#this is very short and self-indulgent. you do not need to feel obligated to read it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yamanaka-shin · 4 months ago

Text

so it's the most important day of my year again, for the fourth time, and I have the annual offering 🧡🧡 it's some very self indulgent Canon/OC writing and aimed at no one but me sooooo you are not obligated to look at it or read it. @succikko-draws also did that above comm to go with it because he's sweet and always has my back when I need art 🧡🧡

9/6 is upon us and to that I say happy birthday to my favorite character, Shin 🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

don't even wanna slap a summary on it this year cuz it really is truly just for me. but it's fully sfw and can be categorized as fluff, just in case. and the mentioned OC named Haruka belongs to @uchiharomance my beloved 🧡🧡

Orange eyes crack open, slowly blinking thrice, trying to adjust to the darkness of the room they're greeted by. After they feel acclimated just right, he can keep them open, though it's still difficult to see in the absence of a light source. Maybe he'll get lucky enough to be able to safely navigate the bedroomscape without tripping or waking up his still sleeping partner. If he makes it that far, he should be able to flip the awaiting switch that will illuminate the next leg of his journey. One that will have just enough light to show him where to go but not so much that it'll blindside him or disturb the partner who still lays next to him since it's technically not in this same room. Good. He's managed to formulate the first leg of a plan in his head despite the lingering sleep haze so now he has a short term goal. Kouta takes one more moment to rub more of the clinging sleepiness from his vision and makes a careful bid to remove himself from the shared bed. Success, which he's very thankful for. The next task is to trek across the length of the lightless bedroom to locate the exit door that will lead into the small hallway with his promised light. One quiet step at a time, he manages to avoid stepping on any landmines littering the path and is home free the moment his fingers pull the door handle down so he can make his exit. A sigh of relief is exhaled through his nose as soon as he takes his first step towards wherever it is that his body is trying to take him. Probably the kitchen, and at some point also the bathroom. Actually it might be a good idea to do that last part first, so he can think fully with his brain and not with his impatient bladder.

With the hall light now on and his path forward clear, Kouta quietly shuffles his way towards the smaller of the apartment's two bathrooms. He makes sure not to take any longer than absolutely necessary though because at this point he's just awake enough to want to remain up. Dallying will only risk his body telling him that it's tired again and wants to return to dreamland, and his will to resist may not be strong enough. There will be time for sleeping after he's gotten whatever this is out of his system. So with no other pressing concerns, the kitchen beckons, and he obliges as if it were the usual ritual even with the clock reading such a late hour. He makes sure to flip the kitchen light switch as soon as he locates it on the wall, after turning off the one in the hall, but maybe that was a mistake because immediately his eyes are drawn towards the now visible dishes the two of them had left in the sink and he can't help but cringe. Those would have to be cleaned sooner rather than later. Usually, if he was lax at taking care of them, Shin would be quick to pick up the slack, if they hadn't already done them first. But he'd noticed that they'd been just a little off both physically and emotionally as of late so he can't fault them for falling out of normal routine. Now, with that revelation fresh in his brain, he thinks about all the yellow flags their behavior had given off in the past couple days and he can feel his anxiety level rise a couple notches. They don't deserve this. He knows it's probably just a short term slump, but he's a worrier by nature when it comes to them.

So now he stands in front of the sink, hands on the lip of it, gripping it probably a little too tightly, mind focused not on his night journey but his resting beloved. This sort of fixation isn't good during daylight hours, let alone now, and if they knew he was fretting they'd definitely tell him it's okay and that there's no cause for concern. It would be an honest comment from them but he is no fool. Their understanding of their own health problems will always beat out his, though he's not an idiot and has learned a lot of tells over the years. Maybe it's worth calling Haruka in the morning and scheduling a checkup. As long as Shin was willing, of course, because he would never force them unless it was at emergency status. Kouta lets out a sigh with a deep breath and makes an attempt to collect himself after making this deal in his head. With a game plan, he could hopefully focus more on other things. Telling his partner said plan was going to be another matter but that was a problem for appropriate hour awake Kouta and not insomnia up after one am Kouta. One hand goes through his hair and he wonders why he hasn't sought out any sort of anxiety medication by this point because it's getting out of hand.

"Standing here is only going to make me start swearing at these dirty forks." He flatly declares, and pivots gently and precisely on one foot to instead face the table behind him. Big mistake, strike two. There's miscellaneous shit on it, though not to an unworkable degree, so it could be worse. "Right. I'm putting paper towels down just in case because I don't need a bigger mess to explain to them in the morning."

So that's just what he does. Well, after pushing a couple things forward to make more room, of course. Maybe it's time to consider getting a washable tablecloth to prevent wasting paper towels on a mess he may or may not make. Dammit, there goes the overthinking again. Or...was this actually more on the rational side? Hard to tell considering the late hour and how this doesn't really come to mind during normal people hours. He chalks some of it up to being body tired despite being mentally awake and vows to continue dealing with that train of thought in the morning. It'll all make real sense then and he'll have Shin to bounce ideas off and that will make it easier to create solutions. The sink may need dishes done and the table may not be perfectly clean, but he's being as rational of a man as he can manage to be and that is enough for him. Now what though? What is he actually in here for? Fuck if he knows. Maybe the pantry has something in it that will speak to him so sweetly. So, when he goes to check, he's disappointed to find no temptations calling out to him. That's a bust, the first of hopefully not many. It'll probably be better if he just goes right to the fridge.

"Why do I never know what I want when I know I want SOMETHING. Why can't I ever be specific." He's annoyed but it's kinda petty in hindsight. Ah well, it's not like the fruits and meats will judge him for it while he's figuring out which ones he's most up to feast on.

Turns out, it isn't produce nor chicken that's singing the song that has his full attention now. As soon as the fridge door swings open, his eyes go directly to the case of eggs sitting there at eye level. Options flash through his brain and he considers them each one by one. Just eggs, prepared in one of his favorite ways? Nah. Omelette? Too tedious. Scotch eggs? There's no sausage so that's immediately out. Fuck. And then it hits him like a stray brick tossed through a window. "You have to be shitting me." The freely flung curse words are absolutely a product of being around a lover who doesn't have a filter. It's extra appropriate now too because the thing he does decide on makes him feel like an idiot for passing up everything in the pantry earlier. Because, well...eggs are an ingredient in something in there that he's suddenly craving. The best chocolate cupcakes he's ever bought from the store. Oh if he doesn't make them now he's going to be haunted in his dreams for days by them. And he sure as hell was not going to let that happen.

Except, because his musteline urge to make magic with eggs had flared up, something else adjacent had begun to stir. First he feels it on the back of his neck as his hackles rise. Then there's a prickling, crackling sensation that goes down his spine. In a quick blip of light something separates from his being and lands deftly on the table in the zone he cleaned off half assed, scattering the paper towels on the floor. Now he's gonna have to take a second to pick those up before returning to bed later. Kouta takes a very deep breath in and groans like a cheap horror movie zombie, one hand dragging down his face dramatically to accompany the sound. "No, no, no. You do not have permission right now. Back in you go."

Little eyes colored a beautiful deep bronze stare back up at him as the "pest", a particularly brazen little back striped weasel slightly larger than normal, tried to make it clear to Kouta that it had no intentions of following his commands. Most of the time it stayed relatively quiet, living in his chakra network and providing a bolster to Lightning nature techniques, even pushing that elemental nature to the forefront and sidelining his natural Fire affinity. Sometimes it would make an outside appearance and take up physical space, most often to give Kouta's partner the business for fun, but rarely did it ever part from him on a sudden whim like this. Did they get on the same brainwave triggered by the sight of eggs in the fridge? Delicate whiskers gently twitched and the former Taki resident knew this was a losing battle. As long as it didn't pull any funny business then it would probably be fine. Shin was asleep anyway so no threat of bullying was applicable to them. He's rationalizing it all in his head and making excuses instead of being firm, and he's thankful no one else is around to witness that fact. Not even Shin, who wouldn't be so rude as to hold it over his head despite their history of being on the shitlist of this very peculiar animal.

"If you pull any of your nonsense, I will surgically reinsert you into my veins myself. Do you understand?" He sticks a finger out at it as if he's scolding a naughty garbage chewing dog. Its little teeth coming into harmless contact with the skin on one of his fingers tells him they have a deal. "Now please behave for once. I need to keep gathering supplies. If you're good I will give you a whole egg. No tricks and I promise you that reward."

Just then, a distant sound catches Kouta's full attention, diverting it away from the hellraiser mustelid. He freezes like a deer that just heard a stick break in the woods and wonders if it's his fault that his beloved just woke up. Even though he did his best to prevent that, it might have happened anyway. There can be no mistake that that is what he'd just heard, even though he curses his excellent hearing in the process. Their feet coming into contact with the floor and walking over to exit the room. Was it a bathroom trip or...? Crap. What if his exchange with the Raijuu woke them up from a dead sleep and they'd be upset about it? He has a lot of apologies to bestow if this was not in fact them quickly heading to and from the bathroom. The bedroom door opens and shuts without much ado and the hall light flicks back on. Uh oh. This was not in fact a quick in and out and they would probably be coming in here to see what the commotion was about. He shoots a look to the weasel that is compromised of half worry and half accusation but the animal doesn't seem as concerned. They're both to blame but ultimately he will take responsibility because he's a human being and in control of the situation for the most part. The footsteps stop though...for a moment. They're probably trying to adjust their eyes to the light like he had to earlier. That gave him a precious extra second to think. Now what could he do to make this whole rising mess less of small crisis?

'I'm probably overthinking it but I can't risk it.' He mentally tallies. The one time you are lax often ends up being the one time circumstances are the worst they can possibly be. His partner is not an angry or tense or moody person by nature but no one likes to be awoken from a nice sleep. They would eventually forgive him, though he knows he's still gonna feel guilty for quite a while. These torrents of thought circulate in his head like a strengthening hurricane and distract him just long enough for him to fail to notice that it's not just him and a strange little mustelid in the kitchen anymore. And the realization fully comes when he nearly runs in to them, stopping abruptly just before the collision.

"Shit, I'm so sorry." He speaks quickly and is lucky that he doesn't trip over his own words.

"It's pronounced Shin, and I don't know what you're sorry about." Yawning, they don't seem at all phased. It's a wonder they're able to fire off a joke even with just having woken up mere minutes ago. It makes Kouta pause, unable to parse out a fitting response, thus causing Shin to wonder if they upset him. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, no." He collects himself. "I just thought you'd be mad at me for waking you up. Or at least we're coming in here to ask why I'm up making all this noise."

"You're not the one who got me up. I've been in and out of sleep all night and at this point I'm just saying fuck it. Not worth tossing and turning and not actually getting anywhere."

He breathes the largest sigh of relief possible just then. But he has to be truly sure so he poses one last confirmation inquiry. "Are you sure I didn't at least make it worse?"

"Completely. Insomnia sucks and that's th only thing I'm blaming."

Thank fuck. His tension begins to slowly unravel and he can feel himself physically relax but by bit. In gratitude, he snakes both arms around their midsection and holds them tightly. The questioning behavior might look odd to anyone else but the two of them fully understand where each is coming from, him with his anxiety and them with all of the various physical roadblocks that keep popping up with the passing years. Insomnia is certainly not a new problem though, even though it does suck terribly. He relaxes even further when he feels the hug being returned, pressing his face into their chest for a moment and reveling in the fact that his partner is so placid and forgiving in times like this. A new round of anxiety will set in soon when he considers how frequent their insomnia has been lately but he's shoving that off into a mental corner until a later time, probably for the phone call to Haruka. Right now should be for spending odd hours awake with Shin. Just the two of them, and the weasel still observing them, until they can finally go back to bed and rest for real.

Once the two gently pull away from each other, Shin pulls out one of the chairs by the table and sits unceremoniously in it, propping up their chin with one folded arm. They may have been initially roused because of insomnia and decided to just remain awake, but part of them was still pretty physically worn out. Body tired but mentally awake, just like Kouta. Sitting felt damn good though now the next question was what the plan was going to be while they were up. Spending a couple hours up in the kitchen chairs probably wasn't going to feel good, Kouta could already feel the stiffness in his back coming a mile away, and avoiding that was a good idea unless he wanted to be whining about his spine for a week. Then his brain began to turn once more, sparked by a desire to not sit around doing fuck all, and he remembered that he was in the process of putting together baking supplies. You know, for an impromptu midnight treat. This was emphasized when Shin took a look at the floor the second they stepped on one of the scattered paper towels that still has not been picked up.

"How do you feel about chocolate cupcakes right now? They're calling me. And I don't think I can say no."

"I'm up for anything." They shrug. "Need any help with it?"

"Maybe. You could probably do it better than me, but I should at least put in half the effort too."

Memories of his shitty culinary skills flashed like a highlight reel through his head and he wanted to cringe a little. Shin had helped him improve over the years but he was still miles away from being what anyone would call good with food prep or actual cooking. Baking was generally much simpler but he still would rather have a trustworthy assistant there to pick up any slack he missed without thinking. "Please grab the box out of the pantry so I can get all of the cold stuff."

"Got it. It's not hidden behind anything, right?"

"Should be front and center."

While he shuffles around items in the fridge, his partner makes an attempt to locate the box of cupcake mix that Kouta had assured them was in the pantry. Unfortunately a roadblock popped up almost instantaneously. "Either you were mistaken about what you bought or you forgot that it wasn't cupcakes between buying them and now."

"...what do you mean by that?" The uncertainty in his voice was palpable. Did he see the wrong thing earlier when he'd gone to check for options?

They grab the box they did manage to find and set it carefully on the table, away from the weasel but easily within reach for Kouta. He pivots from fumbling with the butter to take a gander at what was causing the upset and the issue is clear from the getgo. "Ahh shit, apparently it was brownies." One breath in, held a second, then released. Center regained. "It should be fine. I hear these are pretty damn good. Change of plans, we're making these."

The box itself was a pretty cute shade of pink with a fetching blonde woman on it, with the name of the brand being her actual name itself. And the actual brownies shown on the box looked better as an option than cupcakes now that he thought about it for two seconds. Kouta takes the box in hand, flipping it over and studying the instructions, taking care to note the change in ingredients he'd need. Not too much had actually swapped so he kept his level of confidence intact. With any luck this would go off without a hitch and taste as good as he was hoping they would. A perfect comfort for a late night shared all too awake between two troubled lovers. He mentally nods and goes right back to the bigger task at hand. Once he has all he needs, he lays them out on the table and closes the door effortlessly with one foot.

"Would you be able to start the prep for these? I wanna go grab something from the bedroom. Shouldn't be too hard. Just yell if you need anything." The turn from focusing on the confection to whatever else has grabbed his attention is stark, though Shin doesn't question it. He's no doubt making a plan in his head that encompasses both the brownies and the time they'll take enjoying them. And if they're going to be spending a couple extra hours awake, it mind as well be in comfort, so he's going to grab a couple pillows and a blanket from the room for the two to share on the couch. Thankfully the couch itself could pull out into an additional bed if in the end they didn't wanna return to the room when sleep finally came calling again. If they had everything they needed in one place, then all would be well. Kouta may get ahead of himself easily and often but it was hardly for nothing.

"Can do, don't worry about me, I'll be fine." They easily agree to his proposal and pick up the egg he'd set on the table as if to study it. Their level of trust in his methods was good for his soul. "Come back when you're ready."

Kouta can never express enough gratitude for all Shin does for him. Both for his peace of mind and everything physical they've ever helped with. On his way past them back to the room, he gives them a quick cheek kiss and quietly adds in a thank you and an I love you. "Love you too." They call back after him, quite content to take the reigns while their most beloved person takes care of other business, whatever it might be.

So that leaves the only two left in the kitchen, the Raijuu that has been with Kouta since he was 15, and Shin. Historically they have not gotten along well but that was always on behalf of the weasel and its aggression it loved to direct at Shin. The behavior felt like something you'd see in a school yard, akin to bullying, given how such a small creature could only do so much damage and look so intimidating to a full grown adult human. Even with extra electric powers, feasibly it could not do more to Shin than possibly put them in the hospital with mild electrical burns, not much worse than forking a socket. Probably. Thankfully that had not happened yet and hopefully never would so they would never have to test the limits. But that did not stop the roiling tension Shin felt anytime they had to be around the animal and deal with it even with Kouta's help or supervision. Now, as Kouta was not in the line of sight, they were on their own. The two locked eyes with each other and it was unclear what would come of this unusual night. Hopefully Kouta would not return to a battlefield scene.

Meanwhile, in the dark of the room, the man in question turns on the overhead light to make sure he's able to locate all of his desired supplies. The brightness hits him quickly and even though his eyes are not strangers to some level of brightness due to how long he's been up already, it still takes him a second to get his bearings given that it's brighter in here than in the hall or the kitchen. Maybe someday in the future he should invest in a sliding scale intensity light. But eye adjustment doesn't take more than a few seconds so he can get on with the task at hand almost effortlessly. Though he notes, like the kitchen, it's messier in here than it should be and maybe the two people living here should take a day to clean up and do some laundry during more polite hours. After all, after removing dirt and clutter from one's space and things, everything seemed to feel much better. He almost gets lost in the fantasy of it and forgets what he came in here for before snapping himself out of it and refocusing. Damn, the physical tiredness must be taking a bigger toll than he thought. Being mentally alert and awake could only get you so far if your body was trying to fight you.

"I can't let myself get too involved right now or I'm going to pass out on the floor as I'm working." He reminds himself. The plan is just to grab the pillows and blanket and bring them to the living room before rejoining Shin to finish the baking together. Simple. With that in mind, he shuts out the internal desire to get off track and activates useful tunnel vision. Get in, get out, no side quests.

Less than 10 minutes go by before he's done and out, since he decided to put fresh covers on the pillows due to the drool stains he'd noticed on the other ones, and he had to fold the blanket to make carrying all three items easier for one trip. But it's finally done and he can make his way to the living room, obviously turning the room light back off in the process so the electric bill isn't driven up needlessly. There's a moment when he passes the kitchen on his trek but cannot see over the pile in his hands so he's oblivious to the state of things between Shin and the Raijuu, hoping the two are not at odds like usual, praying this is the one night where no one is troubled. Pulling out the bed from the couch right now is probably not necessary so he simply lays the pillows and the blanket down on the intact futon then tries to locate the remote. Once in a while it likes to try to disappear and to this date neither of them had thought to create or buy some sort of organizer to prevent this from happening, opting to ride on the luck of the draw each time to assure they'd not have to go remote hunting. He makes a mental note to ask them later if they'd want a permanent solution for that when he lays eyes on the thing, thankful that tonight will not be an extra pain in the ass type of night. It's set down on the small side table where he can easily reach it later and he then makes his way back to the kitchen, hopeful that harmony has been maintained, but not so foolish to think miracles can happen from nothing.

However...what greets his eyes feels like something out of a strange dream, or perhaps a peak into a much different timeline. There stands his future spouse, adding things into the mixing bowl one by one carefully enough not to make a mess, and on their shoulder the weasel beast perches. There is a wire whisk in its jaws, held by the handle so animal saliva doesn't make its way into the brownies. It seems to be waiting for a signal to hand over the whisk like a well trained working dog. Is this all really happening, or was Kouta still in bed, sleeping deeper than ever before? His train of thought nearly derails when he hears his other half speak up, though not to him. "Can I have that now please? I'll trade you." They hold up half of an egg shell that still has some of the egg whites in it, a treat for the incredibly obedient mustelid co-chef they're working with. That's all it takes for it to carefully drop the whisk into their waiting other hand and in one more fluid motion, it snags the egg, careful not to spill its contents, and scurries down onto a chair. Shin had probably said stay off the table beforehand, and for some reason it was listening better than it had in the several years the two had been at odds. He could not believe the scene playing out in front of him. It leaves him almost speechless.

Thankfully, their partner is still capable of speaking up. "Sorry that I went ahead and did most of the work already. Had some willing help for once. Can you please set the stove to preheat though? Forgot to do that part."

"Yeah, sure." Is all he can eek out at first. "No problem."

Kouta's feet carry him over to the stove where he pushes the preheat button and sets it to the appropriate temperature. It'll take a handful of minutes for it to be ready, but waiting a little longer is not a bother. Though in the meantime he takes himself over to the table and sits in one of the empty seats, listening to his Raijuu still devouring the egg shell and all like a bottomless pit. When it wasn't hanging out in his chakra network, getting nutrients in a parasitic fashion, it did actually need to be given real food. At least mustelid diets were predictable and there was no way in hell it would turn down a fresh egg. Kouta knows this for sure because he too, as weasely as he is, feels the exact same way. Food of the gods, though sadly the human body needed to cook them first to reduce the risk of catching some nasty diseases.

While he's still mildly spaced out processing everything and idly observing his strange "pet" finish its treat, his partner is pouring the full mixture into a pan they've made sure to generously spray down in order to prevent the brownies from sticking to it. They're meticulous enough to make sure not a single drop spills on the table and after the majority is in the pan, they scrape out what they can of what clings to the bowl, evening out the batter so it all will cook evenly. He's insanely impressed with their attention to details on so little sleep though it should not surprise him too much. For all their casual and goofy qualities, Shin has always been pretty good in the kitchen. Not a master but definitely capable of fending for themselves on whatever ingredients were available at any given time. He wishes he was at that level now. When the two met he was abysmal, but with their help he'd gotten better slowly. One day he'll be to a place he's truly happy with but in the meantime he's just happy to have someone in his life with no fear and no hesitation when food prep was involved. A smile creeps onto his face as he's thinking it over and that sappy feeling sets in. This is so nice. It's an unconventional hour and circumstance but it's damn nice regardless. Harmony in the household and soon there will also be the tempting smell of baking brownies wafting through the kitchen.

So enraptured by the thought of it all is he that he doesn't notice when the oven dings and signals that it's time to put the mix in and set the timer. Luckily, Shin IS paying attention and makes sure to ferry the pan safely to its destination, careful not to touch the hot metal grates so they don't end up with a nasty burn. They close the over door and set the timer appropriately and return to their unoccupied seat at the table across from him, relaxing a little as soon as ass hits chair. Both of them must feel the creep of sleep deprivation trying to best them. Alas, this is no time for rest, not when the promise of something extremely delicious is on the horizon. They can hit bed after at least half the batch is consumed and they've had enough time just to spend with each other despite what the clock was reading for time right now. That's all he needs, and he's pretty confident that if he asked, his beloved would echo the same. So the two sit quietly with each other as the brownies bake, mutually watching the Raijuu slink back up onto the table now that it was finished eating. It sniffed around for scraps like a shameless bottom feeder but found none and was then content just to sit curled up next to Kouta's forearm he had resting on the table. Was it tired, or just in a placid mood? Either way, he was just happy that no one was raising their voice or yelping because of teeth going into skin.

Minutes tick by one by one until the moment of anticipation finally arrives. The oven sounds off that it has completed its mission and it gets Kouta up to first turn it off before slipping on mitts so he can retrieve the food without also risking burns. Carefully helping slide the pan out, nearly drooling when he lays eyes on the main event, and sets it up on the stove to cool. Diving in immediately is a hard line of temptation to tamp down. Though, his mouth thanks him for his resilience, because it too would not enjoy a burn that comes from stupidly shoving scorching hot food into it with reckless abandon. If he were a wolverine, named for their gluttonous behavior, he probably would not have been able to resist. Never before has he been thankful that he is in fact just a ferret in a human body rather than a bigger, arguably cooler mustelid.

All of this waiting should probably feel harder since they're also fighting off the desire to return to sleep but somehow it's easier than it would be had this been happening in daylight hours. Shin and Kouta both are happy enough just sitting and waiting for each phase of this process to play out, probably because they knew it would be worth it in the end, and that moments like this are better with company. That's when Shin looks over to the sink, seeing the new dishes added on top of the old ones, and vows to remember to tackle those first thing in the afternoon. Unless Kouta got to them first, of course. "Do you think it's been long enough?" They break the silence first.

The Raijuu must know they're going to migrate rooms soon so it climbs to Kouta's shoulder and holds on tight. Kouta, roused from his thoughts with the combination of the question and the feel of tiny claws going up his limb, realizes that they're probably right. "Yeah, they should be a safe temperature now." He shuffles over and grabs a couple paper plates and a plastic knife to cut with. Slicing cleanly through the brownies, he struggles to maneuver each serving onto a separate plate so both can enjoy to the tune of background tv soon. This would be easier with an extra fork but he doesn't want to waste utensils. "Is this good for you or did you want more?"

"No, that looks good to me." They take the offered plate from him. He can see it in their eyes, the hunger. It seems to be beating out the tiredness now. Just the smell alone coming from the food probably flipped some alertness switches in their brain.

Quickly he takes a little fragment and hands it up to his shoulder weasel, letting the animal get a good grip on the desert before taking off into the living room. Chocolate is usually poison to most normal animals, but he was lucky to not have a normal animal on his hands, so feeding it the delicious substance would not land it in the vet office for a midnight emergency. Though by the time he's all situated on the futon, laying down with his head in his partner's lap and plate set on the couch by his chest, the piece he allotted to the Raijuu had been devoured without a single crumb remaining. Now it was in his face begging for more. Kouta gives a small sigh, more dramatic than serious, and hands over a larger chunk of his portion this time. This pleases the weasel and it scurries to a safer spot to consume the baked good. As he watches this transpire, he can't help but feel like he's going to turn it into a spoiled little creature. Always begging for something and getting its way because he did not want it to feel left out or even get spiteful.

Now he can finally have some for himself, and the second it hits his mouth he feels like he could melt into a happy puddle. Whatever they put into this mixture that tasted so good was beyond him but it was heaven in a box. Hands down the best confection he's ever had. And because it's so good, he tried to savor it, eating slower than usual so it will last longer. Meanwhile, just as with the Raijuu, he does not notice that Shin has made quick work of theirs. It must have hit just right and been impossible to put down. They wear a very content expression and seem to physically relax even further as soon as it's all gone and he thanks the gods for giving humanity such a treat. Anything that makes life better and easier for his mate should be celebrated and praised. He's so transfixed on the fact that his partner of several years is pleased with the quality of the brownies that it fully slips his mind that the tv isn't even on. Oh well. They didn't need mindless background noise anyway, not when the mood was so pleasant.

"Please pick up like three more boxes of this when you get the chance. Holy shit." They set the now empty paper plate on the side table and make a mental note to remember to throw it out within 24 hours. Would it get done before they fell back asleep? Probably not. But it would be addressed before bed the next evening for sure.

"I'll just buy all they have if it's not like, a dozen. That way we can have plenty and not have to worry about running out in a time of great need." He's proud of himself for the purchase and will not feel guilty about spending more money on more boxes. Shame has no place here when it was such a successful experiment.

"Good plan, we can go tomorrow."

After he's finished his serving, he feels their fingers thread through his messy orange hair and idly run through it. Damn that feels good. Usually it's him doing it to them, their head in his lap and their body curled up next to his sitting one. But a reversal feels so nice right now. It soothes the last remaining anxieties in his body and helps him feel truly at ease. In the afternoon to come he'll shower, do the dishes, and get their room all cleaned up because he'll be refreshed and happy after this time spent together right now. Usually when his brain made such straightforward plans it was out of worry or anxiety, but this time it was from the level of comfortable pleasure he felt because he had his partner and everything was well. Not once had they been accosted by a feisty weasel and all three had had the pleasure of enjoying the world's best brownies moments ago. It's like three in the morning, give or take a half hour, and he does not give a single fuck because all the pieces of the life puzzle had fit together perfectly for once.

"Kouta?" Shin is the first, again, to interrupt the silence between them. "I need you to talk to Haruka at some point later."

That gets his attention and he stiffens a little before making to answer. "I will do that before anything else later. What's wrong?" That reminds him of how he observed the state of their living quarters earlier. Undone dishes and a room in need of a cleaning spree. Everything adds up too neatly.

"I think I feel something coming on and want to ask her if I need to take anything for it. Last time I got sick it lasted a week and a half and I felt like ass."

He's quick to nod and is astounded that they beat him to the punch this time. "Of course, I wanted to call her anyway to make an appointment for you because you haven't fully been yourself the past couple days."

"Is it obvious?"

"Little bit." He holds up two fingers, not touching but only about an inch apart. "But it's better to hit it first before it knocks you on your ass again. Or worse." With that last bit, a shiver is sent up his spine. Worse is always very bad when it came to Shin and being sick. Worse meant being in the hospital for days and a possible exploratory surgery to make sure their lungs weren't going haywire again. That also meant down and out recovery time because having your chest opened up came with a physical cost.

