#Now why did I spend ages preparing to just get disrespected like that?

[kraro-school-life]

You know the exam went bad when you start questioning wether this was even real or just a fucked up dream

[lovessidney]

You're worth finding

Please note that this explicit story was written by an adult, for adults. If you are under the age of 18, please do not interact.

Trigger warning: Alcohol abuse.

Pairing: Gerard Way x Reader

Pronouns: none, I think (anatomy: AFAB).

Requested by: @xpsidedownn

Summary: You and Gerard get into a terrible fight. They’re drinking in a worrying kind of way and all you want is to help them, but it doesn’t go down the way you want it to. You spend the evening looking for them and in the end, you make up.

A/n: This request has taken me aaaaaaaaages, and I’m so so so sorry. I’ve had the worst writers block and have been working my ass off both with uni and actual work. But it’s finally done. 

Also, I'm switching up my writing. So, if you’ve read anything of mine maybe you’ve seen I’ve always written in third-person perspective. I don’t know why. However, that led to a lot of names, pronouns and (y/n)s, so I’ve decided to try first-person perspective. I hope y’all like it.

Second ”also”, I’m in no way trying to glamorise alcohol abuse, and I tried to be respectful about it. I fully understand it’s a very real disease and I’m in no way trying to portray it unfairly or disrespectfully. Still; if any of you feel like I’ve gotten something wrong or find it disrespectful, please let me know and I will do my best to alter the story or simply remove it.

Your timer beeped, letting you know it was time to start boiling pasta. The sauce to accompany it was already simmering in a pot beside the one now containing pasta. It smelled wonderful, you had to admit.

Gerard had had a very rough week, stressing a lot for tonight’s gig. In an ordinary situation, you would’ve been there to support them, as well as the rest of the band. Unfortunately, you had one hell of a cold and had spent most of the past few days in bed, accompanied by various medicines and wads of paper tissues.

Despite it all, you wanted to do something nice for Gerard. Dinner and a movie, at home edition. So you had made your way to the local supermarket, getting ingredients for their favourite pasta dish, as well as snacks and an unusually nice bottle of red wine.

When you got home, you had a shower and even dressed up just a little bit nicer than usual. And now you stood in the kitchen, just finishing up the last of the dinner preparations.

You looked toward the table. There were candles lit, a fresh bouquet of roses, and two glasses of red wine. Soft music played in the background, adding to the soft and romantic atmosphere.

You could hear a key being inserted into the lock. Or at least, it sounded like someone was trying to unlock the door. A few moments passed, and the struggle persisted. Your mind started wandering. It wasn’t the first time this happened. And as good as every time it did, Gerard was drunk beyond belief.

Your heart sank, and immediately your mood changed. You weren’t angry. Not at all. You were just worried about them. They had been drinking much more, and much more often lately. You knew something was wrong. Gerard probably knew it too, deep down somewhere. But they weren’t in a place to accept that or accept help. Not right now.

A few more moments passed by, and you decided to go let them in yourself. They almost fell inside as you opened the door. Clearly, they had been leaning against it while trying to find the right key and unlock the door.

You caught them in your arms and immediately smelled the alcohol on their breath. You wrapped your arms around them, holding them close. Even if this wasn’t what you had imagined, you were glad to have them home.

For a while, you just stood there, arms wrapped around each other. “Hi, honey,” you finally said and kissed them when you had let go of each other.

“Hi, you,” they answered, slightly swaying on the spot as you let go of them.

You tried not to let your brow furrow with concern as you looked at them. Still, they noticed. “It smells really nice. Have you been cooking?” they asked, in an attempt to cheer you up. But they were still swaying, their words were slurred, and it just broke your heart. It would’ve been one thing if they were drunk but otherwise in good spirits, but that sadness in their eyes worried you. You know that they hadn’t gotten drunk to celebrate another good gig, but rather to escape something, and it just killed you.

You smiled at them. “Thanks, Gee. Are you hungry?” you asked while lacing your fingers together. They nodded tiredly. You led them to the kitchen. It wasn’t many steps from the hallway to the kitchen, but they still almost crashed into a wall on your way there.

In the end, you decided just to sit them down on one of the chairs and serve them their food before getting your own. Before you sat down, Gerard had already emptied their glass of wine. You could feel the tears prickling behind your eyes.

“Honey, has something happened?” you asked them. Usually, they got drunk, but when they came home to you, they tried to dial it down. Not this time, though.

They looked at you with tired, empty eyes and said nothing. They just reached for the bottle and poured another glass. It was more than what you would usually pour into a glass of that kind. Especially for a somewhat romantic dinner. They lifted the glass to their lips.

“Gee, please, you have to talk to me,” you somewhat pleaded, somewhat demanded.

Gerard’s gaze flickered from the glass to you, their eyes clouded with a mixture of sadness and anger. “Talk? About what?” Their words were sharp, and their tone laced with bitterness.

“About what’s been going on, Gerard. You’ve been drinking so much lately, and I’m scared. Something’s not right, and I want to help you.”

They scoffed, their laughter tinged with bitter irony. “Oh, now you’re an expert on my life, huh? You think you know what’s best for me?”

You shook your head, tears welling up in your eyes as you struggled to make them understand. “No, Gerard, I don’t think I know what’s best for you. But I can’t just stand here and watch you destroy yourself. You’re drowning in this, and I don’t know how to help you if you won’t let me in.”

Gerard pushed themselves up from the chair, their legs scraping against the floor with an awful screech. Their face contorted with frustration and they jabbed a finger in your direction. “You think I’m the problem? You think I need to be fixed, like some broken toy?”

Your voice trembled as you tried to reason with them. “No, Gerard, you’re not a problem to be fixed. You’re a person who’s hurting, and I love you. I just want you to talk to me, to let me in. Please.”

They took a step toward you, their eyes blazing with a mix of anger and despair. “You don’t get it, do you? You can’t fix me! No one can. So stop trying!”

The weight of their words hung in the air, suffocating the room. You felt tears streaming down your face as you watched them walk out the door, leaving you alone in the dimly lit room, with the remnants of your romantic dinner and a heavy sense of helplessness hanging in the air.

The plates and the rest of the supposed-to-be romantic dinner sat on the table, untouched, a stark contrast to the emotional turmoil that had just unfolded. You knew that you couldn’t force Gerard to talk or change their ways. They had to want to change for themselves.

With a heavy heart, you got up and began cleaning up the kitchen. The candles you had lit earlier flickered softly as you extinguished them one by one. The roses in the bouquet still looked beautiful, but their presence seemed bittersweet now.

After cleaning up the kitchen, you found yourself sitting alone in the dimly lit room. Tears had streaked your cheeks, leaving trails of sadness in their wake. The bottle of wine on the table tempted you, almost like a silent, soothing friend. But you knew that indulging in it wouldn’t be right, not after what the fight had been about. So, you chose cold water to quench both your thirst and your emotions.

Sipping the water, you gazed out of the window at the dark night sky. Memories of what romantic dinners used to be flooded your mind. The laughter, the shared dreams, the way Gerard’s eyes used to light up when you surprised them with their favourite meal. You held onto those memories like a lifeline, knowing that someday, you’d find your way back to that happiness. And with that, you also knew that you had to find Gerard, wherever they had gone off to. 

With determination in your heart and a sense of purpose, you headed out into the night, leaving your home behind. The city around you was bathed in the soft glow of streetlights, casting long shadows on the empty streets. The echoes of your argument with Gerard still reverberated in your mind, but you refused to let despair consume you.

You got into your car and just drove, without any plan at all, as if you hoped Gerard would just turn up. You drove through the darkened streets, memories of your time together replaying in your mind. The city held so many moments – moments of joy and love. You remembered the motel where you had stayed temporarily when you last moved, a place that despite everything held many good memories and lots of hope for the future.

Though you didn’t know why, something deep inside you told you that Gerard might be there. Maybe it was a sense of nostalgia, a longing for a time when things were simpler, a time when you were each other’s everything.

As you pulled up to the motel, you felt a surge of both anxiety and anticipation. You hesitated for a moment, your hand gripping the car’s steering wheel, before finally stepping out into the night.

The motel was just as you remembered it – a nondescript building with a neon sign flickering intermittently. You parked the car and took a deep breath, unsure of what you would find inside.

Entering the dimly lit lobby, you approached the reception desk, your heart pounding with uncertainty. The tired-looking motel clerk glanced up from a magazine, offering a weary smile. “Can I help you?”

You hesitated for a moment, then decided to ask. “Has someone named Gerard checked in here?”

The clerk raised an eyebrow, seeming uninterested at first. But then, after a moment of thought, he nodded slowly. “Yeah, there was a guy who checked in about an hour ago, they looked pretty out of it. Room 205.”

Your heart skipped a beat. It was as if a surge of hope had washed over you. You thanked the clerk and stepped outside again, looking for room 205.

Gerard was sitting outside the door of 205, a pack of beer beside them and a cigarette to their lips. They looked absolutely miserable.

As you walked closer, Gerard looked up at you. They blinked a few times, just to make sure what they were seeing was true. They fumbled for words for a moment. “How did you find me?” they said, their words slightly slurred. “I don’t know honey. Something just told me you’d be here.”

You sat down beside Gerard and leaned your head on their shoulder. They held the cigarette out for you to take a drag, and they looked at you while you did. “You’re so pretty,” they said with sad, bloodshot eyes. 

“Gerard honey, so are you. You’re my darling.” You placed a soft kiss on their cheek. “I’m so sorry I got angry before honey. I just get worried about you.” 

Gerard looked at you with big eyes. “I’m sorry too. I know you’re just looking out for me. I know I’m hard to love sometimes.” You carefully pushed a strand of hair from Gerard’s face. “You’re not hard to love, honey, I love you the most in the entire world. I just want you to be okay.”

You just sat there together for a moment, taking turns with the cigarette. You leaned your head on Gerard’s shoulder again, just wanting to be close.

The night air was cool against your skin as you and Gerard sat there, side by side, sharing the cigarette. Time seemed to slow down, the weight of the argument and the tension from earlier dissipating in the shared moment of calm.

Gerard’s fingers brushed against yours as they took another drag from the cigarette. Their gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon as if searching for answers in the darkness. “I don’t want to be this way, you know,” Gerard finally confessed, their voice a mixture of vulnerability and regret.

You squeezed their hand gently, offering reassurance. “I know, Gerard. It’s not easy, but you’re not alone. We’ll face it together.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Gerard’s lips. “You always know how to make me feel better,” they whispered, their words carried away by the breeze. “That’s what I’m here for,” you replied softly, leaning your head against their shoulder once more. “We’ll get through this.”

After a while, the cigarette burned down to its last embers, and Gerard extinguished it against the pavement. They turned their head to look at you, their eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and affection. “You’re my rock, you know?” You chuckled, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. “And you’re mine. The ups and the downs, they’re all part of who you are.”

Gerard leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, a tender affirmation of your connection. “Let’s go home,” they said softly, their hand finding yours. Together, you stood up, leaving behind the worries and strife of the evening.

Back in the car, as you drove through the quiet streets toward your apartment, a comfortable silence enveloped you. Gerard’s hand rested on your thigh, their fingers tracing absent patterns as if seeking comfort in just touching you. The city lights twinkled in the distance, a reminder that life continued beyond the challenges you faced.

When you arrived home, you led Gerard inside, the familiarity of the space providing a sense of grounding. Gerard’s band posters adorned the walls, a testament to their musical passion. You once again settled in the kitchen. Gerard looked at you with a mixture of exhaustion and gratitude. “Thank you for finding me,” they said softly. “You’re worth finding,” you replied, a gentle smile curving your lips.

“How about some tea?” you suggested. “And maybe some toast as well?” Gerard’s eyes lit up for a moment. “Are you sure? It’s late, and you probably want to sleep, and-” “Nonsense,” you said, retrieving the tea and a kettle. “Anything to help you feel better. And I’ve heard eating bread is good when you’ve had alcohol.”

You put a record on, and soon, the kettle whistled, and you poured the steaming water into cups, the soothing scent of chamomile enveloped the room. With a plate of warm toast in hand, you settled on the couch, passing Gerard a cup of tea and a slice of toast. They took a sip and let out a contented sigh. 

“You really know how to make everything better,” they said with a soft smile.

“It’s a talent,” you quipped, a playful grin on your face. Gerard leaned in, their lips meeting yours in a soft kiss. 

“I love you,” they murmured against your mouth.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your heart feeling full and light.

As you both savoured the tea and sandwiches, the world outside faded into the background. At that moment, it was just you and Gerard, a testament to the strength of your bond and the willingness to weather the storms together. The scars of the evening were healing, replaced by a renewed sense of hope and the knowledge that love could conquer even the darkest of moments.

You sat together, mostly in silence, listening to the soft tunes the record player emitted. An array of candles glimmered on the table in front of you. Gerard had had almost all of their tea, while yours remained mostly untouched. 

Despite having them back here with you, you still worried. You loved them so much, and all you wanted was for them to be okay. And the one thing you wanted least of all was to be angry. Sure, you knew that anger wasn’t the real emotion. The real emotion was worry, and feeling powerless, not able to protect them. And for some terrible reason that sometimes morphed into anger. The ugly, secondary emotion.

You looked over at Gerard, sitting curled up under a blanket at the opposite end of the sofa. They looked tired. Both as in that they needed to sleep, but also tired as in worn down, as in that they were having a hard time. You scooted closer and stretched your arms around them. A smile played on their lips for a moment. You allowed them to set their mug of tea down before pulling them into your arms. “Come here, honey.” They gladly fell into your arms and cuddled up there.

You sat together like that for a long time. You listened to Gerard’s breath and carefully stroked their hair. The record had come to its end, and the only sounds were now your breathing and Gerard’s yawns.

“Do you want to go to bed, darling?” you asked when you noticed the yawns becoming more frequent. They looked up at you, their eyes now tired instead of glazed over.

They nodded sleepily. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

The slurring was almost entirely gone now, and when Gerard walked to the bedroom, they didn’t stumble anymore.

“Okay, I’ll be right there, honey,” you said with a smile their way before collecting the dishes and taking them to the kitchen. After the dishes were set down, you got a glass from the cupboard and filled it almost to the brim with water before bringing it to Gerard in the bedroom.

They were already lying in bed, looking like they’d fall asleep any moment. You reached out the glass of water to Gerard. “Have some water, Gee, I think it’ll make you feel slightly better in the morning.”

They nodded and reached for the glass. A few sips later, they put the glass down on the nightstand and reached out for you. You were too tired to properly hang your clothes up and simply threw them on the chair in the corner of the bedroom. You slipped under the covers and cuddled up close to Gerard. For a moment, you just lay there, looking at each other.

You scooted closer and nuzzled your nose against Gerard’s. Carefully, Gerard reached their hand up to caress your cheek. “I love you, honey,” you whispered. A small smile played on their lips. “I love you the most in the entire world, actually. And I’ll never stop loving you. You know that, Gerard?”

Gerard nodded carefully. “I love you too. And I’m sorry about before.”

That sadness reached Gerard’s eyes again. Just as before, it shattered your heart. You didn’t even know what to say, so you just leaned in to kiss them. ”You don’t have to apologise honey. I’m just glad to have you home again.” And with that, you kissed them again.

As the weight of the evening’s events began to lift, and the warmth of reconciliation and love enveloped you both, the bedroom felt like a sanctuary. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated your faces as you continued to exchange kisses.

The kisses were soft at first, a gentle exploration of each other’s lips. Your fingers traced the contours of Gerard’s face, eliciting a soft sigh of contentment from them. Their hands moved slowly, too, caressing your back and shoulders as the intimacy between you deepened.

You couldn’t help but smile between kisses, the connection between you growing stronger with each passing moment. The taste of chamomile tea lingered on Gerards lips, adding a sweet and comforting layer to your kisses. In the dim light, you gazed into Gerard’s eyes, searching for any lingering traces of sadness. 

Their gaze met yours with a newfound intensity, a desire to be present in the moment, to be close, to feel cherished.

The tenderness of your kisses gradually gave way to a more passionate longing. Your breaths quickened as your mouths moved together with an urgency that mirrored the intensity of your emotions. Fingers began to trace the curves of bodies, exploring the familiar terrain of each other’s skin.

Gerard’s soft moans filled the room, a symphony of desire and affection. The layers of clothing became an obstacle, one that you both eagerly discarded, exposing the vulnerability and beauty of your bodies.

Skin against skin, your bodies entwined, the warmth of Gerard pressed against you. You savoured every sensation, every touch, every kiss. The scent of your shared perfume, the taste of Gerard on your tongue, the feeling of their soft hair under your fingertips. The slow and gentle movements, the tender caresses, the breathless sighs and soft cries of pleasure.

Gerards hands left their place on the small of your beck and found their way upwards, one cupping your breast and one around your shoulders to pull you closer. They caressed you carefully and you could feel them growing harder against you.

You ground your hips against Gerard, seeking the friction that you both craved, urging them to continue the exploration. They obliged willingly, moving downwards from your breasts to your stomach, leaving a trail of kisses and licks as they went.

Their warm breath ghosted over your body, making you shudder with anticipation. Their eyes were fixed on you, observing every twitch and moan of pleasure as their tongue made contact with your inner thigh. They were teasing you, taking their time, enjoying the moment.

Your body ached for more, desperate for their touch, but instead, they continued their leisurely exploration of your skin. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they kissed you there. You could feel yourself dripping as they slipped a finger inside you.

Gerards lips closed around your clit and they sucked softly. A strangled cry escaped your lips as they slid another finger inside you, curling it to find your most sensitive spot.

It was too much and not enough at the same time, your senses were overwhelmed by Gerard. You gripped the sheets tightly, arching your back as they continued their ministrations. 

Their mouth on your clit, their fingers inside you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Your breath came in ragged gasps, your legs trembled, and your whole body tensed as the pleasure built up. Gerards lips pulled back from your clit and their tongue pressed down against it.

"Oh god, Gerard...," you gasped as they worked their fingers inside you. The slow and deep movements made you dizzy with pleasure, and you couldn't help but grind against their hand. "I want you."

Your words had an instant effect on Gerard. They looked up at you, eyes gleaming with excitement. "Tell me what you want." It was not teasing or demeaning the way they said it. You knew it just turned them on so much to hear you say it.

You could barely speak through the waves of pleasure coursing through you, but you knew exactly what you wanted. "I want you to fuck me, Gerard. I love you so much and I want you to fuck me"

They nodded, removing their hand from your body and getting onto their knees. The sight of them in this position was almost too much for you to handle. They looked down at you, gaze full of desire and affection. "I'd be happy to, darling."

Gerard positioned themselves between your legs, entering you slowly, inch by inch, filling you with pleasure. Their thrusts were deep and deliberate, making you shudder with joy every time they bottomed out inside you. You wrapped your legs around their waist, pulling them closer, urging them to continue.

You could feel the warmth of their skin against yours as they moved inside you, the sensation sending tingles down your spine. Their kisses became more urgent, their movements faster, but still maintaining their steady rhythm.

As the heat between you intensified, the sound of your moans and gasps filled the room. Gerard looked down at you, their gaze full of love and tenderness. They kissed your lips again, eliciting a moan of pleasure from you. "I love you, my sweet," they murmured, their voice hoarse with pleasure.

Your climax was building quickly, the pressure inside you rising to unbearable heights. You threw your head back and rambled their name over and over as the wave of ecstasy crashed down on you, sending shockwaves through your body. They continued to move inside you, prolonging your orgasm until you couldn't take it anymore.

"Gerard, I... oh god, I can't..." You sobbed in pleasure as your body began to tremble.

They understood your need and stopped moving, letting you ride out the waves of pleasure that still made waves in your body. Gerard stayed still until your breathing steadied and you smiled up at them. You blinked at them for a moment, just taking in their beauty.

You pulled them downwards for a soft kiss before gently rolling them onto their back. They looked up at you with a confused expression, clearly not expecting this development.

"My turn," you whispered, kissing them again. "I want to make love to you."

Your lips found their way down their neck and chest, leaving a trail of kisses in their wake. You enjoyed the taste of their skin, savouring the salty sweetness of their sweat as you moved lower. Their breaths quickened with excitement as your mouth found their nipples. You flicked your tongue over their hardening nub and they moaned softly in pleasure.

You continued your descent, trailing kisses across their stomach until you reached their cock. You glanced up at them, smiling as you pressed your mouth against the warm skin above it. The smell of their arousal was strong, and you could feel yourself becoming even wetter with anticipation of another round.

Their hips rose to meet you as you kissed them there, so soft and tender. Your hands wrapped around their cock, stroking them slowly, watching them shiver under your touch. "Oh god, that feels so good." They were beautiful like this, eyes closed, back arched, body responding to your every touch. You loved seeing them in the throes of passion, unable to contain their pleasure, giving into the sensations of your touch and tongue.

Your lips continued to move lower, kissing their inner thighs and sensitive areas that made them quiver. You took your time, enjoying the moment as you licked and sucked, exploring every inch of their skin until you reached the base of their cock.

Gerard looked down at you, gasping for breath, watching with wonder as you took them into your mouth. Your tongue was quick and deliberate, licking and sucking just the right way to make them see stars. They moaned as you took them deep inside your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and moving your head back and forth.

Their hips rose to meet you again, fingers tangling in your hair, guiding you deeper and deeper. You were happy to oblige, taking them all inside you until they gasped for air.

"Oh my god," they murmured, shivering as you continued to suck. "That feels incredible."

You hummed in agreement, the vibrations of your voice making them twitch and groan in pleasure. The sensation was delicious, and you knew it wouldn't take long before they came undone under your tongue. You loved seeing them fall apart like this, falling into your mouth and arms as you held them close.

Gerard pulled you upwards for another kiss. You moved closer, pressing your body against theirs, kissing their neck and chest as they struggled to breathe. Their skin was warm and flushed, radiating pleasure and affection. They were gorgeous like this, so needy and desperate for more.

You felt the heat rising between you again, bodies grinding together, their cock hard and aching for more. You kissed them again, pulling them into a deep and hungry kiss that left them gasping for breath before positioning yourself over them.

"Are you ready?" You whispered, gazing down at them with a gentle expression on your face.

They nodded, wrapping their arms around your waist. "Please, my love."

Their eyes fluttered closed as you lowered yourself onto their cock. You took your time, letting the feeling of fullness take over your body.

You began to move slowly, taking long deep breaths as you rose and fell, building a rhythm that soon became urgent and frantic. Their hands roamed over your skin, caressing your breasts and back. The warmth between you intensified and you both gasped for air as you continued to move, bodies sweaty and entwined.

The pressure inside you grew unbearable again, and you knew it wouldn't be long before you came undone. You looked down at Gerard, their gaze filled with wonder and lust. Their moans were beautiful, soft and desperate, their body trembled and shuddered under your touch.

"I'm so close," they murmured, throwing their head back against the pillow and urging you to move faster, chasing the orgasm that threatened to consume them. "Honey, please... I need more.”

You quickened your movements, grinding against them, making them cry out in pleasure as their cock buried inside you. They looked up at you, their eyes pleading with you for release.

"Oh god, my love...," they whimpered, climax building rapidly. You could feel it coming closer, their body on the edge of ecstasy under you. You were so close yourself, the pressure inside you rising to unbearable heights, almost too much for you to take.

"I'm with you, honey," you murmured, lips moving against theirs as you spoke.

Gerard closed their eyes and moaned softly, their body shaking and trembling under yours. Their release was beautiful, making you gasp with pleasure as you joined them in their orgasm. Your bodies were still tangled together when you opened your eyes again. You couldn't help but smile, breathless and sweaty from lovemaking.

You leaned over them, planting soft kisses all over their face, cherishing the moment, taking in the beauty of them. They wrapped their arms around you, holding you close, stroking your hair and whispering sweet words into your ear.

