rubs at his scar. “It just… it felt like the time. I’d been in that apartment since after the Kyūbi attack. Mizuki moved out as soon as he could, but I… I stayed. I liked the stability. Until I was chūnin it was subsidized by the village, so I could spend my money how I needed instead of worrying about rent. Now, though…”

“Now?”

Iruka sucks in a breath. “Now I’m moving forward. I have Naruto when he comes home, and I have a place for him when he gets here. And… and if I’m ever ready to take the step to ask Kakashi to move in with me, I’ve already secured a house that I know he likes.”

“You’re providing for your future. That’s amazing progress.”

“But Mizuki—”

“Is behind bars in the village prison. He is not a threat.” Rikona takes his wrist again, frowns, and says, “I want you to say that aloud for me.”

“He sent me letters. He knows where I live. The prison shouldn’t have been updated on my address change before the post office—”

“Deep breaths. I understand your concern, and I will help you figure out what has happened. But Mizuki is not a threat. He is in prison. I want you to say that.”

Iruka hugs himself with his free arm. “Mizuki is not a threat. He’s in prison.”

“Can you trust in our system?”

“Yes, but—”

A brief flare of chakra interrupts his thought. He knows that chakra. He fights the smile that tries to creep onto his face.

“But?”

Kakashi

He can see Kakashi once he’s out of crisis

“Yes, I’m sorry.” He flickers his chakra, directing it to the window. “I’m. Yes. Okay. Please, just… I need to know how he found me.”

Rikona nods, and takes his wrist again. She smiles. “I’m going to get you some medicine, to help keep you relaxed. And then we’ll go see Tsunade-sama.”

She leaves and locks the door behind her from the outside, like he’s not a shinobi and doesn’t know how to pick a lock. Once she’s gone, he darts over to the window and opens it. He sticks his head out and looks to each side, but Kakashi’s not—

“Hello, Love.”

He smiles and turns his face skywards. Kakashi holds himself to the hospital wall with one hand and both feet, and then eases his way down to the open windowsill and perches on the edge. Iruka backs up and makes room, but doesn’t let Kakashi come into the office.

“Are you alright?” Kakashi asks.

Iruka’s instinct is to say that he’s fine, and he opens his mouth to say it; but a glance at the deeply worried look in Kakashi’s eye changes his mind. “Not… no.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

“Don’t do anything rash?”

“Don’t do… Iruka, what happened?” Kakashi's eye turns dark and he lifts his palm to press along Iruka’s cheek.

He shakes his head. “Please, just—”

“No, Iruka.”

He is stopped, both of Kakashi’s hands on his face now.

“You. You’re in crisis management. I’m not even supposed to be here, not even allowed to see you yet. You don’t—you don’t get to just tell me to hold off, or stay back. I’m here to help you. Please, gods, let me help.”

Did you really think leaving would rid you of me

Sucking someone else off doesn't mean I don’t still own you

…Conjugal visit…

“I need to do this myself, Kakashi,” Iruka murmurs. He leans forward to press their foreheads together and continues, “Just keep… keep being steady for me. I need you to be a safe, sturdy place for me to fall in case this all goes wrong.”

Kakashi whines softly. “I don’t like it. I want to help.”

“You are helping.”

“More. I need to help you more.”

“Kiss me?”

Kakashi doesn’t take down his mask, but presses their lips together anyway. Iruka melts into the kiss regardless, and then trails his mouth up to Kakashi’s eye and kisses his brow.

“Please trust me. I’ll tell you everything once it’s over.”

“I do trust you.” Kakashi sighs. “Please, though. If you need me, send for me. I’m going to stay in the village until you’re okay.”

Iruka nudges their noses together. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He turns to the door. “Rikona-sensei is coming back. I have to go.”

“Water my plants for me?”

“Of course, Love.” Kakashi leans in and kisses him once more, and then falls off of the windowsill. Iruka watches him go, crossing his arms and resting his shoulder against the open window.

The office door opens and Rikona comes in. In one hand she holds a cup of water, and in the other a small orange pill. “Are you ready, Iruka-sensei?”

He sighs quietly, and closes the window, then turns to her. He takes the pill, drinks the entire cup of water, and then sighs, “Yes. Lead the way, please.”

[animemangasoul]

5 Times the Batsiblings Realize They Don’t Need Bruce & the One Time He Realizes it Himself

Summery: Tim accidentally kills someone and Bruce finds out

Chapters: 1/6

“It was an accident Bruce.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!” Dick can’t believe this is happening. After all their precautions. After all their effort.... Everything was unraveling right in front of his eyes and he couldn’t control it. He couldn’t stop it. They should have known. He should have known.