Maybe luck would be on their side this time and it would be just a case of needing more sleep or perhaps a very, very mild cold that could be defeated with some DayQuil. Or if it was a little more serious, bed rest and a break from social activity for the better part of a week. No matter what though, he would see to it that the love of his life was okay and it was a good thing that Haruka would be the doctor on the job. She had her quirks but was one of their best friends and skilled in her field, and what she could not do alone she could do in tandem with Kabuto. It made the threat of emergencies a little less scary and helped Kouta sleep better at night. He'd lived through some intense moments with Shin before and was not eager to have more happen. But they would, and when those times came, he was grateful beyond words to know medical nin who could keep his beloved from suffering or worse.

"I don't wanna get up." They whined a little then, breaking him from his thoughts. "Comfortable just like this. There's room for me to lay down and it'll be fine."

"You sure you won't torture your joints that way? Don't wanna wake up stiff as a damn board and then curse yourself for being stupid the night before."

"If I end up regretting it then that's for tomorrow me to deal with."

"I dunno if that's a good idea but I'm also too comfortable to get up and pull out the couch or go back to the room." As if on cue, the Raijuu chose then to sneak back over to the two and curl up next to Kouta. It was another vote in favor of just making the couch work as is. "And I don't think we're gonna do anything else anyway."

In the next moment, there is some shifting to accommodate them lying next to him, but it manages to work somehow. He's taking the position of little spoon tonight and maybe that's part of what helps him feel okay again. They hold him close, face pressed against his upper back, reminding him that any worries he has about them right now are just products of his brain making up scenarios to be anxious about. Shin is not going anywhere any time soon and he's going to always make sure of that.

"Do you want me to ask her too if she can take care of your hair?" His voice is becoming sleepy but he's not giving in yet until this last thought is gotten out.

"Nah." They mumble back. "I miss when it was longer." Truth be told, he misses that look too. They opted to cut it a little while back after top surgery for ease of maintenance during recovery. But now they were free to regain the old length. The answer makes Kouta feel contented, happily so, so he drops the subject.

They're holding him, he's got a warm little weasel curled up next to him, and the memory of amazing brownies reminds him that there is good in the world even if you only see it in the strangest times. Sweet serendipity never lets him down. That sleepy feeling hits once more, finally winning because it has no remaining opposition, and his eyes close for the last time that night. Both of them can go to bed without any further worries or tasks to deal with or questions to answer. First thing tomorrow they will return to normal routine and that is a worry for tomorrow Shin and tomorrow Kouta. Cleaning, planning, connecting with their inner circle, figuring out the food plan for the day, and riding out life as it wanted to manifest. A nice fairly full schedule for Kouta to depend on.

#canon/OC #OC/canon #Naruto #Naruto Shippuden #Anbu Root #Root #Foundation #Naruto OC

5 notes · View notes

fonulyn · 1 year ago

Note

Hi, do you have any advice for a 'first time' writer? I've been writing little things for myself for over a decade but never actually wanted to post anything online until now. my issue has been that although I have a general idea of I what I want to write, I only have loose paraghaps and little snippets that I want to include in my story. I don't have the experience of writing full chapters or even doing a sketch to guide myself, y'know? Any advice will do!

it depends on what you want to do with the story, really! a story consisting of little snippets is a perfectly valid type of story, too. i've written multiple fics where it's just short moments that are loosely connected into a bigger narrative.

also, you can start small. a fic doesn't have to have a set length, and you don't need to start out with multichaptered fics, you can start with short oneshots! i definitely did! i wrote short slice-of-life things for a good while before i started doing plottier things. i did a LOT of oneshots before I did any multichaptered works. work your way up to it! no one is born ready, and practice is never a bad thing :)

there's no rule that says you need to write every single thing that happens, either. you can just do enough filling stuff to connect the things you want to write in a way that makes sense. I've often cut out things I first thought were needed but then upon consideration decided I could just skip over. don't weigh yourself down with stuff you feel obligated to do and focus on the things you enjoy.

as for a sketch/outline/whatever, it also depends on a person, what works for one might not work for another. personally i use bullet point lists. and i add thoughts and snippets and dialogue options in there too whenever i think of something i'd like to use! like... here's the outline for one of the fics in the self-indulgent series of mine:

then here's a couple other examples (spoilers for not-posted fic :'D first is in the mutant-babies series the second is my nivannedy re2 childhood friends au which i should maybe post the first chapter for shhhh):

so even for me it varies a bit depending on what kind of fic i'm working on and how much thoughts i already have when i start. but sometimes my outline also looks like this:

and then i'll fill in those ????s either when I get a genius (ha!) idea, when I get to that part, or at the very very end when I've written everything else. OR then i figure out a way to just cut it out :'D

for me the main thing is to write down the things i DO know will happen, write down the specific sentences or dialogue bits that i think of and like, so i won't forget everything. and then I add the "something???" bits when I feel like there needs to be something between two things and i can't just go from one to another. pacing is important, for the fic to read well, but it's also something one shouldn't worry about at first, you'll get the hang of it in time.

if you have someone you can talk to about the story it also helps tremendously. it's one reason i've been struggling to write lately bc i lost my go-to person. but any amount of brainstorming, or maybe just explaining it to someone, will make figuring things out easier. sometimes i talk about the story to my dog lol. saying it out loud or writing it as an explanation to someone else often helps!

i don't really know if any of this is helpful at all? if you've got further questions or anything, feel free to poke me! but i hope something here helps a little :) and the most important advice? HAVE FUN!! :D

#anonymous #ask and i shall answer #writing stuff #long post

3 notes · View notes

sexydreamgirl · 3 years ago

Text

Links to: my pinned post, my FAQ, and links and tags

I made another google form so you guys can let me know what to post next. if you have the time, please get back to me here ! ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭

Below the read more is a message I would appreciate you read if you have an opinion in regards to my absence.

Hello, my loves. I hope you’ve all been doing well since the last time I checked up on everyone three days ago. This wasn’t how I counted on greeting you all the next time I logged on nor do I plan on being active again anytime soon but I only came on to address the anon that reached out to Daphne (@id18297):

1. Hera annoys me so much since she made a side blog and forgot about her blog :( it’s like she isn’t even in the law of assumption community anymore

2. You really need to chill the fuck. I’m allowed to have my opinion on how she said she would make a side blog for random talks and never abandon SDG yet she abandoned it anyway without even telling people there why. Yeah she is a human being, no shit, you idiot, but she deserves to be called out for not saying anything and just moving on because she wanted to be a loa blog in the first place.

3. I’m telling you because she hasn’t replied once to any of my asks and no I didn’t insult her. I asked her “are you going to abandon SDG?” That’s it like not even in a mean way. When you want to create content you kinda have to accept that people will be mad and sad if you Leave suddenly. Is this how we act with friends? She used to treat us as very close friends and say she loves us and bla bla. Hell, I’d never leave my friend like that. How is that so hard to understand? That the least we wanted was her to say something? She made a loa blog what did she expect? Are you going to do the same? I wouldn’t do this, I’d own up to it and admit I wanna leave, not just abandon out of nowhere when I claim I wouldn’t do that.

4. Abandoning someone without saying at least one phrase is not friendship. I said I was annoyed, not that I hated her. Being annoyed is a normal feeling. Did we really want that much of her? Just an explanation. Goodbye & your anons are just as bad as you, jumping to insult without even trying to understand. Hera has been gone for a week and I tried to understand and as I said, me and most of her anons on SDG just wanted one small explanation, anything.

I think the entitlement in those asks doesn’t need to be addressed given how evident it is, so I will say that I find it weird how you, anon, have had a whole approach that we are “friends” has been through all of those asks all about your need to have your questions asked but not once did you mention concern for me. The whole predicament revolved around the fact that you were “annoyed” that I left without an explanation (by the way, my explanation has been sitting in my pinned for a week. I’m on a break). Not only that, but it seems like you didn’t stop for a second and consider the following:

I have been dealing with anons who have called me a bitch, have been asking me to “provide specific answers” and always have something bad to say about what I advise, just generally complain about me in some way

On top of that I’ve also been dealing with a troll situation for weeks now that has been nothing short of unbearable for not just me but my anons as well since it started.

I have a life.

I’m under no obligation to do anything, whether it’s to make informative posts or answer your questions. All of this has been my choice from the start and it will continue to stay that way. I indulge in it because I love doing it. However, I am way more than just a law of assumption blogger. I have my own life, hobbies and interests that go past just making long posts about self concept.

Because I love talking to my followers so much and because I received several complaints for indulging in conversations that weren’t related to manifesting I made a third blog to talk to y’all. And yet, even though this is what plenty of people wanted I’m still getting complaints about it. Not only that, consider this disparity:

sexydreamgirl: redundant variations of “can I manifest x?”/”how to manifest x?” asks, trolls, anons expecting me to baby them with manifesting, insults, and more

heraisgod: gushing about shows and sps, making playlists, exchanging banter, nothing but jokes and we all laugh together about it

Do you see the difference? One environment surpasses the other in enjoyment by a long shot. I’ve been putting up with every annoying aspect of sdg for you guys over and over again to talk to you guys and answer your questions but I can only withstand it for so long. I’ve stated before that I have a high threshold for irritation but just because I can put up with it doesn’t mean I have to. I accept dumps, vents and spirals and I know that’s totally on me because I consented to that but I think you still overlook so much of what I actually do on sexydreamgirl and invalidated all of it over how you feel. Now tell me, is that something a friend does?

if your situation is dire or urgent, there are an abundance of other lovely blogs in the community who are also willing to help you. Even with that, the law of assumption is so simple that the answer to a lot of my questions is either self concept, persist or start over. There isn’t much I can tell you that you cannot already find on sexyandhedonistic but if asking someone directly will make you feel secure then by all means.

A sad and unfavorable aspect of running a law of assumption blog is that a lot of anons are very entitled and even rude. I've seen it time and time again not just on my blog but on others' as well. I’ve set up a FAQ as well as provided links with all the information you could ever need in our pinned posts and we still have people who choose to ignore everything and run to us for answers. It’s very annoying and even disrespectful. And if you're wondering, “why can’t you manifest it away if you manifested all of this?” I don’t care about this situation enough to “manifest it away” when I can just log off, even if I did manifest it unconsciously. The choice to answer questions day in and day out is for you, it doesn’t benefit me very much for me to go out of my way and fix it. I have so much more in my life I have to/want to attend to and sdg is only a hobby at the end of the day, it’s not a priority.

I love you guys so much. Those of you that are sweet and fun to catch up with, that I indulge in conversations with, that go out of your way to help my other anons. You guys feel like my own little family and I cherish you for the wonderful environment we have cultivated together on sexydreamgirl despite the occasional troll or rude anon. I thought I was clear about the fact that I was on a break but I’m sorry to those of you I have disappointed with my absence. We are still bffs and I still love you, but at the end of the day I come first. I don’t need to be readily available because this is not my job and you are not paying me a cent to do this. I’m also sorry for the fact that the environment on sexydreamgirl has been ruined as of lately because of people who have chosen to make a joke out of it. I still don’t believe it’s fair that you guys have to pay for that fact but I really do not enjoy being on here as I used to because of it. Nevertheless, I still do come on to answer questions from time to time (as I also stated in my pinned [please start checking pinned posts y’all]) and I’ve set up my queue for later today. I’ll continue being active on @heraisgod (+18). Like i said in the beginning, I still don’t know when I plan to come back if I choose to, but I have no incentive for being active on here the way I used to and I’ll just continue to speak to you all through my queue until I feel like coming back.

I hope I have conveyed my message in a clear way and you reading this are able to empathize with my reasons for why I’ve been gone. A huge thank you to my sweetest Daphne for defending me and to my anons who have been so wonderfully supportive and understanding throughout. I love you copiously.

Love you always, Hera ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭ :༅｡♡｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

113 notes · View notes

bloody-bee-tea · 4 years ago

Text

BeeTober 2020 Day 20

Known - Spice

Day 20 practically begged me to write some Yunmeng shuangjie reconciliation, and who am I to deny that.

Jiang Cheng is waiting at the main entrance of Lotus Pier, his hands clasped behind his back, standing straighter than he has in a long time.

He burned Wei Wuxian’s letter shortly after he read it, because he couldn’t stand to look at it for even one more second.

It was formal—too formal—like a stranger respectfully requesting a place for the night instead of like it should have been.

His brother informing him that he was dropping by and only expecting the best accommodations.

Jiang Cheng has less formal correspondence with Lan Qiren of all people and that thought nearly made him refuse Wei Wuxian’s request on principle.

But Jiang Cheng never did learn how to refuse Wei Wuxian, even though he loves to complain about whatever idiotic idea Wei Wuxian comes up with. In the end Jiang Cheng always followed him after all.

Wei Wuxian is late, but Jiang Cheng isn’t surprised by that. Wei Wuxian has never arrived to anything on time, and Jiang Cheng figures this shouldn’t be any different.

He waited sixteen years for him. A few more minutes won’t hurt.

When Wei Wuxian finally does come into sight, Jiang Cheng can tell immediately that he’s hesitant about approaching Lotus Pier. Jiang Cheng wonders what the reason for that is; is it because he doesn’t actually want to meet with Jiang Cheng and only does out it out of a sense of obligation or is it because Lotus Pier doesn’t look like what he remembers from before?

Well, if it’s the last one, Wei Wuxian can turn right back around, because he does not get to complain about something Jiang Cheng had to rebuild all on his own because Wei Wuxian was gone. He could have come back earlier, then he wouldn’t need to complain.

“Sect Leader Jiang,” Wei Wuxian greets him with when he’s finally in reach and Jiang Cheng flinches.

So this is how they are going to play it. Jiang Cheng probably was a fool for hoping for anything else.

“If you decide on doing that, then you should bow as well,” Jiang Cheng snaps at him, almost dares him to laugh at Jiang Cheng’s audacity, but when Wei Wuxian falls into the obedient bow, Jiang Cheng feels sick.

It’s some kind of victory, he’s sure of that, but it tastes like ash and Jiang Cheng would happily trade it for his brother’s insubordination.

“Better,” Jiang Cheng still bites out and then abruptly turns around from Wei Wuxian.

He takes a few steps before he realizes that Wei Wuxian is not following him, and so Jiang Cheng looks over his shoulder.

Wei Wuxian is unsurely shuffling his feet and Jiang Cheng wants to break something. This is Lotus Pier, this is their home, but it doesn’t seem like Wei Wuxian feels like that at all.

“You’re late, so dinner is probably cold by now,” Jiang Cheng tells him, before he starts to walk again, and this time Wei Wuxian follows him.

Jiang Cheng feels like raging—or crying, but he’s not going to think too hard on that—at the fact that his brother needs an invitation to come into Lotus Pier and Jiang Cheng wonders why they are even doing this.

It’s clear that Wei Wuxian doesn’t want to be here, and with how they parted in the temple, Jiang Cheng didn’t expect anything else. This is just painful for the both of them and Jiang Cheng wishes he could simply send him away.

But he doesn’t think he could survive that, after all.

Jiang Cheng is already sitting when Wei Wuxian finally sits down as well, because he took his sweet time in following after Jiang Cheng. Jiang Cheng tries to hide it, but he does kind of enjoy the way Wei Wuxian’s face falls when he sees the decidedly too bland food that Jiang Cheng had prepared for them.

It’s petty, Jiang Cheng is aware of that, but he is so beyond caring about that.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t see Lotus Pier as his home and he doesn’t regard Jiang Cheng as his family, so he doesn’t get to enjoy the familiar and comfortable food of Lotus Pier.

“What—is this?” Wei Wuxian asks, pushing the vegetables on his plate around and Jiang Cheng bites out a smile at him.

“Dinner,” he simply replies and when Wei Wuxian sends him an accusatory glare, it almost feels like before.

“But where is the spice?” Wei Wuxian whines and looks around for some chili oil.

Jiang Cheng did not put any on the table.

“You’re a Lan by marriage now,” Jiang Cheng says, and he is surprised at the bitterness in his own voice. “The Lans enjoy their food bland and flavourless.”

Wei Wuxian gapes at him, something like hurt flashing over his face, but it’s too fast gone for Jiang Cheng to place it correctly.

It doesn’t help that Wei Wuxian no longer wears a face Jiang Cheng is familiar with. Jiang Cheng didn’t have time to learn his expressions again.

“Even Lan Zhan indulges me,” Wei Wuxian complains and slumps almost over the entire table, but Jiang Cheng keeps eating his way too bland food.

“He is your husband. As far as I understand we are mere strangers, so I don’t dare to take such liberties,” Jiang Cheng says, way too formally, and Wei Wuxian flinches with his words.

“Well, at least Lan Zhan makes sure I still have someone left who I can call family,” Wei Wuxian says almost flippantly and Jiang Cheng hurts so much, he doesn’t even know how to take this.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t crash the cup in his hands at hearing those words, but it’s a near thing. He can tell by the audible cracks and with how Wei Wuxian flinches again.

Jiang Cheng forces himself to put the cup down—softly and carefully—and then he takes a deep breath before he speaks.

“You must have had a beautiful wedding then, with all your family around,” he bitterly says and he’s ashamed to find that his eyes burn with unshed tears and he can’t meet Wei Wuxian’s eyes.

He knew he wouldn’t get invited to anything official that concerned Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji—Wei Wuxian made that more than clear in the temple—but it still had hurt to hear from Jin Ling that they were married now.

No one even spared a thought for Jiang Cheng; he had to learn about that through a third person and if he decimated a dozen training dummies that day, well that’s between him and his weapons, isn’t it.

It was a very effective way of telling Jiang Cheng that he didn’t mean anything to Wei Wuxian, not any longer.

“Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian whispers and it hurts more than when he had called him by his title.

“Eat your food and stop complaining,” Jiang Cheng snaps at him before Wei Wuxian can say anything else that threatens to break Jiang Cheng and for a few short minutes there is blessed silence.

Jiang Cheng can tell that Wei Wuxian is itching with his need to say something, but he’s not in a mood to hear it, and in a move of pure self-preservation Jiang Cheng puts his bowl down before he’s finished.

“There are matters I still have to attend to,” he tells Wei Wuxian and simply talks over him when Wei Wuxian opens his mouth. “A room has been prepared for you,” he says and then gets up and walks away.

Jiang Cheng tries to tell himself that it doesn’t hurt when Wei Wuxian doesn’t call after him, when he doesn’t come after him, but it’s no use. It cuts him deep and only drives the point home of how estranged they are by now.

His feet carry him to one of the more private piers, one he goes to when everything gets just a little bit too much for him, and he sits down with a heavy sigh.

He knew not to expect too much of this visit, knew that it was likely just going to make things worse, but he wasn’t prepared for the truth of it.

There is nothing left to make worse. He and Wei Wuxian truly have nothing left between them. They could be strangers and they would have more of a relationship with each other than they do right now.

“Fuck,” Jiang Cheng mutters and buries his face in his hands, desperately trying to keep the tears at bay.

It was what he feared, there is no reason to break over it now, he reminds himself again and again, but it doesn’t lessen the hurt.

Jiang Cheng doesn’t know how long he sits there, but he doesn’t really notice when dusk settles over the lake and he only comes out of his dark thoughts when he hears feet on the pier.

He is about to snap at whoever comes here to disturb him, but when his eyes fall on Wei Wuxian he bites his tongue.

“I knew you’d be here,” Wei Wuxian lightly says and then he has the audacity to sit down next to Jiang Cheng. “You always enjoyed staring out over the water instead of confronting what’s bothering you.”

Jiang Cheng goes hot at his words, because he hasn’t felt known like this in way too long, but then the anger sets in again.

“How dare you,” he hisses at Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng is in the process of getting up and walking away from him when Wei Wuxian’s hands shoot out to grab his forearm.

“Jiang Cheng, stay,” he pleads and Jiang Cheng sinks down again.

He has always been helpless against that tone of voice.

“I didn’t mean to—,” Wei Wuxian starts but then falters. “Well, I meant to marry Lan Zhan, that wasn’t an accident, but I never thought that you’d be interested in our marriage. I would have loved to have you there, but I was too afraid you’ll say no,” Wei Wuxian lowly admits and Jiang Cheng tries to shove the hurt far away, because this is his own fault, he knows.

He never managed to make Wei Wuxian understand that he would support him with that, so of course Wei Wuxian wouldn’t want his stupid, judging face at his wedding.

He gets that. But the other thing—

“You never visit,” Jiang Cheng forces himself to say, because if he can’t be honest right now, then he might as well stop hoping for any kind of reconciliation between them. “I know you’re busy with your husband and kid and whatever you do in the Cloud Recesses to make Lan Qiren pop a vein, but you go on night hunts in Yunmeng,” Jiang Cheng says and determinedly keeps his gaze on the water in front of him, Wei Wuxian’s hands burning hot on his arm. “And you never even think to visit,” he finishes in a whisper.

“Oh,” Wei Wuxian breathes out and Jiang Cheng does not look at him. “I didn’t think I’d be welcome here,” Wei Wuxian finally lowly admits. “I didn’t think you’d want me to come back.”

“I didn’t rebuild Yunmeng Jiang only for you to say there is no place left for you to return to,” Jiang Cheng bitterly says and then immediately afterwards bites his tongue, because he never wanted to say that.

It’s too revealing, exposes too much of Jiang Cheng that he never wanted anyone to see and he wishes he could take the words back.

Especially when Wei Wuxian stays silent at his side and doesn’t say anything.

Fuck, Jiang Cheng knew that Wei Wuxian never had any intentions of coming back, knew that he only regarded Yunmeng Jiang as another Great Sect and no longer as his home now—he made that abundantly clear in the temple and then when he married Lan Wangji without inviting Jiang Cheng—but his silence still hurts worse than Jiang Cheng could have imagined.

“You know what, forget about it,” Jiang Cheng presses out and starts to get up, because Wei Wuxian is still silent but before he can even rise, Wei Wuxian tightens his grip on Jiang Cheng’s arm.

Jiang Cheng wants to throw him off, wants to push him away, but even though Wei Wuxian is in Mo Xuanyu’s weaker body, his grip is almost painful and unshakable.

“No, Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian says, and Jiang Cheng’s eyes go wide when he realizes that Wei Wuxian is crying.

“What the fuck,” Jiang Cheng says, startled to see his brother cry and Wei Wuxian sniffles pathetically.

“I never thought—I mean—I didn’t dare—,” Wei Wuxian almost sobs out and Jiang Cheng wants to snap at him to get a grip, to state what he wants to say clearly, but he feels strangely choked up himself.

“Can I still come home?” Wei Wuxian finally asks and he sounds so small, his voice thin and close to breaking and Jiang Cheng snaps.

He shoves Wei Wuxian off the pier and into the lake.

When Wei Wuxian falls, Jiang Cheng blinks a few times, surprised by his own actions but then a smile passes over his face at the surprised yell his brother lets out right before he hits the water.

Jiang Cheng patiently waits for Wei Wuxian to resurface.

“Jiang Cheng!” his brother yells and inhales a mouthful of water for his troubles. “What was that for?” Wei Wuxian demands to know, once he almost coughed a lung up and Jiang Cheng scowls at him as best as he can when all he wants to really do is laugh like he hasn’t in a long time.

“That was for daring to think that this is no longer your home and that you don’t have a place here,” he tells him and enjoys how wide Wei Wuxian’s eyes get. “You idiot,” Jiang Cheng then tacks on and when Wei Wuxian breaks out into a smile, Jiang Cheng’s eyes start to burn.

Before he can find out how best to hide the tears in his eyes, Wei Wuxian’s eyes start to twinkle and Jiang Cheng knows that that is never a good sign.

But before he can brace himself for whatever it is that Wei Wuxian is planning, he already paddled closer and then his hands shoot out of the water, to latch on to Jiang Cheng’s leg.

There’s a moment where they both freeze in anticipation and then Wei Wuxian tugs and Jiang Cheng slides off the pier with a very ungraceful yelp.

The water is freezing and it steals his breath when he hits it.

“Wei Wuxian!” Jiang Cheng yells as soon as he resurfaces, but Wei Wuxian is already a safe distance away and laughing so hard he has trouble keeping himself over water.

Jiang Cheng starts after him, and a look of pure panic flashes over Wei Wuxian’s face, before he turns around and swims away as fast as he can.

Jiang Cheng isn’t worried, though, because for all that Wei Wuxian used to be better in everything he could never beat Jiang Cheng in swimming.

The water is Jiang Cheng’s territory, and he is immensely looking forward to dunking Wei Wuxian repeatedly once he catches him.

Jiang Cheng knows that there is still so much they have to talk about, but if they can still be silly together like this, then maybe their talks are nothing to fear.

Maybe it will all work out and Jiang Cheng gets his brother back.

He would really like that.

Link to my ko-fi on the sidebar!

#bt writes #beetober 2020 #untamed fall fest #the untamed #mdzs #yunmeng shuangjie #yunmeng siblings #post-canon #reconciliation #hurt/comfort

204 notes · View notes

bi-ressler · 3 years ago

Text

Coming Home [RessGale]

@skiesfallithurts requested "Coming home + RessGale" for this ask meme (still taking prompts if you want to send something in! Could take me some time though due to real life)

Title: Coming Home Relationship: Julian Gale/Donald Ressler Characters: Julian Gale, Donald Ressler, Henry Prescott (mentioned), Raymond Reddington (mentioned), others (mentioned) Words: 10.891 Setting: Post-Prescott-Arc AU Warnings: Abuse of prescription meds (aka Donnie is back on oxy and I'm not even remotely sorry), sexual assault (non-explicit, but it's being discussed), homophobia very briefly mentioned A/N: I've had this idea in my head for literal ages and thanks to the prompt I'm finally doing it! So thanks for indulging me :D Also, this got away from me (again) and turned out way (WAAAAAY) longer than it should have. Oops! - - - As always, English isn't my first language, this isn't beta'd and all mistakes are mine. Feedback is greatly appreciated :) (Also, tumblr keeps fucking up the formatting, so if the sentence breaks up in the middle of the paragraph, blame hellsite dot com.)

[Read HERE on ao3!]

__________________________________________

Falling back into old habits and unhealthy coping-mechanisms is far too easy, Donald finds. But when everything crumbles around him, and all the poorly concealed cracks and insufficiently closed gaps and holes in his armour, in his life, finally give out and leave nothing but rubble and guilt and dread, it's the only way he can think of not to fall into complete despair and drown himself in self-pity.

But maybe he's already past that point.

Maybe this is what drowning actually feels like, and there's definitely no lack of self-pity on his behalf.

So he downs the pills with a swig of beer, ignoring the fact that this feels far too familiar, far too much like coming home after a storm, soaking wet and shaking to lay down on the warm carpet and breathe for the first time.

It was all a mistake.

The last six years, it was all one big mistake and right now, he'd give everything to go back in time, erase Reddington from his mind, never join that damned taskforce that had him spiralling to this point from day one. Hell, he'd go even further, never become an agent in the first place - maybe open up a coffee shop in Detroid or become a banker or lawyer or anything at all, as long as it's as far away from Reddington and this whole mess as possible.

That way, he'd never meet Henry Prescott. He'd never murder Laurel Hitchin. He'd never let down everyone in his life, most of all himself, and Audrey would still be alive, and Julian would still be with the bureau ---

Julian.

The guilt comes back full force, because if anyone didn't deserve the fate they got, it would be Julian. Hard working, fierce, loving Julian.

He dry-swallows another pill for good measure, shoulders his go-bag and disappears down an empty alley, unseen by cameras and cops and anyone who might recognize him.

He's not sure if he can go on like this.

He's been on the run for nearly a week now; a week of hiding, paranoia, always looking over his shoulder and ducking into the shadows. Where he once felt safe when he heard the siren of a police car, he now starts running. It's exhausting and he cowers lower into the corner of the abandoned building he's staying in tonight.

Another pill. The shivers lessen. The bottle is almost empty.

He leans his head back against the cold concrete and curses his need for justice, his stupid-ass decision of accepting this life as punishment for his actions.

No, that's not right, he thinks.

If he really was after justice, he wouldn't have run. He would have faced the consequences like a man, faced jail-time and public humiliation.

Instead, he'd been crushed by his own guilt after Prescott's death, written his confession with a shakey hand and left it on his desk, before grabbing the go-bag from the trunk of his car and running.

By morning Cooper must have found it, and in the afternoon he'd seen his face on the news. He has no idea where to go from here.

He pops another pill and curses when he reminds himself to cut back and save what little of the drugs he still has left.

---

The thing about guilt is, Ressler thinks, that despite what everyone says, it doesn't lessen over the years. He still feels guilty about ruining his brother's chance of a career as a cop, and he still feels guilty about Hitchin and Wright and Prescott and every crime Reddington committed right in front of his eyes.