"Oh my love," they murmured, squeezing your hand. "I’m so lucky to have you."

Your eyes began to brim with tears, happiness bubbling up inside you. "I'm just as lucky to have you," you whispered, leaning in for a tender kiss. "I love you."

Their gaze was full of affection and tenderness, their fingers intertwined with yours. "I love you too," they whispered. "You are my world."

In the soft afterglow, Gerard cuddled up in your arms and you held them close, carefully running your fingers through their hair. The room was bathed in the gentle hues of the rising sun, casting a warm, golden light upon your entwined bodies.

You both knew this wasn’t a magical solution, and that Gerard would still have their ups and downs, it was going to be an uphill battle at times. But for now, everything felt good, and it felt like it was going to be better.

You smiled down at Gerard who had almost fallen asleep on your chest. You kissed the top of their head softly and pulled them closer. The sound of their breathing made you calm, and soon the both of you had fallen asleep.

I hate to sound like a YouTuber (no offence, lol) but thank you for reading if you made it all the way here. I hope you liked it. And don’t hesitate to send me any requests you might have. I have a lot to do right now, but I still like to hear new ideas. Okay, thanks a lot!

[ae-neon]

I am curious of Rhysand father you know. As for someone that leaves his son wing and leave him to be chain during Hybern war, he seem Beron-ish. But i cant describe that there is this warm to him. Especially to his own mate.

If it possible, I would like to read more of hus father. His father seem to have more firm and fierce hold on both Illyria and Hewn City. They march to war under his command. His father also Azriel first emploer. This man must have nurture Az spy skill too.

But, he let his mate bring Rhys to the illyrian ring where I was thinking that rhys should have his basic school done first. He said how his mother taught him how to read by the window in Illyria. So, he dont really receive proper training to be High Lord did he?

And I am curious to know what will his father reaction to Rhys has done to his court. I doubt he will accept Feyre who is stolen bride and introduce as whore to be NC lady.

Hello anon

They don't have names so just to make it simple I will say Father, Mother, Sister.

For my personal belief, when I think of Rhysand's family : I always think Sister was older than him.

For me this makes sense as to why:

His memories with his friends and Mor don't include Sister, usually older siblings are off doing their own thing so he was left to hang out with his friends and his cousin who is the same age as him. That's why Rhys could sneak to Spring and be friends with Tamlin as well.

Maybe during that time Father was preparing Sister to rule.

Rhys was the first to ban wing clipping which means Father didn't do it but we can assume that Sister's wings were not clipped - Father probably wanted Sister to stand out as equal to Illyrian men so she can rule them (rather than make all women free)

It also makes sense of Rhys spending all his time growing up with Mother (an illyrian seamstress, not a noble or a princess) who took charge of his education but Sister is never around in those memories.

Maybe Sister was in the Hewn City with Father, getting a formal education.

In this way Feyre and Rhys can parallel each other. They are the forgotten younger child. It can even explain why he cannot let go of his hate for Nesta - she is just like Sister as the older child who was the focus of the head of the family. Maybe there is jealousy and resentment there

Then we learn that Father split up the bat boys because he worried they are too powerful together. Maybe he thought they (or someone else) would choose to put Rhys on the throne instead of Sister.

He keeps Azriel close and sends Cassian to the Illyrian infantry but maybe he also sends Rhys to Velaris instead of bringing him back to the capital (CoN) and that's why Rhysand feels more connected to Velaris than to the CoN.

Father was 900 when Mother was 18 but from what we know her life seemed to be okay - Father made sure she was not touched or disrespected by Illyrians or High Fae.

Rhys is the opposite. He is like a spoiled child. He is one of those arrogant princes who brings down their whole family name.

He introduces Feyre as his sexual plaything in front of the conservative nobility of the capital of the court. Then next time he visits he has to start hurting people because they don't show her respect?? Now he will expect them to respect his son who is born of the woman he fingered in front of them.

Even when Nesta and Elain are in Illyria - he doesn't stop them from saying bad things about the High Lady's sisters. He doesn't stop Cassian or Nesta from arguing in public. He has sex in the sky.

He cannot even make Keir give him the Veritas simply by asking. He is always threatening the Hewn City and it's people. He neglects the Illyrians to the point that rebellion seems inevitable.

He later gives up control of the Hewn City to Mor even tho she cannot go there?? Then he lets Keir into Velaris even tho Keir already has full control of the CoN

He has no control or respect in his own Court so he hides away in Velaris and only treated them "well" but still the city has slums and brothels.

As another anon pointed out; Velaris has never had to defend itself and relies on the CoN and Illyria. It also sits near the sea to Hybern. It can be very easily attacked and taken even from within the Court.

Rhysand's power cannot hold off enemies, only kill them and if they attacked he would have to kill his own citizens. Which would only lead to more and more people trying to kill him.

Without Amren, Rhys would probably have been usurped by now.

Of course this is me trying to make sense from what we have. The truth is sjm gave us nothing, not even a name, because to her they are just tools to make Rhys sympathetic.

[thebreakfastgenie]

I watched AfterMASH 1.03

These are my thoughts.

Note: the pilot is 1 hour and appears to count as 1.01 and 1.02.

I watched this a little while ago but it took me until now to post because of the sheer rage. Ken Levine and David Isaacs wrote this one. MASH alumni (former head writers) who I generally respect. They wrote some of my favorite episodes of MASH.

I'm going to fucking kill them.

Let me address everything else first, then we'll get to why.

First, I really hope Mulcahy starts getting some real storylines soon. The annoying paperwork gag isn't much to work with, though seeing him spending time with patients was nice. I did like the administrator guy whose name I already forgot again realizing Francis isn't such a doormat after all.

I continue to really like the resident, which I wasn't expecting! He's well-meaning but kind of an idiot and he can learn a lot from Potter and even from Klinger. I love that they have a good relationship.

The Nazi patient storyline... boy. I'm not sure what to make of it. Ken Levine is Jewish, and I suspect David Isaacs is too, but wikipedia doesn't say (Ken has mentioned his Judaism many times on his blog). So that does change my perspective on the choice to do that storyline at all. It's not necessarily wrong it just feels a bit weird to watch.

Now onto Klinger and why I'm going to commit a double homicide. I loved seeing Klinger do favors for a patient just because, and the implication that it's a regular thing. The patient turning out to be racist was a punch that felt very classically MASH. And Max standing up for Soon Lee was excellent and I loved seeing her reaction, Rosalind Chao is seriously so talented. But that's somehow supposed to resolve the main conflict that I'm so pissed about and it really doesn't. Soon Lee wanting to bring her family over is a great storyline. There is a lot of potential there, especially with Max wanting to help her but not really being in a position to do it. But Max telling Soon Lee she can't get a job?? Not my Max Klinger!!

I was prepared to let this go, because I thought maybe Max's family had some sort of thing about striving to be financially stable enough that the women didn't have to work and how that dream, however misguided, could be important to am immigrant family. But then he went on to say none of the women in his family ever worked.

Excuse you me??? His poor, immigrant family in Toledo????? Max's age is a little fuzzy but he was probably born during the Great Depression. Hello??? There is simply no way in hell the Klinger women were homemakers. I don't believe it. So any acceptance I had toward Max's period-typical sexism just evaporated.

And then on top of that he tells Potter maybe marrying Soon Lee was a mistake and looks at that secretary?? After everything they've been through?? I could accept some version of expressing doubt in himself, but the way the scene plays, that he's just ready to throw in the towel?? Absolutely not. Disrespectful garbage.

The Levine & Isaacs dialogue is good. Klinger's line about putting on a dress again is so-so characterization but I thought it sounded snappy. Just makes it extra frustrating that the storyline is so damn bad.

References to other MASH characters: none

[igotbulletproof-insomnia]

Adopting Bangtan 09

01 previous

AN UNLIKELY WEDDING

You bit your lip as you stared at your phone. You had an email from Jimin and Taehyung’s mother. Song Jieun was your old coworker who you had adored, but who also tricked you into taking care of her children so that she could get married without worry. Your respect and opinion of her had gone down significantly with that move, but you… didn’t exactly understand, but you did appreciate that she gave her children to someone who could properly take care of them instead of leaving them to fend for themselves which had seemed to be her original plan.

What’s wrong?” Seokjin looked up from the video game he was playing, ignoring the cut scene he had watched a dozen times before now to focus on you. You could hear the younger boys playing in their bedroom, the sounds of legos clattering and mouth-made explosions louder than what their closed bedroom door could block off. They were sounds that had become familiar in the past six months, sounds that used to be made by one child and were nowhere near this boisterous.

“Nothing,” you shrugged while you scrolled through the email a second time and tried to sort out your feelings. Seokjin’s stare burned into your cheek and rolled your eyes. “I mean it, nothing is wrong. Just…” You could feel your face twisting into a dissatisfied expression and tried to relax it back into something more neutral. There were times when you found you could rely on the eldest of your children, and times when you thought it was better to keep things to yourself, and you weren’t sure which one this was.

“Someone emailed me,” you hedge. “I’m just trying to decide how I feel.”

“That’s your worried face,” said Seokjin. “You only make that face about work and about us. But you also whine when you’re worried about work, so it’s about us, isn’t it? Which one of the kids is failing school?”

“No one is failing school,” you laugh. “Namjoon could be doing better, but I’m certain he just doesn’t care as much as his teachers want him to. Neither does Yoongi…. You know, as a teacher myself, I should probably be more concerned.”

“You’re appropriately concerned,” Seokjin reassured you. “Why should you worry about things you can’t control? You’re just going to age faster.”

“You’re going to stop calling me old one day.”

“Lying isn’t healthy,”

“Says the kid who lied his way into adoption.”

“I took advantage of my situation. That’s not lying, that’s cunning.”

“I didn’t raise you like this,” you say, standing.

“No, but that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? I’m raising myself, six kids, and my guardian. I can’t tell if I’m doing a piss poor job or not.”

“Language, Kim Seokjin!”

“Dinner, seonsaengnim!” he shouted back. The problem was, you aren’t sure if he successfully distracted you from your concerns or if you successfully distracted him from you.

===

Song Jieun’s email bothered you intermittently throughout the week. It’s not like you forgot she existed. You’ve received a hefty sum into your bank account every month for taking care of the boys, enough to make you wonder exactly why her new husband didn’t want to take care of them when he would probably be spending a lot less money if they were under his own roof. So no, Song Jieun wasn’t someone you forgot existed unlike like you could the rest of your kids’ parents, she just… wasn’t relevant. So it bothered you that she was trying to make herself relevant now, after six months of silence.

“You’re doing the thing again,” Seokjin poked your face. You startled, unaware that he had approached, but thankfully kept your coffee mug full. “What are you so worried about?”

“Nothing,” you say for the umpteenth time that week. “I’m not worried about anything.”

“You’ve been ‘not-worried’ since last Thursday,” Seokjin argued.

“So then why do you keep asking me what’s wrong?” You didn’t have to turn to see the weighted stare he gave you, you could feel it. That was the thing about your kids, all of them. They had a way of making you feel like you were the one in trouble, you were the one being raised instead of the other way around. Some days you were convinced that they were the ones keeping you around, explicitly for financial reasons.

“If you’re just going to insist on being stubborn,” Seokjin sighed. He poured two cups of coffee, one for himself and one for Yoongi, and turned the kettle on for Namjoon. The other boys would be zombie-walking their way into the kitchen for breakfast soon, so you and Seokjin set to work preparing leftovers from dinner a few nights ago.

“Song Jieun wants to visit the boys,” after a long, silent moment, you finally admit your concern. The kettle was puffing it’s pre-whistle warning, so you turned it off, sitting the pot on its wicker table mat until Namjoon made his way to the table.

“Who’s Song Jieun?” asked Seokjin. “Which boy? Not me, right?”

“No, of course not you, silly. You won’t even tell me your parents’ names. How am I supposed to know when they come to visit?”

“Trust me, they won’t,” Seokjin’s tone left no room for discussion, just a sad or regretful sort of resentment.

“If you say so,” you shrugged off your curiosity, familiar with how closed-off this kid got when it came to his home life before you. “Song Jieun is Taehyung’s mom and Jimin’s stepmom.”

“The coworker who tricked you into adopting them?”

“That’s what you got out of that?”

“Isn’t that what happened?”

“That’s besides the point,”

“That is the point.”

“What’s what point?” Namjoon shuffled into the kitchen.

“Our guardian is trying to decide if the twins should see their mother.” Seokjin answered.

“That’s not what I said,”

“That’s what you were going to say.”

“Everyone else gets nice, obedient, adoring children,” you grumbled. “I get sassy monsters who boss me around.”

“You raised us like this,” Namjoon said absently.

“I did not, you raised yourselves.”

“Same thing,” both boys speak in unison.

“I’m giving you two away.”

“Good luck living with Yoongi without us,” Seokjin shrugged. “You’ll be begging me to come back by the end of the week.”

“Joke’s on you, this is the end of the week.”

“My point still stands.”

“Okay, I quit, I won’t win this one,” you literally throw your hands in the air.”

“Good,” Jin grins at you in that cheeky way he’s mastered, taunting you.

“So what’s this about the twin’s mom though?” asked Namjoon. “I thought she…” he trailed off, but you understood what he was saying, or rather, what he didn’t want to say. I thought she didn’t want them.

“Yes and no,” you say. “She just… it’s… not exactly complicated, not if I were in her position, but… let’s just say, some people are stupid and not everyone has the same priorities.”

“Song Jieun chose to make herself happy over taking care of her kids?” Seokjin translated. “She didn’t want to take them to live with her new husband?”

“More or less,” You agree, taking note of the bitterness in his tone.

“You’re not allowed to get married,” Namjoon mumbled from the table.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not allowed to leave us or get rid of us because you want to be married,” Namjoon repeated. He’s obviously still half asleep from the way he lays his head down in his arms, but your heart clenches just a little bit from the casual desperation he speaks with.

“If I were to get married,” you said, “my future spouse would know that they come in eighth place anyway. I’m not getting rid of you, even your original parents would have to fight me. God will have to fight me.”

“But you’re still not allowed,” said Namjoon.

“Drink your tea, you’re talking crazy,” said Seokjin. “Our guardian will have to actually date first, and we all know that won’t happen.”

“The disrespect, I tell you!”

It’s after breakfast and during the chaos of getting seven young boys dressed and prepared for school when Seokjin knocks on your bedroom door frame, wearing an anxious expression.

“... Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“What’s up?” you asked. Seokjin walked fully into the room and closed the door.

“About… the twins? I… I don’t know what you’re thinking about, and that’s valid, but… I think you should maybe let them see her?” Seokjin didn’t fidget like the rest of the kids did. He leaned against the door, arms crossed and focused his eyes fully on you. It was moments like these when you realized exactly how mature your eldest was, and you recognized that most of it wasn’t because of you. Namjoon and Yoongi were you. Seokjin had probably been raising himself for longer than he’s lived with you.

“Okay,” you said.

“I just… if it was me, I would want to know that she still cared, right? And she does, I guess. You mentioned that she sends them money, and she wrote you a letter asking forgiveness, so that has to mean something. I just don’t want them feeling abandoned like the rest of us. Not if they don’t have to.”

“I’m just worried that it will confuse them even more,” you admitted. “It took weeks before Jimin would talk to us openly. Jieun-ssi isn’t going to stay. She’ll come for an afternoon or a day, take the kids out, spoil them, and then bring them back here, and they’ll both be wondering why. And I don’t know how to answer that question.”

“With the truth, obviously,” Seokjin rolled his eyes. “You’re always straight-forward with us. Why should this be any different?” Because they’re younger than you were. Because they were given away, not abandoned. Because their parent still cares from a distance. Because I don’t like making you all cry. Because picking up pieces has never been fun.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” you said instead. “I’ll think about it.”

“Okay,” Seokjin nodded, and you can see him visibly deflate, relieved to be finished with the conversation. “That’s all I wanted to say. Don’t forget to take your lunch with you.”

“Make sure all the kids have theirs,” you countered.

“It’s funny because you thought I didn’t already do that,”

“I love you, Kim Seokjin,” was your response.

“I love you too, I guess.”

=======

Your talk with Seokjin gave you a new perspective, but you still felt apprehensive about everything. You just didn’t like the idea of hurting Jimin and Taehyung any more than they already have been. What type of guardian would you be if you just let them walk back into heartbreak? What if this was just a one-time visit and Song Jieun never came to see her children again? What do you do when the boys ask to see her again? You had been lucky that you only had to have one conversation about not being able to take the boys to see their mother in the last six months, but if Jieun could make the time and the trip to come visit, then what will be your excuse now? What if this visit was actually a prelude to taking the boys back home with her?

Oh.

Huh.

So that was the real problem then. You didn’t want the boys to leave you. As much as you groaned and complained about taking in so many kids -- usually just to yourself, but sometimes your stress got the better of you in front of the kids -- you loved them. Each one of them, you loved and adored them and the thought of any of them leaving you or being taken away hurt. Not only that, but where in the hell would any of those parents get off, what right did any of them have to come to you and even fix their mouths to ask you for “their” kid back? You had words prepared for each and every so-called “parent” of all seven of your boys, copies of your lost child police reports, drafts of parental rights transfer papers, the phone number for several NCPA lawyers, and a fist just itching to make contact.

But what if Taehyung and Jimin preferred to be with Jieun anyway? She is their mother. She raised them for years, even if she was Jimin’s stepmother. You’ve only had the “twins” as you and the older boys had taken to calling them, for six months. Why would they want to stay with you?

“Okay, but she didn’t say she wants to take the kids,” you told yourself against the slew of depressing thoughts. You retrieved your phone from your pocket and opened your emails. Finally pressed reply. “She just wants to visit. A visit is… safe. It’ll be okay.”

Probably.

=======

Later that day you received a new email. Song Jieun will be in town that weekend. Tomorrow.

It took a lot of effort for you not to swear and make plans to take the kids out of town.

=======

Song Jieun was pretty. She wasn’t particularly tall or “skinny” like what TV liked to portray, but she was hippy and had a cute face and short hair that she curled most days. She favored dresses with blazers or oversized sweaters and skinny jeans, with pale makeup and dark pink lipsticks. It was easy to pick her out at the cafe she asked to meet at. She sat alone off to the side, a coffee already in front of her, but two plates with fruit-decorated cakes were also placed nearby. You considered telling her that the boys weren’t allowed any sweets right now. It wouldn’t have been a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. They weren’t allowed sweet things like cakes until after dinner and only when they behaved well. Still, you decided that was just your frustration and jealousy talking. You didn’t want to punish the two boys because of their mother, so you bite your tongue and hold your bitterness and let it go.

“Jieun-ssi,” you greet uselessly, as the moment Taehyung and JImin saw her they sprinted across the room to tackle the woman in hugs. Jieun’s smile stretched across her face and she cooed and made cute noises as she greeted her sons in return. You felt something creep in your chest that felt a lot like jealousy. But you weren’t jealous. You couldn’t be. You just hugged them this morning when they tried to tickle you awake. You held both of their hands from your house to the cafe. You had nothing to be jealous of, they were your kids now.

“How have you been?” Jieun asked when you sat down across from her. Jimin and Taehyung were already seated and digging into the cakes she bought for them. You barely had a chance to answer before your chatterbox was rattling off every activity he’s done for the last six months to his mother. Jimin grinned and threw in his two-cent’s worth every few minutes, but generally let Taehyung carry the conversation for him. And you, in spite of all of the emotions pressing on your chest and clouding your judgement and making you really, really want to shake Song Jieun, you enjoy yourself. You watch your boys -- your boys -- smile and chatter and sing and show off for their mother. You wonder if they’ll be okay going home, if you’ll have tears to clean up later, or arguments to break up, or just pieces to sort out and glue, but right now the kids are happy, and right now, that’s what you’ll enjoy.

=======

Taehyung climbed into your bed that night. He should have been asleep an hour ago at least, you’re sure, but he’s seemed to have a lot on his mind since this afternoon, and you’ve been letting the kid have his own space to figure out his thoughts. As hyper as he normally is, Taehyung is also prone to moments where he just sits and fiddles and thinks and you’ve learned that it doesn’t do any good to bother him about it.

“Can’t sleep?” Taehyung shook his head as he slid across the blankets to bury his face into your shirt. You curled an arm around his shoulders and held him close.

“Mommy…” Taehyung started and trailed off. “Is Mommy happy without me?”

It felt like your heart stopped with the words of his question, but you continued to brush his hair with your fingers. It was a difficult question to answer. You wanted to be honest, but you also didn’t want to hurt him. Unfortunately, there weren’t too many ways to answer without hurting Taehyung one way or another.

“What do you mean?” Taehyung was quiet for another short moment before he spoke again.

“Mommy… didn’t seem sad. And she said she’ll see us another time. And… she got married, but she didn’t want to keep me and Jiminie… So I started wondering… is she happy now? Happier than she was before when it was just me and her and Jiminie? Did we -- I don’t think -- I --” And the kid seemed to break then, all of the tears that hadn’t been shed for six months seeming to finally culminate into an emotional outburst. You shushed him, holding him just a little more tightly, and the fingers in his hair moved down to stroke his back. This was the thing you had wanted to avoid, and while part of you felt satisfied to be right, most of you just fought your own tears. It hurt to see one of your kids so hurt. You aren’t a stranger to crying children, but this emotional distress was something that never got better. You thought that maybe Jieun had talked to the boys beforehand, maybe Taehyung had dealt with his emotions before he came to live with you and that was why he seemed so well-adjusted. Clearly, Taehyung had just been living in denial, or maybe with the belief that his mother would come back for him “later,” that you were only a temporary home.

“This isn’t your fault, Taetae,” you murmured. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes… sometimes adults make hard decisions. We think we’re doing the right thing and… sometimes it’s hard to see if we’ve made the right choice or not.” You sighed, picking through your words super carefully. “I think… I think that your mother made what she thought was the best decision for both herself and for you and Jimin. She believed she would be happy with her new husband. But she did not believe you and Jiminie would be happy. So she put you somewhere that you could be. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, but I’m still sad,” Taehyung cried harder.

“I know,” you said, “and that’s okay. I would be sad too.”

“I just want my mommy back,”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you to get married,” Taehyung said suddenly, long after his sobs had calmed down. Tears still fell, but slowly now. “I don’t want you to send me away too.”

“If you listen to your Jinnie-hyung, he says that won’t happen because I don’t date anyway.”

“Mommy didn’t date for a long time… and then she did. And then she got married.”

“I won’t get rid of you even if I did get married, Taetae,” you told him.

“You’re still not allowed to get married,” he argued. “Or date. You have to be mine forever and ever, okay?”

“No matter what, I will be yours forever and ever,” you agreed.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” Taehyung asked. “I'm comfy and you make me not sad.”

“Of course,” you said. “You’re comfy like a teddy bear, I don’t want you to go.”

=======

In the morning, Taehyung was bouncing off the walls, screaming as he chased Jungkook around the house. Jimin was curled into a corner of the sofa, giggling while he watched his brothers play and encouraging Taehyung in his antics. You could hardly tell that Taehyung had an emotional breakdown the previous night. You knew he was far from being “over” his feelings about his mother, he was only eight and the feelings were complicated. But he was happy for now and that made you happy. You’ll deal with the noise and the chaos and shout at the kids yet again about running inside where things were breakable including themselves as long as they kept smiling.

Surprisingly, it was Namjoon who came knocking at your door after bedtime that night. Similar to Taehyung, he didn’t speak or ask permission, just closed the door behind him and slid into your bed. Buried himself beneath the blankets and stuck his head beneath the pillow and tucked his gangly limbs into a ball. You were familiar with these moods, but haven’t seen one in years, not since you took in Seokjin. So you finished the chapter you had been reading, turned off the light, and sank down to lay your head on your pillows. Similar to Taehyung, Namjoon would speak when he was ready, when he found the right words to use to express his feelings.