Nothing stays hidden for long. Not under Batman’s nose. Not forever. No matter how much they wished and planned and tried.

“I taught you better than this.” Bruce takes a step forward. “Murder is murder Dick.”

Lips pulling into a frown, Dick stands a little taller, chin lifting a little higher, eyes narrowing a little further. “You taught me to be good,” He says, it comes out more like a hiss. “I’m trying to be good here. You’re not taking Tim away. I won’t let you.” Each word he speaks is punctuated by a sense of urgency, by a promise, by swirling emotions Dick can’t quite control. “Tim stays.”

If Bruce looked anymore disappointed in him, Dick might have honestly keeled over from the sheer shame the expression invokes within him. Because.... God….. Bruce was disappointed.  

Dick knew that look all too well.

Had been on the receiving end of it for far too many years, for far too long, but never.... never had it ever been so severe, so serious.

This time, Bruce wasn’t disappointed with his performance, wasn’t disappointed with his recklessness, wasn’t disappointed with his inability to take care of the kids or get along with Jason.... No---

This time Bruce was disappointed that Dick was unwilling to carry out Batman’s justice on his little brother.

God, he felt sick.

“It has to be done.”

Dick shook his head, face pale and fingers shaking just the slightest bit. “No.”

And there, anger.  

Eyes narrow and fists clenched Bruce took a step towards him. Dick stood his ground.  

In the future he might play up this moment. Say that he knew he was doing the right thing and that confidence had allowed him not to flinch in the face of Batman, but that wouldn’t be true. Not really.

Dick didn’t move because he was frozen in place. Afraid to take a single step backwards for fear of his father’s wrath descending on him, or even worst.... for Bruce to step past him and go after Tim.

Tim... his baby brother. His friend, the kid he’d watch grow up. The kid who’d been so so quiet as Jason washed his hands and Dick tried desperately to figure out a way to hide the.... to hide the body.

Tim who came crawling into his bed in the middle of the night, silent tears trailing down his cheeks as he let him hug him for the first time in months. Tim who’d asked him if he was a monster.

No.... Dick wouldn’t move.

“Move son.”

Dick was scared, he was worried. He wasn’t facing his father right now. No matter what Bruce was trying to convince him off, this wasn’t his dad he was protecting Tim from. This was Batman. Batman who somehow managed to forgive Jason and Damian for murder but believed that Tim deserved Arkham for the same crime.

‘Don’t lie to yourself,’ his thoughts whispered as he folded his arms and tried to stare Batman down. ‘Jason didn’t get out of it scot-free either. Remember?’

And God, he remembered. The pain, the abuse, the damage..... No. That couldn’t happen again.... not when Tim hadn’t even.... it had been an accident!

“Move!”

He flinches. “No.”

“Tim can speak for himself Dick. He can answer for his own crimes.”

“Tim is in no shape to speak for himself,” Dick snaps. “He’s terrified B! Of you. Can’t you see that?” Waving an arm behind him, Dick is careful not to let his father out of his sight. “None of your--- I didn’t want you to find out for this very reason! Tim doesn’t deserve to be judged by a mistake. Just....” Fuck. Blinking furiously he tries to stave off the wetness threatening to spill past his cheeks. He hates how easily his frustration turns into tears. “Please just stop and think B. Please.”

It sounds pathetic.... it sounds childish.... he sounds desperate----

And still---- Bruce shakes his head, disappointment oozing from his frame. “We uphold the law Dick. Justice means that we all fall under the same sword. You trying to protect Tim while well intentioned shows how little it takes for you to be swayed by bias. Now move.”

Bias? Justice?

Was.... was B serious?

What the fucking hell!

“Are you seri--

“Don’t you think this is hard for me too?

Dick’s eyes widened. “What?” Did... was Bruce--

Running a hand through his frazzled hair, Bruce closes his eyes and sighs. There is a pinch between his brows that speaks of pain and worry and---- Dick couldn’t believe this. God, this was messed up.

“I care about him too. And this is hurting me just as much as it hurts you Dick. But we have to do this.”

He---

“What?”

A sigh of annoyance. “Love cannot rule our senses son.”

Bruce looks hurt, sad.... devastated and—Maybe that made this all so much worse.

“You can’t be serious?” Dick wants to cry. Wants to curl up into a tight ball and cry his eyes out.  

What was wrong with his dad? How could Bruce justify sending Tim to Arkham. How could he claim to love him and in the same breath condemn him? How did any of this make any fucking sense in that head of his?