He still feels guilty about what happened to Julian - the first time, after that operation in Kabul went so horribly wrong and Julian took the blame for it, both of them knowing full well that Ressler had been in charge and made the decision to fire, but being stubborn enough to convince IA that it had been his fault, handing over his badge and service weapon with an unreadable look towards Don. Maybe he did it out of some twisted sense of obligation. Maybe they were just in love and compromised. But in the end Ressler's decision had cost Julian his job and a civilian his life.

And the second time, after the whole mess with Mr. Kaplan, effectively ending Julian's career as nothing more but collateral damage. He can still feel his heart crack at that look of betrayal in Julian's eyes as they stood over the remains of Mako Tanida.

---

The other thing about guilt is that Donald doesn't know how to make amends. He knows how to follow his instincts and get himself deeper into trouble, deeper into the pit of guilt, deeper into unescapable situations. Making more and more excuses, trying to cover up all of his messes with lies that lead to more excuses, more lies, more damage.

He knows it's good that he does feel guilt in the first place. But there's only so much he can take.

He thinks about everyone he has left - Reddington, Keen, Aram, Cooper, Navabi.

He could go and find Reddington, ask him to get him out of this mess he created, but he still has some dignity left (he almost laughs at that, sitting in the dirt, close, so close again to withdrawal that his chest tightens, burdened with the undignity of all the actions that led him here). So Reddington is out. He'd only get him into some deeper shit, anyway, and he can't deal with that right now.

The taskforce is out, too. They're obligated to arrest him on sight. And after doing what he did (all the dirty work for Prescott that makes him shudder and swallow back bile), he wouldn't be able to look them in the eyes. They'd know. Another thing he can't deal with.

He can't go to his family, either; getting to Detroid would be a feat in itself, but no doubt the feds are just waiting for him to make contact with his mom or brother. He doesn't want to think about them; if he just so much as imagines his mom crying over the news of her little boy's fuck-up of a life he would only break the last remains of his heart.

Sighing, he realizes he's on his own and he closes his eyes against tears that don't come. His eyes are far too dry, and yet he feels like crying; maybe he's become too numb, but not numb enough to not care. He swallows against his dry throat, his fingers flexing around the pill bottle. He's out at sea alone, the storm raging and waves threatening to bring him down, and in the darkness, there's no lighthouse in sight, not even a candle in the window of someone who might take pity on him. He's bound to drown.

---

The next day, he runs out of pills as well as luck. He hears the shouting before seeing what's going on, and he doesn't need to round the corner to know that the cops are arresting his dealer; he hears his name. They're not after the poor sod for his arsenal of prescription-meds, they're after him. He turns around and doesn't stop running until his lungs burn and his feet ache.

---

He finally collapses behind an old factory that's been out of use seemingly forever. He vaguely remembers it from a case so many years ago, when everything was still fine and he still had dreams and hopes and Reddington hadn't crossed his way yet, Julian already by his side, Prescott a name he had no business knowing.

He remembers some nondescript arms dealers hunched over their merchandise, duffels with a ton of dollar bills and a short shoot-out that ended with the perps in cuffs and a brilliant smile from Julian. Although he couldn't see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses, he knew the twinkle in them that told him everything he needed to know.

How the fuck could he fuck up something so good?

It doesn't matter now, though. He slides down the rough walls, and a shiver rips from his spine, rocking his entire body, until it gets stuck in his hands and they can't stop trembling. Every movement hurts deep in his bones, and the shaking only makes it worse until he feels sick to his stomach and feels the bile rise.

He closes his eyes, and now the tears come.

He lets all the shame and hurt and fucking guilt wash over him, drown him until he is gasping for air, remembering --- remembering all the roads he shouldn't have taken, remembering every time he allowed Prescott to shove his dick down Donald's throat, the blood of some stranger still on their hands and clothes, and Ressler can't keep it in anymore. His stomach convulses and forces its few contents out, spattering on the dirty ground, acid in his aching throat that still remembers Prescott's assaults.

He remembers Prescott's laugh and the grip of his hand leaving bruises on his arms. He remembers burying bodies of people he knew nothing about, for a man who could be his downfall with no more effort than twitching a finger.

Ironic, how that still happened and Ressler has just reached rock-bottom while still having done everything Prescott had demanded. A fucking lose-lose-situation. Ressler would like to laugh about the stupidity of it all (of himself), but it gets stuck somewhere between his chest and vocal chords. He can never go back.

He'd always thought it would be Reddington who'd ruin him. He was wrong.

---

With the onsetting darkness comes the cold; it's the end of summer and the days are warm enough, but the nights take all the warmth and replace it with cruel emptiness and too many thoughts.

He remembers all the times their hunt for Reddington had gone wrong; all the times they'd run into another dead end; all the times an informant ended up dead --- all the times he would crawl into Julian's bed or Julian in his and they'd hold each other, seek solace and comfort and hope and the strength to move on in each other's arms.

He remembers Julian's lips on his and how, for these few moments, he'd want nothing more and could forget the job. He remembers skin on heated skin, and whispered platitudes that in that moment felt like a lifeline, and falling asleep with limbs entangled, sheltering him from nightmares and fatalistic thoughts.

He misses it. Misses it more than anything else, and it's the first time he acknowledges this feeling. He'd missed Julian for years; and then he was back again, back in that ice rink, looking at him like nothing had happened, like he still didn't blame Donald for all the shit that had happened. Maybe he really didn't. Maybe the guilt for all of that had been for nothing.

And then Julian was gone again and this time it would be irreversible. Like a lost limb, he feels his absence.

Shivering, he stares at the darkness around him, and all he wants is those strong arms around him and the scent of leather and aftershave and the scratch of Julian's stubble against his own.

He can never have that again. He doesn't deserve it, and Julian sure as Hell won't forgive him. Not for ending his career and certainly not for working with Reddington and turning a blind eye to the crimes he committed under their watch. He wouldn't even want to touch him again with all the dirt and blood on his hands from working for Prescott; wouldn't want to kiss the same lips that suffered the abuse of a ruthless killer and had swallowed it like he deserved it.

Because the truth is, maybe that's what his life has become: an unescapable, unforgivable Hell, all the pictures of what he'd done burned into his brain, behind his eyelids, on his skin where the bruises have long since faded but the dirt still remains. And maybe that's exactly what he deserves.

He crumbles under his thoughts until he lies on the ground, a shivering, hurting mess that's overflowing with guilt and self-loathing.

Julian always used to kiss it away.

---

How, when and why Donald has decided to walk up that road into the woods is lost on him.

He used to know this road, been here a few times but not in several years; it seems unchanged exept for the sky that looks a bit duller. He never walked this path before, but he didn't want to steal a car. Wouldn't know where to dump it here anyway.

He knows it's probably a dumb idea, but he's out of options by this point.

Every step is hard work and his knees are about ready to give out, shaking under the strain of carrying him for miles and miles, and even in the chilly shadows of the surrounding trees he's sweating like it's a hundred degrees out. Another shiver runs through his body that feels like it's crushing every bone on its way, and he moans as he gasps for breath.

He knows though if he stops he'll never get up again. He'll never reach the old cabin in the woods by that small lake, and he'd die by the side of the small, muddy road. He's not ready for that, though.

---

It's late afternoon when he gets off the main road and takes the small footpath that leads to the cabin in a few hundred yards. The sun is much hotter now and although he can feel her warmth on his skin, he feels cold and clammy and miserable, fighting shiver after shiver and losing hard.

All he wants to do is curl up into a tight ball and die, but he's not gonna give up, not now, even though he knows that he's making a massive mistake here, but he doesn't care. It's like he's too far gone to acknowledge that fact and all his common sense has left him along with the contents of his stomach last night; he can't shove it back and, frankly, what does it matter? He can't fall any deeper.

So he stumbles on, struggling over rocks and branches, his feet numb except for the occasional flare of pain that still reaches his brain and he can't quite manage to shut out.

Then it comes into sight and he breathes out, a pained, wheezing sound that makes his head spin, and suddenly he feels sick because he knows he has made the wrong decision; he should go. He should turn around and collapse by the road and wither away like a fallen leaf.

The cabin is still like he remembers it from years ago; it belonged to Julian's father before he'd died, a nice little place far out in the woods that's perfect for a weekend-trip. Julian used to tell him stories of coming here with his dad to fish and hunt, back in the day before everything had turned to shit between them, before he came out as gay and his father stopped talking to him altogether.

He knows Julian is here; he's seen the old Ford parked by the road close to the small footpath. He also knows he's not welcome, just as he knows that he won't have anything left if Julian rejects him and throws him back onto the street he came from.

Feeling his knees wobble, he pushes on before he can give in to the seducing urge to let himself fall to the ground and curl up to die. He can still do that afterwards.

Another few steps and he's around the cabin where he can see the small lake, a pond really, with the wooden terrace right by the water; on it stands a deserted deck chair, but the bottle of beer that sits right next to it is still half-full, so Julian must be back any minute.

He leans heavily on the wall of the cabin and feels his strength bleed away. A bead of sweat runs down his forehead and along his nose as he lets his head fall, the strain in his neck too much for his muscles to hold it up anymore. Catching his breath is difficult when his lungs don't want to take in any much needed air and his chest feels too tight, like the collar of his dirty white t-shirt is strangling him, and he raises a violently shaking hand to his chest, ignoring the creaking of his joints as he does so.

Shit, this is worse than he'd thought. The hand that isn't clutching his shirt automatically wanders towards his pants pocket. It's empty. Of course it's empty. He's out of pills. He panicks at that because how in the world is he supposed to survive ---

when he hears a gun cock and forces himself to look up into Julian's face.

He looks good - always does - and his stubble is almost a beard now; his hair has grown too and Donald just wants to breathe it in. He wears sunglasses (of course, it's still bright outside and his eyes are just so damn sensitive), and his brow is deeply furrowed, his mouth a thin line that tells Donald just how welcome he is here.

"Don?", he asks, voice raspy like he hasn't spoken in a long time. Maybe he hasn't, but Ressler isn't naïve enough to blame any emotion for the roughness.

"Hey", he says, and he feels the world sway from the effort of holding himself up, so he grabs for the wall again, temporarily borrowing stability from the wooden structure. He doesn't even want to know how awful he must look, all sweaty and dirty and miserable, shaking and fighting just to keep standing.

"What do you want?", Julian asks, words hard and the gun still pointed at Ressler.

He looks at Julian, helpless to say anything, devoid of all words, and he realizes he doesn't know how to answer that question. He opens his mouth in the hopes of being able to bring out anything at all when a shudder runs through his body, leaving him breathless and on the ground. For a second all he knows is the pain of too much and too little at the same time that grinds his bones to dust and cuts through his muscles effortlessly. He thinks he groans in pain, but can't tell over the static in his ears.

"Fuck", he hears at the edge of his consciousness, "Don!"

And when he looks up, Julian is gone from where he stood before, instead there are arms steadying him from face-planting into the muddy ground. He leans heavily into those arms that promise comfort and solace and strength.

"Julian", Don rasps out, and he looks up to see Julian close, so close, worry visible even behind the sunglasses, and he has to close his eyes as a rush of emotion threatens to overcome him. This is it. This is all he wanted.

"Don't talk now, okay? I'm callin' an ambulance." And that's wrong. He can't do that, Ressler can't go to the hospital, not when he's on every wanted-list in the city ---

"Don't", he whispers and swallows against the bile. Julian looks at him like he's lost his mind, but there's still so much worry. "Don't", Donald repeats. He doesn't know how else to communicate this.

"Okay", Julian says flatly, still sceptical. "You mind tellin' me though why the fuck you're here?"

Ressler looks away, tries to ignore the black dots that creep into his vision.

"I'm sorry", he says, and he means it. Hopes that Julian understands, because Ressler doesn't know if he has the strength or the words to really explain himself here. "I didn't know where else to go."

Julian just nods, waiting for him to continue while Donald shivers in his arms and doesn't know how to go on.

"I fucked up", he finally says, and Julian laughs at that; a humorless, dry laugh that settles itself deep into what's left of Don's bones, a laugh that sends waves of guilt through his chest. He looks to the ground and tries not to break down under the weight of it.

"Yeah, you did", Julian says and there's an edge to his voice that's dangerous and hurt and speaks of everything Ressler has put him through. "And I'm really fucking close to tell you to go to Hell."

His eyes burn holes into Donald's skin until he's sure that Julian must be able to see his insides now, the rotten flesh and the dirt and the blood and all the shame and guilt he's never gonna be able to wash away.

"Not gonna do that though. Seems like you're already there."

Don lets his head fall and at this point he can't tell sweat from tears or blood or vomit or dirt; it's all there on his skin, whether remembered or real he doesn't know. All he knows is that it's disgusting, he's disgusting, he's dirty and has done unforgivable things and yet Julian is still holding him up, still touching him --- His head drops and he closes his eyes against the spinning world.

"C'mon", Julian says quietly, "let's get you cleaned up. You look like you could need a drink too, something to eat. And then you're gonna tell me what's going on before I change my mind. You alright with that?"

Donald just nods. At least he thinks he does.

He feels Julian's grip tighten, and together they manage to get Donald on his feet; he sways unsteadily, but Julian's hands are still there, grounding him against the nausea, keeping him from falling over as he clenches his eyes shut against the wave of dizziness and pain that rips through him.

"Hey, wait", he blurts out when Julian nudges him to move. "You don't - you don't have to do this, Julian. I won't blame you if -", he takes a deep breath, trying to organize his blurry thoughts, "- if you... y'know. Wanna throw me out on the street. Let me rot."

Julian looks at him long and hard, his face unreadable, and Donald wonders when that changed. He used to be able to read him flawlessly, back in the day.

"I know", he says eventually, "and believe me, I have every reason to, but... let's just get inside 'n' sort this out, yeah?"

He nods.

The inside of the cabin looks exactly the way he remembers it from the few times Julian has taken him here. Cozy and warm, soft light through the small windows, wooden table in the middle of the room - with all kinds of stuff on it, bottles and tools and newspapers - surrounded by self-made wooden chairs; it's only one room, and in the corner is still the old bed with the worn through mattress that he remembers very vividly (it's softer than it looks, the pillows under his hips fluffy, the scent of whiskey from Julian's lips and resin from all around him filling his senses ---) Julian drags him to the bed; Don is glad that Julian keeps his hands on his shoulders for a few more moments. He doesn't trust his body to sit on its own and not fall over. He takes a few deep breaths - the smell of whiskey and resin still lingers in the cabin and if he closes his eyes, he might be able to pretend nothing has happened and he's back to when all was good. He doesn't close his eyes. Needs the punishment of seeing an older version of Julian and that glimmer in his eyes that betrays the cold anger he tries to project. In here, it's easier reading him. The sunglasses have landed on the table in the mixture of things, and breathing is just that much easier now. Funny how brown eyes can have that effect on him. Or maybe it's just Julian's eyes. "You okay? Or are ya gonna topple over as soon as I let go?", Julian asks. His hands burn where they touch Ressler's shoulders - even through the shirt - and he feels like their heat is spreading all the way through his arms, mending his broken bones with a painful grip that makes him gasp. "It's alright", he says. His voice sounds strange, somehow distorted and raw, and when Julian lifts his hands it's like ice fills all the places that were on fire just seconds before, crushing him, burning even worse. He bites his lip. "'Kay", Julian murmurs, and then he turns around to get a bottle of water and --- and he opens up one of the cabinets and pulls out a small, brownish-yellow pill bottle --- his heart is beating so fast now he thinks he might throw up, and every fibre in his body screams Want! Want! Want! --- his muscles pulling on him, willing him to move, to get to the pills, down them all, swallow them, no regrets, make the trembling stop and the sweating and the shivers, undo the damage to his body, unbreak his bones, untear his sinews --- His mouth falls open. He can already feel it: the texture and the form of the little white pill against his tongue, the short moment when he swallows, the high he's chasing - no, no, it's not that anymore, it's never been that; it's always been about numbing the pain until it wasn't, until it was just about avoiding the come down. But right now he can feel the high, the anticipation, being so close to victory --- "Don?" And he wants to tell Julian to shut up, to just give him the pills, but he's the one who holds the bottle, he has the power in this moment and fuck, Ressler would do everything, anything, get on his knees or on all fours and just take it (flashes of Prescott assault his mind at that, and he gasps audibly because Julian is not Prescott, far from it, and he just wants his brain to shut the fuck up, to stop, knowing the pills will do that, they'll fucking save him from his own thoughts) --- "Hey, man - what's going on?" It's Julian's voice again, so much nearer now, burning hot hands holding him together as Donald crumbles. He collapses like a frail burning building, the last beams that were holding it together now nothing more than a pyre of grief and lost hope. He trembles against Julian's chest, his hands clinging to Julian's shirt, hurting from the exhaustion of cramping around the scratchy material but unable to let go, his head tucked under Julian's chin where he crouches in front of Donald on the floor. He wants to cry or to scream or to lash out, but all the energy he has left is unfocused, is mainly the never ending chant of Want! Want! Want! beneath his skin. "Fuck", he grinds out, and it's the hardest thing for him right

now, but he has Julian's arms around him and can feel his lips in his hair and smell leather and aftershave and --- Julian hasn't let him go yet. He hasn't pushed him away yet; is still touching him, unafraid, not yet disgusted. Then again, he doesn't know what Donald has done. "Hey, hey", Julian breathes against Ressler's temple, "it's okay, Don, it's - it's alright. It's gonna be alright..." Don shakes his head, takes a stuttering breath. "It's not, it's -", he starts, and his hands shake so hard now he's afraid of hurting Julian, "it's all gone to shit, okay? Nothing's alright, and - it's all my fault. It's all my fault, Julian, just ---" He doesn't know what he's saying, only that he needs to get it out. He needs to let Julian know how sorry he is, how much he wishes he could go back and do it all differently, how much he wants Gale to be happy. "Easy", Julian whispers, and now his hands are stroking up and down Don's spine and he feels like a child, but also safer than he has in a long time. This, right here, is his shelter in the storm, a place to wait out the worst of it before he can go home. Only that he doesn't know where home is anymore. Not that it matters. He has his self-imposed punishment to serve. They sit there for a while, until Ressler's breathing is less ragged and his body is limp with exhaustion and his hands uncramp around Julian's shirt. "You need to drink something", Julian says, his voice far too soft, and somewhere deep inside of him Ressler just wants Julian to yell at him, to beat him, to show him exactly how he's felt the last couple of years. Let out all the anger and frustration and disgust he must be feeling. Add his loathing to the pyre burning away at Donald's insides. Julian shuffles away, keeping one steadying hand on Ressler's shoulder, the other reaching for the glass of water he must have put on the ground besides him when Donald collapsed. "Here", he murmurs and holds the glass up to Don's lips. Donald doesn't even try to take it from him, his trembling hands trapped between his thighs. The water is refreshing and he's sure he could drink an entire river - his mouth and throat aren't longer as dry, his heaving stomach slowly settles, his over-heated skin seems to cool a little. When the glass is empty, Julian sets it aside and takes a hard look at Don. "Better?", he asks. Behind the hard, cold glare his gaze is so open, so vulnerable now that Don has to look away. "Yeah", he nods. "Thanks." He doesn't know where Julian has put the pill bottle, but it's probably back in the cabinet. There's no way Julian could have misinterpreted Donald's behaviour. "So." Donald looks up again. He can still feel the sweat on his forehead, on his neck, chest, everywhere, but now it's cooler, and if the temperature keeps dropping as quickly he will surely freeze to death. He doesn't know though if it's the change of seasons or his own body. "Guess I owe you an explanation", Donald murmurs. He's tired suddenly, so tired he can feel it in his bones. Like he's two hundred years old, an ancient tree about to die. "You bet your ass you do." With that Julian gets up off the ground, refills the glass, sets it on the table and sits down next to Donald on the bed. He sits further away than he used to, the gap between them like a fucking canyon that Don could throw himself in to to break every bone in his body yet again, for the last time. He won't though. He owes Julian that much. "So?", Julian asks when the silence stretches too long. But Donald doesn't know where to start, doesn't even know what to say except for I'm sorry and forgive me and I love you. He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry again, his heartbeat picking up its pace, beating uncomfortably against his too tight ribcage. "I'm sorry", he begins, and when he looks at Julian, his face is impassive and schooled. He expects more. Of course he does, Donald thinks, and he deserves it, deserves more, deserves everything. He's just not sure he can give that. "I ruined your life", he says. Looks down at his hands and how

they shake where they're trapped between his knees. "Again", he adds and the corner of his mouth twitches in a humorless attempt at a smile. "You should never have paid for what we - what I did. The whole Reddington-thing. I justified it with all the good we did, all the cases we solved, the criminals we put behind bars, but... you were right. The price was too high. It was doomed from the start... All the people who died, Julian, all those good people --- I don't know if it was worth it." He looks up into Julian's face. It's not as passive and unreadable as before; now there's a glint of pity, a tiny spark of anger, the smallest sign of resignation. "And - and to think I betrayed all my principles for that taskforce. All I ever stood for - wanted to stand for. Fuck, I'm... I just... I just wanna go back, Julian. I just wanna start over. Forget about - about Reddington and Prescott and Hitchin and - Audrey. Fuck, Audrey... I should have known then. I should have quit back then." He buries his face in his hands. There are no tears, but the shame that's crawling up his spine and spreading through every inch of his body is threatening to overwhelm him. "What happened to her?", Julian asks quietly, his voice impossibly soft. He knows about them. About their far too early engagement, about the stubbornness with which Donald had tried to love her just to get over the fact that Julian was gone from his life. About his need to prove that he was okay. "She's dead. She was killed. She'd still be alive if it wasn't for Reddington." "I'm sorry", Julian says after a moment of silence. He sounds genuine, even though Ressler knows how Julian feels about Audrey. Or used to feel, anyway. And now, Donald doesn't know what else to say. Knows there's so much, too much to talk about, but he doesn't know where to start. He wants to tell Julian about Hitchin and Prescott and those brief moments with Reddington - in the box and in a hotel room in Washington and the whole long flight from Munich back to the states. Donald takes a deep breath; it's not like that makes any difference because his lungs still seem incapable of taking in enough oxygen for him to survive. How he's still conscious, he doesn't know, but it's probably just his mind playing tricks with him. And all the while, Julian looks at him with patience that's bordering on resignation, and sadness he might be mistaking for grief about the people they could have been. The love they could have shared, the lives they could have lived. All those things Ressler never gave himself time to grieve for, but are returning with a vengeance now, cutting him up, sucking him dry, suffocating him in their thick reality. "I deserved it", he finally croaks, his voice strangled by everything he's lost, and he clears his throat. "Everything I got in the end, I deserved it." He stares at his hands that are trapped between his knees, feels them tremble, and when he looks back up at Julian, the other man is suddenly closer than he was before. The canyon between them is nothing more than a crack in the pavement now, their legs not yet touching, Julian's heat a welcome comfort against Don's clammy pale skin, and it still feels like it's not enough, like nothing he could do could ever be enough, and as much as he detests the thought that this might be the closest Julian will let himself get to Don, he also revels in the almost-touches and the dark gazes and the fact that this, too, is something he painfully deserves: the one person he never stopped loving to be entirely unreachable. He thinks back to the good times and how easy it was to just reach out and take any comfort he needed. The sleepless nights in those dingy motel rooms they spent staring out the window at the starry sky or at each other, the moments of warmth and solitude, bodies wrapped around each other like they're one, soft breath in his ear, dry lips on skin, rough fingers entangled, squeezing, comforting. Thinks back to that night in Manila, when Julian stood before Donald's door at three in the morning, dark bags under

his eyes, arms wrapped tightly around his chest to prevent him from falling apart; later it would be Don's arms holding him together. Thinks back to that morning in New York that should have been entirely unpleasant with the stink and the broken heater in the middle of January and the noise even so early, but with Julian's sleeping form next to him - so peaceful and full of beauty -, he wished it could always be like this. He doesn't think back to the time they said goodbye, or the time Julian almost died from a bullet in his stomach, or the countless times they sat at each other's hospital beds. He doesn't think about the last time they kissed, the last time they made love, the last time they hugged, the last time there wasn't this edge to Julian's voice that tells Donald that things will never be the same. He certainly doesn't think about the future. "And what is it you got? What is it you think you deserve? 'Cause I see you sitting here like, like death warmed over and I can't imagine what the Hell you could've done to deserve... well, this." Julian's voice is rougher than usual; Donald doesn't know if it's because of the emotion he swallows so successfully or because he's smoking more than he used to or because this is the first time in a long time that he's speaking to somebody. Donald draws in another sharp breath. His lungs aren't exactly cooperating, but it doesn't matter as long as he can still explain. "I think I need some air", he says, voice barely more than a whisper. He sees Julian nod out of the corner of his eye, and together they manage to walk outside. It's weird, a little, how much better he feels and how much easier it is to talk, to move, to breathe, ever since arriving in the cabin. Just a few hours ago he was almost certain he'd be dying in a ditch right about now. It's gotten dark outside; the sun hasn't disappeared fully yet, but through the trees that surround the cabin and the pond it's impossible to make out. Julian sits him down in the deck chair Donald had noticed earlier, the opened bottle of beer that's still sitting beside it now forgotten. Don takes a deep breath. It's easier now, out here. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Julian setting up a second chair next to the one Donald is sitting on. They both lean forward, elbows on their knees, Ressler's head hanging, Gale watching him with sharp eyes. Donald shakes his head; to think how easily all this could have been avoided! If he hadn't taken the job with the taskforce, none of this would have happened. Or if he'd been honest sooner, if he'd talked to Julian when the whole Mr. Kaplan-mess started instead of betraying him --- "That, right there, what you just said, is why I love you." He can still hear those words loud and clear in his head, recalling that moment with absolute clarity even if most of his other thoughts and memories are blurry from exhaustion and pain. The way they just came over Julian's lips, so simple, so easy, like they were picking up from where they'd left, still sends goosebumps over his arms and back; he remembers the painful tightening of his chest back then, and his mind going completely blank, and deciding to overplay his nerves with a lame joke and getting back to work as quickly as possible. He remembers hope bubbling up in the back of his ribcage, and laying awake that night overthinking those words. Overthinking the whole situation while pushing away his guilt. He hated lying to Julian then, and he hates where it has gotten him. He remembers cursing Julian's mind, always so quick and clever, and he remembers cursing Reddington time and time again. He purposely doesn't remember all the times he thought about the Concierge instead of Julian when he was alone in his bed. It feels like another betrayal all over again. And he remembers being on the verge of asking how much truth lay behind Julian's words more than once but always pulling back at the last second. Maybe he'll never know, now. "Don?" He remembers that he needs to talk. His mind feels almost bruised by the

onslaught of memories ever since he's seen Julian for the first time in so long. "Yeah. Sorry." He takes another deep breath, now easier out here, and leans back in his chair, tired eyes focusing on the patches of darkening skies through the crowns of the trees. A sense of tranquility fills his whole body and the shivers cease to shake him. "You were right about Mako Tanida. His head. Reddington - Reddington gave it to me as a gift." He closes his eyes for a second and sees the severed head in the box as if it happened yesterday instead of almost six years ago. He shudders and opens his eyes again, back to watching the gentle breeze shifting through the leaves and branches. He doesn't look over at Julian. "Some sort of... sick compensation for Audrey's death." He pauses at that, thinking back at Audrey and how he barely remembers her face now even though he knows he should. It gives Julian time to piece it together. He doesn't say a word though, intent on letting Donald speak. "It makes me sick now. But that's Reddington, you know? He lulls you in and there's nothing you can do about it. -- Objectively, I knew what we were doing, and I was justifying it with all the high-profile arrests we did. But... I don't know, man, he was under my skin and I only realized it when it was too late. He's like this... spider. Sucks you dry as soon as you're caught in his net. And it doesn't stop until someone worse comes along and ---" He stops speaking then, dropping his head, unable to find the words to convey Prescott's cruelty, his depravity that became Donald's own. A hand on his shoulder makes him look up; Julian is watching him, his gaze a strange mix between a cold distance and warm empathy. "What happened?", he asks. As if his hand doesn't burn Don's flesh where it touches him over his shirt, as if he doesn't know the repercussions of this gesture, as if he can't even imagine what it means to Don that he's touching him out of his own accord, not yet fleeing, not yet disgusted, but full of love and comfort and everything Donald doesn't deserve. They stay quiet for a short while, Don watching how the cold distance transforms to something new, something like pity, but not exactly. Maybe curiosity with a touch of sadness. Like he wants to hear the answer and doesn't. Like he wants to know what made Don come here but doesn't want to hear it. Like he knows it could change everything between them, all the anger he's been carrying with him since the ice rink-case melting away, leaving only the torn pieces of his old love. "Laurel Hitchin", Donald says quietly. Another shiver runs through his body as he feels Julian's hand falling away. They're silent again; Don trying to figure out how to confess a murder and all the shit that followed it, and Julian thinking about how Hitchin might as well have fired him. She may have been an awful person, but she didn't deserve to die. In Don's experience, there's no one who deserves to die; at least that used to be his opinion. He's not so sure about it now. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. I killed her. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but that's where they stay. He can't push them over the edge, can't make his vocal chords work and his lips form the vowels and consonants. He tries in vain, again and again, until Julian is looking at him again like he knows Donald's struggle. "She's dead", Julian says, tone neutral, and Don can't read from it how much Julian knows or at least suspects. He nods. Remembers her laying on her kitchen floor, pool of blood growing larger second by sickening second. "I didn't mean to ---", he stammers, and Julian's eyes grow wide like he didn't expect this confession. "Shit", he breathes and rubs a hand over his face. It stops over his mouth and chin and he looks straight ahead into the darkness that has settled around them like their own private bubble where there's room for confessions and guilt and maybe even forgiveness; room that the bright sun of the day doesn't allow. "That's why you're such a mess? Jesus, Don,