“You really won’t get married, right?” Namjoon whispered beneath the pillow next to you. His voice was heavily muffled, but you’d been waiting for him to speak for some time. You just didn’t expect for him to continue a joke conversation from several days ago.

“What’s wrong with me getting married?” you asked.

“If you get married, you’ll have to get rid of us.”

“There is no world where I will give up any of you just to get married, Namjoon.”

“But that’s what happens, isn’t it?” said Namjoon. “Adults… if they aren’t married, but they have kids… they get rid of them so that they can date. Because kids get in the way. Because it’s stupid to take care of other people’s kids.”

“Why does it sound like you just called me stupid?” Your sarcasm probably wasn’t appropriate for the moment, but the words slipped before you thought about it.

“We’re really lucky to have you, we know that,” said Namjoon. “But that just means --”

“Namjoon, I’m going to stop you right there,” you cut him off before he finishes. You remove the pillow from his face so that he can hear you clearly, and card your fingers through his hair. “I didn’t create any of you. I didn’t ask for any of you. But I have you. And I love you. I adore you. I will tear apart skies, drain oceans, and vanquish God if it will keep you all safe and happy, okay? If your parents ever come back for you, I will press charges against them and make it so that they can never look at you, let alone hurt you ever again, do you understand me, Kim Namjoon? You and Yoongi and Jungkook and Seokjin and Hoseok and Taehyung and Jimin, you’re all mine. You’re my kids, all seven of you, and I will be damned if any lover or spouse, or anything at all, comes between me and you. I don’t say that because it sounds good -- although seriously, you have to admit that this is one of my better speeches,” -- at that, Namjoon giggled, the noise muted and soft, but a win was a win -- “but I say these things because I mean them. I will put a brick in the hospital for you, Joonie.” You hesitate, but continue anyway. “If it weren’t for you, I may have left the country at the end of that year. Teaching is fun, but I wasn’t super happy before. But then you asked me to take you home and you were so cute that I got attached almost immediately. I didn’t want to take you to the police and have them send you to your parents. I liked having someone to come home to. I liked taking care of you. Most people go get a pet or a lover when they’re feeling lonely, but here’s me, collecting kids like you’re pokemon cards.”

“No one collects pokemon cards anymore,”

“What, is Yu-Gi-Oh back in style?”

“What even is that?”

“The coolest card game ever. Period.” Namjoon laughs again, and you feel accomplished.

“It’s not that cool if I’ve never heard of it,” Namjoon argues.

“Joonie. I love you. But even I know you aren’t the coolest among your classmates.”

“I’m the coolest out of all my friends!”

“I won’t argue about that. I’m also sure that in your group of friends, ‘coolest’ means ‘knows the biggest words and has the best grades.’”

“You’re just jealous,”

“Absolutely. I wish I knew as many words as you do. Imagine how much fun I’d have fussing at you kids in Smart People language!”

“Why are you like this?”

“Please, other kids wish they had someone as cool as me taking care of them.”

Namjoon cuddled closer to you in the bed, laying his head on your shoulder and gripping your pajama shirt. You spend a few minutes massaging his scalp, a soothing gesture for you just as much as it is for him. After a few minutes, you begin drifting off, believing Namjoon is on the verge of sleep as well.

“Are you really okay?” he asks. “With taking care of all of us? You don’t… want to go back home?”

“I am home, silly,” you flick the side of his head gently. “I love you. And even if I wanted to go back to my home country, don’t think I won’t take each one of you with me. I said you’re mine. I mean it.”

“Okay.”

And it’s not that you don’t believe him, but you know your kid. You know he internalizes things and finds convoluted ways to take blame for other peoples’ problems, including your own. You know it will be a while yet before he truly accepts and believes you when you say you want to keep him and enjoy taking care of him. But you also know that he wants to believe you and he’s trying. You idly wonder if you’ll have to have some sort of discussion in the morning, an announcement over breakfast that no children will be displaced in the event of an unlikely wedding. You dismiss the thought, deciding it was more likely to incite panic and give you a headache more than anything else.

To find more of my child-bangtan fics, select the "Collecting Strays" tag at the bottom of this page ^_^

[sasster]

I dunno if you guys can tell but I haven’t done a lot of fantroll stuff lately. Or really. Much of anything. But I DID write this.

Mind this is just some oc species shit, BUT it would mean quite a lot to me if you guys read it. Since it’s the... Longest thing I’ve written in .. All of 2021? Yike!

Anyway, as usual, here is a link to a google doc if reading it on my blog upsets the minds eye.

----

“You know that we are practically Gods in comparison, right? It is a marvel that my people are not in the conquering business. We would be very good at it, do you not agree?”

Their captor spoke with a high in their voice, Qei was positive that they’d gotten their hands on some sort of mind altering substance to get them into the mindset that they were in -- Well, how else could you explain prattling on your master plan to a supposed lesser species? He found it rather foolish for the younger Cardali to speak so loudly and so boldly in front of newly rounded up prisoners. That was to say nothing to the tragically gaudy and unnecessary large castle-like structure that he and the four others of his crew were dragged to. Truly, he’d never seen such high ceilings outside of the Temples on Cardalith. What a waste of resources.

The upside is that the People of Aeilur were a remarkably easy species to mimic. They have no real sexual dimorphism, at least not one noticeable from the outside looking in, nor do they spend a lot of their time on ridiculous beauty standards. They were just a product of their world. Aeilur is a beautiful planet, actually, lush with fauna and vegetation long extinct on most other worlds. A strong, sturdy, practical people, with pacifism practiced down to an art, they wouldn’t raise arms even if an entire army to make a grab for their planet and it’s bountiful resources. It was Falarittus’ responsibility to help keep such things from occurring.

Qei could see how an opportunistic megalomaniac might have taken advantage of such information, he just never thought that he would see the day that one such megalomaniac would be an Ambassador of Cardalith, one of their own. He was disgusted.

There is a tug at the shackles that restrain his top set of hands, indicating that while he was lost in thought he’d stopped shuffling behind. He emits a low inquisitive grunt, he was going his usual hm, but he supposes that this is the only translation his current form could offer. How fascinating! He’d have to make plans to spend more time with the People of Aeilur. Under less pressing circumstances.

There is another sharp tug at his reins and he resumes trudging along behind the madman. How humiliating. Demoralizing. It was important for him to experience this though, so that he could speak to his short experience under their thumb when it came time to trial. There would be a trial. Not that Qei was worried that Falarittus would have much of a case. It would be short.

Not as short as it would have been if Qei were to let his patron in on the manhunt -- Why that temperamental giant would have lost it before they even stepped foot into this… Mansion? Seriously, this thing was gaudy. Might’ve burned the whole thing down Himself. No matter, this was always going to be a job for Qei. He even felt bad bringing along a crew with him. Diollea insisted he bring back up “just in case”.

He threw a worried glance over his shoulder to gauge them. They seemed comfortable, and he breathed out a sigh of relief.

Oh. Right, Falarittus was still talking.

“Once they see what I’ve done for the people of this world, the Gods themselves would shower me in praise. My peers and superiors would turn to me for guidance in the new age!”

It looks like Qei tuned back in just in time for a gem! He couldn’t help himself as the air quickly expelled from his new and quite long proboscis, which resulted in trumpets quite a bit louder than he was anticipating. He thinks this might be what a laugh is for this species. He did not intend to be laughing, but the idea that their creators would entertain the idea of the subjugation of any species, let alone one so peaceful as the People of Aeilur, was preposterous!

Only an idiot who made their home the size of a mall would have such delusions.

“What is so funny, worm?”

Worm! Perhaps not letting Diollea come was the mistake, this miserable pile of goo would long be ashes in that event. The trumpets were coming in spurts now, and Qei’s guess was that these were the equivalent of hiccups or maybe wheezing.

Qei’s crew took some steps back as Falarittus took the several steps to close the gaps between them. Now, naturally, Falarittus and Qei were eye level, but in this form they only came to just about chest level with him. Gentle, emphasis on the giant, indeed. The latters trunk swayed between them with a gentle undulation in a behavior that Qei was actually quite familiar with! Taunting.

He’d only seen it when three sisters prepared for a friendly bout of wrestling upon their reunion; It was cute. This was not.

“Oh, did you want to fight? Is that it? Did you plan to be the warrior of your people?”

Qei merely held up his two sets of shackled hands, hands big enough to hold Falarittus’ head in it. Hands that could crack their skull like a fragile piece of pottery if he were so inclined. He could not disrespect this form with violence, though, he thinks.

The bitter laugh that erupted from the man opposite him was unlike anything he’d ever heard come from the mouth of another Cardali, and he has met many of them in his day. It was almost ear splitting and made the hairs from his arms to his chest stand on end. Danger receptors? Very nice.

“It is not in you to fight, but please raise your hands to me so that I may cite self defense back to my superiors.”

There was a sick smirk on their face as they pulled a set of keys from their robes -- Robes, they were wearing robes like some sort of high priest in a fantasy story book -- and began to unlock the cruel piece of metal from Qei’s top set of arms. This was ideal, as he was fairly certain this is the set that translates back to the singular set of arms in his natural form, as they did not rudely burst from his shoulder blades like the second set did.

“Let's keep it fair, I only have the one pair after all.”

“Fair?” His own voice was quite alien to him, raspy and guttural as it tried to form words unfamiliar to the vocal cords tongue he borrowed to speak. Standard was not a language that belonged in this mouth.

“Fair. Say it with me. F-er.” Holy. Xenophobia. How did this pass the sniff test? No, there had to be another traitor in their ranks for such an awful wretched soul to have been left alone here. An example was to be made, and Qei would make sure that it was handled swiftly. The only good news was that this was so early on, that there was just this region of the planet that experienced it. Which was a really bad thing to think was a good thing. But there was a chance that the People of Aeilur would continue to allow Cardalith’s aid.

“Fair.” Qei said, once again the word barely made it past his tusks in one piece.

Falarittus cackled wildly at this attempt as Qei closed his eyes and focused his energy intro retracting that disrespectful set of arms back into his body, he’d been shifting for quite long time at this point in his life, so the rest of the shift passed by with a pleasant hum and totally not worth describing from the inside.

He reopened his eyes to the sound of metal hitting the floor, he was now looking at his own hands, ambient green glow and birthmarks exactly where he’d left them. They were clenched into tight fists. Most importantly, though, he was staring straight into the shell shocked eyes of the once quite full of himself clown.

“Fair enough?”

“Qei’eleritte, wait, let's talk about this --”

He swung hard, possibly with more force than intended, because they crumpled to the floor almost instantly. Behind him, he could hear the humored trumpeting of his still disguised crew behind him.

This could have been so much worse.

[narutogwriting]

I’m Sorry I Have to Go

Pairing: No romantic pairing, but interactions between Sakumo and Kakashi; mainly about Sakumo Hatake

CW: Suicide

Length: 3.8k+

TRIGGER WARNING! THIS FIC MAY BE VERY TRIGGERING TO THOSE WHO DEAL WITH SUICIDE OR SUICIDAL IDEATION. PLEASE USE YOUR BEST DISCRETION AS THIS FIC DEALS WITH SENSITIVE TOPICS

Inspired by my attempt to get in Sakumo’s head and to try and figure out what he was thinking. Also an attempt to help me process the suicide of my friend. Loosly inspired by a song I wrote about my friend’s suicide trying to get into his head when it happened.

“I’m going to do my best, you know?” 

Sakumo sat at the gravesite. He didn’t know if there was any point to it, didn’t know if he believed in an afterlife, or if there was an afterlife, if she could even hear him.

Maybe he was doing it more for his own peace of mind. And if that was the only benefit that came from talking at her grave, well, that was okay with him. But just in case she could hear him, he wanted her to know.

“If only you could have seen him. He’s so tiny. I didn’t know anything could be so small.” He sighed, running his hands through his hair. “I’ll be the best father I can be to him. I’ll set a good example, and love him so much. I’ll love him enough for the both of us. I’d do anything for him. Just you see…”

~

Sakumo was a phenomenal ninja, well known and well respected throughout the village. Even at such a young age, Kakashi could see that. These weren’t memories that Kakashi would remember as he got older, as much as he wished he would. But he remembered the feeling, remembered what it was like to have all eyes on them at all times, every time they went out. 

Besides being a natural talent, Sakumo was kind. Kakashi remembered that well, and it was clear in the few pictures he had of Sakumo. Some people just had that kind of face. It was just another reason that Sakumo was so beloved in the leaf.

Sakumo was much prouder of his legacy for being kind than he was for his abilities. It was something he wanted, more than anything, to pass on to Kakashi. “Anyone can become a strong ninja with hard work and dedication.” He would tell his son before the young boy could even talk. “And there are lots of benefits to being strong. You can protect others, save them.” 

He gave a crinkled smile as Kakashi grabbed his finger in his tiny little hand, teething on it. “But I’ll tell you something. It’s not knowledge that too many people have. But you can save people, too, by being kind. Being a good friend can save someone’s life just as much as being a good ninja can.”

Sakumo hadn’t become a ninja because he enjoyed fighting or killing; he became a ninja because he enjoyed helping others. Being a shinobi was just another way he could do that. Whether he was working on a mission or home in the village, Sakumo was always doing his best to help someone. 

Despite how deeply he loved those around him, there was a distance between Sakumo and those in the village. He was revered and loved, but a heart like Sakumo’s was rare, almost too rare. The very thing he was loved for was what kept people from being able to get too close; they couldn’t understand him, the way that he thought, how he saw the world. It never bothered Sakumo too much, though, as long as those around him were safe and happy.

Sure, Sakumo’s life could feel lonely sometimes without those deep connections, but he had a purpose. And he’d had that connection with Kakshi’s mom. Though their time together was too short, way shorter than he ever would have imagined, he was grateful for it. And he could spend the rest of his life building that bond with his son. 

Kakashi was always a quiet, serious child, though. He hadn’t inherited Sakumo’s natural affection or ability for seeing the best in people. That much had been clear when they’d met Might Duy and Guy for the first time. Sakumo had been baffled by the way Kakashi had so openly and blatantly questioned Guy’s worth and abilities.

While he’d put him in his place in front of the ninja, back at home, Sakumo couldn’t help but to bring it up again. He went to Kakashi’s bedroom, sitting on his bed. 

“I’m sorry,” Kakashi told his dad again, meeting his eye steadily. He always did own up to his mistakes. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, or to dishonour you.”

Sakumo shook his head, couldn’t help but sigh. “This isn’t about me, Kakashi.” He said, hands folded and hanging between his legs. “It’s not even necessarily about that boy, either.” He thought over his words carefully, wanted to make sure that whatever he said, it was something that stuck with his son.

“You know, I think Guy will grow up to be a great ninja, Kakashi. He has something you don’t have.” That got the young boy’s attention. “He has heart. You were born with your father’s natural talent,” He gave him a sly grin. “But if you don’t have the heart that Guy does, what’s your purpose? What is the use for all that talent?”

Sakumo patted Kakashi’s leg, not missing the skeptical look on his son’s face, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. The skeptic in him; that was all his mother.

“And besides,” Sakumo continued. “Even if he doesn’t become a great ninja, who cares? What does it matter? But do you know what does matter?” He paused, making sure Kakashi was really listening. “It matters how you made that little boy feel earlier. You know, I was proud to see you step in to protect him against those ninja… But I think that he would have rather let them beat him into the ground than have you look at him with such disdain, to look down on him because he didn’t know how to fight back. You don’t know what he’s been through, why he’s trying so hard to do something that he’s not naturally good at. You don’t know his purpose, or whether or not he’s hanging on by a thread. If the words you said to Guy were the last ones he’d ever heard, would you be happy with that?”

Getting up, Sakumo walked to the door slowly. Hand on the doorknob, he stopped. “You never know when you’ll see someone for the last time, Kakashi. You never know who needs a kind word. Whatever you do in life, make sure every moment counts.”

It was ironic, Kakashi would think to himself over the years. The philosophy that shaped the way Sakumo treated others could have been the same one that saved his life.

~

He knew his role as a shinobi. He knew everything that this mission meant, how much the Leaf needed him to succeed. But he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. 

Sakumo would love to pretend like it was a hard decision, like he had even considered going through with the mission rather than saving his comrades.

But he didn’t. It wasn’t a question in his mind. The lives of his fellow shinobi were on the line, and in this instance, it wasn’t worth completing the mission at the expense of losing them.

And Sakumo knew, he knew that the decision would be controversial, knew that he would suffer the consequences. He was going to upset a lot of people on top, but it was worth it. Being a shinobi meant making hard decisions, and this was part of that. The importance of the mission didn’t outweigh the weight of his comrades' lives, and so he saved them.

And while he knew the backlash that would come from his decision, he never could have imagined just how viciously the village he loved, even the friends he saved, would turn against him. 

Sakumo had seen a lot of evil in his life. So much violence and chaos, complete disarray. He’d see death and destruction, people dedicating their whole existence to hurting others. But it’d always been an “us vs them” mentality. It was much easier, he thought, to hate someone you didn’t know, who you had no connection to.

But these people, this village; they were Sakumo’s heart. His whole reason, his purpose for being. They were why he’d become a ninja in the first place. He’d only wanted to protect the people that he loved so dearly.

And they used to love him.

The silence on their way home was deafening. Sakumo didn’t miss the dirty looks his teammates were shooting him. He understood, in a way, but in others, he was so confused. He expected a sense of frustration, some cognitive dissonance. The mission failed, but they didn’t perish; there should be anger and happiness, shouldn’t there? At the very least, relief that they were alive.

But no. He could only feel the anger, the hatred burning within them.

Reporting back about the mission’s failure was even worse. He’d been prepared for the yelling, the way that it was hammered into him just how badly he’d screwed up. He didn’t know that there would be names thrown at him. Failure. Disgrace. Shame.

He’d left the office not even knowing if he would still be a shinobi after this. It was almost visible, the way he walked home with the weight of his actions on his shoulders. He walked slouch, tucked into himself. He would make up for this. He couldn’t regret what he’d done, not now, not ever. But somehow, he would make it right. 

~

And he thought he could. He really did. Things had to get worse before they could get better. But they only seemed to get worse and worse and worse. Over the course of a week, word spread about what Sakumo did, and his life changed completely, seemingly irrevocably.

“Hello, Aiko,” he called to the owner of the fruit stand as he picked up a crown melon, observing the fruit for bruises or breaks. They’re his favorite, and he always bought them from the same lady. 

But Aiko isn’t smiling at him, she doesn’t say hello back. He glances over to her, and his heart drops to see her glaring at him. “Thanks to you, we don’t have any new shipments coming in from Kirigakure, maybe for weeks.” She tells him angrily. “What am I supposed to sell then, huh? You want to ruin my life because you couldn’t complete your mission?” Sakumo buys her whole case of crown melons in an attempt to make up for it.

He has trouble getting any missions after as well. Every time he’s assigned to one, he’s kicked off. None of his fellow jonin will agree to be his teammate, and it kills him to know that they don’t trust him to be by their side. Not even the ninja he’d saved.

“They think you’ve lost the Will of Fire.” Hiruzen tells Sakumo after he finds out he’s been dropped from another mission. “You didn’t put the village first. You’ll have to earn back their trust, prove that the fire still burns strongly inside of you.”

But isn’t protecting his teammates important too, Sakumo wonders as he goes home, trying to keep his head from hanging too low. What is a village without its villagers? He thought the Will of Fire meant that Love is the key to Peace, and he loved his teammates. It’s why he’d kept them alive. Was a village more important than the people inside?

~

Things continue to escalate from there. Some shops won’t allow him inside to buy necessities. He could send Kakashi with money, but he worries even doing that. He doesn’t want Kakashi to suffer because of what he’s done, and now he wouldn’t put it past anyone to try and pick on his five year old son.

It hurts, not going on missions, not being able to frequent the places he’d once adored. But it’s not the worst part. 

The worst part is that when he smiles, no one smiles back. When he chases after a person to hand them back the money they’d just drop, they turn on him. When he compliments someone on the shirt they’re wearing or how good their hair looks, he’s met with insults.

There are no kind eyes turned on him anymore. If anyone looks to him at all, it’s with disdain. Any words said to him are snubs, and the words said behind his back are even worse. Coward. Fool. Disgrace. Traitor.

The words chip away at him, little by little until Sakumo no longer wants to leave his home. The thought of it makes him sick. After three days in a row of vomiting every time he attempts to go out the door to get groceries, he finally gives up. Even though he doesn’t want to, he gives Kakashi the money to go buy food. He’s just a boy, after all, and he still needs to eat.

Sakumo spends more and more time in his room. He doesn’t shower, doesn’t eat. He hardly even brushes his teeth. With the blinds drawn and the door closed, he lays in bed, waiting for sleep to take him. It’s the only blissful moments he has anymore. In his dreams, people still smile at him. They talk to him, exchange gifts and pleasantries, and his heart is full. Nothing is worse than when the sunlight begins to trickle in through his blinds, waking him up and reminding him of the pain.

Because that’s what his life is now. Constant pain. He is alone and isolated, cast out by the people that used to revere him, and that he loved more than anything. He still loves them, wants nothing more than to once again spark happiness in their hearts.

And so, after weeks of not leaving his home, he tries again. He pulls himself out of bed. He showers, does his hair, brushes his teeth. He changes out of the stained gross clothes he’s been wearing endlessly and he tries.

He spends his money anywhere that will take it. He flashes a smile at anyone who will make eye contact with him, and holds open every door he can find. Sakumo compliments the flowers in the flower shop and the smell of the dumplings the vendors are selling on the sidewalk. He compliments the stitching of the plush animals and even buys a crochet hat despite never wearing them. 

He’s trying, he thinks. He’s trying so hard, and he can’t understand it. He can’t comprehend how people can look at him the way that they do, how they can hate him so completely because he didn’t let people die.

No one will smile at him, and if anyone takes his money, it's silently. No one thanks him for holding the door open for them, and everyone else lets it close on him. “We don’t need your business.” He’s told at the flower shop, and behind him he hears snickers. “We don’t need him at all.”

So he heads back home as the sun begins to sink into the sky. Time will make things better he thinks half heartedly, but he doesn’t believe it. If anyone in the world is altruistic, it’s Sakumo. He doesn’t need thanks or appreciation. But if no one will even accept the kindness he has to offer, then what’s even the point?

And those words ring in his head over and over again. We don’t need him at all. And fine, if they don’t need him, don’t even want him, if his presence brings people pain, then he’ll stay away from them all. He only wants what's best for others.

But there’s still one person who does need him, he thinks. He has a son who’s only five, and as strong and smart and capable as he is, Sakumo still has so much he wants to teach him. So he’ll be there for his boy.

He’s rounding a corner, making a shortcut through an alleyway when he sees Kakashi surrounded by some boys older than him, and he stops. The boys are yelling at him, jeering him, and Kakashi looks as angry as Sakumo’s ever seen him.

“Why don’t you just go into hiding like your dad,” one of the boys is saying to Kakashi, and if it’s even possible, Sakumo’s heart drops even more. 

“You’re probably gonna end up just like him.”

“A traitor.” 

And then they’re pushing him, laughing and heckling him, throwing out insults left and right, telling Kakashi how horrible his dad is, how he shouldn’t even bother showing his face when he has such a vile creature as his father.

Sakumo doesn’t stay to hear the rest, and he doesn’t bother going to stand up for his son who he knows can handle himself. He can hear Kakashi taking care of them as he walks away, hands shoved in his pockets.