Did he not have compassion? Did he not understand.... had he even tried to understand?

“This is wrong Dick.” The words are said gently, kindly and Bruce reaches out, arm hoovering as if he plans to comfort him.

Dick slaps it away. The tears he’d been fighting all night pooling down his chin.

“This isn’t wrong!” he shouts; chest heaving. “This is family!”

He hadn’t wanted to cry. He hadn’t wanted to shout. He hadn’t wanted to believe Jason when he’d said Bruce couldn’t be reasoned with. Dick hadn’t wanted a lot of things.

But here he was, faced with it all.

“Dick, I came to you because I know you’re reasonable.”

Reasonable? Reasonable?

Him?

He doesn’t even fully comprehend his next action until his eyes meet Bruce and his mind finally registers the slight widening of his eyes. Because---

Dick’s arms are up, his legs pushed apart, his chest lowered and head tilted. A fighting stance. His fighting stance.

“Son?”

Shaking his head, Dick ignores every inch of him that tries and fails to understand how their fucked-up family had come to this point. “You’ll have to beat me if you want to get to Tim.” Shifting slightly on his feet, he glares. “And I won’t make it easy on you. You’ll have to Jason this one.”

He knows it’s a low blow.

Bruce flinches as if struck.

It is a low blow.

Dick takes an almost savage pleasure from it, because..... He still holds it against him. It’s been years, they’ve all somehow managed to patch up the gaping hole in their fucked-up family, but.... there were certain moments Dick still had a hard time digesting, and--- B beating Jason down was still one of them. Still something; no matter how he tried, that he could never ever forgive.

“Go on,” he mutters. “I know you’re good at it.”

It’s as if time stands still. Bruce doesn’t move, figure all but shrinking away from him despite the stoic expression painted on his face. Dick almost regrets saying it, almost. But.... it’s the truth. The God honest truth and Bruce needs to hear it, so--

But just as Dick prepares himself for an explosion of verbal justifications, or even violence his father abruptly turns on his heels and walks away.

What in the--

“B!”

“I’ll be leaving Gotham for a while. Take care of the city while I’m gone.”  

Bruce’s supposed parting words to him.

It’s all so sudden and out of character.

“Bruce?” he chokes out. Stumbling forward, because..... Bruce didn’t walk away. That wasn’t what he did. He stood his ground and they.... the robins walked away so-- “B, what are you doing?” This didn’t make any sense. He couldn’t just.... Bruce couldn’t just---

“I can’t stay anymore. Not while Tim is still here.” He doesn’t turn around to look at him, Dick is grateful for it. “We don’t kill Dick. I’ve raised you better than that.” And with those final words Bruce walks away. Away and out of his life.  

it’s all Dick can do to just stand there and watch him go.

Bruce leaves and Dick dreads the reality of what that means for Gotham.... for them.

---------------------

He doesn’t quite know how long he spends at the bottom of the stairs; legs pulled up to his chest, arms folded around his knees, face hidden from view.

Bruce had walked away. Bruce had walked away because Dick had refused to condemn his little brother. Bruce had walked away and Dick hadn’t even managed to shout at him, scream at him, tell him he wasn’t welcome back anyways.  

Bruce had walked away and Dick didn’t know what to do anymore.

When his communicator beeps, he pulls it out with a hand that barely shakes and reads it with eyes that are barely wet.

[Batman on a mission to galaxy 47XC. Duration of time gone=unknown]

Oh

Oh

This was really happening.

Bruce he.... Tim—Tim didn’t deserve..... How could Bruce just...

It takes him a while to finally stand up, wipe his cheeks and walk up the stairs. Dick still feels the disbelief of today’s situation still swirling around inside his head.

With each step he takes it’s as if he’s walking away from Bruce all over again. Disappointing him all over again. For a while he’d thought he was over it. Had learned that Bruce was flawed just like all of them, but.... having him back for these past years. Having him put in the effort to get to know them. Seeing Dami and Tim open up more and more. Seeing Jason come back home, he’d.... naively forgotten who his father was. Forgotten why they used to argue and fight in the first place.

Clenching his fists he stomps his way up the stairs. Eyes burning and teeth gnawing at his lip.  

“Goldie?”

His feet had just landed on the carpeted hall when his eyes snap to meet Jay’s. “Oh, you’re still here?”

Jason scoffs, hands stuffed in his pockets and a single eyebrow raised. “Ya think I’ll just leave when I know B might fucking fly up here and kidnap the replacement?”