I ---" But he doesn't continue. Donald doesn't want to hear another I'm sorry from Julian, and he doesn't want to hear that he's fucked up either. He just wants to forget. "It gets worse", he says and Julian looks up, surprise and pain and dread lining his features, and he suddenly looks much older than he is. Still beautiful, and Don has to swallow against the sudden feeling of belonging that rises in his chest; like he's home, like this has been his home all along, and it will be until they're old and grey and dying of old age in each others' arms --- only that it's a fantasy, a feverish dream he's having. Before Don can continue though, Julian stands up and disappears inside the cabin without another word. He can't blame him. With a sigh he stays where he is, watching the sky again that's now completely dark, and he doesn't know if he isn't actually watching the invisible dance of the trees. His mind is completely blank now and it's a more than welcome change. Before he knows it, Julian is back with two bottles of beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. Wordlessly, he gives one of the already opened bottles to Don who takes it with only slightly shaking hands, then sits back down, takes a gulp of beer, puts it down on the ground beside his chair, and takes a cigarette out of the pack. He offers one to Don but he declines with a shake of his head. The small flame of the lighter makes Julian's face flicker orange and yellow, the shadows making the lines on his forehead and around his eyes and mouth dance and seem deeper than in the light of day. For the few seconds it lasts, he looks almost angelic in a rough, strange way. "I called the cleaner who used to work for her", he says before he can think about it. "His name's Henry Prescott." The smell of burnt tobacco lulls him in, like they're back in Julian's old apartment, in his bed after an evening of slow sex, bliss and heavy limbs and soft words forever interlinked with it. It almost makes the bile that's threatening to rise after the mention of Prescott's name stay down. Julian's eyes are on him again, calmer now, but also more distanced than before. Don can barely make them out through the dark of night, but from experience he knows Gale won't say any more. He needs all the facts, and Don's the only one who can provide those. He looks back to where the lake must be, now an invisible black hole between the equally black woods. He thinks it must be easy now that he's started, but the words won't come, his mind preoccupied with keeping the images at bay, the memories of dead bodies and blood and the smell of bleach and ammonia. He closes his eyes for a minute, the shivers returning, rocking his body against his will, and he's going to be sick if the stink of chemicals doesn't leave his nose soon --- He wishes Julian would touch him again, ground him somehow like he used to, but he doesn't. Don doesn't look up either. He needs to carry on. "He found out who I was", he says eventually, strangled, struggling to keep talking. "Blackmailed me into working for him." He rubs his free hand over his face, pressing down over his eyes to get rid of the images and the smell, and for a moment it's like Julian isn't even there, like he's not listening, like Don can say anything he wants to the dark emptiness he's surrounded by. He takes a few gulps of the beer but doesn't set it down. "Fuck, I --- the things I did. The shit I was forced to do and I, I didn't even fight it. I was too afraid to - I don't know, lose my job, my reputation, my friends", it breaks out of him now, and a laugh forces its way through his constricted throat at the irony of the words. He feels Julian shift next to him, reminding Don of his presence, but he doesn't turn to look at him. "I did every fucking thing he told me to. Drove around dead bodies in car trunks. Buried and unburied them. Scrubbed blood off walls and carpets and beds. --- How the fuck can anyone forgive me for that? How can you?" He takes another large sip of the beer, now risking a glance at

Julian. His cigarette has almost burnt down completely, leaving a tail of ash threatening to fall onto Julian's lap; he hasn't taken a drag since Don has started speaking. Instead he's looking at Donald, almost staring through him, and Don doesn't know what to make of that. He doesn't think he's ever seen that expression on Julian. "I should never have come", he says curtly because he can't face the silence now. "I'm sorry. I should never have -- I guess I know now that I deserved it." The calm that settles in his bones surprises him. He looks back up to the sky, clear and beautiful where it shines through the trees, and now he can make out tiny bright dots, stars spattered across it like the splashes of watercolor over paper when he was a kid. He can feel tears behind his eyes and he knows this is the last time he will be home. Knows it's the last time he gets to feel something other than guilt and dread. Maybe he should get up and leave now, having done enough damage as it is, but something inside him urges him to stay, to tell Julian the whole truth, make him understand. He needs Julian to tell him to fuck off; needs his rejection to be at peace and go home. Somewhere, anyway. "He didn't stop there", he says, and he knows it's his only chance to ever articulate it; if he doesn't say it now he'll be silent forever. Besides him, Julian tenses. He's been tense for the last couple of minutes, but now his back is straight in a way that it almost never is, but Donald needs to get those next few words out. He feels strangely detached from his body and mind and memories. "Sometimes he would force me on my knees, make me suck him off", he starts, and it's easier to say it out loud than it should be, "and sometimes he would bend me over the hood of the car or tie me to the bed post in whatever hotel he'd stay in. I took it every time. I thought I didn't have a choice." And he's smiling now, the weight on his shoulders, his lungs, his mind so much lighter, and he doesn't even mind the trembling of his hands, of his whole body. He just lets it happen. "Until my conscience finally made me put a stop to it. I arrested him. Wrote my confession. And left. But I'm still too much of a coward to face the consequences, instead I'm running from everything." He lets his head fall. This shouldn't be this easy, he tells himself, but then again, with Julian nothing is as it should be. "Swallowing one pill after the other, sleeping in the mud, always looking over my shoulder. That's no life. That's - that's Hell, Julian." Finally, he looks back at his old love, a flood of emotions racing through him like a tsunami, and he chokes out: "I deserve it. All of it. What Prescott did to me. I gotta live with it. I'm ---" But the words die on his lips as he feels Julian's arms around his neck, and hot breath against his ear, and fingers tangling in his hair. He stops breathing for a few seconds, brain catching up with the sensations, and Julian is embracing him like he knows it's the last time, or like he's sorry, or like his life depends on it. "Just so you know", Julian rasps against Don's cheek, "I really fucking want to punch you right now. I wanna - wanna throw you against the wall and just - punch you until I can't move my arm anymore. Okay? Got that?" Donald nods silently, still stunned by the sudden embrace. He didn't think Julian would ever want to touch him again, wouldn't even want to be near him again. "No one", Julian says, "No one - deserves shit like that." And then he stammers like he wants to say every word he knows at the same time while simultaneously not knowing what to say altogether, before giving up with a hissed "Fuck". Don knows this, knows that sometimes, Julian's brain is faster than his mouth, and then he stumbles over words like an excited child. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with you, huh?", he asks quietly, still not letting go, and now Don puts the bottle down and returns the embrace. Carefully, very carefully, like he might freak Julian out, like he might realize then what he's doing and

drop Donald like a hot potato. Donald shakes his head no; doesn't want to be dropped, not now, not when he's this close to Julian; shakes his head because he doesn't know what he's supposed to do now either. The idea that's been in the back of his head, whose existence he completely ignored until now, that's probably the reason he came here in the first place, creeps into his consciousness now, and his grip around Julian's ribs tightens. "I just--- wanted to apologize for everything I did to you. I ruined your career, your life. I lied to you, I betrayed you. And I'm so sorry, Julian, I'm - I'm so fucking sorry." He loosens his grip again so he can look at Julian who looks up. His eyes are wet and dark and so damn beautiful, and now they're only inches apart. He could kiss him now, ruin everything all over again for a short moment of bliss, but he doesn't. "Me too", Julian says quietly, and his voice is soft like torn velvet. "I wish you wouldn't have come here. Let me keep my anger. But I guess you have this way of making me forgive everything you do. You're impossible, Don, you know that and I, just, hate you so, so much right now, I fucking - I hate you so much ---" "I know", Don whispers against Julian's cheek as their faces are pressed together, stubble against stubble, words escaping them that neither of them hears, lips against skin, not exactly kissing, but mouthing apologies and curses that get lost in the night. "I was so angry for so long, thinking about you, and the shit you did, the - the way it had to end", Julian rasps, tension falling off his body, too tired to keep on shivering. "I kept asking myself why the fuck you'd work with him --- how you could stand looking Reddington in the eye day after day and not - not see all that he cost us. Except I realised you did see, and you just didn't care." "Julian, I ---", he interrupts, but Julian keeps talking. "And I took that as justification to curse you and to hate you, and I did, you know, I really did, but... then I realised it was Reddington and I -- I chalked you up as just another casualty, another person he ruined, because you - you might just as well have been dead, you know? I fucking buried you." Julian chokes a little at that, but his grip at the back of Don's head doesn't weaken. "I know him, Don, I, uh, I know how he is. How he will put you under his spell and pull you in and never let go. Just... Just tell me this." And he looks up again, eyes red rimmed even in the darkness, and Don wants nothing more than to kiss those tears away, but he can't. He owes Julian, and even though he doesn't know what he wants to ask, he knows he needs to give an honest answer. No more lies. No more. Julian's searching his face and seems to have found what he's been looking for when he finally speaks up again after long moments of silence. "Did you love him?" The question should surprise Donald. It doesn't. He looks down, unable to meet Julian's unrelenting gaze. Thinks back to the box and the hotel room in Washington and the flight from Munich back to the states. Slowly, without looking up, he nods. No more lies. Here it comes. "Yeah", he says quietly even though he knows Julian has seen his nod. "I did. But never like I loved you." The words just come, mindlessly spilling over his lips, and he means them; he still doesn't look up. Doesn't want to see the disgust and rejection in Julian's eyes. The moment stretches like someone stopped time, stopped the entire universe, and Donald doesn't mind one bit. If it means having this last moment with Julian, even if it's filled with uncertainty, he'll gladly spend eternity frozen in time like this. Julian's fingers are still in his hair, his gaze still focussed on Donald. He's still though, not moving, and if it wasn't for his heavy breath, Don would have thought Julian might really be frozen. Then the moment ends. "Okay", Julian says, simple but heavy, like this truth lifted some weight off of him that Donald didn't know Julian was carrying. He looks up now, unable to keep his

gaze away any longer, and he doesn't know what to make of Julian's expression. There's no disgust. There's no rejection. There's understanding and sadness locked away in the tears that are sticking to his eyelashes, shimmering in the pale light of the moon that's slowly beginning to shine through the trees. Donald doesn't understand it; Julian is supposed to be upset, angry, pushing him away, throwing him out on the street to rot --- not drawing soothing circles over the back of his head, not looking at him like that, like they can fix this, like Donald is finally home --- "I'm, uh... I'm going to the police. Tonight. I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry. My sad attempt to make things right." He has to look away again, Julian's focussed, open gaze too much for him. "Guess I couldn't... leave without having told you. And I'm - I'm not asking for forgiveness here. I know I can never have that. I just needed to see you. Make sure you're alright, so..." He clears his throat, realizing that they've only been talking about him and never once about Julian. Fuck, how egoistic can he be! "How're you doing?", he asks, and Julian is still clinging to him, just as he's clinging to Julian. "Oh, I'm fine", Julian laughs, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Julian -", Donald starts. He doesn't need his bullshit now. "Really, Don, things couldn't be better. I've read that in my horoscope." He still smiles, a little crooked like he's holding something back, something big, and now Ressler's hand comes up to cup Julian's face. Again, the thought of just kissing him comes to mind, but they're so fragile, both of them, it would only leave them shattered for good. Instead, he lets his thumb stroke the thick stubble and he doesn't say a word. Julian closes his eyes, leaning into the touch, and for a few precious moments, Donald can pretend they're happy. "Stay", Julian says and Donald freezes. Thinks he must have misheard Julian, who looks up now from where he kneels in front of Don's chair, his own hand leaving the blonde hair to rest at Don's jaw. "What?", he asks. It's more of a breath though, no sound escaping his lips. "I'm - yeah, I'm fucking pissed at you right now, but all of this... it - it doesn't change anything. Y'know, I still mean it." And they're so close still, and Donald has lost track of what's happening, and confused, he shakes his head. "What do you mean?", he asks. "Trondheim. Remember that?" He does. It was the beginning of March and so cold even the hotel room in New York with the broken heater seemed like a tropical vacation in comparison. It wasn't the first time they said I love you, but it was the first time they talked about the future. Before, they would stay in the moment, too afraid of letting go, of losing the other over naïve fantasies of a life together. That night though, they didn't need to be scared. "Whatever happens", Julian said, "I'll never walk away. How could I, huh? Guess I'm too far gone." He smiled, and so did Donald, pressing a kiss to Julian's collarbone. "Fifty years from now", Julian continued, "I'll still think of you. Every fucking day." That earned him a kiss on the lips, chaste and innocent and full of love like they've never experienced before. "Don't matter if you're still with me or not. You don't forget the love of your life, Donnie. I won't forget. Not us. Not this. Never. I could never let you go. Ever." But back then, Julian couldn't have imagined where they would end up one day. "It was different back then", Don says. Not because he doesn't want Julian's words to be true, but because he doesn't think himself worth them. "Yeah, it was", Julian answers, "but tell me you don't feel it still. Tell me, Donnie, and I'll let you go." Donald's answer is silence because, yes, of course he still feels it, that love that's deeper than any feeling he's ever known, deeper even than the shame and guilt and pain of the recent months, years, but doesn't Julian know that it's pointless? That Don's life is over? The silence stretches on and he can't hold

Julian's gaze. "I know", Julian says, "I know." And those words are enough to set him free, to liberate him from his cage of anger and self-pity and guilt and self-imposed punishment - he knows those won't go away anytime soon, but he still feels like breaking down, mercy too much to handle when he knows he's undeserving of forgiveness. He lets his head fall, knowing Julians hands are there to steady him. They do, cradling him like a newborn child, and in a way that might be true: maybe, somehow, this can be a new life, a new start for him; a clean slate. Maybe now, he can forget all of it, all the shit that happened, the person he was - the person he was forced to become --- maybe this is the one chance in life for rebirth. "I'm a mess", he says. "I know", Julian answers. "We can figure it out. Together." "You deserve better." "Shut it now, Donnie. I think I know best what I deserve, huh? I've given up everything for you, y'know, twice. You know what I think it is I deserve? Hm? What we deserve?" Donald looks up, feeling Julian's breath against his lips as much as the intensity of his gaze, those brown eyes so familiar in their depth it makes his heart ache. He wants to answer, say something, anything at all, but no words will leave his lips. He feels trapped there between Julian's closeness and the chair, but there's no place he'd rather be. He holds Julian's gaze for a few moments before shaking his head. "Peace, Donnie. I think we deserve peace after all this. Just a little, don't you think?" And that sounds good, far too good to be true, and he can't help the laugh that bubbles out of him. "Yeah", he says finally, voice constricting, "I want that. I want that, Julian." A smile is still tugging at the corners of his mouth when Julian kisses him, slow and unsure and not at all like the many kisses they used to share; it's like a first kiss, a promise for an uncertain future, a vow to try. To give it time and let wounds heal - they're all they have, after all. "You're not going to the police", Julian says as they part. "We will figure this out. Get you clean. And in fifty years we'll still be here, okay, I won't lose you again, I couldn't, couldn't bury you again, I'll ---" And as Donald kisses the doubts and fears away, for the first time in years he has the feeling that everything might turn out okay; that he might be deserving of happiness after all. That finally, finally he's home. _______________________________________

#the blacklist #donald ressler #julian gale #tbl fanfiction #mine #coming home #long post #(under the cut)

7 notes · View notes

jojomugi · 4 years ago

Text

A Shred of Altruism for a ‘friend’

Context

This piece was something I had written for myself as part of a fanfiction series with my OC. Since I don't particularly feel too sure about posting it given my OC isn't crazy popular or anything, I figured I could just edit pronouns, names, ect so that maybe someone other than just me and three of my closest friends can enjoy it This takes place way before the events of part three, and before Dio's encounter with Enya AND Pucci. Basically, Reader is the first one Dio has encountered and is learning vauge amount of info on stands from. Spoilers/Content warnings ♡ Minor Stardust Crusaders/Stone Ocean spoilers ♡ Over Heaven book spoilers (would recommend reading before hand) ♡ CW:Dio not being an asshole lmao

♡ Technically not a warning, but their may be misplacements with POV's and pronoun usage. Translating this into an xReader wa difficult. «

Reader is 18+, a stand user (S/N=Stand Name), very SFW, gender neautrual pronouns used

The battle between you and the other user finally came to an end when you used all of your remaining energy to defeat him. S/N ability managed to bring them into retirement. All the while this happened, Dio could see just what was happening, how the two stands fought one another. He could only really feel the energy. However he was all around useless in that particular situation, seeing was one thing, but Dio did not yet have the stand—At least not yet. Dio had two options now that his companion was left unconscious. Leave you and be done with having to keep extra weight, or bring you back to the small hotel you had the both of you staying at. Dio obviously chose the latter. It was not out of altruism, or at least not in his mind, it was all simply done out of respect for all your efforts, sacrificing your chance of a ‘normal’ future to run off with him. Besides, in his weaker state you were his best bet to survive and learn about this new world quickly. Dio reached for your exhausted form, there was still a pulse, good. However, you were still out cold from the overexertion. When he finally was able to sneak into the hotel, he gently placed your body onto the bed. Technically speaking, his work here was done but his subconscious—The few times what shred of humanity he had—decided to take over. You were more than just a mere fling, or some kind of phase, your soul was what drew him to you like a moth to the flames. You had become his over your guy’s short time together, whether Dio was self aware of that or not was a different question. Dio manipulated your form around until he was able to get you under the covers. Thankfully he didn’t manage to disturb your rest. The blonde hastily scanned around the room. Water! You would probably need water whenever you’d awaken. He yanked a small rinse cup from the bathroom and set in onto the night stand beside you. Food. What did you have for food? Apparently not much given all he could find was an apple and banana. Not even an assortment of fruit in a bedroom for an upscale hotel? What a mockery. The vampire bit the side of his lip back and let out an exasperated huff. It had been years since the last time he worried about human nourishment like this. For him nourishment was far more simpler. This mere mortal of a human. How dare y/n make an omnipotent being like him do such humbling things for you. Who were you? However, none of that truly mattered when it came to his inconspicuous admiration for you. Even if he didn’t quite understand what it was, your power drew him to you. Y/n was angelic, beautifully devine in his eyes. The grace that radiated from you when you used that strange, raw power. It was something beyond what he even imagined being in the realm of possibility. It was very close to what he dreamt about during his time in his century long torpor state. But even with all y/n’s physical features, you were still knowledgeable and fascinating nonetheless—y/n was not one to boast about their knowledge demeaningly—but like a friend. However, even if this ‘feeling’, this ‘attraction’ was something of love or romance, Dio surely never felt such a thing in his life, at least not in a long time. The audacity of this human—A being below him—Having such an impact to make him so emotionally vulnerable just made his stomach turn. What nerve you had. And yet...He strangely didn’t mind this, this exotic feeling and emotion for him was somewhat of an indulgence. It was more or less as if y/n was the worthiest of his affections in the few times he did allow himself these moments. Y/n was holy, and he was obligated to give you that kind of credit. Dio took in a deep breath and sighed, glancing back down at your tired form. He scanned around, thinking of what else may help. He spotted your messy hair draped over your face and leaned forward, trying his best to wipe them from your eyes without awakening your. Just because he occasionally enjoyed being sweetly intimate, doesn’t mean he was good at it. Typically he lured in his prey sensuality, but tenderness and endearment were not things he often brushed up his skills on. ༺༻ Even if it was only a couple of hours, the silence was tedious. He really was missing having another person to speak to. He’d just spent far too long in silence, the thought of it drove him mad. He didn’t even notice himself tapping his foot in the air as he flipped through the glossy magazine pages. He knew that this power of theirs often resulted in a physical consequence, and the severity of that physical result was dependent on how much power you exerted. Dio could feel this power, but alas he could not see it. Not yet. Even though this was a setback in their plans, it was minor really. The battle brought them one step closer towards Dio finding the one who held the ability to grant these powers to the ones who weren’t naturally gifted like y/n was. Fortunately, Dio was able to force information out of the opposing user before he met his demise. Y/n’s e/c eyes softly fluttered open with a tired groan to follow. You tiredly threw a hand over your eyes with a deep breath. Dio perked up before you even had a chance to collect where you were and set down the cup of wine. “Y/n.” He said, an ounce of enthusiasm lacing his tone. It was almost as if he had completely just set aside his inner turmoil about his feelings in favor of your company again. You paused and turned your head. All Dio was met with was a disgruntled expression, as if they had been woken up out of nowhere during a deep sleeping session. “Dio…? Are we back at the hotel?” The wild blonde nodded. “Despite your unfavorable condition, you were victorious. It was quite a thrill to watch really.” Quickly you sat up and rubbed one of your eyes, almost a bit surprised. Y/n never really went up against another user per-say. You were fortunate enough to have grown up sheltered enough to not have many encounters with another due to an altercation, even with how un-glamours your youth with your parents was. It was also a fascinating discovery for someone like you who was curious about the functionality of stands. They really were an enigma; a shame however that other users were more or less aggressive. Y/n’s smile lasted for a moment until the realization hit them that they may have missed out important information for Dio. A long groan escaped you. Y/n pinched the bridge of their nose. “My apologies Dio...I got ahead of myself...we could’ve tried getting a lead and instead I-“ The corner of his lip lifted, the vampire dismissively waved an arm. “Do not worry about that. I was able to pry details from him before the final blow.” Y/n blinked and let out a sigh of relief, throwing their legs to the edge of the bed. “I must’ve blacked out because I don’t even remember that. Hm, but that doesn’t matter really.” They shrugged. Dio assumed a spot beside them, crossing his arms and throwing a leg over the other. “You got what we needed to know, that's what’s important.” You knowingly smiled up at him. Dio nodded in agreement. “You’re correct.” Dio lifted a finger up. “Anyways, you’re going to need to make preparations for us to embark to egypt as soon as you’re back to complete health.” “Egypt?” You tilted your head. “Yes. That is apparently where I will find the one who can grant others these ‘stands’. He said that she is an old witch of some sorts named Enya.” Y/n raised their brows in surprise. How in the world was he able to get so much precise information without fighting. Then again, this man was supernatural, perhaps he had his own ways of making one talk. Then again, if he did what point was there in making you do all the dirty work. Unless perhaps he wanted to just seize the opportunity to see what he could do and use your opponent as fodder. “Huh...Well. I suppose I was starting to get tired of this country anyways.” Y/n yawned, stretching their shoulder up to their cheek. “Luckily you have me around. Stand users tend to attract other stand users from my knowledge, so finding this woman shouldn’t take too long once we arrive.” “Perhaps. In any case, it may be best to be negotiable once we find this woman.” “Certainly, of course. And if she is an old woman, surely her power may be weaker. Despite today, I don’t particularly care for using my strength against someone weaker. Unless of course they instigate it.” They nodded. “Hm.” Dio glanced down at you for a moment, thinking about what you just said. “Part of me hopes we run into other users. As you know I cannot exactly see what is happening, I am still fascinated by what you can do.” Subconsciously your smile grew a little. You were a sucker for any kind of praise, but they had to keep their contentment dampered. “Thank you...I’m glad I can share my gift with you. When you have a stand as well, I can’t wait for you to fully experience what S/N can do. To be able to see it like I can see it.” Dio re-adjusted himself to a more comfortable position, sitting sideways to put more attention towards their conversation, leg still crossed over the other. “Oh yes, of course. I would be honored to further understand this power of yours more. If it wasn’t for you, I certainly would not be used to this body enough to even function without continued rest.” You shuddered a little internally, it was still a little strange that body was someone else's, even though you were used to this fact, you certainly did not need to be reminded. Y/n forced a smile and chuckled. “Thank you. I’m glad we’re friends as well.” ༺༻ ‘Friends’ that phrase echoed in Dio’s mind. Maybe he was their friend, but Dio did not have friends. Dio always had subjects. Pawns. Harems. Followers. Not that he couldn’t make friends but such relationships were beyond him. And with a human? He could just scoff at the thought. Most humans really weren’t nothing more than pawns, food, or a source of pleasure. Your relationship was not sexual, nor would he use someone who was doing such a big favor for him as food. But if you weren’t either of those, then what were you exactly? A guard dog? No. That was just insulting. Your relationship felt deeper than simply a subject or a pawn. Whatever. ‘Friends’ would suffice for now. The vampire cleared his throat between the silence. “Ahem. Yes. Friends.” Dio glanced at the food he left for them on the nightstand. “You should eat, dear, as I said, I wish to start our journey to Egypt as soon as you are feeling better.” Y/n peered back and took the banana. they opened their mouth to offer him the apple but remember he did not need that. “Right.” They nodded, peeling the banana. “By the way, I’d like to thank you. You could’ve just left me, but instead you tended to me when I was vulnerable.” They paused and continued to quickly eat their banana. “This may be a bit strange, being you’re a vampire, and above me on the food chain but…” Y/n paused and collected their thoughts, thinking how to word this without completely disinteresting him with their sentimentality. “I feel safe when I’m around you. I’m the one who is helping you but honestly? I suppose emotionally I feel secure around you. You’re the only person who seems to understand me and appreciate me.” Dio thought for a moment and scoffed. Not at you, but the fact that someone as smart, clever, and beautiful as you could go unappreciated. His legs uncrossed quickly. “Those who don’t appreciate you are simply putz.” He huffed and shook his head. “Fools. Utter fools.” Y/n froze, watching him place his hand over her head and pat it. “You are possibly the most useful person I’ve come across since my time out. I am uh…” Dio admittedly had faltered. “Grateful...For you as well.” “Really?” They smiled a bit, their gaze drifting up to his hand. “Here I was worried I’d gross you with all this sentimentality.” “No. I suppose even the most superior of beings need to express a bit of tenderness.” He nodded, continuing to gently pat your hair;It was quite soft really. “And if I am to express these sorts of emotions, it should be to one who is worthy of it. Someone I can trust not to use this as a weapon against me.” “Certainly. I know I would expect the same from you as well, Dio.” Your smile became a bit softer. The pair of you fell silent for a moment. The male hadn’t realized it but his hand had drifted down to feel your smooth locks. Y/n blinked and their eyes averted to the side. “Dio? What are you doing?” He quickly caught just what he was doing and pulled away, trying to play it off. Dio cleared his throat and got up from bed,, completely ignoring the subject. “In any case. Go rest. I’ll find some way of entertaining myself, don’t worry.”

#jjba x reader #dio x reader #jjba AU writing #jjba fanfic #JoJo's Bizarre Adventure #Dio Brando

36 notes · View notes

javierpenaspinkshirt · 5 years ago

Text

House Keys & Cocktail Umbrellas

Horacio Carrillo x F!Reader

One shot - 18+

Warnings: smut with an attempt at story line, oral sex, daddy kink, dom!Carrillo, orgasm denial, edging, swearing, Horacio Carrillo is his own warning, the willful disregard of canon, and some nasty formatting.

Words: 3.7k

Summary: set in the early/mid 80s before he became everyone's favourite Colonel, Horacio Carrillo comes home from a week away to find his girlfriend waiting to greet him.

A/N: it was about time I stopped thirsting in the tags and actually wrote something, right? So here's a totally self indulgent attempt at a pre-canon Carrillo smut-fest.

House Keys & Cocktail Umbrellas

Your heart skipped as you slid your new key into his lock. He’d given it to you a week ago when he’d left and you hadn’t used it yet. You liked to think there was a romantic symbolism to being given a key to his apartment, a signal as to the direction in which your life together was headed. But you also suspected he’d had the same thought as you had and was secretly hoping you’d be here to greet him when he got home.

You would be.

Horacio had been away for a week. Occasionally his job demanded that he and his fellow officers do a week’s residential training somewhere. Last time had been in a safe house in Bogotá doing urban assault drills, this time it was at a repurposed coke lab somewhere in the jungle that had been seized by the Colombian military and then used as a training facility for narco policing.