At home, he cooks the best meal he can come up with with the few supplies he has. He’s made sure to have all his money in one place, somewhere easy for Kakashi to find. He hadn’t realized the way Kakashi was being treated because of his screw up. He should have thought of it, though. How long had Kakashi been suffering in silence?

Kakashi comes home and Sakumo hugs him. He sits him down, gives him a big smile. Kakashi is taken off guard by it, surprised that Sakumo is even out of bed. He’d hardly seen him in recent weeks, and never with a grin on his face.

But he doesn’t question it, and though he doesn’t say it, Kakashi’s heart wells up. Does he have his dad back? If only Sakumo knew how much Kakashi had missed him, how hard it was for him to see his dad so sad. He didn’t care about the words of some people he didn’t give a second thought to. He only cared about his dad. Kakashi was still young after all, and he needed his father. He loved him so much.

And he doesn’t have the words to describe how he feels, doesn’t know how to express it because despite being so smart and so wise, he’s still only a child.

So he doesn’t say anything about it. He hugs his father, and he sits with him, and they talk. Sakumo tells Kakashi stories about his childhood that he hadn’t heard yet, and he gives him all his best fatherly advice. They talk about Kakashi’s future as a shinobi, and Sakumo tells Kakashi he knows he’s going to go far, that he’s going to be a better ninja than his dad ever was.

It’s the best night Kakashi could remember having as a child. Just being with his father and having his full, undivided attention. Sakumo makes sure to remind him more than once how much he loves him.

They stay up talking so long that Kakashi actually falls asleep, his head resting in Sakumo’s lap. Sakumo runs his hand over Kakashi’s head and thinks that Kakashi hasn’t looked so small and peaceful since he was first born. He tears up, because he loves his son, he loves him so fucking much, and he would do anything for him. 

After he carries Kakashi to bed and tucks him in, he heads to the graveyard. It’s late, but the moon is high and bright in the sky, guiding his path as he sits in front of his wife’s tombstone. 

“I did do my best, you know.” He says quietly at the grave. He doesn’t expect an answer, doesn’t even hope for something to come make it better. He’d give anything for some reassurance and when the wind blows through the still night, ruffling his hair, he closes his eyes, and smiles just a little, thinking of the way his wife used to ruffle his hair, and decides to believe it’s her, telling him she knew.

“I told you I’d do anything for him. I know we only want what’s best for him… I think this is for the best. He’d be better off without me…” And that’s what he truly believes with all his heart.

The village hates him, he’s been shunned and abused and turned away. And even with his broken heart, that would be okay.

But what’s not okay is for Kakashi to suffer for it. He shouldn’t have to bear the weight of his father’s choices, and for as long as Sakumo is around, that’s what will happen. 

Sakumo loves Kakashi, and he knows that his son deserves a fresh start, the ability to make a name for himself without his father holding him back. 

When he’s back home, he just sits and watches Kakashi sleep. With all the love Sakumo has always had, none of it compares to what he feels about his son. He loves him so much, all he wants is to see Kakashi grow up and be strong and be kind and be happy. He wants it badly, so fucking badly, that he almost loses his nerve. Almost.

But Kakashi is who he’s doing this for.

So finally he forces himself up to his feet. He touches Kakashi’s head one more time, bends down and kisses his forehead. 

“I love you, okay.” He says, smiling down at his son. Kakashi is his greatest accomplishment. “I’m sorry I didn’t do better. I tried my hardest, though. I hope you know that. And I’m sorry that I have to go.”

His voice catches, and he’s trying not to cry. If he starts sobbing now, he’ll wake Kakashi.

“It’s just… It’s too hard to breathe. I can’t see a light. But I tried. I tried very hard. And I swear I love you more than anything. That’s why I’m doing this. So you can be great.” He laughs, and it shakes, and he can feel the tears falling.  “I don’t want it to be dark for you, or for you to struggle to breathe. You deserve to live freely, so I don’t hold you back but I think…” He pauses, taking in his son one last time. “I hope that I’ll see you again. You, me, and your mother. Together again. Wouldn’t that be something?”

And with that he leaves Kakashi’s room, makes his way to his own bedroom. He won’t make it messy, doesn’t want to leave the boy completely traumatized. If he looks like he’s only asleep, then that shouldn’t be too bad, should it?

So he lays down, taking the poisoned herbs in his hand, and he tries not to cry anymore. He doesn’t want Kakashi to suffer, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to have to suffer anymore either. Sakumo has always been a strong ninja with a weak heart, and the past few months had been too much for him. It was better this way for everyone--the village, Kakashi, himself.

“I’ll see you soon,” he whispers to the picture on his night stand, a beautiful brunette woman with her hand on her baby bump. “I think I do believe that I’ll see you again. That will be more beautiful than anything.” 

He takes a breath before shoving the herbs in his mouth. He chews them down, swallows. Maybe it’ll just be like going to sleep, he thinks as his eyes flutter closed. Yeah, just like going to sleep. That doesn’t sound too bad.

[coltsbitch]

last love ~ pieck finger x reader

pieck finger x reader; 1.9k words; fluff; nsfw summary: you may not be first, but you could be last

part of @murmikaa phases of love collab! masterlist

Pieck Finger has loved a lot of people in her life.

First there was the girl down the block she shared kisses with when her dad wasn’t looking. Of course she crushed on Zeke hard in warrior training, even convincing him to be her first fuck after the others left for Paradise. Then there was her whirlwind romance with Yelena that left her a little more heart broken than she would like to admit. And Porco was always a cute distraction with how flustered he would get from her teasing.

There were the random people who dotted themselves in Pieck’s romantic history between those four, and she wouldn’t say she loved them any less.

She had learned from a young age that nothing was guaranteed, watching her mother die from the same sickness that’s now plaguing her father. Not to mention the ticking clock she has on her own life now.

What’s the harm in letting herself feel more for as many people as she can?

So when Pieck is introduced to the newest member of the Panzer unit, it’s almost instant that she decides you’re next.

You were nervous when they brought you to meet the cart titan. For all your years in the service you had never actually seen any of the titan shifters in their human form. Even at war, Marley did their best to keep Eldians as separate as possible.

“She’s able to stay in her titan form for months at a time!”

“Longer than any cart titan before her!”

“It’s truly amazing how dedicated to Marley she is!”

You nod along while the rest of your squad surrounds you, talking your ear off about how amazing Pieck Finger is. Titan shifters had always been honorary Marleyns, but you were surprised to see the intense devotion and admiration they held for Pieck.

“Not to mention she’s the cutest warrior.” One of them says with moon eyes.

Another bops them on the head, “Don’t talk about Ms. Pieck like that! She’s more than cute, she’s ethereal.”

The door cracks open and a woman in a long skirt and untucked shirt comes in. She’s relying on a cane to help her through, and the soft smile on her face means she’s in a good mood.

“I hope you’re not scaring our new member.”

Your fellow Panzer unit scramble and turn around, saluting Pieck, apologizing for their ignorance of her presence, offering her something to drink, groveling for her attention really.

But Pieck waves them off with a flick of her wrist, telling them she’d like to spend some time with you alone. They grumble but make their way out of the office.

“Tea?”

You shake your head, “No thank you, ma’am.”

Pieck throws a smile over her shoulder while she’s pouring the water, “Ma’am? I can’t that much older than you.”

You feel your face heat up, “I, uhh. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

Pieck makes her way to the sofa, setting her cup on the table before stretching out on the cushions, “None taken.” She buries her head in the crook of her elbow, eyeing you as you shift awkwardly, “You’re cute.”

You open your mouth to respond but Pieck closes her eyes, snuggling deeper into the sofa.

In time, you get used to her sleepy and strange behavior.

Pieck steals you from trainings in guise of going over strategy, instead you trade information bit by bit. Spends days off tickling your chin with flower petals while you lay next to her on a picnic blanket. Uses your lap as a pillow when she invites you to her room telling you she wants to read you poetry.

Magath keeps her in titan form for almost two weeks, preparing for the battle at Fort Slava. The first night she’s human, she has you ride her face while her fingers are buried in her own cunt.

“Cumming is the one thing that always makes me feel human again.” She whispers into your ear, arms wrapped around your body while you try to catch your breath, “Being in my titan for so long wouldn’t be so bad if I could get off every once in a while.”

You huff out a laugh, “I’m sure that would be a sight.”

Pieck smiles, pressing a kiss to your neck. Shifting, you slide a leg between hers, tilting her head for a kiss. You go to press your lips to hers, but you’re met with soft snores instead. A smile forms on your lips and you lay your head against hers.

It’s less than three days later that your shipped off to aid in the fight against the Mid-East Allied Forces. Pieck pulls you in for a kiss before she transforms, right in front of the rest of the panzer unit who watch in surprise, awe, and jealously.

It’s not that you two intentionally hid your budding relationship, but you tried your best to be as professional as possible. Even if Pieck made it difficult with the sneaky hands during meetings or coaxing you into the cart titan artillery, fingers playing with your clit instead of checking the equipment like you said.

But Pieck gripping your chin and capturing your lips in a heated kiss before giving her tired smile and transforming right in front of everyone? It keeps you on a high during every battle over those two months.

And while you’ve practically been by her side the whole time, volunteering to keep watch most nights and laying against her sleeping form, riding her every day (although not the way you wish you could be riding her).

It’s still a rush when you see her coming towards you with only two legs.

“I don’t think we have much time.” You whisper between kisses.

Pieck has you pressed up against the side of in the infirmary, tucked down the alleyway. “Don’t worry.” She smiles against your mouth, “They won’t leave without me.”

A train horn sounds, and you raise your brow, “You sure about that?”

“They love me too much.”

You giggle at her confidence, “I know I do.” Your eyes flutter closed and wait for Pieck to continue, but you notice she isn’t moving. Opening your eyes, you see Pieck is intently staring at you, soft smile as always, but there’s the twinkle she gets in her eye when she has one over you.

You think back, body freezing when you remember the words that you spilled. “I, that’s not what I, I mean,” You stutter.

Pieck presses a finger to your lips, “I love you too.”

It’s like you’re on cloud nine in the weeks that follow. After returning to Marley, Pieck is given a reprieve and the two of you spend it attached at the hip. Lazy mornings, lazy afternoons, and lazy evenings.

When you are able to drag Pieck away from bed you stroll through the market, feeding each other bites of pastries and giggling when she nips at your fingers.

It’s there that you overhear Porco making jabs.

You had gone back to get a second tart after Pieck had flashed you her big eyes that you’re powerless to. They must not have heard you return because Porco continues with his remarks.

“So, you’re really taking her to the festival?”

“Why Pokko? Jealous?”

Porco scoffs, “I’ve moved on. Just surprised, don’t think I’ve ever seen you with the same person longer than a month.”

Pieck smiles, “I love her.”

This time Porco can’t hold back his laugh, “Just like all the other ones!”

You feel your heart skip at his comment, sinking even further when Pieck doesn’t contradict him.

Your feet are stuck, but you’re knocked into Pieck’s back when someone shoulders past you.

“Babe!” She cries, catching you by the arms, “You okay?” Nodding, you hand her the bag, voice still caught in your throat. She smiles, peaking inside, “Thanks baby!” Pieck presses a kiss onto your cheek, “Pokko, you should pick one up for Colt! Do something sweet for once.”

Porco rolls his eyes, “I can be sweet.” He grumbles, stalking off in the direction of the stand you came from.

“C’mon.” Pieck pulls you to a bench between a few trees. She offers you a piece, but you just shake your head, “What’s wrong, love?” You flinch at the pet name, “Babe?”

“What were you and Porco talking about?”

Pieck cocks her head, “What do you mean?”

You bite your lip before continuing, maybe you’re overthinking things, “Just what Porco said, about not being with someone longer than a month.”

“Don’t listen to Pokko.” She smiles, “I love you.”

Pieck tries to press her lips to your cheek again but you pull back, “Have you said that to a lot of people?”

Pieck pulls her hand from yours, “Is that a problem?”

You open your mouth before closing it, thinking over her question. “I suppose not. I just, you’re the only person I’ve said it to.” You tell her shyly.

“That makes me feel special.” Pieck says. And from anyone else it would have sounded sarcastic, but the sincerity in her voice seeps through, “You know I only have three years left, right?”

You frown. You don’t like thinking about Pieck’s impending end, and you’re unsure why she’s bringing it up now.

“I’ve known that my life has an earlier expiration date than most for quite some time now.” She turns to look ahead, “Which is why I do and say what’s on my mind.” She looks at you again, a small smile playing on her lips, “It’s why I told you were cute when we met for the first time.”

You feel your face heat up at the memory, how forward and honest she’s always been with you.

“And yeah, I’ve loved a lot of people in my life. But I think I’ve loved you the most.” Pieck picks at the tart in her lap, an uncharacteristic nervousness washing over her, “And with the time I have left, I think you’re it for me.” She continues to avoid your gaze, “So while I might have been your first love, I’m hoping you’ll be my last.”

“Oh.” You whisper, heart filling with warmth and tears pricking in your eyes. Pieck looks back to you.

“You don’t have to say anything, but there is something I want to ask you.” You nod, throat still a little tight, “I want you to take the spot above my nape in the cart’s artillery.” You frown, that’s the most vital spot, protecting Pieck’s weak point, “I know what you’re thinking.” Pieck cups your cheek, “But I trust you.”

“Okay.” You nod, and she smiles at your answer giving you a deep kiss in response. “You taste like raspberry.” You mumble against her lips.

“It’s the tart!” She exclaims, gesturing to the sweet that’s still in her lap. You giggle as she picks a piece off, offering it, and you close your lips around her fingers.

“You think the festival tomorrow will have a tart flavor I haven’t tried yet?” Pieck asks, eyes dancing while she pulls her fingers from your lips.

Shifting, you let Pieck rests her head on your shoulder, and you press a kiss on top of her head, “Not sure, but I’ll get you which ever ones you want.”

Pieck hums softly and closes her eyes. Even if she only has a few more years, at least she gets to spend them with you.

[ahkaahshi]

11:00 PM [kita shinsuke]

pairing: kita shinsuke x fem reader

genre: fluff

warning(s): just a hint of cursing

word count: 2.1k

overview: you learn more about kita with every evening stroll the two of you take together

At 11:00 PM on the dot, Kita arrives at your front door with a knock for the evening walk he said he wanted to take with you. Of course, he’s always right on time, whereas you’re tripping over the sweats you're pulling up as you rush to the door to answer it.

“Hey Shin,” you greet him a bit more breathlessly than you would’ve liked. His dark gaze meets your own (e/c) one before drifting down to where your hands are still adjusting the waistband of your pants. A small chuckle bubbles in his throat once he’s gathered that, as per usual, you’ve gotten prepared at the last possible second.

Swooping down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, he asks, “Ready to go now, sweetheart?” Your body flushes with warmth at the tender pet name that leaves his lips, though it’s been spoken before many, many times, and you nod. “Don’t forget yer jacket.” He grabs it from the coat rack near the doorway and slides it over your arms for you in another one of his kind gestures before you bend down to tie the shoelaces of the sneakers you’ve stepped into.

After shoving your keys into your pocket and locking up, you wonder, “So, where do you wanna go?”

His warm palm slides against yours, prompting your fingers to weave themselves between his as he shrugs. “Not sure.”

“Kita Shinsuke? Not sure? Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?” you tease, mocking surprise in a way that brings another smile to his face.

“How’s the park up the street sound?”

“Ah, there he is.” You give his hand a playful squeeze and move closer to him as the two of you make your way out of your apartment complex, into the cool, dark night.

In spite of your earlier teasing and urge to grill your boyfriend about his intentions behind suggesting that the two of you go on a walk at a time when he’d usually want to be settled down in bed, you find comfort in the silence that fills the air. In between the whistles of chilly gusts that sweep over your cheeks and past your ears, you can hear the leaves of the trees above you whispering as they brush against each other and the gentle hum of the still bustling city in the distance.

Due to your housing situations and busy schedules, the times when the two of you get to fully enjoy each other’s company without any distractions are relatively few and far between. He understands and appreciates the value of the time he’s spending with you now, as he always does, by walking with a slow and relaxed pace rather than a quick, rushed one. It’s refreshing, you think, to simply stroll down the sidewalk with a destination in mind but no scheduled time for when you have to arrive, and Kita seems to feel the same way.

There’s an ease to his demeanor that you can sense, and which quiets your own thoughts for a few minutes. You enjoy seeing him this way since you understand the mostly self-inflicted burdens Kita likes to place on himself with his ideals and expectations of the way his life should be.

Beneath the pale, fluorescent lights in the park, his hair glows a haunting shade of white that makes you wonder, for a moment, if this whole experience is just some fever dream. If you’re really just fast asleep in your bed, so desiring of your boyfriend’s company that your subconscious has manifested him. But a glance he sends down towards you accompanied by the sensation of his warm lips against your temple reminds you that—thankfully—everything you’re experiencing just happens to be a pleasant part of your reality. A tender moment that will soon become a fond memory in time.

His hand unclasps yours for a moment as the two of you gravitate towards the swings hanging in the middle of a sand pit nearby to sit down. The cool plastic of the seat seeping through the rear of your sweatpants makes you shiver slightly, and you use your legs to rock yourself forward and back as your hands wrap around the chains keeping it suspended.

When you turn your attention to your boyfriend once more, you find that his gaze is glued to the playground nearby, as if he’s trying to find his thoughts hiding somewhere amongst the metal structure. Before you can ask him what’s on his mind, he gives you the answer. “Remember our high school team’s motto?”

With a small chuckle that sends a small cloud of steam into the air in front of you, you answer, “Ironically enough, yeah. Why?”

“Remember how I always disagreed with it?”

“Of course.”

He sighs a deep and heavy sigh, as if there’s a giant weight on his back pushing all the air in his lungs out at once. Dark brown eyes turn away from the play structure to focus on yours instead as he mentions, “I remember thinkin’ how disrespectful, in a sense, it was to ask a question like that. Who needs memories?” His light hair shifts against his forehead as he shakes his head in a self-deprecating manner. “But now, I kinda wish that I’d appreciated it a bit more. Memories help you grow, shape ya into the person you wanna be, ‘nd all, but they make it impossible to live a life without regrets.”

Your heart sinks in your chest at his words, and you somewhat instinctively reach across the gap separating your swings to latch onto his hand. He shows his appreciation towards your action by ensconcing yours in both of his, surrounding it in warmth. “Is there something you regret?” you wonder softly, voice barely above a whisper.

A low, contemplative hum echoes behind his lips as he presses them to your knuckles. “Not regret, per se, but wish I did differently,” he admits, “I wish I’d allowed myself a bit more freedom back when I was a teenager. I mean, I appreciate havin’ routines, of course, since they help give my actions a sense of purpose and meaning, but I really don’t think my life woulda turned out much different if I’d’ve let myself go a bit more ‘nd been less concerned about makin’ some of those stupid, teenage mistakes, ya know?”

“Stupidity doesn’t have to be limited to your teenage years. Just look around you. It’s everywhere, at all ages. You still have a chance.”

He snickers. “I know, sweetheart. But what I’m sayin’ is that a little bit of spontaneity wouldn’t’ve hurt me back then. Wouldn’t hurt me now, either.”

“Well,” you say with a devilish smirk as you scoot out of the swing, your shoes sinking into the sand when you stand up once more, “it’s a good thing I’m here, then, ain’t it?” Maintaining eye contact with him, you saunter over to him and slide your hand out of his before moving your head towards his. Placing your palms on his shoulders prompts him to lean down closer to you, and you murmur, “What do you say to a friendly game of tag, huh? Because—” you turn on your heels quickly and shout over your shoulder—“you’re it!”

Without turning to look behind you again, you sprint through the sand towards the grass field nearby to put as much distance between the two of you as you can. Over the sound of your own breathing and the wind whipping past you, you’re sure you can hear the clinking of metal indicating he’s left his seat on the swings to pursue you. Sure enough, a few moments later, you feel a firm tap against your shoulder that marks a switch in your roles. When you whirl around to find him, he’s already jogging away, a small smile playing on his lips as he casts a sneaky glance over at you.

“You’re too damn fast, Shin!” you whine breathily as you run after him.

He replies, “You’re the one who wanted to play, (f/n).”

Eventually, after a series of fake outs and narrow escapes, you manage to tag him again and sprint away. However, while you bolt across the grass, you feel droplets of water splashing against your skin that start out small, but soon grow larger and larger. “It’s raining!” you squeal, abandoning your mission of running away from your boyfriend to make a beeline for the gazebo you spot not too far away.

As you speed through the field, you feel Kita’s hand wrap around yours, keeping you close to him while he runs with you. Upon reaching one of the tables tucked beneath the metal roof of the small structure, you plop down onto a bench and try to recover from your sudden stint of exercise. Clearly, as a result of the spontaneity, you hadn’t thought the entire thing through; because if you had, you might’ve decided on a different game given how spry Kita is.

“Truce!” you breathe heavily, waving a packet of tissues from your pocket up in the air as a white flag.

He laughs at your quick surrender but accepts it, nonetheless, and seats himself beside you. As he watches you flash a bright smile at him while you work on slowing down your breathing once more, he feels heat rush through his body in a wave that radiates from his chest. His heart thumps quickly, but not just with exertion, and the sound echoes in his ears over that of the rain hitting the earth as the heavens open above the two of you.

“What’re you looking at me like that for, huh?” you ask, cocking an eyebrow at him rather teasingly in spite of the butterflies flitting around in your stomach.

Placing one arm over your shoulders to bring your warm body closer to his while his other hand comes to rest on your cheek, tilting your chin up towards his face, he makes a simple yet powerful proclamation: “I love you.”

He kisses you harder than you think he ever has before you can respond. It’s searing, the sensation of his lips on yours, and you’re robbed of your breath in what feels to be an instant. The quiet gasps of air you take each time your lips part for a few, painstaking seconds is lost beneath the downpour of rain pounding on the metal roof and the pavement surrounding the gazebo. You melt into his arms and drape yours around his neck to keep the distance separating your faces to a minimum. It’s been too long since you’ve shared a kiss this intense and passionate, and you both lose yourselves in the moment, choosing to focus on the now rather than the then or the next.

However, just as quickly as the sudden torrent of rain comes and goes, his kisses grow gentler and softer until his lips disconnect from yours entirely to trail along your cheek while he pulls you into a tight hug. Breathlessly, you tell him, “I love you too,” as you nestle your face in the crook of his neck and relish in the familiar comfort he always brings. “What brought that on, though, baby?”

“Just felt like kissin’ my girlfriend, is all.”

You chuckle against his skin before moving your head away from him so you can plant another, tender kiss on his lips that he reciprocates without hesitation. When you pull away again, you both take a quick look at your surroundings to see droplets of rain still pattering against the now soaked pavement. Its sudden arrival seems to be an unspoken invitation for the two of you to stay out longer and enjoy each other’s company, so you suggest, “Wanna wait it out?”

“Yeah,” Kita answers with a nod, raising his hand to brush a few strands of dampened hair away from his eyes. Shooting him a small smile, you rest your head on his shoulder and allow him to welcome you back into his arms.

“Do you have any other regrets, Shin?” you ask as you watch the rain form patterns of ripples across the puddles pooling on the paths.

“I think sayin’ I wished I did things differently earlier was a bit harsh.” The hand he has around your waist gives you a gentle, affectionate squeeze. “At the end of the day, I don’t regret how I lived my life because all the things I did somehow led me to you.” 