Dick blinks slowly. Jay was here because he cared?  

Of course he was. After all, he’d been the one Tim had called when..... and he of all people knew Bruce wrath, understood what it meant to be on the bad side of the Batman. Dick understood all that, and yet--

For an in-explainable reason, he feels himself getting angry, annoyed, pissed off.

“So you thought I would just let him?” Throwing his arm down the stairs he glares. “That I would just step aside and let Bruce WALK IN HERE AND TAKE TIM! IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK OF ME!”

The abrupt shift in tone surprises Jason, who looks taken back by Dick’s outburst.  

Dick can’t blame him; he’s quite taken back by his own outburst as well. He hadn’t meant---

“Sorry,” he mutters; fingers coming up to hide his face. “I’m sorry Jay, I just.... it’s just been... a lot.”

His brother stays silent for a while. Shoulders drawn up but otherwise he doesn’t seem to have taken his anger to heart. Dick is grateful for that, and.... immensely proud. Jay had come such a long way.

If only--

“It’s ok Goldie. B’ll do that to you sometimes. I aint even surprised he got you all twisted up inside.” A snort. “So where is he anyways? Should I go fortify Timmers room or somethin?”

Bile rising up his throat, Dick shakes his head. “He’s gone Jason.”

“What do you mean he’s gone? He out patrolling? The fucking nerve. Can’t even face a fucking conversation like a grownass adult.”

Dick doesn’t know.... doesn’t know how he’s supposed to say that Bruce had just up and left? That he’d just left them all. Abandoned them. And for what? Because Tim’s siblings didn’t want to throw him in jail?

“He,” Dick starts, chest tight and fingers twitching. “He left Gotham. Said.... he said that he’s going off planet and.... yeah.”

“What!”

Blinking back the exhaustion dragging his eyelids down, Dick notes how tired he truly feels. How utterly exhausted. “He’s gone Jay and I don’t know if he’s coming back.”

Several emotions flash through Jason’s eyes, some too quick to decipher, but the hurt, betrayal and anger are loud and clear. Dick tries to smile, shoulders lifting up in a helpless shrug. Because... what could they possibly do but to accept it.

“He just left?”

A nod

“He left!” Jason is angry. Jason is so so angry that Dick can practically taste it in the air. “For fucking what? That you didn’t let the scrawnyass kid be thrown in the loony bin next to the fucking Joker?”

Another nod.

“Oh that’s just,” The fury in Jason’s eyes transform into a sickening green. Fists clenched, he growls, kicking against the wall with all his might. “Fuck him! Just.. Fuck Bruce. We don’t need his deadbeat fucking tyrannical, manipulating piece of shit--- Fuck him!” He’s practically vibrating in place, clenching and unclenching his fingers as if he is in the process of strangling someone. “I knew he was.... I fucking knew and--” His voice cracks and Dick can’t take it anymore.

When he steps forward to wraps his arms around his shivering brother, Jason immediately collapses into his chest.

Neither of them cry but Jason hangs on tight and Dick doesn’t let him go.

“It’s ok,” he says.

It’s not ok

For the first time, Bruce Wayne, their father had left them willingly.

“It’s ok Jay. It's going to be ok. It’s ok. It’s ok---”

He continues to say it. He continues to whisper those two words over and over again.

But it’s a lie. It’s a lie

It was.... hard.

-----------------

Jason leaves shortly after. Having determined Tim was out of danger for now, he decides to take his leave and that’s fine, that’s ok. Jason didn’t really live in the manor anyways. Not really.  

Hell, Tim had just moved back in after the whole..... so Dick shouldn’t have been surprised when Jay had announced his departure, but he did. He was surprised, and then he was terrified.

It was a sense of panic that grew, practically exploded in his chest before he even had the time to think it through. Launching himself forward he grabbed for Jason, iron tight grip keeping the younger man anchored to the spot.

“What the--”

“Don’t go.”

It was in hindsight very stupid and emotional and well, stupid..... Dick didn’t do reckless, emotional, stupid things, but the words were out. He couldn’t take them back and from Jay’s expression, his brother very well knew why he did what he did.

How embarrassing.

“I mean--” he says quickly, cutting in before Jason can speak, forcing himself to let go of the other. “I just... Tim and you know and....”

A hand comes up to rest on his shoulder and Jason’s voice is loud when he interrupts him. “I gotta patrol Goldie. I’ll be back early tomorrow. Promise.”

It’s reassuring. To hear.

It’s embarrassing he even had to get it but still it makes a crushing weight temporary lift of his shoulders.