Horacio was an officer in the Colombian National Police. He was currently a Captain but he was fast approaching the rank of Major. You were sure he’d be a General in no time. But for now he was Captain Carrillo, fiercely proud of his country, sworn to protect his people, and hopelessly in love with you.

It was probably your favourite thing about him; the juxtaposition of the tall, strapping Captain, feared by many a drug lord across your country and the next, and the soft, kind, dimple-cheeked man you knew him as. You loved that he commanded respect wherever he went but at home he was like warm wax in your hands, soft to your touch and endlessly pliable under your fingers.

You entered his apartment cautiously like it was the first time you had ever been there. It wasn’t, you had been countless times over the year or so you’d been together. Though you remembered the first time well. It was your eighth date, you’d made him wait and prove he wasn’t just some squaddie looking for a hook up. He’d brought you back to his after a meal out followed by several many drinks at your favourite bar in the city. You had spent the night and had ruined his bedsheets. Not through any amorous activity, nothing of the sort. In fact you had thrown up your strawberry daiquiris in a horrifying projectile all over his bed. How he hadn’t kicked you out then and there you didn’t know.

Instead he had looked after you… and then subsequently taken the piss every time you’d walked passed that bar since.

You’d bought him new bedsheets the next day. You’d taken the gaudy blue sheets with little red and yellow cocktail umbrella detail you’d found at the market to his front door in an apology and he’d laughed hard and pulled you into his arms, telling you you were a fool but you were his fool.

His sense of humour was such that he’d actually put the gross blue umbrella sheets on his bed the next time you came to visit. You’d laughed so hard together and ended up making love all night under them. Now they sat in his linen cupboard. He hated the garish bright colours and the badly stitched pattern, but they made him smile every time he went into find some bedsheets that weren’t ugly blue.

You considered putting the umbrella sheets on his bed as you closed the front door behind you and dropped your new key into the bowl next to the door where he usually kept his. You decided against it. As much as you loved the way he laughed when you brought them up you wanted his attention to be solely on you tonight. You’d worn that dress he liked so much, a white sun dress with delicate yellow flowers dotted across the skirt. It was garishly girly and not wholly appropriate for the time of year as the weather began to change and the cold seeped into the city, but he liked it and that was good enough for you.

You’d been shopping in the week after work and bought new lingerie that would horrify your mother and give your grandmother a heart attack. The friend you’d gone with had waggled her eyebrows at you when you’d picked it out causing the both of you to burst into fits of giggles in the shop. She’d laughed knowing what you were planning for the weekend.

You were wearing said lingerie now. You’d had to wear a jacket over your dress to stop the red lace being so obviously visible as you sat on the bus to get to Horacio’s. The only person you wanted looking at your new red lace was him, not the bus pervs.

You slipped your jacket off and kicked off your shoes and made your way to his kitchen. His apartment was small and open plan all save for the bedroom and bathroom. It was light and airy and surprisingly tidy for a man who lived his life in organised chaos. You had seen his desk at work.

He would be home soon and you knew he’d have nothing substantial to eat at his place. Food shopping was his least favourite chore. You dumped your bag onto the kitchen counter and began stacking his fridge with meals you’d cooked for him. Just enough to last him the weekend, you weren’t about to start cooking every meal for a man you didn’t even live with yet. But he’d need the weekend to catch up on rest after his week away, so you’d allowed yourself this one domestic nicety… just this once.

You packed the last Tupperware tub away in his fridge when you heard the key in the lock. You spun round and leapt onto the couch, attempting to look as causal as you could, pretending to read the old TV guide left on the coffee table.

Horacio closed the door behind him and caught sight of you, sat nonchalantly on his sofa, flicking through his discarded newspapers and magazines. You turned to look up at him and batted your eyelashes at him, unable to keep the smile from spreading across your face.

It was a rare day that he wore his uniform home, but today was just such a rarity. He was dressed in his khaki greens, Captain’s rank slides displayed on his shoulders, and his name emblazoned across his chest. His broad shoulders were barely contained by the short sleeved shirt and his tanned arms were very much on display, muscles rippling as he reached out to take your hands and pull you up to stand in front of him.

You expected him to make a comment about the dress, or about the red bra strap he could see peaking out from beneath the neckline but instead he surprised you,

‘I missed you’, he smiled as he said it, showing the dimples you loved so much and that sparkle in his eyes reignited as he looked you over.

He pulled you into a hug and you buried your face in the crook of his neck. He was warm and strong and you could smell the remnants of cigarette smoke and cologne on his shirt.

He slowly dragged a hand up your body, reminding himself how soft and good you felt beneath his large palm, and stopped as he reached your chin, gently nudging you to look up at him and kiss him.

You obliged and sunk into him as his lips chastely brushed yours before pulling you in for a bruising kiss. You had missed him so much. It had only been a week and you knew you sounded like some love sick teenager but as he splayed his palm against your back, pulling you hard against him, at least you knew the feeling was mutual.

He broke the kiss and grinned down at you, your height difference never more apparent than when you were stood up close to each other.

‘How was your week, mi amor? How much did you miss me?’ He winked at you as he squeezed your ass, pulling your dress up so he could feel your hot skin against his palm.

‘Oh you know how it is’ you ran your hands up his chest, working your way up over his shoulders and up to his jawline, cleanly shaven and smooth. You threaded your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck and stood up on your tip toes so you were eye level with him, ‘I guess I thought about you maybe once or twice’.

Your words elicited a growl from your captain who grabbed at your thighs and pulled you up, your legs wrapped around his waist and your back against the wall. He easily supported your weight with one arm and palmed at your now exposed thighs with his other, pushing your dress up as high as he could, catching a glimpse of your new red panties, your arousal beginning show itself.

‘Don’t be like that, niñita, tell daddy how much you missed him’.

You dug your nails gently into the back of his neck, letting him know his words were having an effect.

A shit-eating grin was plastered to his face as he pressed his forehead to yours. You hated how easily he could make you come undone. He loved it.

You shifted to try and steal a kiss but he was wise to you and pulled away.

‘You haven’t earned that yet, baby, you have to earn that’.

He pulled a whine from you as he dragged his fingers slowly over your folds, your underwear giving away your slickness.

Horacio laid wet, lazy kisses up your neck, pausing only to suck on your pulse point, leaving a blushed purple mark you’d be wearing for the next few days. He kissed along your jawline tentatively and stopped to bite gently on your ear lobe.

‘Are you going to be a good girl for me?’ He whispered before pulling back to look you in the eyes.

You couldn’t help yourself as you responded, ‘yes, Captain’.

His commanding stare wavered and he let out a laugh, knowing full well you were taking the piss, before kissing you quickly then dropping you down back on to your feet and taking your hand.

He lead you into the bedroom and set about pulling your dress off you.

‘I’m so fucking glad you didn’t put the umbrella sheets on the bed’ he chuckled, recognising with relief the white sheets he’d left on the bed a week ago.

You laughed with him as your dress was yanked over your head, leaving you standing in only your underwear.

He paused for a moment to take in the sight of you.

‘You are just… god I love you so much’ he looked at you with what you could only describe as adoration.

He was domineering in bed, in control at all times and loved to hear you call him daddy. He would edge you until you were begging him to let you cum, loving the way you writhed underneath him, clawing at his back and up his arms and all but crying his name as he worked you the way he wanted.

But other times he would look at you like you were the only person on Earth that mattered to him. Sometimes he would look at you in a way that could break your heart clean in two. You hoped that would never change.

You sidled up to him and began unbuttoning his shirt slowly. You peeled off the khaki layer, letting his shirt fall to the floor as he stood perfectly still for you. He would take control in a minute, but for now it was your turn.

You untucked his white undershirt, tugging at it to get him to take it off, you couldn’t reach up high enough to take it off him yourself. He did as you wanted and pulled his T-shirt off as you dragged your nails over his bare chest. He sighed and lolled his head back at your touch. Just like putty in your hands.

You inspected his torso, running your fingers over every new bruise and laid gentle kisses over each one. You didn’t know what exactly they did on these training weeks, but it was rough. He always came back battered and bruised. He couldn’t say much, wouldn’t even if he was allowed to, but what he did tell you made you worry about him. He was a dedicated officer, he believed in his country and believed that he was serving it to the best of his ability. But everyone knew the narcos were beginning to tighten their grip around Colombia’s throat, choking their own home land to make a point to the rest of the world.

And who was meant to stop them? Your Horacio. The man almost whimpering before you as you kissed down his ribs. You knew he could be fierce, you feared he could cruel, but you couldn’t believe it right now, not as he threaded his hands into your hair as you dropped to your knees before him.

You wrestled with his belt for a moment and finally managed to pull it through the loops of his slacks, letting it fall to the floor as you looked up at him, eyes locked on his, as you unbuttoned his trousers and went for his zip.

His hands grasped yours and before you could do anything more and suddenly he was squatted down on his haunches in front of you, eyes level with yours with a smirk on his face.

‘No baby’ he crooned so smoothly, ‘you haven’t earned that’.

He scooped you up in one movement and dragged your legs around his waist again, his cock pressing firmly against your inner thigh. He sucked another purple bruise to your skin just above your collar bone then knelt to drop you down on the bed.

He stood above you, tall, shirtless, a sheen of sweat beginning to form across his body. You looked up at him, lying on your back on the bed, your hands above your head and legs bent at the knees hanging off the edge. His eyes raked over you, taking in the soft flesh of your hips, the way your chest was rising and falling in anticipation, the bruises he’d left on you blooming nicely, the purple of them complimenting the way your skin blushed under his gaze.

He leant down over you, kissing up your belly and pulled at bra down until he freed both of your breasts and rolled a nipple between his finger and thumb. He took the other into his mouth and you let out a low moan, making him pinch hard with his fingers and lick up your chest, up your neck until his lips crashed against yours.

There was less composure this time, a mash of teeth and tongue as you pulled on his hair and held him close to you. He pulled away as he felt your grip on his hair tighten and slipped down off the bed and sat to remove his combat boots and trousers, leaving him in just his boxers.

He knelt on his knees and positioned himself between your legs.

‘Were these expensive’ he asked, a sly grin on his lips as he ran his finger under the waistband of your panties.

‘Very’ you crooned as you leant up on an elbow and unhooked your bra with your free hand, pulling it off you and leaving your chest exposed. Your grin matched his.

‘Good’ was all the response he gave before he ripped your panties off you, tearing the lacy fabric easily with one hand.

He dragged his hands down your thighs and grabbed your ankles, hooking each knee over his shoulders and dragged his tongue hard over your clit. You gasped at the sudden sensation and let your head drop back as you collapsed down on the bed.

Horacio dove in, licking and sucking at you like it was the last time he would ever get to do it. He set a relentless pace before he slid a finger into you, making easy work of finding that spot that made you moan. Your thighs tensed as he added another finger, all the while bearing down on your clit, feeding off every moan and whimper that left your mouth.

You felt the heat rising in your lower belly, knowing you were just moments away from release, his name dripping from your lips when he stopped. He knelt up and looked at you from between your thighs, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and arched an eyebrow at you.

‘What’s the matter, baby?’ He teased.

You knew he wanted you to beg but you weren’t going to give into him yet, you wouldn’t let that smug satisfaction bloom across his face so soon. You leant up on your elbows again, meeting his gaze.

He saw your refusal to play a long and leant down to lick slowly up your folds and swipe lightly across your clit. You bit your bottom lip hard and let your head fall back to your shoulder blades.

He kept his eyes on you, fascinated by the way he could pull you apart with just a flick of his tongue. Instead he ran his hand up your thigh a pressed his index finger to your clit, his cock jumped as your body jolted against his touch. He rubbed hard circles on your bundle of nerves until your breathing hitched and he felt you right on the edge of orgasm and pulled away again.

You stared at him again, pupils blown black but refused to beg. You wanted more and you were going to get it.

‘Not going to be a good girl for me hmm? I’ll show you what happens when you’re not good for me’ he stood quickly, unhooking your ankles and pushed your further up the bed. He pulled off his boxers and let his cock spring free. You ached for him.

He positioned himself above you and leant down to kiss up your neck. He pressed the tip of his cock to your entrance as he felt you clench around him, desperate for him.

He grabbed your arms, pulling them above your head and grasped them both with one hand, using the other to lean himself above you.

‘You don’t get to cum until I say so, you understand? Don’t you dare cum until I tell you you can’ he demanded in your ear. You could hear from the strain in his voice that he was almost as desperate as you were, he was just better at controlling it.

Your response was low and breathy, ‘yes, daddy’.

He groaned as he pushed into you, deep and throaty, a string of curses whispered into your ear as he gave you both a moment to adjust.

The heat had coiled up in your belly again and god did it feel good just to have him inside you. He was so cocky and demanding but you could feel him fighting back his own release already. He slowly began moving his hips, building up a rhythm that didn’t have you both coming undone too soon.

You were hot and tight around him, your legs wrapped around his hips as he picked up his pace, chasing his high but denying you yours. He knew just how to hit that spot inside you, knew just how to make you moan low and utter his name like it was the dirtiest of curse words. But he denied you until he was snapping his hips against yours, the filthiest of sounds filling his small bedroom.

He released your hands from above your head and you instantly raked them up his back, nails digging in to his soft skin, feeling every movement of every muscle. He dragged his thumb across your clit, causing you to clench down on him. His eyes snapped closed and his head hung as his pace faltered slightly. He slowed, catching his breath and denying himself release until he had you right where he wanted you.

Your eyes were lidded and your breath quick and shallow as he pressed his thumb to your clit again, his forehead against yours, his gaze meeting yours.

‘Tell me, princessa, tell me what you want’ he slowed his thrusts even more and you moaned, your orgasm so close, held back only by your stubbornness.

You gave in.

‘Fuck me, Horacio, please, let me cum’ you pulled his hair and barely managed to form a sentence before he leant down and bit your bottom lip, pulling and sucking on it as he thrust into you, rubbing his thumb over your bundle of nerves.

His touch had you seeing white, you gripped his biceps, sure you were going to leave little indentations with your nails.

‘I’m gonna-’ he cut you off before you could say it.

‘Cum for me, mi amor’ the last word came out as a moan as he felt your body tense under him.

You moaned his name and clawed at his shoulders as you were finally allowed your release. It washed over you as you felt his hips stutter and his head dropped down to your shoulder. He bit at your neck as he filled you, unapologetically pulling at your hair and sliding the hand that had been tending to your clit up to grab at your tit, squeezing hard sure to leave bruises.

You felt him slump against you as he came down. You pulled his body against yours, letting the mattress take the weight of both you, spent and sweaty as your skin stuck to his.

He kept his head buried against your neck as he caught his breath and willed his heart rate to slow enough to let some blood flow back to his brain.

You traced circles on his back, feeling marks and indentations from your nails raking over his tan skin, the aftershocks of your high waning. You knew he liked the marks you left on him, knowing under his shirt he was marked and owned was a secret just between you two.

His breathing slowed and he leant up on his forearms to brush the hair from your forehead and smile down at you.

He placed a gentle kiss to your lips, soft and loving and you felt him smile against you.

‘Glad to be home, Captain?’ You bit his lower lip and smiled back.

He groaned as he pulled out of you, keen for the next round but spent for the moment, and flopped down on his back next to you.

‘I’m really fucking glad I gave you that key’.

You laughed and agreed, you were pretty fucking pleased too.

He turned to look at you and brushed your cheek gently with his hand, ‘and I’m really really glad you didn’t put the umbrella sheets on the bed’.

#i forgot that i queued this and it posted randomly yesterday so have it now instead #horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo #horacio carrillo x you #colonel carrillo #colonel carrillo x reader #colonel carrillo x you #carrillo x reader #carrillo x you #narcos #narcos fanfiction #narcos fanfic #maurice compte #horacio carrillo x f!reader

177 notes · View notes

scriptaed · 5 years ago

Text

Ink Nemesis Finale

Genre: Angst/Fluff || paparazzi!au; fake dating!au;

Pairing: Reader x Yoongi

Length: 9.1k;

Synopsis: As an aspiring writer drowning under the public’s radar, a click of the pen is all you need to accept your supervisor’s offer to co-write an article for the SS - Secrets Spilled, a regular section of your company’s weekly tabloid; but fabricated stories and invasive details aren’t all that you write when you discover Min Yoongi’s dirty little secret.

A/N: First off, I want to thank everyone who read/reads this series. This may not be my most “popular” work, but it’s one that I will always be proud of. If it weren’t for you guys who always encouraged me to write whatever I wanted to write, I would most certainly not be here writing today. A whole two years since I started this series and there are still some of you patiently waiting for an update. I’m floored. This message and this finale are all that I can give you but I hope you know your care for me as a human and not a robot who happens to write means more to me than words can express. Whenever I feel myself straying from my real reasons for writing, I will recall this fic and all the messages of support you guys sent me... and for those who have no idea what I’m saying: the feelings the mc goes through in this fic is a reflection of my own. Words were my only way of spilling my heart when I went through a hard time last year, so this series is my form of an open book that explains why I took a break. If you still have no idea what I’m saying: enjoy the finale! c:

Life has its own twisted ways with irony. One minute, allies would swear allegiance to your fickle heart; and in another minute, you would be trembling in horror, for your arch nemesis had infiltrated your walls under their own wicked disguise. For better or for worse, the most betraying and hard-hitting realization dawns upon you one storm too late… maybe, and just perhaps maybe, friends and foes are merely two sides of the same coin, plotting and pulling the strings behind the scenes that would prove to be your final downfall; and if there’s anything you’ve despised the most in life, it would be the eerily identical lessons both your greatest allies and enemies have incessantly and irrevocably ingrained within you.

One, time can heal even the deepest of wounds and the nastiest of scars.

...but they don’t know the depth and length of which your gaping wounds run. Enemies don’t know the scars that transcend through time and the way it lurks at every corner and creeps into your veins, until the time when you finally notice is one epiphany too late and the trauma has already rooted itself into your daily life for perpetuity. No one but you can really gauge how long it would take for you to recover from your falls—or if you ever would, that is. Because right now, sitting here with a flesh wound in a gaping heart, you could only attest to this: pain ages like fine wine.

Two, people can recognize their mistakes and change for the better.

…or at least that’s what optimists like to tell themselves; but the reality is, in your cold albeit truthful experience, people can only change to an extent. You were still bitter, you were still self-serving, you were still every bit of that wicked woman whom had spoiled your relationships and woken you with cold sweat in the middle of your nightmares-come-reality. Surely, the woman had been forcefully tranquilized under your hands, but her tracks remain like crimson stains on the purest of snowfalls. You can feel it every so often. From time to time, you can feel her peeping one of those bewitched, scarlet eyes of hers, threatening to awaken if it weren’t for your honed abilities to quell the scorching fire. She remains in you, an innate and inevitable part of you, but your chains around her neck keep her tethered and you from another episode.

So how exactly, you would like to inquire from both friends and foes, have you changed?

Evidently not much—that, you can answer, for your days of woe remain painfully prevalent even as you sit here, one year into a nightmare that you just can’t seem to awake from, mulling over how differently things would have played out between you and him, wondering what he was doing and what he had immersed himself into this time around, and pondering for days over whether he ever sat down in a chair and stared off into the distance as you do now, wondering over you?

Because you can still see the glaring television screen reflecting off your bloodshot, strained eyes in the midst of the pitch black bedroom, even as your head rolls back onto the chair and your stare meets the grotesque white-blue lights lining the office ceiling. You can still feel your heart wince—once at the sight of him and twice at the mention of his name. His cold hands that once brushed against yours and the serenity of his dark eyes that once gazed into your soul still manage to warm you, even from this distance, even after all this time. His absence is like a gaping wound, looming over you like vengeful apparitions that taunt you throughout the day. The ache in your chest is sheer proof of the truth you’ve always denied but can’t seem to let go.

Recently, you’ve found yourself dubious over the disguise of your next enemy. The twisting pain you had once suffered had long submerged into a pool of longing, a bittersweet melody that has you reminiscing over the past that you could never relive. He made you face your deepest fears. He was the aftermath of your own reflection, a living proof that you could survive the hellish consequences that came with the search and capture of success. He assumed the guardian he wished he could have had during his own struggles, shielding you from paths that would lead to dead ends amidst the forks in the road. His curt methods were burdensome and grueling to your heart, but in retrospect and even during that moment in time, something in you knew he meant well. He always did.

Because even through all the struggle he had put you through, be it unwanted fame, attention, and self-reflection, you could only remember the magical days when sparks flew between you two and your heart raced itself into trouble as you swore to yourself he was the one. Because even now, you still long for his touch, for his voice, for anything that could convey to you that he was still here.

Even if he isn’t.

In the mean time, Solji has been the sole remaining connection you’ve had to the outside world. Only a week had passed after your downfall, when you were so sure no one would return and no one cared enough for your wellbeing, when your self-proclaimed friends proved to be merely colleagues by obligation and your short-lived rocky friendship with Xiao Lin became one beyond salvation, when your heart crushed and your soul shattered in the silence of the one whomst should have been the one brewing the loudest storms, the one you had once declared your lover, Solji was the one to demolish the locks to your gates, even as you so incessantly refused to comply.

Weeks into the aftermath, Solji brought you food and water, but most crucially, a shoulder to cry on. You had initially denied her aiding hand out of utter shame. Who were you to ask for help from the very person whose trust you had broken? Who were you, after pointing an accusing finger at for betraying your trust, to accept her help? Solji was the last person you should have questioned. Moreover, she never should have been in the list in the first place and her unconditional loyalty, even as you lifelessly watched her clean your room as you lay in your stench of a bed, was clear proof to that attestment—and that glaring truth only humiliates you further.

It took weeks, nearly two months, for you to willingly begin recuperation. The process was slow and damn difficult. Your motivation was lacking, because at that point you figured what was the point when everyone hated you including yourself? But the one person who held the last glimmer of hope in a time when you could no longer see the end of the tunnel was Solji.

Day by day, you found one more reason to get up in the morning. Week by week, you found yourself longing for self-indulgence, whether it be channeled through food or hobbies. It took well over two months for the time to arrive when you finally find yourself seated at your desk, staring at your favorite fountain pen and piles of paper that you recognize the reflection in the mirror.

A writer—your identity, your passion, your reason for being.

But even if you longed for the day when you could write to your heart’s desire, when you relish in the strikes and crosses and strokes of the pen scraping with certainty and conviction against the paper, and when you could heave a sigh of content at the universe you created in the palms of your head after hours upon hours of concentration whilst in an unbreakable zone, you could no longer relive those days without the clouds that loomed over your conscience.

Guilt—writing was your ally turned foe, what had once been your media for self expression had manifested into a ruthless weapon for retaliation against those who wronged you.

Fear—writing brought you the highest joys, but the thought of having to relive the experience of its loss once again freezes your soul.

Shame—writing was your knife, words were your blades, and before you knew it, you were the villain of your greatest tales, sneering in satisfaction at your beloved’s blood that stains your hands and salivating wickedly at the gaping hole left in his heart as he gazes at you in utter betrayal under the hands of his own love.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to write anymore.

You just couldn’t write anymore.

Solji had suggested fleeing the barred prison that was your apartment, where every corner laid a fragment of a cherished memory that only furthered your pain, and taking refuge elsewhere. As expected in hindsight and surprisingly in your previously hazed mindset, Solji’s advice was just one more step toward recovery. Nine months away from home were enough for your getaway where you would no longer clutch your chest at every reminder and thought of the incident. Nine months away were enough for you to finally reflect on your mistakes head on. Nine months were enough for you to lock yourself in your apartment and dive head-first into your long-lived passion for the remainder of the year.

...but even after all the trials and tribulations, nine months weren’t enough to forget him.

Drowned by your recollection of the whirlwind that was last year, your mind finally shrieks for help as you rise to the water’s surface only to find yourself twirling around and around in a dizzying cycle. The cold white lights of the office was blinding, freezing even. The soul of every living being in the room must have been drained to power these accursed lights, you surmise so surely, willing to bet your life on it… not that it’s exactly a bad thing.

For one, at least you could revel in the fact that you were no longer subject to the torture that your fake colleagues are at the moment. And for another, said colleagues had left you unscathed as you had ventured into the depths of the building. Maybe they had forgotten you. Maybe they never really cared for you unless they could instigate some reaction from you that they once so cruelly found amusement in. Or maybe you just didn’t give enough of a damn anymore to care what they thought—that… that brings a smile to your face.

Just one more fucking sign of liberation.

Heels come tapping against the floor and you whip upright to face your beloved friend. You hadn’t seen Solji in over a month since you had last locked yourself in your room in the name of literature. Blood rushes from your head under the hands of gravity and a sense of queasy twirls descend into your stomach.

“Oh, Y/N, you’re here,” Solji coos, smiling as she spins you around on her chair, “how are you doing? And yes, I already know your answer after all these years of witnessing your bad writing habits, but I’m still going to ask out of courtesy. Are you eating well? Sleeping enough?”

“Well, as you know, I’m somewhat sleep deprived, somewhat self-gratified, not nearly satisfied, but… at the very least I’m alive, even if my eyes burn and my lips chap,” you pause after the two of you share a short-lived laugh, eyes sinking to the floor before you muster the courage to point a thumb over your shoulder and at the computer screen behind you, “so, um, what’s this about?”

An uncomfortable silence stills the air when Solji arches a brow only to let in an inaudible gasp as she peers at the computer screen behind you.

“Oh, Y/N, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. I called you over to tell you properly, but I guess you beat me to the chase,” Solji prims lopsidedly.

Her hesitation to proceed manifests in the hitch of her intaking breaths, probably mulling over her next words as she observes every emotion that flickers across your face—a tinge of betrayal, mostly disappointment, perhaps even a bit belligerent, but most of all, hopeful. A puff of air leaves her when she notices the light at the end of your tunnel vision eyes, eyes widening as she crosses her chest. That being said, it still amuses you how often she’d tip-toe around the incident last year, for fear of catalyzing another mental breakdown.

“You see, after seeing how much... negativity the SS brought you last year… and after realizing how far this site has strayed from my initial intentions of supporting an upcoming boy group and how it’s turned into this monster of a toxic tabloid, just hunting down these poor boys like they’re animals at a zoo, I made the final decision to close it down.”

After you had treated Yoongi like an animal for your own gain—the thought still stings you with guilt. Solji had advised you that time would heal the pain just a month in the aftermath of the storm, but now that you’re finally here, one year later, you find yourself caged in the eye of the storm.

“Oh, no. It’s toxic, no doubt about that,” you nod absentmindedly just as you’ve always done, disregarding the split second of a wince. Numbness has been the only effective coping mechanism since he left. “It was a good decision.”

This is your fault. Solji’s first piece of work, first treasures she had the gratification of grooming and growing into prized jewels envied by all, like the children that were your every written work, now put to eternal slumber because of your mishandled outbreak.

“This decision was inevitable, Y/N,” she speaks softly but firmly, reminding you like she has dozens of times in the past year, “the SS is innately toxic and I’m going to put an end to it. It’s not your fault. Remember that, Y/N.”

Blinking blankly at her, you take a deep breath and sigh heavily—but the weights on your shoulder remain ever the more prevalent. “It’s hard to tell myself that when the person I need to hear it from the most despises my guts, but yeah, I’ll try.”

“Don’t say that…” Solji murmurs, swiftly striding forward to take your hands into her own soft ones. Squatting down, she meets you at eye-level. “Has—” she hesitates in the midst of her tracks “—he, not contacted you at all?”

She avoids his name at all costs but that only makes you more aware of the pain that gnaws at your chest.

“Who? Oh, Yoongi? No, he’s probably too busy doing what celebrities do, you know? TV appearances, award ceremonies, and all that... ” you feign nonchalance that elicits a look of concern from your motherly friend. Shaking your head, you shrug; but just as quickly as your shoulders rise, your shoulders descend, seemingly monumentally heavier, as dejection dawns upon every inch of you. A familiar feeling of despair returns and all purpose to compose yourself leaks from the fading smile stitched to your lips… because what’s the point of pretending anymore? Swallowing the smidge of pride you had left, you let your eyes fall to the floor just as your spirit has. Your words come out meekly—you’re not even sure if you were speaking, for all you could sense is the slight slur of your tongue and tips of your grazing lips. “No… he hasn’t, no.”

“He hasn’t called you since he left? Or even texted you?”

Her voice crescendos under the hands of her wrath; but to you, her anger is an afterthought, a shadow to her deduction, because hearing her put your worst realizations into words, as if forcing you to acknowledge the harsh reality, hurts you the most. You don’t want to give up. It’s foolish. You don’t even deserve this privilege. But still. You don’t want to let go.

After all, despite all the harassment and bombardment from feverish fans and news outlets, isn’t that the reason why you begrudgingly kept your phone number? Foolishly and helplessly waiting for his and his name to light up your screen someday?