His lips meet the crown of your head before he continues, “And all of my favorite memories are the ones I’ve made with you.”

when night falls masterlist ⭐︎ treat me to a coffee!

taglists (send an ask to be added to the when night falls taglist!)

when night falls: @aoyukai, @why-aminot-dead, @yamagucji, @toutorii, @shibayamasbae, @tsukkisbean, @devlovesiwa-channn, @captain-shittykawa, @ghblh, @postsfromthe6, @omibaby, @deerixiie

general: @dinablossom, @newfriendjen, @ohbyunhunn, @aftcrlust, @mister-future, @kyleclxin, @kac-chowsballs, @osamusmiya, @nit-sir-hc, @arixtsukki, @shinsurou, @ichorizaki, @dominikmagnus, @tendo-sxtori, @krynnza​

kita: @pretty-setters​, @misora-msby​, @heyhinata​, @caxsthetic​

[aelin-queen-of-terrasen]

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫

full masterlist - fic masterlist

The next morning found all the townhouse residents asleep, Celaena decided to take her leave of her brother—how she marveled at the word—through a note, citing prior obligations that needed to be attended though he was welcome to visit her in the evening if his duties could spare him, which she left with the efficient butler, who assured her the message would be delivered. The ride back home was unexpectedly short considering the roads were teeming with entourages of families returning from their country estates for the London Season or ladies running off to modistes to have their wardrobes updated with the latest fashions before the invitations started rolling ko in.

Her relief at returning was great, though she purposefully hid from her parents—or her elder sister, Eleanor—attending diligently to her correspondence. It was a miracle the stack of letters thinned at all, considering how preoccupied her mind was. Two hours after the torment of trying to focus on her letters, Celaena gave it up in favour of returning Countess Lieven's visit from last week. There was a considerable difference in age, personality and social ranks between them but both enjoyed each other's conversation, and the russian ambassadress was excellent company. Celaena did not expect to find the woman alone—the countess' drawing rooms rarely ever were—but she did look forward to sensible conversation about politics and such and was thoroughly displeased to find that esteemed lady attempting to look interested in Lady Jersey's—another lady patroness of the Almack's and a social leader whose favourite pastime was gossip—rants about the latest love affairs of Lady Caroline Lamb, and Mrs Burnwell among other ladies, who though a sensible lady did not look much pleased with Celaena, though she could not tell if it was because of her rank or her public insult to the lady's beloved niece—Lady Perrington—at the dinner party the other day. Despite the former's thrice professed hatred for the topic, Lady Jersey lament about Caroline Lamb extensively and with all the knowledge of one well-informed of her activities. The other ladies listened keenly and with interest, and by the end of their visit, Celaena felt she knew Caroline's social life better than her own and the countess looked ready to pull her hair out.

"I cannot stand her hypocrisy," said Her Ladyship once they were alone, "condemning Caroline—as obnoxious as she is—for her 'love affairs' when her own mother-in-law is so infamous a mistress to the Prince of Wales. If she thinks it is different just because the Royal House of Hanover is involved—oh, I cannot countenance her. It is a pity she should be such a public figure that I cannot avoid her, or I should happily see the back of that one. Come, my dear," said she, noticing her friend smile behind her teacup, "you came looking for an enjoyable half hour and were instead subjected to gossip and derision. You cannot have anything to say in Lady Jersey's defence?" this said with a tone that indicated she did not know how anyone could have anything to say in Lady Jersey's defence.

"I cannot defend her, but I can understand why she thinks the situations are different—it's not because the prince regent is involved, but rather Caroline's utter lack of discretion. I could easily forgive her affairs if they caused harm to no one but herself, but alas, as it is, her husband's standing in society is affected by her behaviour." This was said in reference to Lady Heathcote's ball in July, 1813 where, after being publicly insulted by her—former?—lover, Lord Byron, she had slashed at her wrists with a broken wineglass and only her mother-in-law Lady Melbourne's prompt thinking and quick intervention had kept her from serious harm. When it became clear she had no suicidal tendencies, the whole affair attached such a ridiculous air to all the parties involved, it could not have been in anyone's favour.

"You would condone her actions if she were only being discreet?" asked Countess Lieven, surprised.

"Perhaps not condone, no," said she, "but I would not object to them. Really, she and her husband are both adults in a marriage that is less a marriage and more a business contract based on terms and conditions. If both decide between themselves that the other can look for love—or rather, a lover—outside their household, and if they can manage it discreetly, what is the harm in it? Viscount Melbourne admits himself he does not care for his wife, nor she for him. If they must remain in a marriage neither wants, I do not see the harm in looking for satisfaction outside with both spouses' consent."

"But you would not act in the same way in her place," accused she.

"If my marriage was more like hers?" she wondered aloud. "I would hope to reach an understanding with my husband we can both be happy with." Seeing her friend look unconvinced, she said, "Really, I strongly believe that if something makes you happy, you must ask yourself if it harms someone? If it does not, I would not hold myself back out of respect for society's ridiculous edicts; not at the expense of my happiness."

"Adultery would be a disrespect to one's marital vows."

"Oh, certainly," agreed she, "but are they not already disrespecting their marital vows by vowing to love each other? I would rather a husband and wife live by an arrangement that keeps both happy than be miserable trying to respect marriage vows they never truly meant."

Countess Lieven who herself was faithful to her husband—a rarity among the upper ten thousands, whose own marriage was arranged and who lived—if not happily, than in a content state of harmony with her husband, could have nothing more to say on this subject, so she steered the conversation away from it. "I suppose you are thinking of the Whitethorns when you mention that example? I admit I was surprised to hear from Mrs Burnwell earlier Mr Whitethorn appreciated your company so—oh, do not be offended, dear—it is only that I have never seen him appreciate anyone's company at all, though I say he has fine taste if he does indeed show you preference."

Celaena had been thinking of him in relation to the subject, but denied it. "I do not think their troubles can be solved simply by taking lovers." Celaena put her teacup down and leaned forward, more to stop drinking the overly sweet concoction than to show interest in the subject. "I had the impression those two do not get on because she is not suited to the duties his rank and station entails and he is not equipped with enough knowledge or patience to know how to guide her in it. They are bound by constraints of society in a marriage that makes both miserable."

Countess Lieven looked at her speculatively before the subject was dropped.

A perverse curiosity drove her to mention meeting Mr Galathynius and Lord Fenrys, which had the happy effect of inducing the countess to volunteer information about that family.

"The House of Galathynius," said she, "has been suffering from a lack of inactivity. Lord Rhoe lost a child some years ago and has not been the same since. His father abdicated his title after a severe bout of influenza in their county, but he soon recovered. The damage was done; Rhoe, the poor man was not prepared for the title and his estates and position suffered for it; now his sons take care of the properties while he pursues politics. The grandfather constantly battles them for power but he does not have half the influence as Viscount Layton—that is the elder brother, hardly social at all, so solemn and reserved but he is a responsible man. Far better than the rakes and dandies of town spending their days in the club, neck deep in debts of honor."

"Viscount Layton? I have not heard much of him at all, aside from his fondness for the written word."

"So you would not, for Galathynius is a name that does not appear in the tabloids often. The younger son does not have the trademark grave countenance of his forefathers—he inherited the ashryver charm from his mother and the elder is so antisocial, he hides himself in the country. For two boys who lost their sister and mother at an early age and were brought up by an uninterested father, they grew up to be fine indeed."

"The Countess of Narrowcreek, yes. Mrs Burnwell told me she was a fine lady."

"Lady Helen was, not pretty but so well-mannered and polite! She died of fever an year after her daughter, though some say it was the heartbreak that killed her."

"They are a big family, are they not? You said something about the ashryvers? I met one of them."

"Yes, the cousins," said she, "fine young men, all either determined bachelors or trapped in poor marriages. The ashryvers don't have their Galathynius cousins' impeccable reputations but the natural ashryver charm easily accounts for that." The Countess smiled knowingly and she shifted in her seat at the silent implication that she was interested in one of them—god forbid—and not wanting to further this idea, Celaena was obliged to put an end to this line of inquiry and introduced a generally neutral topic of conversation. Though Celaena was far too aware of the speculative look on the countess' face everytime she looked at her, the visit ended pleasantly on both sides, with one party anxious and the other intrigued with the subjects of conversation introduced.

That afternoon, Celaena was admitted into Lysandra's modest apartments by a housemaid who bade her to wait in the drawing room. Impatient to her own detriment, she thought nothing of barging into her friends' room and was wholly unprepared for the sight she was met with.

"Oh, no," said she, stupidly, "I-I came to talk, I didn't know—Captain Ashryver, I-I-oh."

Celaena flushed, prompting the colonel to fish for his clothes while he clutched the bedsheet in an attempt to cover his lower-half. The poor man looked ready to fling himself off the nearest cliff, which soothed her mortification somewhat. Like all englishwomen of respectable birth, Celaena had a suppressed but prurient curiosity that was only encouraged by the books available in her father's well-stocked library. Her odd fascination with the ladies of the demi-monde had been one of the initial reasons she extended an acquaintanceship with the courtesan who was now her dearest friend, though she soon learned to love the lady for her own merits. However, all education in that area did not prepare her for exposure to such a sight. She colored, gaped, stammered an incoherent excuse about needing air and fled the room. Her distress increased when Captain Ashryver stepped out of the room first, properly dressed to the boot.

He bowed formally, which seemed absurd given what had passed before.

"Captain Ashryver."

He flushed. "Miss Sardothein. It is—it is actually Colonel Ashryver now."

Celaena murmured vague congratulations, studiously avoiding his eyes. "I thought you were still with the army, sir, in Brussels—I am surprised to find you here. Do you know yet how long you will stay with us?"

"Six months," said he, looking away.

"Aedion," called she, startling him with her address of his given name, "I hope you know you are as dear to me as a brother. If there is anything you wish to talk about, I would happily listen to you."

Hesitation warred with trust in his eyes, and he looked cautiously towards the bedroom.

"I will not betray your confidence to anyone," she assured him firmly.

Aedion looked at his hands, blonde strands of hair falling in front of his eyes. "I was offered a posting here in London and—and I am not sure if I can accept it."

"It must be hard," she observed, "to give up a career you spent half your life pursuing."

"It is, and yet, it is not the only reason. I didn't choose to go to the army—I—when my grandfather found out about my inclinations," this word was spat out with enough venom that she knew what he thought about the man, "he sent me there and I accepted it as my lot, as if I were a second son. I don't know if father knows why I insisted on joining the army but, gods, I did belong there, with my men—there were some others from aristocratic families like mine who hoped any unusual proclivities would be beaten out of us there. It was just part of a job—killing people was not a good thing or a bad thing—it just was. But I was at Hougomont, Celaena," this being one of the chateaus in the village of Waterloo, "and by God, I never saw so much death as I saw there, so many friends dead, their wives widowed, their—their children orphans. I did not—if I have to see a war half so drastic as that again, I do not think I will survive it."

Celaena reached for his hand, frowning. "Then why hesitate?"

"I did not go there by choice; he—my grandfather, that is—forced me into it and he will not be pleased if I am against him. If he decides to cut off my allowance, on a colonel's payroll alone, I will not have nearly enough to pay off Lysandra's debts."

"I can help with that—"

"No." His voice was soft, but firm.

"Aedion, don't be foolish. You haven't much choice. You said yourself you could not survive another war and I could—"

"I said no."

"Pride goeth before a fall, colonel."

"Pride!" exclaimed he, looking resentful at the implication. "It is hardly that. You know what Arobynn did the last time you tried to pay off those debts—and whatever you can spare from your allowance, you need to save for your own future. Lysandra is not the only one bound to a monster by law."

She did know, but because she felt like being difficult, Celaena scoffed. "Say what you mean, sir. You do not wish to have help from a woman. If it had been a male friend offering instead, you would have jumped to accept—"

He threw his hands up. "You are putting words in my mouth."

"I am saying what you are too proud to admit out loud."

Aedion did not take the bait, replying calmly that he would not save one of his ladies from the Hamel's fire only to throw the other in it. Celaena could find nothing snappish to say to that, but having gotten over her own embarassment, she was determined to be difficult. "This is all well and good," said she, "but I hope the next time you will lock your door."

"The maid knew to leave you here," argued he. "If you had followed the instructions—"

"Instructions!" cried she. "This is not an army camp, colonel, and I am not a fellow soldier under your authority."

"I say, a good thing you are not. You have not the discipline for a soldier's life."

"If all your men are as disagreeable as you, I am happy to have missed the chance." Clamping down on the very inappropriate desire to stomp her foot on the ground, she turned her face away. "At least I am well-mannered enough to not lay blame on others for my own faults."

"Fine manners you have indeed, walking into someone's bedroom unannounced."

"The door was open," argued she, weakly.

"The latch broke last night," he flushed and she decided she did not wish to know how. Celaena felt a pair of accusing eyes fixed on her. "But the incident was a fitting punishment for you—I hope you will think twice before doing that again."

To no one's surprise, they retreated into a calm silence while their tempers cooled off. Both were impulsive and hot-headed, too similar to never fight and too prideful to give in, and they had surprised everyone—including themselves—by striking up a lasting friendship that had suffered through time and distance. Propriety dictated an unmarried woman could not write to a bachelor, so she had her father address it for her; society said they would be ruined if they were found together without a chaperone, so they started meeting in each other's homes, where they could not be found at all; decorum demanded they speak not a word of love untill the gentleman offered marriage—and that the lady should not at all say anything but a polite yes, so they talked of everything but marriage. Their showdowns with each other were frequent something to watch—and friend was not at all an ideal title to assign to an eligible gentleman; it raised many an eyebrow at balls and dinner parties where the Colonel was so attentive to her, and all felt certain a marriage proposal was not far away. Speaking materially, it would be a splendid match—with his rank as the penniless second son of an earl—and her, an accomplished society woman with an inheritance big enough for all to overcome the worst of their prejudices about trade. It would have been a splendid match; if he wasn't taken and if she was more amicable to the idea of marriage, that is. Celaena thought guiltily of all he had done for her, fending off suitors determinedly like a dutiful elder brother all the while pretending to be one, and she wondered shortly what he would say if he knew who she was. Did he know her brothers, or Lord Fenrys perhaps? He would be sceptical at first, she knew, and then he would be pleased she was close to being free of Arobynn's shadow. Celaena looked up to do something—to tell him perhaps or to apologise? But there, he had his eyes fixed on her already—his eyes, thought she, were turquoise blue ringed with gold. Oh.

Celaena rose from her seat, saying unsteadily, "Forgive me, but I just remembered I have an appointment at my modiste."

"I can drop you—"

"No, no," she was already out of her seat, donning her cloak, "I came in my carriage. Pray, tell Lysandra I will return tomorrow."

The carriage ride back home was so short, she hardly felt it. Celaena had not much time to ruminate on her present realisation, but she felt stupid at her distress a few minutes ago. Her new family—a reality which had seemed like such a surety this morning—was now shrouded in doubts. Aedion had not recognised her as his cousin for years, and if he who was practically her mirror image by all accounts, did not, no one else could be expected to believe her claim by one look at her face. But what other proof had she? It was with near trepidation that she entered her house, and was happily recieved by her brother who had been waiting in her parlor for a half hour.

"I thought," said he, "I should personally come to you with an invitation to a dinner party tonight at my home—our home, rather. I should like to reintroduce you to relations who are already in town—they have all been waiting so long, Aelin, if you like? You are acquainted with most of them already, and I know father wishes to apologise."

"He does? I hope he is feeling better after that—that attack." Celaena thought ashamedly how little consideration she had given him except to worry the others might follow his lead, believing her to be a fortune huntress.

"He is," assured James, "He refused to believe me when I told him—and then to see you, looking so much like mama, he was overset. But he is fine now, and very remorseful, dearest. I hope you will not hold that first impression against him for long—we had all quite lost hope, and it seems fragile still, like I would look away from you for a moment and you would disappear into the mist, he was being cautious."

"I will try my best," she promised in an attempt to appease.

Celaena knew she was blessed with a handful of attractive features that compensated for the majority of average ones; and, by early adolescence, she had discovered that with the help of cosmetics, these average features could easily match the extraordinary assets. Vanity she had always acknowledged freely to be her chief sin after pride, and she felt her nerves ease at the familiar ritual of having herself pushed into a pretty dress, her hair tugged and pulled before an event. By the time she was dressed in a fine evening gown of soft pink muslin, golden curls pinned atop her head with diamond pins gifted by her brother—a family heirloom, apparently—she was almost beaming on her brother's arm. In the carriage, she distracted herself by asking him questions about his involvement in the House of Lords, their father's health and had the immense pleasure of hearing him talk about meating Madame d'arbley who wrote Cecilia, which had been her favourite novel since she first read it. The talk soon turned to the night's guests and she inquired after their identity.

"You already know Fenrys and the younger Mr Whitethorn; Fenrys' parents will be there, as will our father and Rowan's parents, his elder brother is out of town and his younger sister, Mrs Parkinson and her husband could not attend, and the little Whitethorn boys will come too; though their mother holds the traditional belief that children should eat in the nursery until they are fifteen, so I do not know if they will be present at dinner."

"Rowan—that is Mr Whitethorn's given name, yes? I met his children before," said she, "in the park yesterday. They were sweet, well-mannered boys."

Her brother allowed it to be so, regaling her with anecdotes of their youth and Celaena felt she had never spent a half hour half as entertained before.

"Really, Rhoe," said Lady Meave, rising from her seat, "you are being absurd. I would think thirteen years of grief would make you accept it, but you are starting to grow more deranged with time."

The family members had all arrived a half hour ago when Rhoe explained the purpose of the meeting. James believed that the family would be informed of the situation before meeting Aelin so the element of surprise would not bring out ill-mannered reactions and accusations like this one and Rhoe had agreed to do it himself as the head of the household, though whether he did out of obligation or out of a desire to redeem himself in Aelin's eyes, Fenrys could not tell. Their cousins had more or less recieved the news with good grace, curious but tentatively delighted. The Whitethorns were curious, though Lady Mora expressed her delight at the news repeatedly and tearfully. Lord Jared was more reserved in his congratulations—a reserved disposition was a Whitethorn trait—as was his son, Rowan, who seemed more curious than anything else. His wife made incoherent noises about how nice it must be to be surrounded by all of one's relations, which made her husband stiffen. It was public knowledge Mr Whitethorn's relationship with his mother-in-law was contentious. She was a widow who lived in her father the earl's home, infamous for her very public affairs with Lord Shuttleton and the Marquess of Mowry, and did not have much regard for propriety or morals. The Earl had recently sent her back to live with her relations in Scarborough, prompting Mrs Whitethorn to insist her mother be invited to stay indefinitely in her home instead, an idea which Mr Whitethorn did not approve of. This served to increase the tension between the mismatched couple, and that Mrs Whitethorn seemed wholly unaware of it only served to aggravate her husband more. Fenrys was saved from replying when Lady Meave having finally processed the news, loudly and fervently denied it.

Rhoe did not look at all perturbed. He said, "We thought Aelin died, because we found a girl's dead body—which was unrecognizable—and an anklet near it. I am now ashamed I did not once consider it might not be her, for if I had, perhaps she would have been with us—but I do intend to make up for the lost years, cousin. I believe the anklet we procured was either circumstancial evidence or a delibrate cover-up. I have hired private investigators to look into the matters, though we have not much hope, but as it stands, I believe—no, I know—Aelin is alive and will be joining us all for dinner. Oh no," he added quickly, holding up a hand to forestall their aunt's objections, "This is not a discussion where Your Ladyship can pitch in her own two cents. If you are not prepared to acknowledge Aelin, you may see yourself out."

"You are putting a lot of faith in a fortune-hunter."

"Really, my lady," interrupted Fenrys, bemusedly, "I have met the lady on three occassions before; I can assure you she looked like an ashryver—"

"That proves nothing!" cried she, acerbically. "How do we know she is not one of your father's by-blows, hoping to extract a fortune? You are the one who put this whole idea in James' head—so perhaps, perhaps you are in cahoots with her."

"Sister!" exclaimed Mora, wide-eyed at the acid spewing from her mouth.

Poor woman—bless her gentle heart—looked scandalized her sister would even think those accusations, let alone voice them out loud. Rowan patted his mother's arm, looking pained while his father turned all sorts of blue and red. Lord Jared was offended on the behalf of his dearest friend—Fenrys' father, the Earl of Bedford. To Fenrys, the idea that his noble, stuck-up, proper and prudish father would have a mistress—let alone a bastard child—was laughable.

"Hold your tongue there, Meave," chided Lord Jared disapprovingly. "This childish petulance does not become you."

"You believe him?" Seeing none of them deny the accusation, she said, "If you are determined to fool yourself, please do. I will have no part in the downfall of this family." And so saying, she turned on her heel and left.

"If anyone else has grievances with this new discovery," said Rhoe, "they may join Meave in her self-inflicted banishment from my homes."

"Oh, Rhoe," said Lady Mora, defending her sister. "I hope you will forgive her. The news was very much surprising, and I think she was much surprised. I am sure she was only being cautious to save you from one she thought was a fortune hunter. We are all very happy little Aelin is back." Fenrys thought he would not assign so pure a motive to his other aunt's outburst but Mora was a compassionate soul, incapable to think meanly of others so he let the statement go unchallenged. Before the silence could turn awkward, he heard Colonel Ashryver say dryly, "Well, at least when Aelin comes, we can assure her there is no lack of entertainment here."

"If I recall, she was rather fond of drama as a child," agreed he.

"No, no, that was Fenrys," said a voice in the doorway. "Aelin just liked to follow him in whatever he did." James looked affectionately at his sister, escorting her inside.

Aelin smiled at Fenrys who kissed her cheek. "Welcome home, Aelin."

"It's Lady Aelin now, sir."

Two different voices called 'Miss Sardothein?!' though no one paid them much attention as Lord Rhoe stepped forward tentatively in front of his daughter.

"Aelin," he said.

Fenrys tried instead to look at Rowan and Aedion, both of whom were gaping inelegantly but failed, eyes repeatedly snapping back to Aelin who was watching the old man warily. She returned his bow with a curtsy, then rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. "Father."

Lord Rhoe said tearfully, "Oh, Aelin."

"It is all forgiven," said she quietly, in response, "I was surprised too."

He was almost disappointed when Aedion interrupted the father-daughter reunion. "You," said he accusingly, turning to the lady of the hour, "You knew the truth this morning?"

"Yes."

"You didn't tell me."

"With all the commotion of the morning—which by the by was your fault—I did not realize," said Aelin. "And when I did, I was too surprised to do anything more than flee."

"Wait," said James, suspiciously. "This morning? I thought you were to attend your business affairs this morning, Aelin."

Aedion's face flushed, matching Aelin's in it's hue. "Yes, well," she said, "I had, uh, some calls to return."

"You called on Aedion?" asked Fenrys, surprised.

It was terribly improper for a gentlewoman to call alone on a bachelor, but with her formerly a tradesman's daughter, Aelin did not bother to stick with the more ridiculous edicts of society; she would not have accepted their dinner invitation if she had. Besides as far as he was concerned, Aelin could grow two heads, murder someone or dye her hair lavender and he would still consider her perfect. Fenrys did not know about the others but he had missed the little spitfire terribly; pranks were not nearly enough fun without her trying to stifle her giggles by his side.

"I did not call on him; rather, on a friend he too was calling on," she defended herself. Her face was red.

James narrowed his eyes, looking between them. "You are courting each other!"

"Heavens no!" said Aedion. "Believe me, you have nothing to fear on that account." At the look of mock-offense on her face, he smirked. "You are not half as pretty as you think you are, Cel—Aelin."

"Did I permit you to address me so informally?" she asked primly. "Considering I look almost the same as you do, my appearance is not something you should be disparaging, colonel."

Rhoe huffed in amusement, "Yes, well, come along, children, there are others waiting to be introduced."