“Ok,” he says. “Ok.

Jason leaves and Dick wanders all the way to Tim’s door and collapses in front of it. Falling asleep.

-------------------

The first three days post-Batman are hell. Damian doesn’t come out of his room. Tim skulk around the shadows and doesn’t speak a word and Jason is barely there despite his promise. Cass..... Cass.... Dick hadn’t seen Cass since before Bruce found out.  

Alfred doesn’t speak to him anymore. Dick doesn’t think it’s because of what happened with Bruce. At least he hoped it wasn’t because of that. But the old butler had taken to avoiding him and on top of everything else collapsing all around him, Dick feels as if that stretches him almost to the breaking point.

It was hell.

It was a living nightmare.

Not having Bruce here, not having Batman out there.... it.... He felt lost.

This wasn’t the same as that time they’d thought Bruce died. At least then Dick had known Bruce still loved them, was still proud of them. But now----

It’s painful.

Three days of avoidance and awkward small talk and Dick is almost at his wits end, but then Arkham has a breakout and they all suit up.

It’s a disaster.

Nothing goes according to plan. None of them are able to work together well enough without getting their signals mixed and their wires crossed. It is as if all the years of working together like a well-oiled machine had suddenly gone out the window.  

Mistakes after mistakes. Wrong orders, heated arguments. It’s all so very wrong.

“Stay out of my way Red Robin! If you cannot handle the mission perhaps you ought to just leave!”

“Robin enough!”

The words leave Dick’s mouth before he can even think them through, and by the dual shocked expressions he’s met with, yes, the kids are surprised too.

Dick doesn’t care.

He remembers, the fallout. His father walking away. Alfred’s disappointment.... he remembers Jason’s pain and Tims heartbreak. He remembers Dami asking for Bruce. He remembers and... he can’t let them fall apart. Not like this. Not when all they had left was each other.

“Mind your manners Robin and be careful Red. I need you both focused.”

A momentary silence and then two short affirmation from both parties and they are off again.

Dick knows he has to talk to Damian later. It never helped letting things fester with that kid, but right now... grunting, he dodges the next punch and slams his fist into the henchman’s jaw, breaking it. Right now he needed to focus on keeping them all alive.

-----------------

It doesn’t get better from there. Dick had hoped. Had talked to Damian, watched as his little brother’s eyebrows rose to high heaven as he stalked away, shouting how little he cared for Drake’s feelings. Watched as Tim shrunk into himself, eyes as hallow and dead as the day Dick had found him next to....

It doesn’t get any better and Dick wonders if it ever will.

Bruce is gone.

The man who brought them together had left them, willingly.

How could they hope to stay together when there was no cause or legacy to uphold anymore?

What was the point?

-----------------

It’s only been a week since post-Batman and while Gotham is doing well enough, the same cannot be said for their teamwork. Their individual skills the only thing keeping the city on its feet and Dick knows, he knows they need to fix this. Figure it out before it’s too late. Because whatever resentment, anger or fear festering among them is killing any chance they have of working together.

He knows this, but he can’t make himself bring it up.

For a hopeful couple of days he’d assumed it’ll work itself out somehow. That if he let them think through and process their own issues that they would come to the same conclusion he had.

They needed each other.

And they’ll only be the best versions of themselves if they worked together but, no one was budging. Jason was still distant; Damian was even more aggressive than usual and Tim....

Dick needed to do something.

For a second he lets himself wish Cass was here. She’d called and checked up on them, but she was too tied up in Hong Kong and Dick couldn’t in good consciousness make her come back. Not while she was needed out there. Not when he was supposed to be the oldest. Not when he was meant to handle this.

This was his job.

He couldn’t saddle someone else with it, no matter how much he wanted to. They needed to talk. Dick needed to make them talk, to clear the air, to air out their issues, but----

Day eight and a too late warning result in Tim breaking his ankle.

The drop almost gives Dick a full-blown panic attack, but thankfully Robin is there to catch Tim before he goes splat on the ground. “Red!” Dick screams, flinging himself off the roof. Heart in his throat and eyes burning. “Kiddo you ok?”

Tim makes a small grunt of pain and oh thank God. Thank God he was ok.

“Good job,” he mutters, ruffling Damian’s hair. “Good job Robin.”

His little brother scoffs; but doesn’t move away. “Of course. I have to compensate for the uselessness that is Red Robin after all.”

Dick wants to say something.

He sees the stiffness of Tim’s expression and he wants to say something.

He ends up saying nothing.

He has never hated himself more.