Clutching your phone tightly in your grips until it turns a numbish white, it takes all the strength in you to shake your head, “no, I haven’t heard anything from him since.”

You knew this would happen. What else did you deserve after betraying him. He already had trouble expressing himself outside the music realm; and yet, after he had so faithfully entrusted you with his secrets and vulnerability, you reminded him of all the reasons why he had hid from the world in the first place. This is what you deserve: radio silence.

But you just don’t think you can voice it out to Solji.

Not without cracking your voice and tumbling into an unstable mess, that is.

Observing your slow descent, Solji hastily squeezes your hand with a voice that rings of the only cheer you’ve heard in months. “Hey, what about that message we worked on putting together?”

“I don’t know,” you mutter. “I’m too scared to check.”

“...Y/N, I’m sure he’ll come around,” she finally manages to say after a long pause.

The more she says that, the harder it becomes to believe. At this point, you find no resolve to refute her utterly gullible implications. Pressing your lips into a thin line and routinely nodding your head, you look off into the distance beside you, waiting uncomfortably for her to untether you from her vigilance. As a seasoned professional around you, your lack of eye contact speaks volumes to her and the looming clouds seemingly spread its wings onto your friend. How cruel is it that happiness is limited, yet guilt seems to be boundless? You know you’re being a drag to your friend, so why does she even bother? It only makes you guiltier.

Her smile, on the other hand, has other plans, as it shoos the gray shadows away and out of her cubicle just as her hand on your shoulder brings light to your vision—and suddenly, as you peer up to find those vibrant, orange locks and cheek-raised smile of hers, it’s almost as if someone had swapped your icy cold, blue filters for a warmer, more welcoming gold. It’s relieving, really, to have someone there for you unconditionally.

“And if he doesn’t, then I guess it’s his loss and my gain. I get to have you all to myself!” she chimes likened to a kid with her favorite toy, and before you know it, she has you by the hands and pulls you to your feet as wind is knocked from your lungs. “C’mon, let’s go get something from your favorite coffee shop down the street, yeah?”

Your mind runs blank for a second but your lips return her smile, as if by second nature.

“...yeah,” you hum as she guides you through the labyrinth of cubicles and a gust of wind refreshes your hazy state.

The familiar irking honks and running engines blast you back into reality, a reality in which you had once lived on the daily just a year ago. Writing was your hobby, your everything, and yet, it crippled you, pained you, betrayed you. Sometimes the things you hold closest are the most dangerous of all and you learned that the hard way; but as Solji squeezes your hand and tosses her head back to check that you were in fact still present and somewhat well, her hair twirling in the wind and her eyes forming crescents, your heart welcomes you home once again. If holding her close would endanger you to further heartbreak down the road, you know she’s worth every ache.

“Hey, Solji?”

“Hm?” she twirls around once you two reach the crosswalk and await for the green light. After noticing the glimmer in your softened eyes that watch her with utter admiration, she shudders with a scoff. “What now? You want me to pay for you drink, too?”

“No,” you pout, hooking your arms to her own crossed ones and swaying her side to side. “I just wanted to thank you.”

“What is this about?” you can feel her cringing through her titters. “Why are you suddenly acting like this? I thought you were still in the dumps!”

“I am! But not as much now that you’re with me,” you coo, clearly amused enough by her reaction that you almost convince yourself to rub a cheek against her face; but instead, you choose to cradle your head into the crook of her neck.

“You silly girl,” she scolds, slapping the top of your head before settling into a soothing pat. “I’ll always be there for you.”

“Really?” you lift your head like a pleasantly surprised child and she frowns amusedly at the smile on your face. “You promise?”

“Promise? I need to promise you?” she gapes, baffled enough to slap you once again on the head. “Who else stayed by your side even after you abandoned them? Huh? I don’t see anyone! Tell me where—”

“—oh, there is one!” you exclaim and Solji whips her neck only to find you pointing at her right between her eyes. “She’s right here!”

Your usual antics elicits a groan and a roll of the eyes from her. The lights turn green and you nearly trip over your feet trying to catch up to her sudden acceleration as she attempts to flee your side, ironically contrary to her latest proclamations. “Well,” she scolds lightly akin to a lecturing friend who worries over you like a mother, striding confidently and pridefully through the streets with your arms hooked around hers, “as long as you know who’s really there for you and who’s not.”

“I know, I know,” your remarks exude of sheer blissful gratitude as you lay your head against her shoulders and smile giddily to yourself. “Looove you, mom.”

“Ugh,” she scrunches her shoulders, “please don’t do that ever again.”

Hands buried in your pocket and bare face exposed to the cold winds of winter, the thumps of your fuzzied heart is enough for you to acknowledge that you are alive.

“Do what?” you quip. “Love you?”

Arm in arm with the widest smile that stretches from ear to ear, you swear your heart has at long last awakened once again; for at this very moment, you can finally feel.

“Stop!”

Perhaps you aren’t completely well.

But you are alive and you know you still will be far down the road.

And for now?

That’s more than enough.

The stirring of the alcohol settles in the back of your throat, your mind still slightly hazed as your friend plops you onto the couch and you could do nothing but flash a goofy grin at her frown.

“Soljiii, let’s get another drink,” you drawl. “You promised we would go bar hopping!”

“Yes, you somehow convinced stupid me into taking you to a bar instead of a cafe, we bought you one drink, and now we hopped back to your apartment! See? Bar hopping,” she perks both hands up like a bunny, laughing at the scowl on your face. “You’re finally starting to feel better. I don’t want you to drink too much too soon. Ease your way back into it, alright?”

“I-I’m not even,” you pause because what exactly were you trying to say again—oh, right, “I’m not even that tipsy.”

Your friend narrows her eyes at you as she gathers her purse and coat. “...uhuh, well I prepped a bottle of water for you in the kitchen just in case. I’m almost late for my meeting, so I gotta go now. Call me if you need anything!” she shuffles to your door, throwing one last glance over her shoulder before departing. “And don’t go out on your own until you feel better, okay?”

“Psh—” the door slams “—what am I? A baby?”

Perhaps it’s the alcohol that runs through your veins or perhaps it’s the adrenaline after the first girl’s night out in a year, but nothing in you agrees to being locked within the confines of your cramped apartment. You need to distract yourself from wallowing in the dark, especially in your apartment, otherwise you’d face an all-too-predictable spiral into an abyss of self-pity. Jumping to your feet and stumbling toward the door, you hum a familiar tune that soothes the heart which aches in the wake of a high stuck in the deafening silence. You haven’t been able to pinpoint the origins of the tune that had pulled you through the sleepless nights and nightmarish days, but as you draw the door closed until just a crack between your doorframe and its lock remains, just enough for you to peak through at the disarranged sheets of your bed, and just long enough for you to gaze longingly at the two figures that lay in your bed eye-to-eye and arm-in-arm in a comfortable silence, an answer arrives and your heart is left with an unsettling stir.

The melancholic stain remains deeply rooted in tonight’s atmosphere and its intention to stay cements throughout the torturously lengthy night. You don’t realize it until you enter your elevator and press for the first floor that you notice the wall you had braced your heart with at every corner of your life. At some point in the last year, you had subconsciously defended yourself from the doleful memories that would reign your next few weeping nights.

Because as you stand here in the elevator, eyes stuck to the closed gray doors and thoughts feigned to be preoccupied elsewhere, it’s impossible not to notice the couple that had once stood by you. With your hands tangled in his hair and his arms wrapped over your waist, pushing you against the wall before pressing for the doors to close and returning his hands to slide to the small of your back, you can still feel his thumbs rubbing circles into your hips. The electricity that sparked like fire between his lips and yours, the hastiness of his every touch that begged for the privacy of your room, and the worrying ache over spotting the daughter of a CEO that was drowned out by the waves of yearning and buried into the back of your mind like an extended dynamite persists to haunt you to this day.

Because as you make your way out of the apartment and down the streets of the neighborhood, the gray hues of a sky shrouded by gloomy clouds on a winter evening seeps into the backdrop, fading into nonexistence just as quickly as speckles of sapphire blue bedazzled by gleaming stars paint night as day. There, just a block down from your apartment, the steps of your foot patter against the sidewalk, slowly and reluctantly, as if to prolong a moment beyond time’s capabilities. Your surroundings whirl around you in a blur and before you could desperately grasp for a break, you’re brought back into a fragment in time when he had taken initiative and held your hands in his for the first time, intertwining your fingers and guiding you home. Silently under the starry night, he declared his love for you. Electrified by the spur of the magical moment, you had confessed your greatest epiphany of falling in love.

Because as you pass by your neighborhood and night returns to day, you can’t help but stare through the windows of a closed restaurant where Yoongi had once taken you on that one revisited night. You can still remember how he had insisted on taking you out, despite its risks and the potential dent in his career that you had ultimately caused in the end. You can recall staring at his hands on the table and hesitating to touch them but remaining curious nonetheless. There, next to that specific table in the corner of the store, he had lowered his walls and entrusted you with his heart. Music was his passion just as ink was your companion, but on that one fateful night, he was willing to share his greatest friend likened to handing the ultimate weapon to who would turn out to be his greatest foe—you.

It seems as though the omnipotent universe finds amusement in your pain, for every corner down the street, you find it screaming at you to remember… to reminisce… to wallow in the pain that incessantly evolves and somehow paves its way into existence once again, just as you had nearly ridden yourself of the parasite.

“Hey, isn’t that Y/N?”

You’re snapped back into reality when you hear someone whispering about.

“Y/N, who?”

“You know,” a pair of girls point at you with masks over their lips, joining a frenzied crowd down the street, “the girl who dated Yoongi right before news broke out over him and that CEO’s daughter!”

The girl’s next reply is like a punch to the gut, “they broke up though, right?”

“Oh,” her friend scoffs, hooking an arm over the other and pulling her toward the havoc that was the crowd, “definitely.”

Right, you recall to yourself as you pull the neckline of your sweater over your nose, this was why you never walked outside anymore. The spotlight Yoongi’s fame had put on you never seemed to fade after all these months. You aren’t exactly surprised, though; because as a black car pulls up the sidewalk and the crowd descends into chaos, time slows, air stills, and you’re warped back in another episode of deja vu. Watching people scream by the grand entry of the boys, standing afar off to the side of the mayhem with a garment to conceal your identity, it’s almost as if you’re just another character in a tape put on replay.

Not all fans are what they claim to be.

They don’t care for your well-being. They only care if your actions served them under the right conditions set by their own selfish demands.

One day, you could be their whole world.

Another day, you could be no one.

His fans are no exception, a fact all too evident as you stare off into the distance where people collided and thrashed violently against one another all in hopes of screaming incomprehensible strings of words at the glamorous idols that suffered from the chaos that ensues. Cameras flashing, questions flying, and microphones shoved into their personal space, the scene is all too familiar to the night when you first met Yoongi and the news of your dating scandal shook the entire universe.

“Whoa!” a girl yelps and you whip your head up only to find yourself collapsing onto the floor. Wind knocks out of your lungs and you heave for air, wincing at the stinging pain that vibrates from your bottom up. The girl, standing above you, spits, “hey, can you stand here in the middle of everything? You’re blocking our way.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re—”

“—oh, it’s you,” the girl gasps and a group of surrounding girls turn to stare at you in bewilderment. “Why are you here? Didn’t Yoongi dump your ass years ago? Or are you here to beg for him back?”

“Wha—

—it’s okay, take a deep breath, you tell yourself even as you can feel yourself gradually descending into relapse. The darkness that settles into your grim composure and the bitterness that looms over you escapes your grasp as the enemy in you broke free. You have to control yourself. You can’t cause a commotion after all the trouble you’ve brought to Yoongi. The media had seemed to have finally forgotten his scandal between you and him, despite the numerous times his agency refuted the claims. How much unwanted attention would your presence here divert from what truly matters: his music?

You’re ashamed of your actions. You’re ashamed of your feelings. Really, you’re ashamed of you.

Head hanging low and teeth gritting tight, you keep your glare to the ground and out of sight. The girls only snicker at you as others looked back with pity written over their faces before turning their backs on you once again and actively choosing to ignore the situation. One breath in, one breath out. It’s almost as if you have to remind yourself the simplest things, otherwise you’d freeze in motion and cause unnecessary attention.

But is it too late?

A series of gasps ripple throughout the crowd just as you dust the rubble off your hands. A hushed silence befalls your surroundings, as if by the crafts of magic. A familiar pace of footsteps echo in your riveting heart.

One step. Thump. Don’t walk toward me.

Hesitantly lifting your inspecting eyes form the red scratches against your palm, your heart stills by the boy who makes his way toward you.

Another step. Thump. Don’t save me.

Akin to flowers that bloom along a wizard’s path, the crowd parts amidst the silence as he walks with confident, swift strides, head down, and eyes locked on you. The power of his gaze is enough to fade the stinging pain and your liberated heart feels as light as the clouds of which your mind remains hazed by. No one mattered at this point, for tunnel vision had overtaken the both of you and everyone except you and him was but a blur.

One final step. Thump. I don’t deserve to be saved.

And it’s at this moment that an epiphany dawns upon you. You still long for his enigmatic mien, a stark contrast to his delicate touch and his gentle words that he had so curtly and unabashedly spoken with truth. He had always known what was best for you, for he, too, had undergone the lowest of the lows and the highest of the highs. You always knew that, even if you denied his help and went through the effort to voice your refusal in an attempt to aggravate the man. And despite all your tantrums and flails and screams, he remains here, patient and forgiving and understanding, waiting for the day you realize he was indeed nothing but a loyal friend betrothed to your heart.

Because here you are, wounded and tossed aside. Having hurt and been hurt, this was nothing but fair play. You deserve this… but justice isn’t a matter of concern to him. You were his utmost concern. You hurt him, more so than anyone else in this crowd, but the look in those ocean-like eyes that painted more words than those who would simply undermine it as apathetic told you his love is unconditional.

You were ashamed of yourself.

He should have been ashamed of you.

Yet here he is, holding his hand out for you and you only; and before you know it, you’re grasping onto the light at the end of the tunnel.

“Y/N, are you—”

“—sorry,” you blurt, yanking your hand back and hastily turning around. Shuffling forward, the ruckus that ensues behind you drowns underwater. You’re not even sure if Yoongi hears you mumble, “I have to go.”

“Y/N! Wait, Y/N!” you hear Yoongi call out several times but your feet remain persistent on its trek elsewhere, that is, until your heart melts at the familiar touch of a cold hand that clutches your wrist. Freezing in your tracks, you gulp. He pants in between his words, “Y/N, where are you going?”

“What are you doing?” you ask with your back on him.

“Following my heart,” he answers plainly. “What else have I ever done—”

“—I mean,” you cut, biting your bottom lip, “I mean, why are you here? Why did you do that in front of all your fans? What’re they going to say?”

“They can say whatever they want.”

Shutting your eyes, you take a shaky breath in and retract your hands from his, though not too roughly as to retain your frail heartstrings. “I don’t know why you’re acting like this.”

“You know damn well why,” he deadpans. “Y/N, please, at least look at me.”

You can hear the hissing crowd encroaching from afar.

“I don’t want to—”

“—I’ve missed you damn it.”

You wish he wouldn’t say that, it only makes it harder on you.

“Well,” you muster the courage to utter, even if your heart shatters as you do so, “I don’t.”

Every step forward plucks at your strings. Every distance furthered between you and him subtracted from the ticking bomb within you. It’s only a matter of time until you could no longer uphold your lie. So you make a run for it.

Forward, you chant to yourself, keep running until he’s forced to give up and return to the world where he truly belongs… and that’s exactly what you do. You run and you run and eventually you find yourself falling into yet another inevitable trap of the universe. Standing in front of the doors to a concert hall, a place you used to call home before the memories of the night shared between you and him haunted its every corner, you scan around for any passersby.

You should return home. It’s your safest bet. Plus, did the janitor really not change the lock after all these years?

Click.

The key slides perfectly into the lock; and even through all the protests your defense mechanism puts on, it’s only inevitable that your heart overtakes your body and you’re already slipping through the slit and leaving the world shut outside behind you.

Alas, the rows upon rows of burgundy velvet chairs, balconies upon balconies that line the walls, and the dim lighting across the room that plays a stark contrast to the golden lights focused on the stage, everything screams home to you. Even if you can still see him sitting down beside you on the front row, turning to smile that damn half-smile of his, your heart is content over a dream nearly turned reality just minutes prior. The boy of the past beckons for you and you follow him up the stage with a smile on your face. His ghost leads you before the piano, seating yourself onto a cushioned black bench and a set of white keys streaked with black.

Here, on the stage, the lights are blinding. The audience is blacked out and you can no longer see too far off into the distance. From here, you figure you must appear dazzling—perfect, even; but you know you’re flawed, maybe the golden glow that reflects against the polished wooden floor and onto you makes it hard to believe, but you know you’re human. Up here, the grand piano is the only thing that keeps you focused on the task at hand.

Is this the sight Yoongi faces every day?

Is this the mundane sight he faced on that night? Or did he see you watching him with those sparkles in your eyes that reflected the star on stage? Did he smile that night, performing whilst observing his sole audience member with utter adoration and a heart on his sleeves?

The sparks of that night makes its grand entrance, even as an unsettling realization dawns upon you—because the thing is, you don’t remember, you can’t remember if you were busy taking advantage of his vulnerability.

Three notes—you play the familiar notes that had lulled you to sleep throughout the trying year. The tune brings a bittersweet smile to your lips that tugs at your chest. The truth is, you miss him. You didn’t want to turn him away but you couldn’t be selfish any longer. Even so, you miss him. You want to hold him right here, right now.

“I see you still remember that little performance I put on for you.”

Whipping around, your eyes widen when you find him standing before you. Decked out in a classic black and white suit, with a loosened tie, tousled hair, and hands buried in his pockets, as if he wasn’t sprinting just a minute before, he approaches you slowly.

“I don’t,” you mumble a lie, turning your back on him and lowering your eyes to the keys in shame, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Yoongi chuckles and you can feel his vibrations against your back as he leans forward to hold your hands in a delicate grasp. “I see you’re also still not very honest with yourself,” he muses when you relax under his touch. His hands guide you to the keys—and you don’t know why, but you let him.

With his fingertips over yours and the top of your hands grazing against his rough palms, the complete song is like an entire symphony compared to the three notes you played earlier. Everything is almost a carbon copy of that magical night, except here he is, holding you in his arms, and here you are, head against his chest as you count the rhythm of his quickening heart. The tune, too, has evolved from the melancholic melody from before.

“...is this the same song?” you can barely utter.

“Oh, so you do remember,” he remarks and you can practically hear him smirk. “The song I played for you was supposed to be the hook for one of my tracks.”

“It sounds different though. It sounds… happier.”

“Does it?” he chortles, still gliding your hands across the piano. “I revised it after that night. I wanted it to be an accurate reflection of me. Simply put, it was too sad, too lonesome. This is more fitting.”

And now…? How is this an accurate reflection of him? If anything, your betrayal should have been the most lonesome act of all… unless he found someone new.

The thought has something gnawing in you as your hands fall from the keys and back into your lap. The music stops and silence follows. The deafening confessions exchanged between his heart and yours are all you can hear echoing in the vast room.

“...why are you still treating me so well?” you finally mutter. His silence only spurs you further into an unexplained fury as you raise your voice. “Don’t you hate me...? Don’t you hate me for lying to you, for taking advantage of you, for breaking your trust when you had so meticulously told me not to?!”

Even in a time like this, Yoongi remains composed as he always does, silently putting his thoughts into words that would eventually quell your fire.

“I didn’t hate you. I was mad and it hurt like hell for months on end, but I don’t hate you,” he states firmly. “You know I’ve never been one with words, but hell, Y/N, I’ve missed you.”

“Why did your company tell everyone we were through without giving me a single warning, then?” you shake your head in a fruitless attempt to still your racing heart. “Why didn’t you text me back? Why didn’t you call?”

“I did text,” he confesses and you freeze. “I didn’t text you, but I told Solji to take care of you. That’s the most I could do while retaining our break. It was for the better... but if you were waiting for my call, then why didn’t you call?”

“Well,” you pause, taken aback, “you said you wanted a break. I knew I hurt you too much. I couldn’t just be selfish again and force you to be reminded of me after you had requested me not to.”

“...is that why you never told anyone Ink Nemesis was really just an aspiring writer in disguise?”

Silence.

How does he know that?

No one would have arrived at that conclusion. It just doesn’t make sense.

How does he always read right through you?

“No,” you shake your head profusely. “That doesn’t even make sense. I’m a selfish person, you know that. I didn’t tell anyone so that I wouldn’t tarnish my reputation. I could still go out in public if no one knew I was the one who released those photos. I could still establish my career as a writer if no one knew I was Ink Nemesis—”

“—because you were selfless and because you changed after recognizing how much you hurt me, you decided your confession would only tarnish my reputation,” he surmises a little too accurately, “even if that meant you would have to be plagued with guilt that you’re still trying to carry to your grave.”

Bulls-eye.

“It… it doesn’t matter anymore,” you bite your bottom lip, hoping anything would stop you from speaking the truth. “Everything happened so long ago. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Good. I don’t want it to hurt anymore,” he places both hands on you and you comply as he turns you around to face him. Bangs hanging over his eyes as he leans downwards, your heart jumps at the soft edges of his that you had so yearned to see in flesh again. He speaks lowly but surely, “but isn’t there anything still left from back then?”

You still love him.

Meekly answering, you utter, “...no.”

“Really? I’m the only one reliving this hellish nightmare on replay, reminiscing over our undeniable chemistry because—and I swear on my life—I would never be able to find someone who understood me like you?” he lays his heart out on the table. “Am I really the only one who feels these sparks?”

Peering up at him to meet his gaze, you can make out the sincerity of his face where the shadows of the blinding lights above falls gracefully. The surrealism of it all takes you out of the race. Even if you were to lie, he would see right through you.

“...no,” you gulp, lowering your head to conceal the waterworks that make its way to your eyes, “no, you’re not.”

“I never trusted anyone more than you, Y/N. You know I gave you my entire heart, right?” he speaks sternly. “So is there anything else you want to say to me?”

“I’m... sorry, Yoongi. I never wanted to hurt you—” the words you’ve been wanting to say come to you naturally, as if rehearsed thousands of times “—I know it doesn’t matter now, but I won’t ever hurt you again. Ever.”

“Why?” he utters, fingers on your chin and tilting your head back until your gaze meets his. Yoongi’s eyes soften for a second at the sight of the warm tears streaming down your cheeks, lifting another hand to gently wipe the drops away. His touch is electricity against your bare skin.

“Because I love you.”

Yoongi smiles that lopsided smile of his, fruitlessly stifling the chortles that escape before uttering one last time “then it does matter, love” and locking his lips with yours.

That, in itself, is enough to tell you he’s forgiven you.

And now, you can finally forgive yourself.

“First of all,” you clear your throat hesitantly, leaning forward into the microphone that squeaks, “I would like to thank you all for coming to this press conference. Although Yoongi and I have already settled things privately, I would like to publicly apologize for my malicious actions against Min Yoongi of BTS. Two years ago I was in an unstable position and I was willing to accept any job just to make a living and persist to chase my goals as an aspiring writer. I know me coming out as Ink Nemesis is not enough of a rectification for my actions, and I understand why certain networks have refused to attend tonight’s press conference, so I want to take this time to thank those who have. I promise I will do my best to answer any question with utmost truth.”

Dozens of cameras flash in the room filled with reporters and previous fans of the works on your blog. Surprisingly, you can’t even count the number of heads in the cramped room, even if certain fans, both his and yours, had boycotted the press for your first upcoming novel. It takes everything in you not to squint at the blinding lights, because if there’s anything your relationship with Min Yoongi has taught you in the past year, it would be that the media tears you apart over the most trifling matters.

“So, um…” you mumble, shifting in your seat, “we can begin the Q&A.”

No one speaks but the flashes and clicks persist throughout the silence. Your eyes flicker across the crowd only to find Yoongi’s intent gaze under the rim of his bucket hat with ease. His eyes widen slightly at your call for help before he blinks blankly, looks around, and kicks the chair of the closest reporter to him.

“Oh!” the bespectacled man raises his hand, jumping at the sudden vibration.

You lean into the microphone, “yes?”

“Seeing as you have mentioned your humble beginnings as a blog writer, could you explain why you took pleasure in writing via a blog and not through an agency?”

“Ah, that’s a good question,” you purse your lips. “Actually, I think there are many perks to writing on a blog that many don’t consider, both readers and writers alike. Through a blog, readers can comment on any part of a chapter. Specific feedback, especially the ones that quote certain excerpts of my work, can be really helpful in my progression as a writer. Not to mention, their reception helps motivate me as I write later chapters in the series. I think it’s pretty cool that readers can send messages to their favorite writers and writers can have a personal connection with the very people who support their livelihood.”

Another man raises his hand, “and what about the cons to running an online blog?”

“Hm, where do I start?” you laugh along with the crowd. “First off, I have to figure out how to even run a blog. I have to design my website, I have to edit my own work, I have to create a cover that looks somewhat presentable, and most of all, I don’t even get paid! The algorithm always changes, so the attention your works receive might not be an accurate representation of its quality.”

“Can you elaborate on how to assess the quality of your work?”

“Well, that’s a difficult one to answer. Sometimes numbers such as likes, reblogs, and comments are a good indication of how many people have read your work, but not everyone leaves any notes. Sometimes people are busy on the days you post and sometimes people just don’t see or aren’t interested in your cover or synopsis.”

“How does it feel when your work is not received well in terms of numbers and what do you do to proceed? Does the reception change the direction of your work?”

“Honestly, it’s pretty dejecting when you spend hours on something and no one responds. That’s how it is in life, though,” you shrug. “In fact, there was a time on my blog when one of my works received all the attention, whereas another one of my works went completely under the radar. It was pretty despairing to see the stark contrast.”

“And why is that?”

“Why?” you pause. “Well, I have to say I’m a very competitive person. I’ve always wanted to be the best at what I do and I hated that my own work was stifling my growth. I wanted to grow as a writer, and somewhere along the way, numbers became my definition of success and quality. When I noticed that the numbers were falling on something that I was so proud of, I was disappointed. Relying on numbers is a realistic but grave mistake. Nowadays, I could care less about the numbers. Of course, a part of me still cares and I still would love a reasonable amount of notes—” you laugh “—but getting over the misconception that numbers are equivalent to quality helped me in my return to fiction. Honestly, people who rely on numbers are missing out on a lot of amazing works. Trust me.”

“What would you tell your past self right before you shut down your blog?”

“I guess,” you have to pause and think, “I guess I would tell her to go ahead and do it. I would tell her she had so much to live, so much that she was missing out on life because she gave so much of her time and heart on her blog. I would tell her that when the time comes, inevitably, she would write again because she wants to and not because of anything else.”

“Why did you really take down your works?”

“Ah—” how should you go about this topic that even you want to avoid “—it has to do with my reasoning before. I’m a competitive person and I was disappointed in myself. Certain readers only responded when I updated one of my works, some people even unfollowed me whenever I posted something else, but they were never there when I voiced my struggles or needed help from public disputes. I know it sounds silly and I really shouldn’t hold it against them, but it felt like no one cared about me until I served them. My creativity was stifled. Everything added up and I just didn’t want to have anything to do with my blog. Honestly, I was putting too much pressure on myself. I was conceited and it was dumb of me to have such a toxic perspective. Other writers wrote beautiful works, regardless of whether they had higher and lower number of notes, but I couldn’t help comparing myself to them. It’s embarrassing to say this out loud now, really, but that’s the truth. I think it’s a truth that echoes with many online writers.”

The crowd nods their heads and people start scribbling onto their notepad. Several hands raised in the crowd but you can barely see anyone amidst the flashes, so you toss a finger up somewhere in the air.

“How are you and Yoongi doing right now and how did he respond when you posted the picture of him on his affair?”

An audible gasp echoes in the room as you frown, brows furrowed and mouth hung agape at the unrelated question. The reporters stiffen, because surely, it’s a question they’ve all thought of asking but had the decency to refrain from. Trying your best to retain Yoongi’s hidden spot amongst the crowd, you keep your eyes on the reporter.

“I’m sorry but that’s something only him and I should be concerned over. Him and I are doing just fine, thank you,” you smile when you spot Yoongi giving you a nod with an affirmative smile that says that’s my girl.

A loud series of coughs saves the tense silence that follows. Everyone’s eyes dart to the very front right row, and when a light focuses on the reporter and their identity is revealed amidst the blackened platform below your stage, you can’t help but smile fondly at her.

After years of silence, it seems the grudge has finally been settled by her attendance, and thereby support, of your first press conference.