And so they did, though Fenrys could tell James was not yet convinced there was nothing between the two. Lady Mora was every bit as pleased as she had claimed, greeting her cousins' daughter with pure delight. Lord Jared was more formal, though not at all unkind. Mrs Whitethorn had a distracted air towards her, though she did smile pleasantly and Fenrys could detect no animosity in her. It was Mr Whitethorn—Rowan—whose reaction surprised him the most. He looked—pained, almost—which did not quite make sense, though perhaps that was just his discomfort with strangers shining through. The civilities were only just exchanged when the butler announced dinner was ready and the whole party proceeded inside in an informal order, Rhoe ditching the normal propriety edicts in favour of leading his daughter into dinner. He seated her at the opposite end of the long, mahogany table as himself, in the seat reserved for the mistress of the house.

Aelin's answering smile was a lot more genuine than before.

Dinner passed almost pleasantly, the seven course meal enough to sustain the conversation for some time and if the silence ever stretched, it did not stay long. With fine conversationalists like Fenrys and James at the same table, and with Aelin's lively manners the atmosphere was merry enough to overcome even the infamous Whitethorn reserve, Lord Jared expounding passionately on the fine horses in his stables on such occassions when provoked. Mr Whitethorn talked animatedly of books—but only with Aelin and only when she delibrately directed her statements to him—and even Mrs Whitethorn ventured a few shy remarks here and there. They were in the best of spirits when in the middle of the dinner by the end when the men stood up to retire to the study for port—a traditional seperation of sexes following dinner—when the door opened. The poor butler hastily entered the room behind the new addition, struggling to keep up with the man's but determined to follow the protocol, announcing to the room between pants, Viscount Preston, Lord Edward Galathynius of Graceview.

Celaena's fork clattered on the floor; her eyes were fixed on the dark-haired man, curls just barely pushed away from his face. A light pink tinted his cheeks and the tip of his nose—a result of the biting wind outside—and dust clung to the lapels of his overcoat, white cravat almost coming apart. Edward's eyes so identical to her own were entirely cold; he bowed formally to the dinner guests and she had the impression he had stormed inside unaware of them. He did not see me, she thought, embarassed as he was at having the attention directed at him. Edward's eyes went over the crowd in a quick movement and he murmured polite greetings—until they caught on her and her heart thumped wildly inside her chest. Edward's noble mein was intimidating and his features arranged neutrally and she worried the boy whose memory she had clung to for years was but an illusion until he whispered her name 'Aelin' with a quite awe and muted wonder; for the first time, it felt like hers. Then he choked on a sob; Aelin was running at him and he had his arm around her, a movement so natural like he had been doing it all his life.

Aelin buried her face in her brother's neck, trying to commit his scent to memory.

"Shh," said he, lovingly, caressing her cheek with one hand, "Please don't cry, dearest."

"You smell like horses," said Aelin, tearfully. "It's making my eyes water."

Edward threw his head back and laughed, a sound rare enough, she could feel her cousins' surprise from behind them. He sighed quietly, a small, contented noise that made her smile. "I missed you, Aelin, though I know I have no right to say that. Had I done something differently—"

"Ridiculous man," said Aelin, tenderly wiping the tears from his cheeks. "James told me you were not four and ten; what could you have done? I have long since learned not to regret what has passed and make the best of my lot. I had a good life, brother," she told him, squeezing his hands, "if not a perfect one. I—I was brought up with an education no lady recieves. It suits my disposition perfectly and you may call me selfish but I am happy I had that chance—though I wish we had more time together."

Edward smiled softly, "We have all the time in the world now."

"Perhaps not all the time," she teased with an imp-like grin, seeing the whole table's attention fixed on them, "After all, you are in dire need of a bath and if I am forced into your vicinity for another half hour, I shall faint from the horror of it." Edward too stiffened, and she realised the extent of his shyness. "Refresh yourselves, sir," ordered Aelin, in her best haughty tone, and had the desired effect of making him laugh, "and when you are ready, you may call for me. I will bring a dinner tray to you and we may talk all we like."

Edward bowed gallantly. "I am but your loyal servant, madam." He kissed her cheek and she detected in him a hesitation to leave.

"I will not go anywhere," assured Aelin, smilingly, "I promise I will not."

Edward formally took his leave of the dinner party and retired to his rooms. Aelin collected herself, joining the ladies with an enthusiasm she did not feel.

No one commented on the happy tears that flowed from her cheeks.

tags: @thesirenwashere // @courtofjurdan //@little-crow-corvere // @the-dark-swan // @queenofgreenbriar // @clockworkgraystairs // @julemmaes // @rowaelinforeverworld // @mymultiversee // @queen-of-glass // @strangely-constructed-soul // @mijaldraws // @http-itsrebecca // @aesthetics-11 // @lord-douglas-the-third // @flowersinvegas // @towhateverend17 // @aelinchocolatelover // @justabunchoffandoms // @cool-ish-nerd // @faerie-queen-fireheart // @sad-book-whore // @didsomeonesayviolin // @atozfantazyxx // @hizqueen4life // @the-gods-killer // @booknerdproblems // @annejulianneh111 // @firestarsandseneschals // @b00kworm // @mysweetvillain // @moondancer-204 // @thesurielships // @witchling-leonor // @ladywitchling // @amren-courtofdreams // @ifinallygavein // @jlinez // @faequeenaelin // @df3ndyr // @in-love-with-caramel-macchiato // @bitchy-knees // @superspiritfestival // @xx-fiona-xx // @stardelia // @maastrash // @miihlovesnoone // @totenhamboys20 // @sanakapoor

[sondepoch]

5 Minutes (Lucifer x Reader)

It's not rare for Satan and Lucifer to fight. It's even more common for one of them to threaten leaving the House of Lamentation in their anger. But this time, things feel more serious. So you go to offer the Avatar of Pride some comfort, and to maybe help him make amends with his brother. But all he wants is to be wrapped in your loving arms.

~Oneshot

MASTERLIST

It's not the food you like.

As you glance down at the dish Levi prepared tonight—fried bear tongue, drizzled in a frog-and-fox puree—you can't help but think with a lurch: No, it's definitely not the food I like.

But these dinners in the House of Lamentation are normally so happy and full of life. They're a time where you're reminded that, despite everything, these seven men are brothers, and they love each other like a family.

Dinner is normally your favorite meal of the day: it's your one chance to see the brothers in their natural state. With no strings attached, you just get to enjoy spending time with them.

Yeah. There's no denying it.

Dinners in the House of Lamentation are special.

So why did the evening have to turn into this?

You droop your head, gazing at your pitiful reflection in your black beetle soup, listening to the fight as it continues to escalate.

"Must you ruin every meal of ours?"

"Must you oversee every action of mine?"

"Ah, yes. 'Mine.' That's all I hear from you, Satan. You're the Avatar of Wrath, not the Avatar of Selfishness—think of those around you for a change."

"Is this really coming from you, Lucifer? You're telling me not to be selfish? Well since you're clearly still such a saint: Why don't you do everyone here a big favor and keep your nose out of our business?!"

You hear Lucifer stand up, and can immediately tell that he's trying to glare down his brother. Not a second later, Satan mimics his action.

"Satan, I am warning you. Do not continue—"

"Oh, you're warning me. How terrifying," Satan mocks. "What are you going to do, oh so noble Lucifer? Go crying to daddy Diavolo?"

You feel Lucifer flinch next to you. He keeps you close to him during meals so that you're always safe at his side, but seeing him this furious is making you feel almost fearful beside his towering form.

"Do not disrespect Diavolo. That is the one thing in this house I will not tolerate, Satan, and I'm tired of being patient with you."

"You're being patient? Is that what you call constantly breathing down my neck and supervising my every action? Is that what you call hiding behind your ridiculous lectures and oh-so-precious lord Diavolo? The man you seem to worship doesn't even—"

"Leave."

You flinch.

For the first time since their bickering began, you look up at the two men fighting. Their angry gazes are locked onto each other, sharing the spotlight of the dinner as every other brother in the room gazes upon at them as well.

In all your minds, a common question echoes.

"L-Lucifer," Levi stammers out. His eyes are round in concern, not a single trace of his usual carefree attitude present. "Leave? Are you asking Satan to..." To leave this dinner table or this house?

You swallow.

These brothers know each other too well to need words to finish the question.

Everyone stiffens, an expectant hush falling over the table as you all wait for Lucifer's response.

"It doesn't matter," Satan says with a scoff. He pulls his chair out and turns, sparing none of you a second glance. "I'm leaving."

And though he doesn't specify whether its the dinner table or the house he intends to abandon, his intentions are clear. If one of them doesn't do something, Satan will be in Purgatory Hall by this time tomorrow, you realize.

You turn to Lucifer, about to urge him to apologize when you see the look on his face.

He's crestfallen.

His fist clenches and unclenches as he begins to understand the weight of Satan's declaration. It's not the first time that one of them has said something to prompt the other to attempt to leave the House of Lamentation, but Satan's words have a ringing sense of finality to them.

Before any of you can get a word out, Lucifer storms off in the opposite direction.

Truly brothers, you can't help but think.

"I...I'm going after Lucifer. One of you, please talk to Satan." You push your plate toward Beel, a silent cue to finish dinner so that the blonde has at least a little bit of time to cool off before one of them tries to talk him back into his senses.

But with Lucifer, every passing second is a curse.

The longer he has for his pride to cool down, the more resilient he'll be when you find him. His pride is a double-edged sword that's constantly in the molding—to get through to him, you need to talk to him now. Strike while the iron is hot. Break through to him before his pride makes him too stubborn for him to even hear your words.

You all but run to his study, nearly breathless when you finally reach the room. You think about knocking, before deciding against it. The only time you need to knock is during the day, when there's a risk that Lucifer has a guest who could wonder why you're entering his study so comfortably.

But on nights like these, Lucifer has instructed you to not even bother.

A knock kills the element of surprise, MC, he had once told you. And you're the sweetest surprise for a man like me.

Lucifer stiffens when he hears the door swing open, head darting over to your position for fear that one of his brothers will see him in such a vulnerable state. But when his dark eyes flit over your figure, he relaxes once more and looks away, tightening his grasp in his hair as he digs his nails into his hair, staring holes into his desk.

"Lucifer," You whisper softly, embracing him from behind. You bring a delicate hand up to play with the raven locks, subtly interweaving your fingers with his own to stop him from pulling his hair out. You can feel his body trembling—either from rage or sadness or bitterness or a mix of all things above—and you feel a sharp pang in your heart.

You came here to tell him off, to reprimand him for taunting Satan and getting into a fight when they had just finally made up, but the elder demon already knows his mistake.

You sigh, giving him a tender kiss to his temple.

"He's leaving," Lucifer mutters, still yet to respond to your touch. He allows you to lace your fingers in his, but that's the extent of it. Every part of him looks numb. "And he meant it, this time. He didn't just say it to spite me. Satan actually wants to leave."

"It'll blow over. It always does," That much is true. You've only seen Lucifer and Satan fight a handful of times, still fairly new to the Devildom, but from what you've seen the duo always make up in some shape or form. "Just apologize, and this whole thing can be done with."

Lucifer stiffens.

"Apologize?" He asks, but the question is more of a scoff. "You want the Avatar of Pride to apologize?"

You take a step back, realizing that Lucifer's anger is rising up alongside his voice, and the look on his face tells you that it's the last thing you want to agitate. He stands and gives you an incredulous stare—probably about to further mock your idea—when he sees the terrified gaze you're shooting him. Slowly, he sits back down, and a part of him seems calmer: as if releasing that little bit of anger cooled his head.

First hesitantly, but then more confident as you think about all the times you've done this in the past, you seat yourself in the demon's lap and wrap your arms around his neck. Despite the situation, you see his gaze dart to your chest, now directly at eye-level with him, before turning away. He leans his head back on the chair, and for a long moment, neither of you speak.

That's okay, though. You know that this silence is one that Lucifer is meant to break.

An entire minute must pass before the anger in his eyes has faded, and he gives a sigh of mute helplessness. At what? Perhaps it's his helplessness against Satan's ever-responsive temper, always ready to go off at Lucifer at the drop of a hat. Or perhaps it's Lucifer's helplessness at his own inability to control his wrath that causes him to sigh like that. Either way, what's left when he expels the remnants of his prior anger is nothing but a dejected sorrow: a sight ill-fitting of such an upstanding demon.

"I thought things were going well between us," Lucifer mutters, gesturing half-heartedly toward a book on his desk. It's old: the leather bindings aged with use and time. "I was even going to give him that book as a present. It's the last one in the Devildom. Satan's been searching for it for centuries."

"Give it to him," You murmur. You bring up a cautious hand to cup Lucifer's cheek. You keep your touch light and gentle, knowing full-well how helpless the demon must be feeling.

He's trying. He really is. It's just that after five thousand years of misunderstandings between the two, it'll be a bit longer before all the tension between him and Satan dissipates. "The book will be...an apology without words. Come on. I'm sure Satan is just as upset over this as you are. He wants to make up, too." You let out a light chuckle. "You two are more alike than you realize."

Lucifer sighs, leaning his head on your shoulder. Even he can't deny that much.

You thread your fingers through his dark locks, letting him take all the time he needs. Already, you can feel a protest build in his lungs, a dismissive counterargument to why giving this book to Satan would be a larger blow to his pride than any possible reward derived from it. But, much to your surprise, when Lucifer finally opens his mouth once more, all he says is "Okay."

You almost stop your movements, a brief hesitation flitting through your body as you realize, with a start, that Lucifer actually just agreed to your proposition. Just how distraught is he? You can't help but wonder as his soft breathing continues to tickle your skin.

A new wave of empathy floods through you.

These brothers weren't born to be demons. They became one with their sins in their descent from heaven. And just as much as you, or any human, or possibly even any angel: they, too, want to rise above their sin.

"I'm proud of you," You murmur, stealing a chaste kiss from Lucifer's lips. You're about to say more, to congratulate him on how he's rising above his nature and doing what's best for his relationship with Satan, when he silences you with another kiss.

It's a quiet thank you.

Even now, when Lucifer is trying to overcome his pride in this argument with Satan, he's bound by his sin. He can't outright apologize, nor can he outright thank you.

But he's trying.

And that's all you'll ever ask for.

You let your lips linger on his, basking in the tenderness of the moment. Lucifer is normally such a passionate and active lover; moments like these are rare. But you adore all sides to the raven-haired demon: the soft and the hot and the cuddly and the kinky and even the side he showed you last night, with those handcuffs and—

You force yourself from your thoughts, leaning forward to retrieve the book Lucifer was talking about. Your fingers have almost touched the leather when the demon pulls you back into his lap, caging his arms tightly around your waist so that you can't escape. "Not yet," He mumbles, resting his forehead on your shoulder. He squeezes you even tighter.

"But Lucifer..."

"Not yet," He repeats. When you continue to pull away from him, he sighs and gives you a tiny compromise. "Just five more minutes."

You already know that five will stretch into ten, and then into fifteen, and soon the evening will have turned to night, but as Lucifer leans back and pulls your body with him, you can't bring yourself to care.

"Okay," You murmur with a smile. You turn your body slightly and shift to accommodate him, giving him better room to tug at your body with his own until the two of you are pressed close enough together to be one.

He gives another sigh, and this time it's soft with comfort. Quiet enough that you would miss it, but there.

You close your eyes.

It's not often that Lucifer lets you see his vulnerable side like this, wanting nothing more from you than the comfort of your presence. In fact, it's the first time that he's been so open about it. Hands looped around your waist and head pressed above yours, all he does is hold you close. There are no flirtatious jokes. No playful bites. It's just you and him, wrapped together in a tight embrace and a stillness that makes it feel like time itself has stopped to give you both the time you need.

The supposed five minutes.

Though, as you begin to drift off in Lucifer's warm embrace, the prospect of those five minutes turning into something more suddenly doesn't seem so bad after all.

MASTERLIST

Word count: 3.0k

Notes: I injured my hand recently so I've been going through all my drafts and posting them~ I think once I'm healed I may actually continue writing for the Obey Me fandom :D i haven't finished the game yet but that won't stop me from daydreaming about my favs~ *cough* Simeon *cough* 

Comment & Like

I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.

[obaby-me]

Hey, uh feel free to ignore this but, could I have some headcanons on how the brothers react to an MC with really bad depression but it’s hard to spot? Like, they’re a really sweet cinnamon roll and always putting everyone before them and loves talking about anime, books, cats, music, and anything else they like. It’s hard to spot but the more time they spend with them the more the little details show, like how they never finish a meal(pt 1)

Author’s Note: No need to apologize. Really, you just handed me a bunch of starter sentences.

Lucifer

“I’m used to it,” you said with a smile.

There was nothing to smile about.

Lucifer had this whole evening planned out for the two of you. A night out at one of the finest restaurants in the Devildom, a special bottle on reserve for the two of you. He’d been prepared to take you to the skies tonight, to see the meteor shower up close tonight, and have you make wish after wish tonight.

You had been so excited for the shower. You told him of the human custom of wishing upon shooting stars over a month ago and the minute he knew the shower was coming, he made positively sure to clear his schedule for it. And yours as well.

But he’d had to break them. Diavolo had requested his presence on an emergency and he couldn’t say no. You knew that. He knew that.

And when he broke the news, while he knew you’d be understanding, he had expected at least some disappointment, maybe even tears.

He’d been prepared for that.

“The things happen all the time,” you assure him, giving him a smile. “I’ve learned to accept that. Plans are always more likely than not to be cancelled. I’ve learned not to keep such expectations.”

Lucifer felt guilt well up inside him. “My sincere apologies,” he said once again. “I did not realize I had made it such a habit to put you aside like this. I will make it up to you,” he promised.

“Oh, it’s not you,” you told him waving away his concern. “Everyone does it. It’s okay, really!” To emphasize your point, you continued, “One time, for my birthday, we were going to go to this giant indoor waterpark. But mother sort of forgot and took the family car for the day to a friend’s place. We had to cancel.”

And you laughed. You laughed and Lucifer knew that something was deeply wrong. Wrong with the people around you to treat you with such disrespect to put you aside for the most menial and selfish of reasons; and wrong with you to believe it as acceptable.

Lucifer would have to correct that. While in this particular case, because it was an absolute emergency, for the future, he made sure to keep a perfect record: every plan he made, he kept—and always perfectly on time. Nothing but Diavolo emergencies, real emergencies, could deter him. If it meant sleepless nights in preparation, or sending a brother in his stead, he would suffer it. And he made sure each brother kept their promises as well. Punishments became extremely severe should they be late when attending to you or in skipping any plans to you.

You had to know you were worth the time promised to you.

Mammon

“My church always did say I was going to hell,” you chuckled in response to Mammon when he officially, and drunkenly, proclaimed you “one of us!”

“Oh yeah?” He asked, slinging an arm around your neck and giggling drunkenly into you. “What for, troublemaker?”

“For being bi.”

Mammon gave a small snort, and waited for the rest of your list, but apparently, that was the end of your list. Or maybe he missed it. His head was spinning rather terribly. “Is that it?”

“Yes.”

Mammon laughed loudly in response, his grip on your shoulders pulling you to sway with him as the two of you walked towards the House of Lamentation. “Love ain’t a reason to be sent to hell!” What a ridiculous concept. Love wasn’t a sin, in fact, it was a kind of virtue.

You gave him a smile, smaller than you should for a night like this. Did you not believe him?

“Hey,” he said, trying to sound as sober as possible despite his drunken state. He figured it’d help if maybe he stopped walking to do so. “We really don’t judge that here,” he said. “Ya ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that.”

“I know,” you said as you tried to get him moving again.

“No, ya don’t. Ya lookin’ all sad. About bein’ bi. Ya ain’t gotta be sad ‘bout that.”

“I’m not sad that I’m bi,” you clarify.

“Ya look sad,” he insisted.

You giggled slightly in return, and he just knew the words in your brain were something emasculating, like ‘cute.’

“On the contrary, I’m happy. I’m happy you don’t mind.”

Mammon laid his head against you. “Course I don’t. They shouldn’t either.”

“Well, they do.”

“Well, I don’t. And I’m here. And they’re not.”

You gave a small laugh as he blearily babbled on about how he intended to protect you from such people, from such things. You needn’t worry about a thing with him around, he assured you.

Leviathan

“I can relate.”

“To... this?” Levi asked with some surprise, eyes averting from the screen to you cuddled into his side.

You gave a small nod, unexpressive as you watched the protagonist, having lost his match against his rival, defeatedly monologue his own existential crises to the audience. Was all their efforts for nothing? What was the point of trying for more when clearly their dreams would never be realized?

Levi was quiet for a time, watching as the hero wallow in himself, waiting for the inevitable turn around, where the hero finds the answers to his question, finds his inspiration and resolve to keep them going.

But it didn’t come, not by the end of the episode.

Offended, Levi began a tirade of criticisms for regarding the episode, his worries not for the hero despite the context—but rather, for you.

For the next week he searches for anime and manga that center around the same themes, making sure the episodes and chapters that would bring the answers and conclusions necessary were available.

You had to read them.

You had to know.

Satan

“I think I was raised by a cult,” you murmured quietly.

Satan peered over his book at you, the air of silence you two had been enjoying while you read side by side broken by the most unexpected sentence.

He had many questions, but the first to make it out of his mouth was, “what?”

“Sorry,” you apologized quickly for having broken his concentration.

“A cult?” Satan continued, curious as to where this was going. “What kind of cult?”

“I was raised to think I was my dad’s property and that to go against my parents was to go against God.” You explained quietly, embarrassed to be speaking about this topic at all. But you had been the one to bring it up, albeit by accident—your mouth converting thoughts to your external voice rather than internal.

“Not an entirely novel concept for the middle ages. Have to say I’m surprised it’s managed to stick around,” Satan responded with a frown, closing his book carefully, a marker set into place to save it.

“Do you believe that to be true?” He asked.

You shook your head. He felt relief wash over him.

“But sometimes I still feel that, sort of, guilt, you know?”

Satan shifted so that he could get his arms around you, laying himself gently against you. “I imagine it would be difficult a feeling to unlearn.”

You said nothing in return, but quietly put some of your weight against him in acceptance of his affection.

“You don’t belong to anyone. You have every right to your own choices, no matter how your parents feel.” Satan murmured reminders into you. You knew these things, but to hear it felt reassuring.

It became a running theme that when asking you out for a date, Satan would ask or simply surprise you with, “something you’ve always wanted to do that you’re parents would absolutely hate.”

Asmodeus

“My dad’s always saying how fat I am,” you explained as you decline Asmo’s offering of his parfait.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Asmo asked with a tilt of his head.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat across from him and give a small noise that he thought you thought were words, but were entirely unintelligible once it hit the air.

“What was that, darling?”

“I said, I just don’t think I should have any.”

“Are you on a diet?”

“I mean, I should be.” You fidgeted in your seat, refusing to look Asmo in the eye. This was supposed to be a happy occasion: a special date he’d planned for the two of you out on the town trying all the most wonderful trendy treats the season had to offer.

“What do you mean you should be?”

“Well, my dad—“

Your dad, again? Why did his opinion matter to you so much? Especially when that opinion was just so wrong?

“Your dad has no right to say anything about your beautiful body, love!” Asmo protested. “If you want to diet, honey, we can go on one together. But don’t you dare say no to this parfait on account of your dad.”

For the rest of the day, and on into the evening, Asmo laid his compliments thick, and showered you with the attention your lovely body deserves.

Beelzebub

“I’m just not that hungry.”

“You said that at lunch too. And at breakfast.”

It wasn’t entirely unusual for you to skip a meal now and again. Sometimes, you just weren’t hungry after spending two hours snacking on gummies and popcorn in Levi’s room while marathoning TSL. Technically not a meal, but at least you had something in your stomach. Sometimes you were just too focused on a task that you’d forget the time all together.

But today you’d had nothing at all while holed away in your room. The few times he’d passed by, you laid curled on your side, scrolling through your phone.