-------------------

“You need to be more careful out there replacement.”

A snort. “I’m pretty sure you get three times the injuries I do in the same span of time.”

Dick pauses.  

Turning back from the dressing room, he contemplates for a split second, before he’s tiptoeing to the slightly ajar door of the medical wing. Curiosity winning over as he peaks in to see what’s going on.

Tim is sitting on the hospital bed, his broken ankle resting on Jason’s lap where the older is busy splinting and bandaging it up.  

“That aint true and you can’t prove it!”

Tim grins. It’s a wide grin, teeth and all. And it makes Dick’s stomach tighten.

It's been a while since he last saw genuine joy on Tim’s face.

He misses it.

He misses him.

“Hey Jason?” The question is careful, hesitant, soft.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think..... Do you think if I didn’t-- Bruce he...” A deep breath. “Bruce left because I killed that man didn’t he?”

A pause and then. “Yeah, yeah he did.”

Dick feels as if he’s intruding. But try as he might, his legs refuse to budge. He is rooted in place, heart hammering too loudly and muscles tense enough to snap.

“I’m sorry.” Tim sounds so so sad and Dick just wants to get in there and hug it away. Tell him that Bruce was, well, a dick and that Tim shouldn’t concern himself with his opinion because..... because.... Dick would pick him over B any day, every day. But he stays put. Stays hidden and it hurts.  

This isn’t about him after all.

“You aint got nothing to be sorry for pretender. Bruce fucked up and then he ran away like the fucking coward he is. This aint on you.”

Tim blinks quickly, head turning downward in that familiar way he does to hide his tears and Dick just wants to go in there and fix it all. Tim shouldn’t be suffering like this. Tim shouldn’t have to confide in Jason when Dick was right there.  

Dick should be there next to him. He should----

It hurts.

“Do you think we’ll be ok?”

Jason’s hand stills, fingers resting on both sides of Tim’s swollen ankle. “Why do you ask?”

Shrugging, Tim runs his fingers through his hair. “We’re kinda a bit of a disaster right now... out there, so---”

Jason snorts. “I think we’ll be just fine kiddo. Trust me. Goldie is an idiot, but he is who he is and he’ll get this city back on track soon. He just needs time.”

“What about us? The famil--- What about us?”

Reaching up, Jay pats Tim’s knee, a tiny smile curling at the corner of his mouth. It’s faint but present. “He’ll figure that out too. You know he will.”

“Yeah,” Tim smiles then, its warm, honest. “I know he will.”

Dick leaves after that. His legs suddenly coming unglued. He peels the bat-suit off in less than a minute and jumps in the shower. Water runs down his face, and his breath hitches.  

Maybe they would be ok after all.

If his family believed in him, he could afford to believe in himself too. Even a little.

The end

@throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen @miss-choco-chips @river9noble

don’t know if this is the type of fics you like to read but tagging you just in case!

[anonniemousefics]

My Dearest Inej | Chapter Six

Chapter Masterlist

Originally posted on AO3

Rating: Teen And Up

Synopsis: A series of letters kept among the personal belongings of Captain Inej Ghafa.

Chapter Six: Dear Nina

Hello, lovely,  

Some news and a request. I am going away on an assignment for the next several months, and this one’s rather sensitive. It means I’ll be out of reach for a time. Don’t worry your wonderful Inej brain about it, though. You know very well I’ll be just fine.  

Here’s how I’m thinking we make due in the meantime. I’m writing down all my adventures and silly thoughts to send you as soon as it’s safe, and then we’ll be able to catch up in no time at all when all is right with the world again. You should do the same. Once I’m able, I’ll send a giant wad of letters along with where I can be reached to the Van Eck mansion for Wylan to hold on to for you until your next trip to Ketterdam. There. Not so bad, right?  

I miss you more than cake. And that’s not an exaggeration. Be safe, lovely. And give them all hell.

All my love,

Nina

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(enclosed in an overstuffed envelope marked “Nina”)

(translated from Kerch)

Dear Nina,  

Your last letter has made me grouchy. I don’t know if there would have ever been a good time for you to fall off the map, but I think there could have at least been a better time than this. I’ll take your suggestion, though, and settle for trying to imagine your face when I tell you these things. When you read this, let’s imagine that we’re at that cafe in West Stave. The one with the little white tables outside. You’ve ordered enough waffles to feed five men, and I’m all hopped up on hot chocolate, and we can’t stop snickering. It’ll happen again someday, right?  