“Moving onto more important and relevant topics,” Xiao Lin settles the notepad into her lap, devoting all of her attention to you with a grin, “will you ever return to your writing blog? In other words, will you post your old works again?”

“Well, I have returned to my writing blog every once in a while,” you hum. “I’m no longer the same person as I was before, but I’m also not ashamed of who I was and the works that I wrote in the past. When I return, I will return on my own accord and my own terms. I’ll leave you with that.”

“And…” she scribbles something onto her notepad before looking up, “what will be the name of your upcoming novel?”

A stagnant silence floods the room that waits with bated breath as you lean into the desk and prolong the suspension. Smiling to Yoongi, head lifted and chin high, you speak proudly into the microphone. Alas, when the answer leaves your lips, a hushed gasp intermixed with a collective plaudit arises, for your proclamation is merely the first signal for the end of a beginning.

“Ink Nemesis.”

are you ready for it?

464 notes · View notes

brief-candle · 5 years ago

Text

ᴛᴇᴀꜱᴇ - Laito Sakamaki

request info: succubus reader plays around with laito and makes him jealous on purpose.

they wanted her to become his girlfriend but i couldn't find a way to fit it in without the conversation looking kinda weird. and i also didn't write the scene where they did the devil's tango because this was on quotev and we gotta be family friendly pg clean over there.

i’m just posting the two things i did for dialovers bc i have nothing else to post atm,, after i finish the last request in my inbox i might write something self-indulgent... haven’t done that in a while so hmm

series: diabolik lovers.

notes: probably ooc laito, female reader, slight yandere, heavily implied nsfw (under the cut!!).

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰

There was interest sparked from the moment they met eyes. Well, perhaps interest wasn't the correct word for it. Not for someone like Laito Sakamaki. To be truthful, he wasn't truly very interested with many people. Not when it was exceptionally easy to get what he wanted from them before he could move onto another of his victims.

For a short while, she seemed just as simple and easy as the rest of the people he'd bedded. Flirting back easily, smiling coyly as she did so. It was a telltale sign of interest, wasn't it? Many responded to him in that way, and from then on didn't seem to hold interest in anyone else. Only him, such a reaction born from minimal effort on his part.

What he wasn't expecting was for her to show others the same treatment with such ease, giggling along to lame jokes and getting very touchy as she did so. Everyone she seemed to interact with appeared to fall apart at the seams, heeding to her every beck and call very soon after. Seeing such a thing was strange to him, perhaps as he was not used to seeing someone else have such an effect over people. People that he was so used to controlling with the slightest lilt to his voice, the upturn of his lips having them fawning over him in an instant.

He found himself competing with her, silently declaring a war over the attention of their schoolmates. But no matter his determination that he would not lose- pride in that charm of his- he found himself losing every battle. The smallest input into a conversation from her would drive people insane with glee, the smallest of smiles raising people's moods for the entire day. Laito truly couldn't fathom how she could possibly do it, really.

For a moment he had deliberated that it may have been simply natural charm. That she simply wasn't aware of her effect on others, and had no idea that he was competing with her in the first place. However that was all very obviously disproved from the smug look in her eyes when she knew no one but him was looking. It was gone in a second, as someone had turned to talk to her once more, but there was no question that it had been there.

It seemed he'd have to up his game.

Rather than playing it tame with his ploys to steal the attention from her, he began to explore different tactics. Instead of outright fighting for attention (though no one seemed to notice that they were fighting for it), he started to use rather underhanded moves. Seducing more and more people than he'd done before, intimidating those that still stood by her, sometimes even going so far as to blackmail them. He was determined to be at the top of the food chain again, being the one that people thought of all day every day. Laito never really appreciated it, and chances were that he still wouldn't even after all of this. What he was appreciating was the entertainment- the challenge- that came from it.

What he would appreciate more is seeing her gradually break down because of it. Because of him. He was striving to reach a point where no one would even look at her, lest they risk his fury. But he'd still hold a hand out to her, to take her in and break her beyond repair, all under the guise of sympathy. Even just thinking about it got his nonexistent heart racing; her face, beautiful without a doubt, with reddened cheeks and puffy eyes that couldn't even cry any more than they had already. Those eyes, so vibrant and rich in their colour, filled with such despair and agony because of him. Though he couldn't decide if he wanted to show her off in such a state or keep her all to himself.

"What are you playing at, Mister Sakamaki?" Speak of the devil, and she may appear. Indeed, as he turned, he caught sight of you. Not that he needed to turn and face you, really, especially not with a look of confusion so feigned and practised upon his face. Yet he did so anyway, and internally delighted in seeing her.

He continued to play the innocently confused, answering: "Whatsoever do you mean?"

Though she was an exceptional actress, some of the irritation seeped through the cracks in her façade and tainted the usually affable tone in her voice as well as the sense of enchantment that lived in her eyes. She was visibly unimpressed by his faux guiltlessness, eyebrows furrowing just enough to form the slightest of creases before they were gone. Face back to neutrality, though not as beautiful as her brief frustration had been to him.

"I see," she paused, closing her eyes as he did so. If only she wouldn't do that, for she was much harder to read with her eyes closed. They were such a lovely colour, too. Thankfully she opened them once more when she continued, "I wouldn't recommend that you continue with what you're doing." As she spoke, that amiable smile came to her face again, one which didn't reach her eyes and distracted one very easily from her venomous emphasis which she delicately placed upon each softly spoken syllable.

That piqued his interest then, the threat spoken so mildly and the consequences left silent. He felt almost obligated to ask, failing to hide rising amusement, "Oh? And what will you do about it?"

She didn't rise to his challenge. Not immediately, anyway. But when she did, it was with a cutting civility and a long, cold stare: "I'll put bugs in your pants."

It was a child's threat, yes, but it was a threat which worked against the likes of Laito. Though he didn't reveal how much he detested at the mere idea of such a thing coming true. He hated the idea of insects being anywhere near him- never mind on him!

"The biggest ones I can find."

She was visibly trying very hard not to crack up at his reaction. No matter how much he tried to hide his discomfort, his pale skin paled even more. It was very tempting to tease and prod at him for it, but she resisted; it looked as if she'd be getting her way. She'd have got it one way or the other- that was something she was very good at- but it was always a pleasant surprise when it was this easy.

So, with an easy grin upon her face, she turned and headed down the hallway, left hand waving lazily, "pleasure doing business with you."

Oh, but it wasn't pleasant for him. He did keep his side of the one-sided bargain, but it was with extreme reluctance that only seemed to grow as time went on. With every fleeting touch she inflicted upon another, every simpering smile that they received- hell, every look she gave people began to grate on him. Why did she seem to give little bits of herself to everyone but him so freely? She barely even looked in his direction since their little exchange and days had began to merge with weeks, and he didn't know if he could take them forming months.

Especially since she always knew exactly what she was doing. The only times she would spare him a glance was when she did something that she knew would particularly annoy him. That was when she'd look in his direction, see him looking and stare just as smugly as she'd done before, with the same smugness that used to irritate him for different reasons.

It was still there now, poorly buried under false irritation as she tilted her head upwards to stare him in the eyes. Her eyes were somehow even more pretty up close, especially when looking in his direction.

"What are you doing, Sakamaki?" She was more relaxed this time, most likely due to having nothing to lose. Intrigue was very much present under layers of fake boredom, yet he didn't call her out on it.

"I could ask you the same question." Though he sounded relaxed, he wasn't as relaxed as he sounded on the inside. He'd acted on a whim, here, and even though the action wasn't unexpected of him, it felt rather foreign to him with her. There was something about her that seemed so different from anyone else he'd talked to in this school (apart from his brothers, of course), but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it might be.

She hummed in question, leaning forward until her nose nearly met his. So close, yet so far. How he wanted to lunge forward and take her lips in his, hoping it would satiate him somewhat.

"And why is that?"

He chuckled, not looking away from her for a moment; to break eye contact would be to admit defeat to her, and that was something he'd never do.

"You're full of questions today." Was all he responded with, barely acknowledging her question. She wouldn't have the satisfaction of knowing what he was thinking- how he was feeling- in the slightest. If he were to tell her then her ego would only grow, and that was the opposite of what he wanted.

He wanted her to squirm. To squirm like all the others when he pushed them so.

But she didn't.

"And you're dodging every single one of them." Finally, she broke eye contact, staring at his dark, loosely-tied necktie for a moment. Then she reached for it, twirling it around and around her finger with almost absent eyes. Around and around and around and around it went, and he mused that perhaps she'd never stop.

It did. Only when she reached up the tiniest amount to grip it in her hand, pulling it towards her. Their noses were very much touching there, and the slightest of friction from skin against skin had never felt so good to him before. Hell, he could've moaned from it had he not been so surprised.

Her eyes were so close, a colour so indescribably beautiful that he felt that he was drowning in an ocean of it from the sight alone. Especially so close. It was too close to be considered friendly- too close to even be considered aggressive. Well, not the type of aggressive that'd lead to a fight, anyway. Perhaps the other type of aggressive, though.

"You've been staring at me for a while," she stated, slightly tilting her head as she did so with an amused smile upon her face, "is there something you need from me?"

He, too, was amused by the situation. If he was not a vampire then he was sure his heart would've been beating out of his chest by now. It was a strange sensation, feeling so on-edge yet so immensely excited. Was this what it was like to play with fire? If so then he hoped it would never be extinguished.

"Perhaps," he cupped her chin in his hand, stroking it gently with long, slow movements of his thumb, "though I fear it's something only you can provide."

His gaze briefly strayed to her lips, lingering there intentionally longer than necessary, before flickering back up to her eyes. They narrowed in mirth.

"Oh? Is that so?"

Her movements were serpentine, head now close to his ear, so much so that her warm breath began to fan across his ice-cold neck.

"Well, then I can't deprive you if you're that desperate, now, can I?"

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

The sun was beginning to rise, yet neither of them noticed such a thing through the thick, dark curtains.

"I didn't think you were the dominant type," Laito spoke, the girl he was speaking to busying herself with dressing herself. He wasn't disappointed by any means, which was evident by his usual teasing, flirtatious tone of voice.

She snickered, "you certainly didn't seem to mind."

He grinned, waving an arm around in the air for emphasis, "of course not! It was a pleasant surprise."

"Though," he continued, staring at her whilst resting his face in the palm of his hand, "you still haven't told me what you are."

Completely unfazed by his question, she stared back with a smile still upon her face, "really- you haven't figured it out yet?"

Clicking her tongue, she strode over to her now-creased blazer that had been flung haphazardly onto the floor and shrugged it on, "I'm surprised. Surely you of all people have come across a succubus or two before, no?"

"A succubus?" He repeated, almost dumbfounded. As far as he knew, they were just some fantasy creature. But her being a succubus would answer a lot of his questions about the whole situation which had so far gone unanswered.

"Yes," she merely commented, slipping on her shoes now. At this point she was fully dressed, whereas Laito hadn't even bothered making an effort to put any clothes on.

With one final glance, she opened the door, "well, I hope to be seeing you a little more, Laito."

And with that, she left.

He hoped to be seeing a bit more than a little more of her. Let's just hope he doesn't get too greedy now, though.

#laito sakamaki #laito sakamaki x reader #yandere x reader #yandere laito #yandere laito sakamaki #x reader #laito x reader

170 notes · View notes

stevesnailbat · 5 years ago

Text

until it’s gone | steve harrington

summary: They say love is blind, but they never tell you that it’ll take you away from the ones who truly have always loved you the most.

warnings: some mentions of mental/physical abuse, angst

word count: 1.8K

a/n: this is a very self-indulgent fic, so i’m sorry if you don’t enjoy it. i wrote this for myself and any other victims of abusive relationships, really. if you don't want to read, please skip; writing this was a really therapeutic experience for me, i’m still dealing with what happened to me over four years ago and this is only the half of it. I want to share my experiences for those who don't have a voice. if anyone has experienced anything like me or anything along these lines, know that I'm always here to talk and listen! the gif is not mine, credit goes to @ehzio

She didn’t know what she was missing until it was gone. She never would have believed that she’d want Steve back, not after everything they’d gone through. It took months and a horrid relationship for her to realize what she’d lost.

It’s a tough concept, true love. It’s something that most people can't fully grasp until it’s slipped through their fingers a few times. It’s something that most people think they have, but don’t actually understand. It’s something that’s hard to come by. Steve knew that what he had with Y/N was true love, he knew that what they had was something that he’d never forget. He never expected for it to end up the way that it did, in shambles with pieces of their broken hearts shattered within the other. No matter how hard they tried, there was always something that would bring them back to each other, those shards of love would always be there when the other could’t physically hold them.

Neither of them would never dare to fully explain what led to the breakup. Steve’s friends would always praise him for what happened, Y/N’s would give her an incredulous look of sympathy whenever they’d talk about it. All they could say, really, was that another pair of lips against both of theirs should never have been their solution; especially when there wasn’t a true problem in the first place.

Moving on is never easy, but moving on from someone who never really leaves is even harder. Seeing Steve every day was a struggle, especially knowing that she wasn’t his anymore. There wasn’t anything either of them could do about it, though. What they had seemed to be gone, the love was buried beneath months of trauma and terror. She tried, and tried, and tried to move on without anyone’s help, until she finally met someone new.

Justin Wilkerson, he seemed like the perfect boy. He was protective, caring, and was always there when she needed him. She saw him through rose-colored glasses, she thought he was everything she had ever dreamed of. Her parents were suspicious, though. They never trusted what they had, but they would never bring it up; it seemed they were only glad that Steve was out of the picture. Y/N was head over heels for Justin, but she fell a little too quickly.

Falling for him a little too quickly was what caused her downfall. The ‘I love you’s flowed from their lips too soon and too often when they got together. Everything was a little too good, and went sour quickly. Sweet words of adoration turned to harsh words of manipulation.

A slip of the spiteful tongue was okay, right? A sharp glance and snide comment was okay, right? A need to control the relationship was okay, right? A slip of the strong fingers against the throat, a slip of a fucking belt against the ass, a slip of the rough hand in the hair was okay, right? A feeling of loneliness in a relationship was normal, right?

Right?

No. She knew it wasn’t normal, she knew it wasn’t okay. But, she couldn’t leave. Justin needed her, or so he told her. She was his lifeline, until she wasn’t. She was what kept him afloat, when he needed it. Only when he needed it, only when he was the one in need. It was like she was disposable, like she was nothing more than someone to feel up for a little bit and call his. Day by day, it all got worse. She never knew what was going to happen when they were together. One minute, he’d tell her that she was all he needed, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. The next, he’d tell her that she was worthless, that she was nothing to him, that she was just some type of experiment to him. It was normal for him to be angry with her sometimes. Sometimes it really was her fault, right?

Right?

No. Three months. It took three goddamn months for her to figure that out. When it caught up with her, it hit hard. She realized that not being allowed to go anywhere without permission from him while he was out was not okay. She realized that the goddamn belt, the goddamn hand that he’d come down with, the goddamn fingers on her throat were not okay. It was time to move on, if he’d let her.

Moving on wasn’t without a fight, that’s for sure. Justin guilted her into loving him for much longer than she’d expected. He’d told her that she was nothing without him, and she believed it for a while. After breaking up, he was still relentless. She had to resort to threats of ruined reputations and harsh words to get him to back off, but he finally did.

She thought she was free from love and lust, free from heartbreak and heartache, but she was wrong. Something felt off, like there was something missing. The hole in her chest was hungry, never satiated with her own efforts to be happy. The effort was never enough, until she realized what she’d lost.

It was at a stupid basketball game when she realized what she was missing: Steve. A flash of brown locks and that charming smile rushed through her mind on repeat when she saw him on the court. Her friends forced her to go, they made her get out for a while to get her mind off of everything. It didn’t get her mind off of anything, really. Realization took over for the sadness within her, and she finally realized what she had to do.

Steve had never moved on, he still loved her and would until he died. It hurt to see her struggle for so long, but those rose-colored glasses hid her from the truly terrible side of Justin until it was too late. There was nothing he could do about it until she realized it on her own. He thought she’d hated him all the while, he though she’d given up their love long ago.

Neither of them ever let go throughout their time apart. Something pulled them towards each other and eventually back together at that damn basketball game. She would give him long glances in the hallway, smile at him every once in a while. He was slightly confused, but he didn’t want to fuck it up this time, so he stayed silent without questioning. Steve ran through her mind for the rest of the week, until she finally got the courage to talk to him. It was a late night phone call, a short confessional at most. But, it was enough to make them both realize the love they’d missed out on.

“Y’know, I miss this.” Steve remarked over the phone, glancing at the clock to note the time at 3 a.m.

“Me too, Steve.” she said with a yawn, curling the phone cord in her fingers.

“I missed that tired whisper, that one right there.” he chuckled, making her giggle tiredly. “Soon enough you’ll be snoring like you used to.”

“Better watch it, Harrington. You’re on thin ice.” she teased, feeling satisfied with the conversation and where their relationship seemed to be going.

After the next week’s basketball game, things seemed hopeful. Steve invited her to celebrate the teams’ win with the rest of the boys, she obliged. She couldn’t keep her eyes off of him throughout the night, a feeling of happiness was spreading through her every time they locked eyes. Neither of them wanted the night to end once the time came to leave. Luckily, the unpredictable Indiana weather gave them a torrential downpour to keep them together for a while longer.

“I should probably pull over, I can’t see anything.” Steve said, squinting as he tried to continue driving.

“Pulling over sounds like a better idea than trying to drive. I’d rather get home a little past curfew than get in a crash.” she joked, flashing a nervous smile in his direction.

Steve’s heart felt like it was aching in the middle of his chest as he pulled the car to a park on the side of the road, his nerves were getting the best of him. Y/N couldn’t help but stare at Steve as he watched the rain pour against the windshield when he pulled the car to a stop. There was something about the moment that brought upon an unspoken revelation in both of them; their love was still there, it was even stronger than before.

“Y’know, I miss this.” she said, mimicking what he’d said to her on the phone.

“I missed this too. We don’t have to miss it anymore.” Steve said softly, a twinge of desperation in his voice.

“I know.” she replied hesitantly while her eyes fell to their hands, which were mere centimeters apart. “I know we don’t.”

A breath hitched in her throat when Steve moved all at once, she cowered away a little. He looked down at her with a pained frown, knowing exactly why she’d flinched. Steve wasn’t Justin, though. The calm yet hurt look on his face told her that he was nothing like Justin, and that he’d changed for the better. He wasn’t the same foolish boy that he was when they broke up. She could trust him, she told herself.

“I—I don’t know if you’ll ever trust me like you did before. But, I won’t hurt you again.” he assured her, keeping a safe distance for a moment. “Is this okay?”

His hand was hovering over hers, warmth radiating from his palm as if to tell her that she was safe. In the silent moment, only the sound of their breathing and the rain on the BMW’s roof were to be heard. She nodded slowly, finally daring to look back into his eyes. Steve gave her a weak smile and rested his hand on top of hers, feeling okay with starting everything over. He was coming to terms with the fact that they were new people, that it was a brand new relationship. She was coming to terms with love once more, but she felt like he didn’t believe she wanted him. Justin’s words replayed in her mind, telling her that nobody could want her unless she was under them.

The kiss she gave Steve was bruising and heated, like she’d been waiting to do it forever. But, it was a little too rash for him to enjoy it like he should. He could tell she felt like she owed it to him, like he’d leave if he didn’t give her something. He was satisfied with just being with her, that was all he cared about. The look on her face when he pulled away from the kiss was heartbreaking; she felt like he didn’t want her, like he was already bored with her.

“I don’t know what you’re so scared about, but I’m no Justin Wilkerson, Y/N. I don’t need you to prove yourself.” he assured her. “I’ll be alright, okay? I just want you to be happy. I don't want you doing anything that would hurt you.”

“I just want to be happy.” she repeated, smiling timidly at him with a small nod. “And I will be happier with you.”

tags: @sourapplebaby @jxnehxpper @harringtown @charmed-asylum @queenofthehairharrington @lemonypink @a-magey @igotmadskills @daddystevee @heart-eye-harrington

#tw: abuse #Steve harrington #Steve harrington angst #Steve harrington x reader #Steve harrington fanfic #Steve harrington fanfiction #Steve harrington oneshot #Steve harrington one shot #stranger things #stranger things 1 #stranger things 2 #stranger things 3 #stranger things angst #stranger things oneshot #stranger things one shot #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things x reader

113 notes · View notes

aijee · 3 years ago

Text

is this a life update or a novel?

Hi all, long time no post! Nice to meet you new followers, and nice to talk to you again for those who’ve stuck around. Just as a reminder, my blog is as much of a fic blog as it is a journal for me to sort my thoughts.

In that vein, here’s a personal update. CW for mental health/anxiety, physical pain, big life changes. There’s lighter stuff at the end!

It’s been both a long and short summer for me, after deciding to quit work and focus on my mental health. I’m a millennial twenty-something whose mind, like many, is tragically crippled with the capitalistic and individualistic values America has brainwashed me with, so I’ve had a hard time coming to terms with being unemployed and depending on my parents. I’m extremely privileged and humbled to be in a family that still maintains income during unprecedented times. I’ve been trying not to let my internalized struggles turn into this self-imposed shame for partaking in pleasures (I remember second-thinking buying a digital comic book for hours). My parents often say, “We worked hard and struggled because we didn’t want our kids to do the same. Don’t feel guilty for enjoying yourself.” Nowadays, they add that I’ve worked hard during college and my post-college job; in their eyes, I’ve more than “earned” a break, especially after losing my graduation, summers, and trips.

I constantly wonder why I impose so many limitations of myself even more during a pandemic. While being aware of global struggle is important for not becoming out-of-touch, I need to remind myself that people don’t have to earn the right to play or be happy or enjoyment. Obvious lack of nuance aside, it’s crazy to think how much capitalism—largely the idea worth is contingent (work) productivity—has deformed my sense of what’s a basic human right versus what should be earned. I think I’ve mentioned in a previous post that I struggle with thinking in extremes; it’s either starvation or hedonism, and the latter earns far more societal vitriol. I think my Asian upbringing has made me hyperaware of what others could be thinking of me, regardless of how accurate those projections are. I’d fact, I rarely assumed positive opinions. Outside of external validation, I realized how poor my self-image really was. Tearing myself down before anyone else could rarely, if ever, softened the blow.

For the first time, I’ve begun to think that my life is my own and no one else’s. It sounds logical on paper, but so much harder in practice in real life, I’ve realized. This isn’t a constant or ingrained thought yet, often peaking in between longer and more familiar strings of anxiety. But it feels like an important realization during a time full of sadness and uncertainty, let alone in my lifetime at all.

And then I injured my spine.

It happened towards the end of the summer, when I was starting to feel more put-together internally. I felt so creatively productive (in avenues I don’t care to share online) and even closer to family. I had a ball revisiting old shows. I ate food I hadn’t eaten in years. And this was suddenly interrupted when, while showering, I was wracked with unimaginable, nonstop pain. I nearly passed out alone in the shower and barely managed to crawl to my bedside to call my parents; I was lucky they came home early. I couldn’t stop crying for almost twelve hours. I was terrified at the possibility that I may be paralyzed or my legs would be affected. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case, but I was bedridden and wracked with nausea. I could barely stomach anything, not even water. I couldn’t sleep. I was never brought to a hospital, either on the fear of COVID transmission. The whole time, it was so, so debilitating on a physical and mental front. My head was a nightmare.

Like a bad habit, some of my worst thoughts centered around productivity. I worried about the work I couldn’t do. I felt shameful about canceling plans with friends. I hated being helpless and not being able to take care of myself, and felt guilty for wasting other people’s time taking care of me. And yet, if I was someone else, even a stranger let alone a friend/loved one, I’d be scratching my head over why that person would think these things. Fuck work and other life plans, getting better is the most important thing because you can’t do any of those compromised activities if you’re not at capacity! Duh. Anxiety can really a number on you sometimes and it’s awful just how irrationality fuels the spiral.

I’m grateful to be back on my feet. I’m trying to hold on tightly to that victory, to this positive point that I have worked towards. It’s going to be a challenge to do my recovery exercises daily for my 2-3 month recovery period when I barely remember to floss. Moreover, I’ll be in the middle of moving and working full-time again in the next month, alongside the ridiculous anxiety over some applications and maybe interviews for a different part of my life. But I’m doing my best to take each day at a time and celebrate the good things when they come, however small. I don’t have to ace a final exam or burn my retinas studying for them to deserve victories because, hey, again, happiness is a right and I need to stop gatekeeping myself from it.

Frankly, the injury is largely why I haven’t posted sooner. I don’t think anyone should ever feel obligated to use social media when they aren't up to it. But I actually wanted to ease back into writing before I was injured, starting with this blog.

Some other positive things:

God, I missed the Avatar (Aang and Korra) series so much. What a damn good franchise, what a damn good magic system and world. IT’S. SO. GOOD, GOD. Revisiting it all and reading the comics while I was sick was the single biggest joy that kept me going. I hope the magic lingers for as long as possible.

Even in my inactivity, I’ve received some really lovely comments on my AO3. I read the emails primarily. It really warms my hear to see them. I revisited old comments recently, too, and they’ve helped keep me going and reminded me that I am capable of putting joy into the world.

I’ve taken a liking to Youtube playlist-videos and Spotify playlists that encompass a very specific story scenario, like “dancing with the villain in a masquerade ball” or “driving around the French countryside”, etc. Japanese 80′s urban pop is SO GOOD.

Smosh has been putting out such great content y’all. I was BIG on old Youtube (Nigahiga, Smosh, Michelle Phan, Jenna Marbles, etc.) and it warms my heart to see their renaissance. Amazingly entertaining and down-to-earth content. I don’t fall squarely into their demographic anymore, but the periphery is still fun.

Food is great. I love food still. I’ve eaten a lot of good food during this break. It almost pains me to go back to living by myself and eating healthier. :’(

I didn’t realize how expensive moving was. But, after living in the same apartment from sophomore uni to post-uni work, I’m moving into a bigger “adult” apartment with appropriately sized appliances instead of the mini student kind. The possibility of treating myself to a king-sized mattress and decorations is also very exciting.

It warms my heart to see people in my vague social circles indulging in home art projects, like paint by numbers and “diamond” painting. As a kid I thought “not real art” was a waste, but by god as an adult do I not give a shit about what “real art” is anymore. If it’s fun, it’s fun. That’s that!

That’s all I can think about for now.

#aijeepost

1 note · View note

such-goodluck · 4 years ago

Text

This is somewhat self-indulgent and it doesn’t actually have a plot, it is more like... Glimpses of Remus’ mind before and after the full moon? It was inspired by this gorgeous picture. It’s short, so I decided to post the whole thing here on tumblr, but if you want to read it on AO3, you can just click here.

Somewhere, Nowhere

Pairing: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin (Hinted)

Words: 1078

Summary:

In the outskirts of the country, someplace of unknown location, there is an abandoned cabin where they choose to spend the first moon after Hogwarts.

In the outskirts of the country, someplace of unknown location, there is an abandoned cabin. Small, made of wood. One window at the front, another at the back. The front door is crooked, hanging from its hinges. Surrounding the cabin there is nothing but shrubland. There's also an old road; it has no beginning point, nor does it have a destination. It's a place that has clearly been uninhabited for decades.

"Are you sure?"

Sirius huffs.

"What do you take us for? Amateurs?"

"We checked Moony, don't worry. There's no one around." James says in that placatory tone he has acquired over the last year. It makes Remus wonder where are they going - or rather, were life and war are forcing them to go. Everything feels so sober now. Their childhood days are indeed behind them, never mind that they still are children.

Remus still awaits for the memo that will let him know when to grow up.

"It's a nice place" Peter comments, and even Remus has to agree with that. They picked a very fine location, indeed. Well, Sirius did, because who else would've worried about things like that for someone, for Remus, if not Sirius?

A beautiful spot for the beast to arise.

The place has a wild aura that makes it entrancing. The fading sun exudes that white-orange glow that only comes when it's about to set, makes you believe that you can look at it without burning your eyes. There seem to be a lot of things these days that gives Remus this same feeling.

"We should get in."

Inside, there is dust, a mattress and a thick blanket.

"Did you buy these?" Remus points to the mattress and blanket.

Sirius shrugs.

"It's not like I can't afford it."

Remus can't. Afford it, that is. He should probably feel humiliated that, in addition to everything his friends already do for him, he can't even buy his own sodding mattress and his own bloody blanket without relying on them. But he doesn't. He only feels a warm sensation blossoming inside of himself.

"Thank you." He tells Sirius with meaning. Sirius dismisses him, but Remus notices the small change in him when the corners of his lips turn up.

***

Remus wakes up with the taste of blood in his mouth. His heart jumps in his chest at the recognition, but his mind hasn't caught up yet.