A growl erupted in the room, and it wasn’t Beel’s. Your stomach was calling you out as a liar—outing you to the Avatar of Hunger incarnate.

“You should eat. I’ll pick something up for you.”

“I’m really not up to eating anything today.”

“Are you ill?”

“No,” you responded, turning your face away, as if ashamed to even look at him.

“You need to eat,” he insisted.

“I don’t want to.”

The question of why didn’t need to be asked. He only need to stare at you expectantly until you’d cave under his gaze.

“I don’t feel well,” you grumbled, contradicting yourself.

“Is it a cold? Satan does say you starve a cold and feed a fever.” He paused a moment. “Or was it the other way around?“ Beel asked himself, trying to recall the last time he and had his brothers had gotten sick. It had been centuries ago. (And it had been a disaster of each one getting sick after the other, passing it around.)

“It’s not that kind of sick.” You mumbled softly. “It’s not a body sick. It’s just... a...” You sunk further into the cocoon of your covers looking miserable. An unusual look for you.

“Sad sick?”

Not quite the way you’d put it, but it was apt enough for youYou didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Beel quietly joined you on your bed, wrapping his arms around your comforter wrapped form and tugging you close. He’d feed you later, he’d hug you now.

Belphegor

“My needs don’t matter.”

“They do,” came Belphie’s immediate response—cutting in a way that felt dangerous, frightening: an end to the sentence, to the thought. His eyes were stern and you shivered beneath his gaze, having both been caught off guard by how quick his response had been, and how angry it had been.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered in response, feeling guilty that you had upset him, to have ruined the lovely moment you two had been having.

Arms wrapped around you as Belphie pulled you against him. He shifted from sitting beside you, to wrapping himself around you, trapping you between his legs and his arms. “Don’t say it again. Don’t think it.”

Easier said than done, he knew that. “Belphie, it’s okay—“

“It’s not.”

“I’m sorry,” you said again, an automatic response.

“You matter,” Belphie said, his head dropped into your shoulder and neck as he curled tighter around you. “You matter to me. If you need something, you should ask it. I’ll give it to you. I’d give you everything.”

There was quiet as you thought the statement over. “I just don’t want to be a bothe-“

“You’re not.” Belphie pre-emptively answered. “You could never be. Ask me. Ask anything of me. I gave myself to you, didn’t I?”

You thought yourself so little, so unimportant, but to Belphie you were so significant, so important, so beloved—and to have you not recognize that was as disrespectful to yourself as it was to him.

[sitcomified]

fighting dragons with you

summary:  amy gets injured on a case and jake pays her a visit. (pre-canon) word count: 3.5k rating: teen?

read below or on AO3

content warning for minor depictions of violence and general discussions of assault

Amy Santiago wrote her life plan when she was sixteen years old, and revisits it each month like clockwork. She figured out from a young age that if she could clearly define a set of rules to follow to a tee, then she would never fall off course. Most nights, the three inch purple binder lives on her bedside table, where after long days of life-threatening work, she can put everything into perspective. Most days, the plan works out great for her. But she’s not invincible. She still scrapes gum off her brand new shoes and wrestles with her too warm pillow. 

It’s not that she can’t deal with unpredictable situations. If anything, being almost comically prepared for every possible situation has made the challenge of taking on these changes that much more thrilling. She knows she excels at tasks that demand quick thinking and efficient problem solving. Hell, that’s why she became a cop.

Amy clocked into work two minutes late that morning. She stared at her watch, already mentally preparing how she would make it up to her squad (even though a quick glance around the bullpen would let her know that she was still the first officer there for her shift.)

By the time her partner showed up nearly thirty minutes late—an occurrence so routine she’d be surprised if anyone even noticed—Amy was already wrapping up her first report of the day. As she reached across her desk for the folder containing crime scene evidence, her partner finally acknowledged her.

“Nice spiderman band-aid,” Jake greeted her, gesturing to her right hand. She sighed deeply. The band-aid in question is nursing a particularly nasty paper cut from when she tried to intercept one of her partner's paper airplanes (probably made from some actually important file) the previous day. Amy rinsed the cut under the precinct kitchenette’s ice-cold water, swearing she’d be fine for the rest of the day, but her finger still stung when she got home and discovered that her only first aid supplies were from the last time her nephews visited.

“Hello Detective Peralta,” Amy replied, trying to salvage any semblance of workplace professionalism. Honestly, she wasn’t even sure if her partner’s retort warranted a response. 

“Aw, is that your pet name for me?” he joked, clearly not wanting to drop their banter, “I’m going to call you sugar...nose.” He extended a finger and lightly tapped her on the nose, to emphasize the point. 

Amy flinched in response. “Sugarnose?” she repeated incredulously.

“Yeah I didn’t want it to be too sexual, and then I panicked,” Jake explained. Amy half expected him to follow it up with one of the “title of your sex tape” jokes that he was so prone to making, but thankfully, today she would be spared.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like Peralta. At his best, he could be just as sharp a detective as she was. The problem was, that was rarely ever his goal. He showed open disrespect for any authority that would dare get in his way, almost as if it were a game to him. On the field, he spent more time trying to portray himself as an action movie star than trying to catch criminals, and she’d be surprised if he actually followed any of the NYPD’s safety guidelines. 

Her day went on as it usually did. Finishing up reports, interviewing witnesses, investigating a crime scene—fortunately on her own. Amy had no idea why Captain McGintley was so adamant about partnering her and Peralta. Their approaches to every aspect of police work seemed fundamentally incompatible. Her captain probably just needed someone responsible to babysit New York’s Least Mature Detective (a title he had bestowed upon himself) in the field. It was a horribly sexist and insulting implication that gave Amy flashbacks to a whole childhood’s worth of classroom seating charts and group projects, where she was put in the exact same position. 

That afternoon, just as she was getting into the rhythm of responding to the perpetual flood of emails in her inbox, Peralta tore her away from her work to go on a stakeout for a case they were working on, insisting that the new lead was “actually legit this time.”

When Amy left the precinct she was surprised to see that her partner decided not to “ball out” and instead opted for a sensible SUV for their stake out. “Nice ride, Peralta.”

“Thanks, I borrowed it from some guy Diaz is testifying against,” he said smugly. Amy raised her eyebrows in return. Of course there would be a catch. “Kidding,” he reassured her. “It’s the precinct’s, I’m surprised you don’t like have the license plates memorized by now.”

Amy wasn’t sure if she should feel relieved or insulted by that. She had only been there a couple months, surely that wasn’t an expectation; if it was, it was never conveyed to her in the brief amount of training she received. Regardless, she responded, “very funny, but I’m still driving.” 

Jake soured with mock offense, “Seriously, Santiago? You think that my driving is more dangerous than that drug ring you busted last month?”

“I’m a detective. I know that I might die on the force. What I’m absolutely not okay with is dying because some idiot would rather play air guitar than follow basic road safety concepts,” Amy said, crossing her arms. On their last stakeout, they almost lost their perp during his particularly enthusiastic rendition of Lose Yourself.

“Too-shee,” he responded, with a smirk on his lips. He was messing with her. Surely, he wasn’t actually that dumb.

Amy corrected him, “you know it’s pronounced touché.”

“Ok nerd,” he replied, and tossed her the car keys. “But I get to stay on AUX.”

She was a bit taken aback by how quickly he agreed to cooperate with her. “You’ve gotta stay focused,” she added, as she climbed into the car. There was a foul smell that she couldn’t quite place. All the more reason to rush this.

“Of course I am a professional, Santiago,” he said from the passenger seat. He reached into his bag and pulled out a giant pack of Cheetos. “Want one?” he offered. She shook her head in disgust.

“Alright, so the informant, Dragos, said the operation is based out of a pharmacy on Atlantic, I assume that’s where we’re going?” Amy asked, as she started the car.

“Toit, and also holy shit is that his real name?” Jake questioned, eyes wide. “That’s badass.”

Amy frowned. “Did you even read the case file?”

“I skimmed it. Your sentences are all so long!” he complained.

“I’m sorry that I’m thorough and I actually follow procedure. Maybe you should take a cue from me, I mean that’s gotta be why McGintley assigned us to this case,” she said.

Jake laughed at her. “I have the most arrests in the precinct,” he bragged. Amy wanted to bring up that arrests weren’t actually a good indication of community safety, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to articulate the problem to him once more.

“That’s just because you make Boyle do all your paperwork,” she retaliated. “If you did everything you were supposed to, you know that I’d be ahead of you.”

Jake stopped fiddling with the car’s radio, and turned to face Amy. “First of all, Boyle loves paperwork. And for the record, I actually asked the Captain to put us together on this case.”

“Exactly, because you knew I would do all the work,” Amy said, smugly.

“No! It’s ‘cause I knew it was a tough one, and you’re obviously super smart.” Amy blushed a little. She assumed that Jake thought as little of her as she did of him. “Plus, I heard you talking to Diaz about how you weren’t getting any good cases,” he continued. She’s surprised, not at what he noticed, but the fact that he actually cared enough to try and fix her problems. It was true that McGintley was underutilizing her—the other day he had her spend an hour finding an anniversary present for his wife. 

“Well, thanks,” Amy responded with an awkward smile. “I didn’t think you cared.”

“‘Course, you’re part of the 99 now. Anything for the squad.” he said. Right, Jake was just doing what any good cop would do for their team. He didn’t actually care about her, at least not enough to not get cheeto crumbs on the seat that she’d have to clean up. 

Jake points at the car’s speaker system at the next red light. “Hey, do you know how this works?” 

“Do you seriously not know?” she teased. It was a strikingly simple set up.

“Obviously not, or else we’d be listening to my sick beats right now.” Jake said. “My car still uses cassettes exclusively and I fear my mixtapes would cause this lame car to spontaneously combust.”

Amy sighed. “Here, give me your phone,” she told him, and plugged in the audio cable. Immediately music started blaring out of the speakers. She recognizes the opening chords instantly and starts laughing. “Is this what you listen to?” she asked. 

Jake started frantically pushing buttons on the dashboard, only making the music louder by accident. “No. I swear I don’t know how this got on here.” Amy grinned. It was so rare that she had the upper hand in embarrassing him and she was already thinking of how to capitalize on it.

“Keep it on,” she said, guiding his hands away from the speaker system before he had the chance to break something. “I like this song.” He leaned back in his seat and helped himself to another handful of Cheetos. Amy returned her focus to navigating the complex puzzle of Brooklyn traffic. 

Over the revving motors and honking of angry drivers, she heard him begin to sing along. It wasn’t obnoxiously loud and it didn’t feature impromptu parody lyrics. His voice was surprisingly soft, and she wondered if he was even conscious of his singing. She was perplexed by how he managed to focus on nothing and everything at the same time. How he managed to let loose in the most tense situations. Amy couldn’t even bring herself to have that kind of fun when she specifically scheduled it in her planner. 

What the hell, they were still a fifteen minute drive from the pharmacy. She joined in with the chorus. He looked at her with a confused, yet happy, expression, and ramped up his volume, and even incorporated his own dance moves. “Damn, Santiago, didn’t know you had it in you,” he said, after they finished the chorus on a tone-deaf harmony.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Peralta,” she replied, raising her eyebrows with feigned confidence. 

Jake chuckled and opened his mouth; she assumed to argue, but instead he just continued the second verse. She didn’t know the rest of the lyrics, and she certainly couldn’t decipher them from the dramatic voices he was adding into it. 

“Hey isn’t that our guy,” he interrupted, pointing to a man who was standing by the trash cans on the corner, despite his right of way. Amy paused and took a closer look. Surely enough, their perp, Andrei Volkov, was standing there, waiting for the deal they had been told would occur miles away.

“Oh my god,” Amy said, turning to park their car just out of eyesight.

“Luckily he didn’t seem interested enough in the two adult Taylor Swift fans, to notice we’re a police vehicle.” Jake replied. He leaned towards the trunk window to sneak a better view of their target. 

“Do you want to call for backup?” Amy asked. “How many guys are there?”

“Looks like about three, and it seems pretty exposed for back up unless they have access to one of the houses,” Jake said, propping himself back in the seat. “I think we should be good.”

Amy paused for a second. Her instinct was always to air on the side of caution, but Jake had proven himself to be more reasonable than she assumed. “Okay, I trust you,” she said.

“Take my lead,” he instructed, before she could argue, and secured his vest as he left the car. Amy followed him out hesitantly, one hand hovering protectively over her radio. They crossed the street while Volkov’s back was turned. As soon as they made eye contact, Jake whipped out his gun, and cornered him against the lamp post. “NYPD, you’re under arrest.” Amy instinctually dove behind the trash can. Through the grated metal she could see both of Volkov’s men pull their guns at Jake from behind his back. She can’t quite recognize exactly which members of the operation they are. He held one hand on Volkov while he turned to face the others. They kept their guns raised in his direction. 

“Here’s the deal, come back to my precinct, and I won’t shoot. I’m all alone out here.” Jake kicks the trashcan Amy is ducked behind. Then twice, to get her attention. And again. The Funky Cold Medina, she realized. Amy felt her heart pounding all the way in her fingers and toes. 

“What’s the matter with your leg, pig,” one of the men scoffed. She recognized the voice. Apparently Dragos was more involved in the operation than he led on, and had intentionally given her the wrong address. Amy reached for her gun and jumped up, turning to cover Jake.

“Hey, you’re the lady with the thank you notes,” Dragos said, as he lowered his weapon, “almost made me feel bad for lying to you.” 

Amy fixed her eyes in his direction, “yeah well, thanks for nothing.” 

“That was a pretty weak comeback, Santiago,” Jake muttered from her side. She shot him a nasty look.

“Your partner’s right,” Volkov added, still struggling against the lamppost.

“Nice try but you’re still arrested,” Jake said, as he reached for his handcuffs and began reciting the Miranda Rights. Amy stared down the other two men in the meantime, instructing them to drop any weapons they’re carrying. They obeyed and placed their guns at her feet. Just as they began to stand up, Dragos punched Amy in the face, his ring leaving a deep gash on her cheek. The metallic taste of blood floods her mouth. Her vision was blurred as tears welled up in her eyes, causing searing pain in the open wound.

Dragos started to bolt but Jake managed to trip him and keep him pinned to the ground. He struggled to handle both perps, however, and Amy watched as the third man ran away. She tried to chase after him, but she was too shocked to make it any farther. “Dragos, you’re coming with me,” Jake said, locking the handcuffs in place. “Amy, I’m calling you an ambulance.” 

She was too dishevelled to protest.

That night, Amy’s brother drove her home from the hospital where she received seven stitches. Half her face was still numb from the anesthesia. Still, the second she got her phone back, she sent a text to her partner: “LMK if you need help processing.”

Half an hour later she heard her apartment buzzer go off. She paused her episode of Jeopardy, kicked on her fluffy slippers, and answered it. 

“Delivery for Lady Amy Santiago,” Jake said, in a terribly butchered British accent through the phone. 

“Come up,” she replied, stifling a laugh. The meds had worn her down enough that she could fully embrace his immature humor. 

Three minutes later Jake announced himself with a knock on her door. “Alright, so I got you this. Hope you like shitty diner food because that’s all that’s open right now,” he held up two take out bags. Through the semi-opaque plastic she noticed two liters of the horrible orange soda he spilled on her desk once and still couldn’t get the stain out from.

“Yeah that’s fine,” she said, gesturing for him to come take a seat. She braced herself to be tormented for her decor. Suddenly she realized Jake came all the way to her house for her. He didn’t have to be here. Why was he here? “Thanks, by the way. You didn’t have to do any of this.”

He took a seat on her couch and plopped the bags on her coffee table. She never ate there, it was reserved for drinks, at most, but she didn’t correct him. Especially when he was doing her a favor “I know. I wanted to though. I also finished processing Dragos and Volkov, all by myself,” he said. 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Amy asked flatly. She peered into the bag and examined the feast he brought: two cheeseburgers, a plate of chicken tenders, one hamburger, a salad, about three orders of fries, and of course the two orange sodas. For someone who was proudly in debt, he sure spent a lot on this meal.

“Cause it’s my fault you’re like this,” he said. Amy wanted to protest, he made a bad call re-backup, but she could have gotten injured either way. “Also you’re so hopped up on painkillers there’s no way you’ll remember this,” he added, cracking a smile. He really wasn’t capable of a genuine moment. 

Amy rolled her eyes at him. “It’s not that much stronger than Advill, and memory loss isn’t a side effect,”

“Hmm,” he frowned, “we’ll see about that tomorrow.”

Amy froze. “I hope you’re not here to try anything,” she said, half joking. Jake was a jerk, but she never thought he would stoop that low. Even still, she couldn’t let her guard down that much.

“Oh, God no, absolutely not. I would never take advantage of you—of anyone—like that. Is that what you thought?” Jake stammered, scooching himself away from her on the couch. He looked as if he had seen a ghost or something, and his messy hair only added to the effect.

“I dunno,” Amy said, “I guess I can’t be too trusting.” She took out a container full of fries and handed him one as a peace offering. 

“Right, right, men are a nightmare,” Jake agreed through a mouthful of potato. He even didn’t try to distance himself from “other men”, or go with the “but I’d never do that route”. Her chest was heavy with guilt at the thought of making such an implication.

“No, no, no, it’s fine, really. Sorry for accusing you.” Amy said. 

“It’s not fine. And you shouldn’t apologize because that’s a real fear. It’s on me,” he replied. She looked at him with confusion. It was rare for guys to understand that much. “And I’m sorry for being such a dick to you these past few months,” he blurted out. 

Amy couldn’t believe that the guy sitting in her apartment was the same one who decided to address her via paper airplane for a week, and only stopped when he ran out of papers on his desk.  “Hey I wasn’t much better. I was so obsessed with out-doing you, I never went to you for help—” he shot her an expectant glance,“—also I’m sorry for ratting you out all the time.” He nodded, and helped himself to another fry from her container.

“Why are you so competitive?” he asked through a mouthful of potato. She noticed a bit of ketchup on his chin and reached for a napkin.

“I have seven brothers,” she provided him with the stock answer.

“I know that,” he said, “that doesn’t answer my question.”

She pauses. “My parents were always comparing us, so many siblings meant the bar for anything was set super high, I don’t know, that sort of stuff.” 

“But why do you care?” he pushed. She hadn’t ever considered that before. The endless treadmill she shoved herself on was just always there. Even when she knew the goals she set were irrational she would just keep running, because the idea of falling off was so much worse.

“I guess it makes me worried, if I’m not measuring up,” she confessed. “I feel like I did something wrong.”

“You know you’re crazy, right?” he asked, smirking at her.

Amy rifled through the bottom of the takeout bag. “Did they give you any mustard packets?” she asked.

“Nah. But, as your self-appointed guardian angel, I will go to the bodega and get you some,” he said, picking up the jacket he threw on her floral carpet.

“You don’t have to do that, really,” Amy insisted.

He looked back at her as if the very notion were ridiculous. “Amy, you just got injured in the line of duty. If all you want is mustard, you can have all the mustard in the world.” 

“Thanks, Jake. You’re a really good friend,” she ventured. She waited for a moment, to see how he would respond, hopefully solidifying their friendship. Maybe she was friendzoning advances she wasn’t even aware of. Maybe he was confused, and he was just doing a nice thing for a coworker.

“You too,” Jake said. However he interpreted all the implications, he didn’t let her know. “When I get back we’re watching Die-Hard!” he added as he rushed out the door. Amy smiled to herself as she heard the lock click into place. 

[regular-lord-reckoner]

i apologize in advance because this is probably going to be a lot but i just need to get some stuff out of my brain and hopefully be able to feel a little more at peace

so...okay, to start with we got a new dog today

should be a great thing, right? but i just...i really don’t think it’s a good idea

for one thing, it’s a very young pup, he’s only 7 weeks old. for another (and this is the biggest point) i had no idea this was even happening until it was already a done deal, i got no say in the matter

and i keep being told well, that’s not a problem because it’s not like i have to take care of him but like...of course i am. how would i fucking not?

my mom works a lot and spend a good portion of the week at work and even though i’m here most of the time i‘m usually upstairs

the primary caretaker of this dog is supposed to be my father but like...so seriously how is that going to go when the man spends a good portion of the day sleeping? who’s supposed to be letting this dog go outside to go to the bathroom or making sure he’s not into something?

and like, i don’t mean to be indelicate by any means, but my dad’s old. he’s not going to suddenly get better at this point in his life, in fact it’s only going to get worse from here and i feel like it’s already started

not too long ago he completely burned a pot and nearly burned down the kitchen because he forgot he was making beans on the stove top

any more it seems like if he starts a load of laundry he just...forgets it and i have to come behind him and stick them in the dryer or sometimes just rewash them altogether because they’ve started to smell sour

there’s just a lot of stuff like that where you can tell he started doing something but went to go check on something else or just wandered off and forgot about it completely

i’m genuinely worried about his memory starting to go and we think...giving him a living creature that depends on him for survival was a good idea? i’m sorry, i just don’t see it and that means i’ll have to pick up the slack and like. okay, i’ll do it for this poor little dog that also had no say in this but needs someone to take care of him but jesus fucking christ i just wish someone had bothered to run this by me first so i could at least mentally prepare for this

mind you too i’m already taking care of two cats that also aren’t mine and were brought here without me knowing anything about it and that was also a “well, it’s not your responsibility so don’t worry about it” kind of thing and well...here we are.

and i’m already trying to help out around here more as it is because like, no shit, i appreciate getting to stay here i really do so i don’t mind but honestly a lot of what i end up doing isn’t even my own stuff, y’know?

i’m taking care of myself but i’m also trying to go behind two other people and keep things clean and make things easier for everyone else and i don’t even get a courtesy like, “hey, big new responsibility dropping, get ready for it”? i dunno

and i’ve expressed all of this and just nothing. nobody gives a shit.

and so like okay, fine fair enough you know i’d been feeling anyway like i’m really ready to just...have my own place. again, i appreciate getting to stay here and genuinely have no fucking idea how i’d afford to live on my own but i’m starting to think i just need to bite the bullet and either get a second job or see about some other potential ways to make money

the only thing about that is...there’s a big part of me that’s like, “what’s the point? how long do you think you’ll get to even have your own life anyway?”

because again like...my dad’s old. his health, although not as bad as it has been in the past couple of years is still not going to do a miraculous turn around and like...especially if his mind is starting to go what are my options, realistically?

i go off and start my own life and will just have to give it up to come back here to help take care of him

and i know you’re probably thinking, “well no, you don’t have to do that,” but don’t i?

i’m just going to make my mom deal with that all by herself? there’s no other kids but me who will help. other family might but it’s not really fair to put that on them either and on top of that because we really hit the jackpot with relatives i can’t even begin to tell you how many vultures are going to come out of the woodworks when they get even a hint that things are going bad (hell, that already started when he was going through cancer treatments during this pandemic no less and family were messaging him wanting to know if they could come and visit like...absolutely not, what the fuck are you thinking??)

and i love my mom but she doesn’t take the greatest care of herself and i don’t really want to get into it but she’s definitely started to worry me with her drinking lately.

i feel like i can’t leave here. i feel like everything will fall apart if i do and that when shit really does hit the fan i need to be here so...why bother to leave?

i want to, but can i?

i don’t feel like my life is even mine at this point 

they’re not bad people, i can’t justify doing my own thing and telling them to kick rocks, especially after all they’ve done for me but at the same time i just don’t want to be stuck here forever

i just feel really, really trapped

and i know when people say that everyone gets nervous because uh-oh, that’s suicide talk!! but that’s the fucked thing too is that’s part of what feels especially suffocating

that’s not an option for me. not unless i want to hurt them as badly as possible and i don’t.