I’m going to use this letter to take a break in entertaining you with stories of battle at sea and the many delightful ways in which bad men beg. I’m docked in Ketterdam today with my head dangerously full of some truly mortifying events. I don’t know what to do, Nina. Keep eating your imaginary waffles – I’m going to offload a great many details and bring you up to speed.

I’ve told you that Kaz and I write letters. That they’re sort of a romantic nature. I know you think I’m crazy. I’m well aware that I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t know -- there’s just something about him I can’t give up yet. And I love these letters. They’ve become the first thing I pick up at every new port. They’re these little slices of Ketterdam – all of the good stuff, that is, and none of the bloodshed.

It’s dangerous, though, isn’t it? Only getting the good side of things. It messes with your perception of reality.  

It should surprise no one that Kaz Brekker is good with pen and paper, considering how we’ve seen him con. Sometimes I worry that’s what letter-writing really is to him. Another way to con. He says things in letters that you could not even imagine, Nina. He can be affectionate. He can be really funny, maybe even playful. He can also write the most sincere, heartfelt sentences. You read them, and you really forget he’s, well, Brekker. It’s almost like, when he writes me, he’s not. Like some other side comes out when he picks up a pen, and it’s the side I’ve always hoped was really there all along.  

I’m such a goner for this other side, Nina. It’s become a problem. Try not to spit out those imaginary waffles.  

It’s a problem because, in person, when I’m in Ketterdam, he’s still Kaz Brekker, the persona, the enigma. It started messing with my head, because there is such a stark contrast between Kaz Brekker the enigma and the Kaz who writes me these insanely charming letters. That’s not to say Kaz Brekker isn’t trying to be less enigmatic, but it’s little things. He can take off his gloves more now without having violent reactions to a brush of skin. He’s managed to hold my hand for a few, brief moments. I’ve tried to cozy up to him, but I don’t know. It’s impossible to know what he thinks of it, if he likes it, if he hates it, if he resents it – until a letter shows up. And then he’s writing, “I miss you” and “I’m dreaming of tasting your lips.” (I’m imagining you making that silly fanning yourself gesture, and I really hope that’s true. Saints, I miss you.)

I’m rambling so much. I wish you were just here instead.  

He wrote me this letter after Jesper’s birthday, Nina. Ughhh, why are you so far away? It was a really good letter. A really, really good letter. We had a moment during this hot air balloon ride (yet another reason you need to come back to visit Ketterdam – we do birthday experiences now). Jesper and Wylan were on one side of the balloon’s basket, wrapped up in each other and all the sights with their backs to us. And, out of nowhere, he pulled me close, tucked me right up against his side, close enough that I couldn’t help but hold him back. At first, I could actually feel his heart racing and thought maybe he’d pull away. But he settled after a minute, and we rode in the balloon for a good while like that, stars overhead, city lights below. That was all, and it was more than enough for me. I still think about it all the time. He told me later that he thought it was a nice night, and so I thought it best to leave it at that. We had a nice night. Nice, like when your dinner isn’t ruined or someone opens a door for you.

But this letter that awaited me in Os Kervo. You know Suli, right? So, if I use the phrase (nearest translation: “I shit a brick”), you’ll understand just how shocked I was. He wrote how he never wanted to forget that night and the way I looked and the way he felt. It was perfectly un-Brekker-like. It might have made you cry.

The contrast has never seemed so stark.  

And so it came down to this: I needed to know that Kaz Brekker in Ketterdam was capable of actually being this person who keeps showing up in envelopes and using his name.

Which brings me to my most recent trip to Ketterdam. This was the trip after the hot air balloon ride. Before I arrived, he asked if I wanted to stay in the Slat this trip – with him. Don’t choke on your waffles, please. Nothing was going to happen – he can barely hold my hand for more than a few minutes, and at least one of the times it’s happened, I had to bribe him with Ravkan toffees first.

I had one condition for this arrangement. I wanted to bring letters for him to read aloud. Perhaps most incredibly, he agreed.

Right. This is where it gets ugly.  

I’d spent the day at The Slat. Usually my first day on land, I find I’m unusually exhausted, and everything in The Slat is fresh and new since Seeger’s fire – I’d even venture to say comfortable. I slept most of the day, a luxury I know you’d appreciate. I was up around dinnertime, and he’d brought in dinner. (It was those meatballs and mash pots we used to love so much. I hope I’ll be able to eat them again after this without wanting to hurl.)

Dinner seemed like a good time to try out the letter reading. We’d spread out the food on his desk and passed a bottle of kvas back and forth to lighten the mood before he rolled up his sleeves and I gave him the first one. I had tried to pick a variety of his letters to bring along, the ridiculous ones right up to the one I can’t get over – the one after the hot air balloon ride.