These moments of barely being awake, the reminiscences of the wolf's mind still within reach, are some of the most strange ones for Remus. It's some sort of limbo where he can't yet keep total grasp of reality, but there's this constant nag at the back of his mind that demands for him to do it, to take note of the world surrounding him. He can taste, but can't open his eyes. He can smell, but can't pinpoint what. He can feel his skin, but can't move his arms. So he waits until his body remembers that he is himself again.

Slowly, his mind and body begin to get back in syntony with one another. He moves his toes, his fingers. He is not ready yet to open his eyes, so he focuses on other things. Distantly, he can hear the sound of birds chirping. The rustling of his feet on the mattress. He can smell dirt, and it makes his nose itch. He smells fur, but that is not unusual, having three furry friends and having spent the night covered in fur himself. He works his throat around a swallow, dry and raw as it usually is the morning after. He feels again the taste in his tongue that his mind had recognized as blood. His eyes shoot open.

"Here." He hears Sirius says, finds him moving towards him with a travelling mug. Sirius brings it to his lips, allows him to drink as much water as he wants and needs.

He tries to speak, but his voice yet is too heavy, too difficult to let out. He clears his throat, tries again.

"Where are the others?"

"They had to get back home, they have work in a few minutes."

Right. They should all be grown-ups now.

"What about you?"

"Told Prongs to come up with something for me, tell them I'm sick or whatever. I'll deal with it later."

Sirius hadn't got the memo about being an adult either. But then again, that is Sirius Black for you.

"Wipe that look off your face, Moony. As if I'd leave you here to sort yourself out alone."

No, that is Sirius Black for you, Remus. He doesn't know why, but even after all these years, after everything that happened, he still has a hard time accepting that people can do things for him not out of a sense of obligation, not because they don't care about their other responsibilities, but simply because they prioritize Remus. Sirius doesn't let him forget for long, though. He hopes the boy doesn't notice him blushing.

"I'm tasting blood."

Sirius features soften a bit.

"We're all ok, not a scratch. Not even you. Can't say the same for the rabbit you took fancy to last night, though."

Remus breaths relieved.

"Feeling up for apparating yet? Or do you wanna hang around more?"

"No, I think I'm good to go."

"You sure?" And Sirius pins him with his intense gaze that is so difficult to hide from, annalizing Remus as if he was a sculpture, looking for cracks, looking for any indication that he might be lying.

He isn't, and Sirius seems to think as much, for he nods and helps Remus to get up. As always, Remus tries not to focus on the fact that he is naked, bared and vulnerable for the person who (unknowingly) owns his heart. As always, Remus fails.

Still supporting him, Sirius summons Remus' robes and give them to him, helps him get dressed. As Remus finishes, Sirius takes the blanket - doesn't fold it, only gathers it in a messy bunch - and shrinks it along with the mattress. He puts both on the pockets of Remus' robes, which are larger than the pockets of his jeans. With much care, he takes them both outside, breaks the protection spells and apparates them to his house.

The cabin remains, seemingly untouched. They won't get back to it, they have a whole world of possibilities to explore at each moon. That is, for as long as The War allows them to.

#wolfstar #remus x sirius #sirius x remus #canon compliant #First Full Moon After Hogwarts #Introspective Remus #Harry Potter #my writing #ao3

5 notes · View notes

ceallachs · 5 years ago

Text

thank you.

This announcement is a little overdue, but I’ve gained over 1k followers on this blog! 🥳🥳🥳

I actually passed this milestone a while ago. Life has just been getting to me with so much to do that I can only manage a couple of drawings at a time. So I don’t have anything special other than my heartfelt thanks and some words. Under this post, I address a lot of things in regards to my art journey, fandoms, future plans with BakuTodo, and a lot of it is about AkaKuro.

So if you are interested, please read on. If you’re here just to check my art, thank you. Thank you for taking the time to let my work be part of your day and for your support. ^^

I know I was mostly only posting KnB/AkaKuro stuff until only a couple months ago, so the change from KnB to BNHA was pretty drastic and nerve-racking. I’ve been thinking of making the move as early as December 2019, but I hesitated for the longest time. As someone who has built their fandom “identity” around AkaKuro and KnB, making that move to another fandom, to another OTP even, may have come as a surprise to a lot of my old followers and friends. I do not keep track of every individual followers I get; surely some have left, or maybe some still stick around to see if I will get back to AkaKuro again, one day.

Interests are fleeting and people change constantly. In a time where people always jump onto the next big thing to another in a short span of time, I can say that I have a pretty good streak of committing to my main fandoms. My first online fandom lasted for seven years. The next was KnB, and this one lasted for nine years.

I was a teenager when I joined the KnB fandom and now I’m in my 20s. I still love AkaKuro with all my heart; it will always be a big part of who I am, but I have to admit at some point where I am now in life, and I will say I have already moved on.

This is an excerpt from my Twitter that I thought I should also address here because it sums up everything I’ve wanted to say. I’ve made some major tweaks and edits and added more things to properly articulate my feelings about the matter. I hope it is understandable enough.

It started in November.

In the first few months of dabbling with BakuTodo, I was very, very scared. I was worried because I was such a prominent person for the AkaKuro fandom; I hosted and held events for years, I stayed "active" for AkaKuro even five years after KnB had ended. I wrote fics, drew stuff, promoted every AkaKuro thing I can even when all my AkaKuro friends have moved on. I have so much AkaKuro merch and doujins because it had taken over my life that prominently.

So after all of that, I didn't know what would happen with a change because I felt like I was already in too deep to move on now. I wasn't sure if I could (should) like anything else, or if I was even allowed to like something else as deeply as AkaKuro without letting people down.

Eventually I just gave in three months later and became more vocal about this new interest. I lost followers which was expected, even those whose handles that became very familiar to me because they actively interacted with me about AkaKuro and KnB before. It stung but not as badly as I thought it would. The change was nice; I felt free.

I think it's only now that I've become comfortable to admit all this in public. To admit my worries, to admit that I've liked a ship more than AkaKuro for a while, to admit that the weight of AkaKuro being prominently tied to my name like an identity has become too heavy a burden to bear. I still do love AkaKuro, it's a part of my life that will never change, I think. But it's also not my main source of happiness nor inspiration anymore, and I hope that, it's okay for me to feel that way now that I've said it out loud.

It's strange to explain, but I think it's because I've dedicated a huge chunk of my life to AkaKuro that I think I've already exhausted all I have to give for it. Nine years of being solely dedicated to one ship is a long time, you have to admit. It's not like my other ships that are more casual, so that burst of excitement will always be present when it gets brought up once in a while. With AkaKuro, my feelings for it have significantly mellowed down, like a precious memory now tucked away in a special place in my heart.

A friend told me that it's okay to move on, and that somewhere down the line AkaKuro will become something I'll look back on fondly even though bittersweet. I have no doubts that'll be the case. But it's also nice to finally just be honest and set myself free.

I've also been feeling very guilty of promising an AkaKuro zine last December and now... it is just the last thing on my mind. I have so much more I want to do that is no longer about AkaKuro, and I shouldn’t force myself to do this zine out of obligation. But if ever someone else were to host an AkaKuro zine, I will support it and even participate if the timing is right.

About my future plans, I don’t think I will be drawing KnB again out of leisure (maybe for commissions, or projects, etc). I still have a lot of unfinished and unreleased KnB fanmerch though (an AkaKuro yukata standee and Carnival AkaKuro standee, and maybe a re-release of some old charms for the last time), so that may be the last of my contribution to this ship out of my own volition for a while. It would be a waste to scrap them.

Right now, all my love and inspiration for anything creative and self-indulgent is being driven by BakuTodo and it’s the best feeling I’ve had in a long time. I want to draw more about them; I have long list of ideas I’m excited to get into. Not only that, my love for writing was reawakened too, and I hope to also post fics about them along with my art.

I still love AkaKuro, and people can still talk to me about AkaKuro, but it is definitely not my priority ship anymore. Who knows if I'll come back to it again, but for right now, I hope everyone will be okay with the change. And if not, that's okay too and I expected it, I also put this out here to give the go signal if anyone wants to unfollow or not. I know there are people who only follow for specific content, and I've come to terms with myself to be okay with this happening with me.

Just know I'm happy where I am. I'm grateful to friends and acquaintances who still stick around to support me even after this, and I also understand if some don’t. I hope those who leave will find another content creator to cater to their needs. Thanks for giving me a chance. ^^

I hope this clears up the kind of content to be expected from me from now on. I will never forget my time in the KnB fandom because this is where it all started for me. I will also be slowly getting rid of more AkaKuro doujins, fanmerch, and official merch collection once the lockdown situation eases up. Hopefully someone else will find homes for them.

Tumblr is not my main social media but I still do like the format of blogging here, so I stay to cross-post my art from Twitter and Instagram.

From exclusively drawing cheebs, I’m now also drawing non-cheebs and I’m having a lot of fun. My art is far from perfect and that’s okay. As someone who gave up on art for nine years, being able to do it again now, sharing and posting my art and actually be happy about it is more than enough for me. I’m not striving for perfection, I know where my level is at. Drawing and writing are both hobbies I hold dear -- a creative outlet for me to express my love for what I’m currently passionate about and what makes me happy. I really appreciate it if you stay with me for this ride because I know I’ve come a long way these past 2-3 years.

To anyone who views my art, likes and reblogs, leaves nice comments and all, I hope you know that I appreciate you a lot. I rarely get messages on here, but I do read tags on my posts often, and going through them always puts a smile on my face to know that I have an audience here who genuinely likes what I do.

There isn’t much more for me to say here so I think that will be all. Again, thank you for 1k+ followers! If I can make even just a single person happy with my art, whether you’re new here or just dropping by or have been following me for a long time, I’ll be content. And if I can make someone like BakuTodo too through how I portray them, that’d be even more amazing. ^^

Until next time. 💖

#chii speaks #akakuro

35 notes · View notes

chaos-monkeyy · 4 years ago

Text

State of Chaos

For WIP Wednesday, I thought I’d try something different! So instead of sharing an excerpt from a work in progress, here is a list of the WIPs I’m working on in my too many fandoms at the moment, both published and not; as well as some blathering about other *ideas* I have that I (probably) (maybe) plan (hope) to write at some point. Feel free to ask for more details or ‘vote’ on what I should focus on if you want, I can’t promise anything but I am highly impressionable, and when people get me excited about something there’s a good chance I’ll work on it 😂

(it’s a long post so I’m just putting it all under a cut! There’s mention of kink fics & ships, but I don’t go into any detail about them)

Assassin’s Creed

Diletto (working title) Ezio/Caterina and Ezio/Caterina/Leo, where Caterina wants to be the one to do the fucking, Ezio is more than amenable to this idea, and Leonardo da Vinci makes the world’s first strap-on. First chapter rough draft is written, as well as a few little chunks of chapter 2! Writing F/M fic is always a bit out there for me, but I am very excited about how this one is coming along.

The skills of Assassins The Ezio/Mario sexy training one! Three chapters published and while I’ve got several ideas for other chapters, I haven’t started actually writing them yet 🙈 I’m at that point where I need to balance I want more porn with not just getting repetitive…

Plans I really want to write some Ezio/Leo smut, got this idea for playful ‘how much can I distract you’ while Leonardo is deciphering one of Ezio’s codex pages (he always bends over the worktable to do it and I just. I can’t not). I also have Thoughts about a couple more kink fics, including a Shaun POV sequel to Not here 😏 And I just, I have to write something with silver fox Revelation’s Ezio. No idea what yet, but god damn he’s sexy.

The Dresden Files

Nothing really in progress, exactly, though I’ve been kicking around a Dresden/Marcone idea where Marcone hires a Harry look-alike to play out his fantasies of Domming the fuck out of that fucking wizard. (Honestly, there’s so many pairings in TDF that I love the thought of, but just never quite manage to come up with something to write for them… Perhaps I’ll continue my read-through of the series in a search for inspiration.)

The Expanse

Also nothing actively in progress; I have a couple fic ideas that I still really like the thought of (including a ‘proto-Miller getting freaky with the mind games and double-teaming Holden’ threesome), but I’m not sure if/when I’ll get around to writing any of them. If a new book or season comes out, that might kickstart the interest again.

Midsomer Murders

A short holiday (working title) Just a standalone PWP / Porn with Feelings for my OG OT3. John, Sarah, and Ben spending a long weekend together in a nicely remote cottage with a hot tub and a fireplace, and having a whole lot of sexy sex and cuddles. Probably featuring needy bottom!John and Sarah demanding some good old-fashioned DP from the two of them. I’ve got some of the start written and I pick at it every now and then when I’m feeling sappy.

Behind the scenes The companion fic to Falls into place. I still have ideas that I wanted to do, but ever since MM got taken off Netflix, it’s made it harder to write for the show at all and for this little ficlets collection in particular 😭

Midsomer x Wallace and Gromit crossover This is a semi-secret project I’ve been working at slowly for over a year now, and a rare non-smutty work 😱 I really like it and do plan to finish it.. someday, but given that it’s an actual fucking story, with no sexy times or shipping, it’s very very out of my comfort zone. So… slow going, to say the least 😅

Plans I really do want to write a werewolf!Jones fic for Bobbit, I just need to figure out what it is exactly that I want to do with it… I also I had a few more ideas for Just Relax (the John dealing with / helping / being there for stress-bunny Ben series), but I have no clue if I’ll ever get around to actually writing them out or not.

Star Wars

(Come) Ride With Me Got some sexy stuff written out for Chapter 3 (I actually wrote it before even finishing BLJ, it’s what got me writing the damn sequel / companion fic in the first place), but I’m having trouble getting the chapter set-up started. It’ll happen eventually!

Orgy fic That self-indulgent fuckfest I’ve been working at with Jewell for ages, ft. Formbi/Ronan, Ar’alani/Faro, Thrawn/Eli/Nightswan, and Thrass/Everybody. It’s maybe a solid half-done? But damn it’s a lot of POVs to get right and a lot of… bodies and activities to keep track of 😆 (it’s frikken hot though, if I do say so myself)

Sequel to Pinned and Control I did write out a little tiny chunk for that, and Rev and I have Ideas(TM) for it. I’m still tentatively hopeful they’ll come to fruition someday 😂 experienced young sexpot Eli and older flustered inexperienced Thrawn is just too good to leave dormant forever.

Plans Still got a couple more Thrawn/Thrass oneshots I wanna write for the Stripped series. But I know it’s going to make me sad as well as horny if you’ve read Outbound Flight you know why so I haven’t been in just the right mood to actually write them yet. I also really want to write a crack-adjacent Thranto gloryhole fic, a deliciously sacrilegious modern Earth AU with Eli essentially dirty-talking priest!Thrawn in the confessional, a Thrawn/Eli/Thrass ‘he had to marry both brothers’ AU of some kind, a NightThrawn ice to fire sequel, and a part 2 for Consequences. And maybe some Thrawn/Fenn porny oneshots set in the Peace Bearer universe I mean what 😇

The Witcher

Flagrant Indecency Chapter 4 is partially written, and I have basic plans for chapter 5! This is a tough one just cause… yeah. More panic / embarrassment than what I usually write for omo, but I am happy with how it’s coming along. I signed up for Wolfie’s finish your fic fest with this one, so I plan to have ch 4 up in a couple weeks and the fic finish by (…whatever the event deadline is, september I think?) at the latest!

No title yet I got ambushed the other day by a Geraskier fic idea involving an incubus hunt gone wrong, juiced-up demanding bottom!Geralt, and inappropriate (but consensual) use of Axii. It’s coming along very nicely 😏 chances are good it’ll be the next thing I publish but honestly, I can never be totally sure what the Brain will decide to do.

Plans There’s a few things I want to get done at some point, including: Geralt discovers Jaskier’s glove kink by accident and they have a lot of fun with that; a sequel to Undignified with more omo thirst trap Jaskier; Geralt’s first time getting fucked / being with a man at all because he walked in on Jaskier and now he’s curious and Jaskier is more than happy to oblige; and possibly one or two sequels to Intoxicating as well because I love my problematic dynamics too much to leave it there. Oh! And maybe a sequel to Tight Fit as well, Jaskier is nothing if not determined 😏

#assassin's creed #midsomer murders #dresden files #the expanse #the witcher #star wars #multifandom #chaos babbles #wip wednesday #state of chaos #too much smut too little time #writing

17 notes · View notes

grell-writes-stuff · 4 years ago

Text

A Self Indulgent First Chapter

Enjoy...something

Words: 2,549

Genre: Young Adult / Paranormal

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

Slam!

Gasp!

And then the apathetic yell of “Walk it off, Willow!” from Coach Martin. No stopping the game or running over to make sure I’m not deprived of air or dying or something. Just “Walk it off, Willow!”

I suffer for a second with the wind knocked out of my body. My inhaler finds its way from my pocket to my hand, and while I hold the one breath I force myself into and wait for my crap lungs to jump-start again, I contemplate the most-likely-illegal play that landed me flat on my back in the middle of the field. Quarterback Tom Styles’ outstretched elbow connecting with my neck at full speed in his chase for the checkered ball and high school sports glory, clearly confusing his claim-to-fame varsity moves with a pickup game of soccer since I doubt he has the brain cells to remember the rules to two sports at once. And probably a little bit on purpose. Because he’s a dick.

My chest wheezes a little, but at least it’s something, and the weak inhales finally start to catch as a sun-freckled face appears above me and blocks out the light. Ivy offers me her hand.

“Did th-that look a-as bad as it f-felt?” I sputter.

Ivy tilts her head from side-to-side like it’s the scale measuring how uncool I am. “Worse. Very pathetic. You will die alone.” She yanks me to my feet and acts like a support in spite of the height difference.

“P-Please stop making m-me take gym with y-you.”

“Nah. It’s too funny.” She ignores my scowl. “Come on. Let’s get you some water and wait for those shitty lungs to work again.”

She escorts me – hobbling like some eighty-year-old man with spine problems and not just what will soon be a terrible, ugly bruise – toward the bleachers, empty except for the water bottles of our classmates. I’m happy enough to sit on the sidelines, not just while recovering from having all of the air robbed from my chest, but for the rest of gym class, and also forever. Ivy is equally as happy, but only because it prompts the girls’ teacher, Coach Caruthers, to scream in her booming voice:

“Hammond! Back on the field!”

Without missing a beat, Ivy responds, “In the event of moderate injury, students are allowed to have a friend or fellow student for mental, emotional, or physical support. It’s in the code of conduct.”

I don’t know if that’s actually something in our school’s rule book, but Ivy has read the whole thing cover-to-cover for the sole purpose of seeing how many provisions she can disregard without getting into trouble through malicious acts of over-compliance or sheer dumb luck. So, she’s either following the rules to the letter or lying about them. As I sit, I see that Caruthers does not look impressed when Ivy plops onto the bench next to me. The whole reason our gender-segregated phys. ed classes collaborate so often is because they’re full of athletes – and me, the outlier – so more often than not, it’s just an extra practice for the varsity players. Even though Ivy was born with the “good at physical stuff” gene, and talented enough to be a forward on our girls’ soccer team, she prefers to rely on the natural part of her ability and not the practice part to the vexation of literally everyone.

“Hammond!” Caruthers screams. “On the field, or off the team!”

Ivy squirts a stream of water into her mouth and quickly swallows before passing the bottle on to me. “Cool. Who’s replacing me?” she retorts.

I focus on downing some water and breathing evenly again and not on the vein beginning to pop out of Caruthers’ angry-red neck. She can’t say anything back because, well, Kinross High School isn’t huge. Pretty much everyone who can play sports is already playing sports, and as far as Ivy’s tendency to disrespect anyone of authority can go, she’s also crucial to securing victory over visiting teams. Caruthers just grits her teeth and returns to refereeing the game where Tom Styles has once again stolen the ball that got away from him, this time without incapacitating anybody since the one guy with asthma has left the field. (Asshole.) I watch as Abby Jefferson starts to gain on him, and Tom makes the choice to skillfully send the ball flying across the grass to the next open player, Drew Young, the only person in our gym class who does even less than I do.

That’s not for lack of talent either. I’ve seen Drew actually try on the rare occasion, and he could absolutely score a spot on a boys’ sports team. But most games, like today, he receives the pass and kicks the ball along to the next open player – it’s intercepted by one of the girls – and continues pacing the field leisurely. Coach Martin yells at him to get his head in the game, but Drew doesn’t bother. If the activity doesn’t involve selling the pens that he stole from the cheerleaders to the football team, the little weasel has no interest.

The game continues on.

Ivy reclines until her shoulders are touching the bench behind us, tilting her head back and staring at the sky. I have to wonder how comfortable it is.

“My dear Sid,” she theatrically addresses me. She likes to be dramatic sometimes. She thinks it’s funny. “I have a proposal for you.”

“I told you I’m not training a messenger pigeon with you. We only live three houses apart.”

“I’ll wear you down eventually, but no, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.” She looks over at me without breaking her questionable position. “I know what we’re doing tonight. I’ve concocted a perfect plan, you see, for this most All-Hallowed of Eves.”

“You can say ‘Halloween’ like a normal person. It’s okay.”

“Let me bring you back in time,” she continues, ignoring me, “to the Kinross of yore. Just decades after its founding, the Salem Witch Trials came about and our town was no exception to the noose–”

“Salem is two hours away, Ivy,” I interrupt with the fact.

“Shut up. The Salem Witch Trials swept across the state of Massachusetts, migrated into Kinross, and thus the most famous trial of Kinross history was set in motion when one Ann Kelly was accused of being a creature of the occult!”

“Can I get the abridged version of this plan please?” I ask her. “Like, the part that takes place in this century?”

Finally fed up with my interjections, Ivy sighs exaggeratedly and rolls her eyes at me. “Blah, blah, blah, she was hanged, she’s buried in the historical section of Riverview, and we’re going there tonight during the witching hour to see” – she switches to her best spooky voice with elongated, trembling vowels – “her haunted grave.”

“Hard pass.”

That makes her sit upright again with a slouch to her posture. She’s wearing a fabricated pout. “Sid,” she whines.

“Ivy, I’m not sneaking out with you at three in the morning on Halloween to go see a ‘haunted grave.’” She opens her mouth, but I follow up with, “Our parents would kill us. Besides, what’s-her-name probably just angered a bunch of Puritans and got executed because of religious prejudice. That doesn’t mean she was a witch.”

“Well, of course. I think angering Puritans was a mandatory activity back then. But come on, Sid! The legend says she’s a witch, and it’s the perfect Halloween thing! I think we are obligated – if not encouraged by the spirit of Halloween herself – to go see a ghost witch.”

“Does the spirit of Halloween have a gender?”

Ivy pushes past that and waits to catch my eye dead-on. “Bet you a hundred bucks we actually see Ann Kelly’s phantom.”

My lips part to say no just a split second before I register the number. “Wait – a hundred?”

Something cocky has taken up her face, and she recites with inflated confidence, “Ten A-Hams. A Franklin. A thousand Roosevelts.”

“You know what? Fine. I’ll take your money,” I tell her. “You’re on.”

Her grin is smug as we fist-bump on it and close the deal, but I decide that I don’t care so much with the promise of an easy hundred dollars coming my way. Ivy ingests another stream of water, and swallows while her eyes quickly scan the grass to catch up with the game again. Suddenly, a yell flies from her mouth:

“Box him out, Julia! Come on!”

Then she’s up off the bleachers and jogging back out onto the field. As unwilling as Ivy is to make an effort and practice, she’s also equally as competitive, even if this is just a gym class where victory doesn’t really matter. I, on the other hand, take my time on the bench. Struggling to breathe isn’t my idea of fun. I need to stop letting Ivy manipulate me into taking phys. ed. If she keeps it up, she might kill me.

***

I can nearly be qualified as a mess by the time Ivy and I reach our lockers after final period, and she’s humming like she’s got live wires for veins despite just spending an hour burning off energy. Meanwhile, I’m still recovering from my last bout of airlessness after I returned to the field and ran for maybe ten minutes. And I feel gross. The benefit of having P.E. last period is that I don’t have to shower here and can wait until I get home or to Ivy’s. The con is the window of time in between. I usually try to keep the gap as short as possible, and therefore, my time at my locker brief. I think Ivy and I took enough time getting changed after gym to avoid most people – at least the non-athletes.

“Hi, Sidney! Hi, Ivy!”

A mixture of feelings suddenly rockets through me and don’t add up in the end. While my chest is beginning to slowly overclock, and the hallway seems a few degrees warmer and rising steadily, I’m ready to play dead as Naomi Park opens the locker right next to mine on the opposite side of Ivy’s. Her shoulder is a fraction of an inch from touching my arm which is probably too close when I’m still drenched in gym sweat. Ivy greets her politely with ease while my brain is trying to catch up with the mundane situation and not think about how she smells like some kind of flowery perfume and I smell like crap.

“Hey, Naomi,” leaves my mouth and sounds too drawn-out and weirdly cheesy, so I just try to smile to make up for it. That feels awkward too, but she thankfully doesn’t seem to react to that, and her glossy pink lips tilt up without much effort into a perfect grin.

She puts some books on the shelf in her locker. “Any exciting Halloween plans?”

“Nope,” Ivy says immediately, likely because our actual idea involves a wager and might not be entirely legal – it’s a misdemeanor at the least. I just take the hint and don’t add anything to refute her answer.

“You? Any plans? For tonight – Halloween?” I wish that had come out differently. It could have at least sounded coherent.

“Nothing tonight,” Naomi responds. “But Heather’s having a ‘Belated Halloween Bash’ on Saturday while her parents are out of town so I’m ‘required’ to be there.”

“Oh, cool. That’s…cool.”

“I guess so. Heather’s parties get a little boring after a while though. I bet your plans for Saturday are much more fun.”

“Yep. Pints of ice cream, horror movies, and making bets on how long it takes Sid to hurl when the blood starts gushing,” Ivy interjects.

“Ivy.” I mutter the snap of her name so it doesn’t sound as harsh as I want it to. The temperature in the hallway rises astronomically.

Naomi giggles, which hurts. Well, it would if her laugh wasn’t so musical and twinkly. It’s like a damn harp quartet. “Sounds like a good time,” she comments. Her locker door shuts. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Yeah, totally – tomorrow. See ya’, Naomi!” She’s nearly out of earshot down the hall, and I wait until I know she definitely can’t hear anything before I say to Ivy without daring a look at her, with the heat of embarrassment and shame boiling me alive from the inside, “Please say nothing.”

I can hear the grin on her face when she speaks. “You realize she’s just another human being, right?”

“Are you kidding? She’s at the right hand of Heather Loch. She’s popular. I’m shocked she still knows my name.”

Ivy shuts her own locker with a characteristic slam. “Dude, you’re ridiculous. She likes you back. If you just talked to her, and told her that you like her, you would have a girlfriend.”

“Ivy, she thinks I’m a loser.”

“I think you’re a loser and I still like you sometimes.”

I roll my eyes and can’t say anything to that. I don’t care if Ivy thinks I’m lame. It’s not the same. We’ve been together for as long as I can remember, so at this point, she’s locked into this friendship, no matter how easy it would be for her to hang out with the people at Kinross High who are actually popular and liked.

I close my locker and we start walking to the main exit of the building and eventually across the school’s student parking lot. Some groups linger, but most people seem to be dispersing and heading home for the day. Ivy and I walk straight through the lot as always, avoiding the cars pulling out.

I want to avoid the Styles’ Ford Everest – which is so bright red that it’s an assault on the eyes – but we have to walk past it and the clump of popular kids loitering next to it: blonde, perfect, popular Heather Loch, Asshole Quarterback Tom and his not-as-terrible twin, Ed, and my locker neighbour and secret crush, Naomi. The girls are under the guys’ arms like they belong there, popular with popular. There’s usually not much interaction between our pair and their group because I’m pretty sure most of the popular kids either don’t know who I am or just hate me for no reason, but today Tom decides to rub in his full-contact plays on the soccer field.

“Nice moves out there, Pussy Willow!” he shouts clear across the lot. It makes me feel the bruise on my back, still fresh, but I’m past the point of being mad about it. Really, Tom’s just an annoying jerk, and that’s all he’ll ever be.

I try to tap into Ivy-like sarcasm and passiveness. “I get it. Because my last name is Willow, and you’re insulting me. That’s really funny. It’s original.”

He yells something back that includes one of Ivy’s favourite swear words, but we disregard it and turn out of the parking lot in the direction of our houses. Ivy states that we’re going to my place because, in her mind, it’s easier to sneak out of a single-parent household. I don’t try to refute it because arguing with Ivy when she has her mind made up is like talking to a brick wall.

#writing #wip #untitled #my writing #my ocs #ya #young adult #writeblr

14 notes · View notes