and you’d think it’s be maybe a relief to not have that as an option anymore, that oughta steer things in a more positive direction just naturally but instead it just kind of feels like someone’s trapped me in a room that’s slowly filling with water and there are no exit doors or vents or any possible means of escape so i just have to either sit here and slowly wait to drown or do what feels impossible and find some way to make all the water leave and build a better room

and obviously i should be talking about all of this with y’know, an actual therapist but that’s still proving really difficult at the moment

i made a new list of potential ones i just haven’t been able to reach out to any just yet and it definitely doesn’t help that every time i start to gear up to do it it seems like i get online and see a bunch of posts that are like, “honestly, therapy is a scam and not at all worth it and you’re stupid if you think it actually helps anyone, it’s likely to just traumatize you more and you can never trust a therapist!!” and i’m just like oh, okay then

because that’s the thing of it too like i need to talk to somebody, right? but clearly the shit i need to talk about is heavy and despite my trapped predicament like...i need to talk about these dark thoughts but is that going to get me hospitalized? is that going to fuck up my life even more?

and on top that, yeah dude, already having trust issues and being damn near incapable of letting new people into my life at all already doesn’t bode well in trying to find a person i can talk to about with all of this shit but i love the constant reminder that even getting to that point is likely going to be painful and could possibly just make shit that much worse!!!

i also just can’t stop thinking about the one therapist i did reach out to and that interaction alone has made me feel shitty enough. initially i tried to just take it in stride and figured it just wasn’t a good fit but now i’m convinced that’s how it’s going to go when i reach out to anyone else.

i’ll be made to feel like i’m stupid for needing someone to talk to because according to her “my clients have friends if they just want someone to talk to, y’know?” hahahaha no, i don’t but sure, go on!

like ma’am, no disrespect, i’m sure your methods work for someone, somewhere but i don’t think getting more sleep and walking more is going to fix the problem and on that subject...i don’t have friends

i have a friend and that’s about it

when i say i have trouble letting people into my life i really mean it

and yeah, maybe i’m just being a big baby about it all and i just need to like...try to make that happen anyway but i’m also at this point where it’s like...how?

actually how?

at my age?? finding friends??

on top of that just...i’ve been through my share of toxic friendships and although i’d like to think i’ve learned a lot since then and would hopefully never find myself in any again you never really know until you get into it, right? and just the thought of it, of putting myself out there, opening up, being vulnerable and just...letting people into my life only to possibly go through more shit it just sounds exhausting and terrifying.

i know it’s what i need to do, i know i can’t just close myself off from the world and essentially cease to exist while still being here but it just feels so fucking overwhelming and then on top of that like i said before, is there even a point?

because it kind of seems like i’m going to be needed here indefinitely and so is that just my life then? i’m just a loser who never leaves her hometown, never moves out, never has a life of her own or expands her circle to include more people because she just has to stay here and watch over things and take care of everyone and all the added responsibilities they keep bringing into this house without even running it by me first?

it feels like it and maybe it doesn’t have to be but it feels like it

and it just feels really, really suffocating 

and hopeless

and maybe it’s not really, maybe i’m missing something here but i feel like i can see down the road for many, many miles and it doesn’t look promising

and i feel selfish and horrible for even saying all of this because it sounds like i’m just pissed off i have to take care of things and it’s really not that

i genuinely don’t mind helping out and maintaining a space and i don’t even really mind cleaning all that much, it can be a good stress relief i’ve found but it’s just this overwhelming feeling i have of like...this is my life. this is all it’s ever going to be.

i’m going to sit here and watch everyone else go on and live their lives, have lots of friends and romance and really just experience life and i’m just going to be sitting here left in the dust at home chasing after pets and trying to keep everything from falling apart until the bottom does inevitably fall out so i can be here to pick up the pieces just like i did last time

and i mean if that’s the case then i’ll make peace with it, i just wish it could be different i guess. if nothing else, i wish i didn’t have this urge to change things or to have a different life because it just doesn’t feel possible right now. feels very much like if i step away even for a second that everything’s going to go wrong and i’ll be partially to blame because if i had been here maybe things would be different

then again, the last time something tragic happened and i lost someone i loved very much i was here and it didn’t make a damn difference so maybe my presence isn’t as important as i think but i guess that’s part of it too like...that happened on my watch and if something else bad happens when i’m not here... i’m barely living with the first shit, i don’t know if i could handle the second

idk. this is really stupid i think but it’s been in my head for a while now and with this new dog thing i’m just kind of at my breaking point with it so here you go, void.

hopefully i’ll be able to talk myself into getting a therapist anyway even though i’m scared to death because i know i shouldn’t be putting this here but right now i just feel incredibly stuck and i’m not sure what to do or where to go

[onyxiana-is-obsessed]

Wings of Warmth! | Keigo Takami (Hawks) x Reader

AN: Ok, this was actually an idea that @lelawrites had in a discord server we’re in and she let me write it out! I can’t really get Hawks’ character down, but I tried my best! Pronouns used: She/her Length: 1.4k words

Summary: Hawks has gotten so used to using his wings to keep himself warm, that he no longer needs blankets, so he gets rid of all of them. Problem is, you’re spending the night and he has no blankets to give you to keep you warm at night.

Your Name: (y/f/n) Quirk: (y/q) Age: 22

Being the number 2 hero really kept Hawks busy. He rarely had a chance to sleep in his own bed, under his warm, comforting sheets. He was used to sleeping on uncomfortable beds with extremely thin and useless sheets, such as now.

A shiver racked Keigo’s body which made him huff and sit up on the extremely thin mattress. His hands clenched the sheets while his golden eyes glared down at it as if it were a person who’d said something disrespectful to him. With a sigh, he tossed the sheets off the bed and ran his hand through his messy hair. Another shiver went through him, making him shut his eyes as his large and powerful wings enclosed around him. A few moments later, he felt the heat build-up, making his eyes widen a bit. His dumbass was today years old when he realized his wings could keep him warm! 23 whole ass years before he realized this. He grumbled before laying back down, his wings laying against him, keeping him warmer than any blanket he had.

** Keigo had gotten so used to using his wings for warmth that blankets just no longer did it for him. Not only were they not warm enough, but they were so bothersome! He couldn’t freely turn without his wings picking them up, allowing a cold draft to infiltrate his barrier of warmth. He never used blankets any other time, so why would he use them in his own bed? At least the mattress was more comfortable. Deciding he’d had enough, Keigo stopped using blankets. He preferred to sleep with himself snuggly wrapped under his wings. After making a habit of that, Keigo realized his blankets were just gathering dust in his house, taking up unnecessary space that he may need later for some reason or other. So, he threw them out. Every single blanket. Even months after he’d gotten rid of them, he didn’t regret his decision… until now.

He’d met a wonderful, beautiful, loving, caring woman named (f/n). At first, she seemed like a rather innocent and simple person, but he was so wrong. She was neither innocent nor simple! She’d managed to wiggle her way into his life and his heart so quickly, it threw him into a panic. He’d met her one day and a few weeks later he was contemplating whether he was in love or not. He forced himself to wait a painful six months before he finally asked her out and much to his surprise, she accepted.

They were a happy couple, even though he was extremely busy. If he ever had time, he’d always visit her, even if it was an hour or less. (f/n) cherished every moment she could spend with him. He would often find himself at her house at night, where he’d talk to her until she fell asleep. This time around, however, he had invited her over to his place. Boy, was he nervous.

Although, after about twenty minutes of her being there, he felt all of his anxiety and worries melt away, making him return to his cocky and carefree self. (f/n) had spent about two hours with him before the two decided to prepare dinner together. The entire process was filled with laughter and joy, with Keigo smearing or throwing ingredients on her. Of course, she returned the favor. Right, right, they had an extremely great at-home date. Now, Keigo was in a bit of trouble. Without really thinking about it, Keigo asked (f/n) to spend the night at his place, mostly because he didn’t want her to leave. She was a bit shocked, but accepted the proposal with a bright and cheerful smile that made his insides melt.

Keigo had lent her some of his clothing so she could get out of her uncomfortable outfit. As she got changed into his shirt and shorts, she realized her bed didn’t have any blankets on them. Thinking he’d probably had them washed or something, she went out to his bedroom, which was right down the hall.

She knocked on his bedroom door, making him look at her with a smile. He totally- without being the least bit discrete- checked her out. She looked good in his clothing.

“Sorry to bother-”

“You’re never a bother, dove.” He winked, making her playfully roll her eyes.

“Do you have a spare blanket?” She asked, making his eyes shoot up to her face with confusing swirling in them, almost as if he’d never even heard the term blanket.

“What?” He asked as he tilted his head.

“A spare blanket,” She said, pointing to his bed. “I’m gonna get cold without one.” Cue the inner panic. He’d completely forgotten that normal people use blankets! He just asked her to stay the night and had NOTHING to keep her warm.

“Oh, right. Be right back.” He said as he gestured for her to sit on his bed while he went downstairs. He frantically looked through every cabinet and closet he had hoping a blanket would just magically appear. Not one! He really couldn’t even keep one blanket?!

Then again… he didn’t invite people to his house and definitely didn’t expect to be in a relationship where the person would sleep in his home. His quest to find a blanket failed rather miserably, however, he found a large and rather fluffy towel! Would that work? Shrugging, he returned to (f/n), who patiently sat on his bed scrolling through his phone.

With a bright smile, Keigo offered the blanket to her. (f/n) slowly put her phone down, her other hand grabbing the towel before an awkward laugh escaped her lips.

“This… is a joke right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Kei, this a towel.” She said. “It’s not even big enough for me.” He only frowned and looked away, his cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. (f/n) sighed and put the blanket beside her and took his hand. “Are they dirty? I don’t mind waiting till they’re washed. We can-”

“I don’t use blankets.” He interrupted, making her pause. “What?”

“I don’t use blankets. They’re annoying and they get caught on my wings. So I ended up getting rid of mine.”

“You got rid of all of them? Why didn’t you keep a couple?”

“I didn’t think I’d ever need them. Sorry.” He said, sitting next to her. She nodded, understandingly, before an impish smile made its way into her face. “Well, in that case, I guess you’ll have to keep me warm.” He blushed but smiled, feeling the embarrassment melt away.

“Oh, I can definitely keep you warm, dove.” His smirk made her scoff as she smacked his arm.

“Not like that!”

“Like what? I didn’t specify. You should get your mind out of the gutter.” He teased as he stood up and turned off the lights and shut the door. He then moved to the middle of the bed with (f/n) following his lead. He flattened one of his wings as he gestured for her to lay on it.

“Won’t that hurt?” She asked, making him chuckle.

“Do they look fragile? Because they’re pretty strong, dove.” With uncertainty in her eyes, (f/n) moved closer to him and laid on the large feathery wing. She felt the feathers move under her which made her gasp and move to sit up. Keigo chuckled and grabbed her shoulders and gently pushed her back down. “Relax, that didn’t hurt. I’m just readjusting.” His arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer towards his body as his other large wing gently covered them both. She half expected them to smell weird, like a bird’s wings, but they didn’t. They actually smelled the same as he did, which was a faint scent of lavender. (f/n) closed her eyes, burying her face into his chest as the warmth from his wings spread to the both of them. She let out a content sigh as his lips pressed against her forehead.

“This is really nice…” She mumbled. “Do you use your wings to keep yourself warm?”

“I do. That’s why I don’t use blankets anymore.” He admitted.

“I can see why. I like this better.” He smiled as his arms tightened around her smaller frame.

“It’s better with you here.” He answered. “Guess you can’t leave now, dove.” “Is that an offer? Because I accept.” She giggled, kissing his cheek. He felt on top of the world with her here in his arms. No matter what the world threw at him, he’d cherish (y/f/n) until the end of his days. No one would ever hurt his dove or take her away from him.

[slowly-writing]

Normal’s Boring

Natasha Romanoff x Daughter!Reader

Word Count:  2561

Part 2: Life Saver

a/n: This got really long, my bad. I hope you all enjoy it

Being a teenager living in the Avengers compound was a little weird. You constantly had Shield agents running in and out and there was always the fear of an attack. Maybe that was just the collective PTSD of your family, but they made sure you were always prepared. You learned how to fight and protect yourself at a young age, your mom was the Black Widow after all. The fact that you could take care of yourself didn’t change the fact that you essentially had half a dozen overprotective parents. They would all jump to protect you at the first sign of trouble. Having that many people living in one place made sure your life was never boring, that’s for sure.

“Hey, Uncle Tony!” You call as you walk into the compound after school.

“Hey, kid. How was school today?” Tony asks with a smile.

“Fine,” you say with a shrug, “schools boring, I could learn way more here.”

“C’mon, y/n. You need a well rounded education. You have to know more than just how to fight,” Tony argues.

“You guys could teach me! You and Uncle Bruce know way more about math and science than any of my teachers could ever dream of. Uncle Steve lived through all the stuff I’m learning in history right now! Did you know I learned about you guys last week? Do you know how embarrassing it is to have your mom be the topic of class? Everyone made fun of me for days! I stick out like a sore thumb!”

“I’m sorry kid, but that’s part of the experience. You gotta be around people your age sometimes.”

“Wanda’s practically my age! She’s only a few years older than me! She’d go to school with me if you all made her go,” you try and Tony shakes his head.

“This is a conversation you need to have with your mom,” he says, “I’m not getting in the middle of that fight.”

“Where is Mom, anyway?” You ask and Tony avoids eye contact.

“Last second mission, she should be back in a few days,” he explains with a sigh. Everyone knows how upset you get everytime she leaves. Not only is it frustrating that she disappears, you’re worried. You’ve lost track of all the times various members of your family have come back with injuries, some worse than others.

“Any idea where?” You ask and he shakes his head.

“That’s classified, kid. But I’m sure it’s fine. If it was big they wouldn’t have sent her in alone,” he says trying to calm you down.

“She’s alone?!” you yell and he winces.

“Okay, obviously shouldn’t have told you that. She’ll be okay, y/n. She’s the best there is. She always comes back. I promise it’ll be okay,” he says and you nod before silently leaving to go to your room.

This was the worst part of being an Avenger’s kid. Your mom disappeared constantly. You would never blame her for it, of course, she was saving lives. If it wasn’t for her missions she never would’ve adopted you

You were three years old living in Budapest with your family at the time. Hydra had popped up again and your town was caught in the cross hairs. It was chaos, people were down everywhere and buildings were on fire. You don’t remember very much, just being really scared and then suddenly Natasha and Clint were there. Natasha had taken you in her arms and gotten you to safety. You immediately felt safer in her arms. She brought you home with her, and the rest was history.

While her missions were important you couldn’t help but wish you could spend more time together. Growing up you were constantly thrown from Avenger to Avenger. Whoever was available to take care of you became the stand in parent for that week.

You shake your head softly and sit down behind your desk to start on homework.

~~~~

The next morning you were in a bad mood. Everyone was trying to help you out, but nobody quite knew your routine as well as your mom, you just wanted her to come home. Steve woke you up at 4am and you were halfway through getting ready before you realized you were going to be two hours early. You switched gears and got to train with him for a few hours though, which was fun. After a few hours you shower and start getting your stuff ready to go.

Clint had been trying to clean up yesterday and apparently moved your backpack to some mysterious location. You spent the better part of an hour searching the entire compound for it before you find it in Wanda’s room.

“I thought it was hers! You’re both teenagers. It’s hard to tell what belongs to who!” Clint argues and you roll your eyes.

“She doesn’t even go to school, Uncle Clint! Which is completely unfair by the way,” you say pointing at Wanda.

“That’s what you earn when you’re an Avenger,” she smirks and you glare.

“I’ve been here longer, I should be an Avenger by now,” you grumble, jumping on one foot trying to find your shoe.

“Here, y/n. I made you lunch,” Bruce says with a smile, handing you a paper bag.

“Thanks Uncle Bruce!” You say, pausing when you look in the bag. “Hey what kind of sandwich is this?”

“Peanut butter and jelly, why?” He asks and you grimmance as the entire room seems to stop.

“I can’t eat this.”

“Why not?” Bruce furrows his brow as Tony walks over.

“Peanut allergy, man. Are you trying to kill the kid?” Tony yells handing you a few bucks to buy lunch at school.

“Here, Wanda,” you call tossing her the bag. “A genuine school lunch, welcome to the real world.”

“Nobody tell Nat about the peanuts, she’ll flip!” Clint cuts in and you nod.

“Come on, y/n, you’re gonna miss the bus!” Steve calls and you glance at the clock.

“Uh, yeah that ship has sailed.”

“What? How? I woke you up three hours ago!” He yells and you raise your hands in surrender.

“Yell at Uncle Clint! He’s the one who hid my backpack!” you argue.

“Well why’d you leave it in the living room?”

“I’m in high school! That’s what high schoolers do! I guess I’ll just stay home today,” you try and you’re met with four simultanious eye rolls.

“Yeah right, your mom will kill us if we don’t get you to school,” Bruce says and you frown.

“Okay enough. Here, take a car,” Tony says tossing you a set of keys.

“Am I missing the part where somebody taught me to drive?” you ask looking at the keys in your hands.

“You’re seventeen! You don’t know how to drive?” Tony asks and you look around the room.

“Do you see the chaos that sprung from you guys trying to get me ready for school? Do you really think mom would’ve trusted any of you to teach me how to operate heavy machinery?”

“Why didn’t she teach you?” Bruce asks and you smile sadly.

“Do you see her here right now? She’s too busy,” you shrug and Tony sighs.

“Okay, come on. I’ll drive you,” he says leading you to the garage.

xxxxx

You sigh as you pull up to school. The expensive sports car doesn’t really help you blend in.

“Have a good day, kiddo” Tony calls after you as you head inside and you force a smile.

“Thanks, Uncle Tony.”

You can hear the whispers as you walk through the halls.

“How does she know Tony Stark?” a Sophomore whispers.

“That’s Black Widow’s kid! She, like, lives with the Avengers or something,” some Junior girl responds and you shove your hands in your pockets and hurry to class.

“Before we start today, I thought it’d be fun to discuss some more recent history. We’ll be discussing the battle of New York ,” your history teacher states and you sigh, trying to sink deeper into your seat, “Miss Romanoff, why don’t you give us a rundown of what you know.”

“An Asgardian brought an alien army down on New York. The Avengers fought him off,” you stated plainly. The teachers always called you out when it came to anything Avengers related, you hated the attention it brought.

“You must know more than that,” your teacher encouraged.

“Well yeah, my Mom and my Uncles kicked ass, but isn’t telling the class that your job?” you ask and your teacher glares.

“That’s very disrespectful Miss Romanoff. Do I need to call your Mother?”

“Like you’d have the courage to talk to her” You say with a huff, “you’d neve have get ahold of her anyway,” you grumble under your breath.

“Miss Romanoff! This is your last chance, would you like detention?” you know you’re right but you sigh.

“No, sir. I apologize.”

“Okay then, anyone else?”

“Sure made a hell of a mess in the city. It took the city months to rebuild,” a kid named Chad says and you glare.

“Let’s see you fight off an alien army! See how well you do!” You yell, slamming your hand on your desk. You can feel your face getting red.

“I’d at least-”

“Enough!” your teacher cuts you both off. “Battles always cause a mess. Look at any war in American history. Moving on, back to our discussion of World War Two”

“Your family fought in that one too. Maybe you’re the common denominator, Roamanoff,” Chad whispers from behind you and you clench your jaw, your teacher not hearing Chad’s comments.

xxxxx

“You sure are quiet without the teacher here to protect you, huh?” Chad says pushing you into the lockers, “where are your precious Avengers now?”

He punches you and goes to push you again. Your mom made you promise not to start fights when she started training you, but since he threw the first punch you have him on his back before he realizes what’s happening. He looks shocked and you roll your eyes, “I was raised by superheroes dipshit. Now run along and I won’t tell anyone how fast I had you pinned.”

He gets up rubbing the back of his head, he must’ve hit it when he fell. Your not too worried, it’s not like he can get any dumber. He looks at you over his shoulder as he practically runs down the hall. You straighten out your jacket and walk towards your next class.

xxxxxx

“Hey Uncle Steve? Can you help me with this?” you ask, walking into the living room.

“Sure, y/n. What’s your question?”

“I need to know what year Captain America started fighting during World War Two,” you say rolling your eyes.

“I’m part of your history homework?” he asks with a smirk and you nod.

“It’s kind of weird having to answer questions about my uncle for my homework.”

“I know kid, but hey, you have all the answers right here,” he teases and you smile.

“Helping my kid cheat, Rogers?” you hear from behind you and you jump up.

“Mom! You’re home!” you yell crashing into her arms, “Are you okay? How was the mission?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. It was fine, I’m okay.” She says holding you tight, “now what’s this I hear about cheating?”

“It’s not cheating, Mom!” You argue, “the questions are about him! I’m just cutting out the middleman!”

“You’re learning about your Uncle Steve in school?” your mom asks, her brow furrowed, and you nod.

“I learn about all of you,” you tilt your head, “did you guys not realize that? We talked about the battle of New York today. Almost got me sent to the office,” you grumble, crossing your arms.

“What was that?” your Mom raises an eyebrow.

“My teacher wanted me to tell everyone about it! Just because you fought in it! I’m not the teacher! That’s not my job! It’s his! It’s not my fault my family got mixed up in every damn battle in the history of the world” you argue and your mom sighs.

“I’m sorry, y/n.”

“What, why?” you ask, confused at the change of tone.

“It can’t be easy, living the life you do. You should get to live a normal life. I should’ve thought of this before bringing you home,” she says, looking down and shaking her head.

“Are you… are you saying you wish you didn’t adopt me?” you asks softly, tears welling up in your eyes. “I know it’s hard having a kid, but you still get to do your job. You’re gone all the time anyway-”

“Hey y/n, no!” her head snaps up and she takes your hands, “adopting you was the best thing I’ve ever done. Don’t think for a second that I regret bringing you home. Honey, does it upset you that I’m gone so much?” she questions and you look at the ground.

“Kinda,” you shrug, “I miss you a lot and everything’s a mess without you. Uncle Steve woke me up too early because he didn’t know what time I got up and I missed the bus and I couldn’t drive myself because I never learned how and Uncle Bruce tried to give me peanuts and I wasn’t supposed to tell you that. Please don’t be mad-” you start spiralling and your mom cuts you off.

“Y/n, look at me. I’m not mad,” she says softly, wiping the tears you didn’t even realize had begun falling from your eyes.

“I just get really scared everytime you leave. What if you don’t come back?” you whisper and she shakes her head.

“Love, I will always come back. I promise.”

“But you can’t promise that!” You yell, “people don’t always come back! My birth parents died on one of your missions. I can’t lose you too.”

“Okay, it’s okay,” she pulls you into her arms and you hold on tight. “How about this, I can cut back. I can’t promise I’ll never go on missions, but I can make sure I’m home more. I can teach you how to drive, and I can help you with your homework. I’ll make sure Bruce never touches your food again and I’ll make sure you can have a normal life.’

“Normal’s boring,” you cut in softly, “if I had a normal life I wouldn’t have been able to knock Chad on his ass when he punched me.”

“He what now?” Your mom pulls back with a glare and you’re suddenly very scared for Chad’s life. Your mom is an assassin after all.

“He was making fun of you guys and we got in a fight. But he only got one hit in! You told me not to start a fight and I didn’t! I waited until he did.”

Your mom shakes her head and pulls you into her arms again.

“I’m glad your home,” you bury your face in her shoulder, “I really missed you.”

“I missed you too, love. What about a movie night, just me and you?”

“Yeah!” you look up, seeing Steve has already disappeared and your mom leads you over to the couch.

You cuddle close to her as the movie starts, the safest place in the world to you is still in her arms. Sure, you may not have a normal life, but normal is overrated anyway.