Before you get too excited, we didn’t get to the hot air balloon ride letter.

It was going so well in the beginning. My cheeks were hurting from smiling so hard, listening to so many charming words come from that voice. He seemed to be enjoying it even – feet up on the desk, a sip of kvas here, read an old joke there, and he’d try not to smirk to himself when it made me laugh. He even let one of his own laughs slip once or twice. It was just what I wanted. I felt like I was finally putting together a whole picture out of two halves.

But then we came to this letter he’d given to me on the docks of Fifth Harbor, thanking me just before I left after Seeger’s fire. I was getting ready to hand it over to him, and my heart dropped right into my feet. Nina. I’d forgotten I’d written something really, really, REALLY embarrassing in the margins. Just. Sankta Alina. I don’t know if I can repeat it.  

I tried to skip over that one, but he was having none of it. Everything had been playful and a little flirtatious up until that moment, and he swiped it from my hands. Sankta Elizabeta, my face is burning up while I’m writing this. Tell me this is salvageable. Oh, wait, you’re in backwoods Fjerda or something. Ugh, why, Nina, why?  

Everything got really quiet – he’d seen it right away. I could tell he was surprised, but that was it. I have no idea what else was happening in that brain of his.

What it was was this. I’d made a note of how different he was on paper and labeled that Kaz by his original name. I’d written that I like Kaz Brekker, but after these letters, I was in love with Kaz Rietveld.  

NINA. (Untranslatable Suli vulgarities)

I snatched the letter back – he wasn’t even making eye contact with me. He hadn’t even budged. It was too horrible. The silence felt never-ending. So, I left. That was yesterday. Now I’m staying on the Wraith. Maybe forever.  

I have to say something, and I wish you were here to help me figure out what to say. Somewhere in the back of my mind, there are fragments of lessons and sayings my father would have about this, if I could only cobble them in to something coherent. I’m trying and trying to imagine how he must be feeling.

He couldn’t have been that surprised about my feelings, could he? Not after all this time, not everything we’ve written. It’s not as if I’ve been terribly coy. I’m forcing myself to believe he would not be horrified to know how I feel. No, there’s something else.

How awful it must feel to think someone you trusted finds only a part of you lovable.

I have some soul-searching to do, Nina.

Come back.  

Inej

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(hand-delivered, unaddressed envelope)

Dear Inej,  

I’ve spent the whole night thinking, and I have some things to say. I won’t read this one out loud, so if you have a hard time believing it’s me, I guess you’ll just need to get creative.  

I know you’re embarrassed. You might remember I have intimate knowledge of what it’s like to be in your position. At first, I wanted nothing more than to ease your mind and put everything back the way it was. There was a large part of me that was awestruck that you’d find even a small, half-dead remnant of myself worthy of loving. I was ready to crawl back to you and do anything to erase this moment from time.

But then I realized that’s not a fair deal to Kaz Brekker.

And before you start making faces, I’m not becoming one of those politicians that likes to bloviate in the third person. Just for the sake of clarity in this letter alone, I’ll use the labels that you used.  

Inej, Kaz Brekker saved my life. Yours, too. And a lot of other people’s. Kaz Brekker could find me food and dry clothes and shelter when there was no one else. Kaz Brekker has fixed and built and risked and fought and salvaged. And yes, there are a good many things he’s terrible at, like not being an unmitigated asshole. He is not friendly or particularly kind, and he’s rarely truthful. There are many things he should never have done. He’s done unthinkable things he’s not even sorry for. Trust me, Inej. When it comes to hating Kaz Brekker, I have a front row seat.  

But the only reason there’s a Kaz Rietveld here for you to love at all is because Kaz Brekker brought him this far.  

At first, my instinct was to write a letter detailing all the many ways I can become more like the man you love. And that’s not to say there isn’t some wisdom in trying to coax him out a bit more – you tend to have good taste in most things. There’s probably some value in striking a balance.

But Kaz Brekker is part of the deal. You can’t have one without the other. There is a lot about him – about me -- that I would not and will not change. So, I need to know that you see the same value in him. In all of me. Because, if you can’t, I’m not sure it will matter how much I’m in love with you, too.  

And to think we might have avoided this whole mess if I just would have let you bring a flute. To that I say, mati en sheva yelu. I am in love with you even if you play a damn flute.

Are you smiling at least a little bit? I hope so.

Sincerely,

K. Rietveld