#nervous about this chapter!

[tarrenterror25]

Ulysses Klaue x F!Reader Title: I Always Find My Way Back To You Chapter: 4 of 9 Rating: Explicit 18+ Word Count: 3K

Summary: You can always count on Ulysses to return to you, but lately you find yourself wanting more. The new dangers in the world don't make the life of an arms dealer any easier and any day could be his last. Running away and living off the grid with the man you love is the dream. Does he share your feelings and can he be convinced to live a life with you?

Tags: MxF, heavily implied sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship, major angst, some fluff, hurt/comfort

Playlist is here (May contain explicit material)

Notes: This took awhile to write, I won’t lie. I try to stay in character as much as possible and the research says that Klaue does not have a moral compass and is extremely selfish and therefore we have some serious angst in this chapter. I know it’s fiction and I could make it lovey-dovey, but for this story, it is about him confronting those narcissistic tendencies and what I think would come of it in this sort of situation. Also there was a bit of a flub with the outline so I had to recalibrate some stuff. Anyways, here’s chapter 4!

Chapter Four: Eyes For you

“I don’t want you to go.”

The words hang in the air between you for a moment. With his brow contorted, Klaue just looks at you, mouth slightly agape. He’s stunned, unsure of how to process your words.

He scoffs softly. “I’m afraid I can’t help that,” he says holding his hands out incredulously. “What would you have me do instead? Stay here?” He makes it sound like a rhetorical question and God, it makes you feel so small with the way he says it.

“Yes,” you reply through a sniffle. Tears start to roll down your face. “Just...stay with me. You don’t have to go, you can stay here.”

Klaue shakes his head like what you’ve suggested is the silliest thing he’s heard of and you shrink further.

He takes a drink of his coffee. “That’s what I do,” he states matter of factly. “You don’t think all of this pays for itself do you?”

Oh.

You’re pissed when he says that.

“You think that’s what this is?” you snap, your harsh tone making him look at you. Wiping your face you continue, “About your fucking money?”

“Oh, it’s not?” Sarcasm oozes from him and he scoffs again.

He’s frustrating you now and it’s mixing with all the other things you’re already feeling. The emotions swirl in your stomach, make it ache, make you even more angry.

“No!” you shout making his brows go up in surprise. “It’s not!”

Now he’s pissed, too. His brows come back down as he scowls, his lip twitched up into a closed mouth snarl.

Klaue sets down his mug and straightens up. “What the hell has gotten into you?” he asks raising his voice. He’s close enough to you now that you have to look up at him.

“I don’t want you to go out there anymore!” you explain gesturing your arm out.

“Why?” he shouts. “Why the fuck does it matter to you where I go? Huh?”

There’s so much emphasis on the word ‘why’.

A simple question with a simple answer, but it’s not one you’re ready to confront. You try to contract your muscles to keep it down, but again it’s boiling over. Your stomach churns as tears roll down your cheeks again. You look him in the eye and say it, what you’ve been wanting to say.

“Because I love you.”

There.

It’s out.

Your heart is banging in your chest and drumming in your ears.

Staying silent, Klaue’s jaw is clenched tightly, his brow furrowed as he straightens up.

“I love you, Ulysses,” you continue softly. Your gaze doesn’t pull away from his. No matter how intimidating he looks, you tell yourself that you’re in this now and you’re not backing down.

“And,” you go on, “I don’t want you to go because...because that would mean that there’s a chance you won’t come back. I...I can’t do it anymore! I love you and I don’t want to lose you!”

Running a hand through his hair, Klaue steps back and scoffs in disbelief. “You’ve got to be joking, right?” he asks. “You can’t be serious?”

You wipe your face again. Damn these tears.

“I am, Ulysses,” you say firmly. “Is it really that hard to believe?”

“Only when the current state of things...is at it stands,” he says. “You and me have...an arrangement, a very good one at that and-”

“And I’m telling you that I don’t want that anymore,” you interject. “I don’t want that anymore and I haven’t wanted it for a long time. I just want you.”

He’s silent again, jaw still clenched and his body tense. You have to be careful; he looks like a snake that will slither into the brush the moment you get too close.

“I didn’t say anything sooner,” you explain, “because I thought you wouldn’t have a reason to come back.”

Frustration hits you as he is still quiet, eyes down as he examines his coffee mug.

“Could you please say something, Uri,” you say. “You’re treating me like you don’t know who I am anymore.”

“What do you want me to say?” he asks quietly not looking up at you.

“I want you to, hopefully, share how you feel about me,” you reply.

There’s a brief moment of silence that settles between the two of you, but it feels like an eternity. He’s still not looking at you and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s also frustrated or confused. Is he just wanting to escape? Is he caught up in his emotions as well?

“I can’t answer that,” he says shaking his head.

Silence, thick and heavy, falls between the two of you.

Now it’s your turn to be in disbelief.

You’re trying to maintain a level head, but your mind is going back to what he said to you just last night. Was he just saying that? Did he make it up?

“But you did,” you say, “Yesterday in the car? What was that about?”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Klaue snaps and walks off.

“Ulysses!” You rush after him. It’s not the best choice, but you’re not thinking straight. “What’s the difference between what you said then and what you could tell me now? Unless what you said wasn’t real?”

You want to shut up, you do, but the words just spill out.

He turns to face you, his voice low when he speaks. “I said I’m done with this,” he growls.

Mentally, you punch yourself for making him uncomfortable. You open your mouth to apologize, but Klaue is already walking away. He heads for the bedroom. You can’t help but follow him and your heart drops when you see he’s hurriedly putting on some jeans.

“Uri,” you say softly.

He throws on a shirt.

“What are you doing?” you ask, but he’s putting on his shoes and you already know the answer.

Stoic, he ignores you and leaves the room. You follow him again, trying to get him to speak to you, but he isn’t having it. Grabbing his phone, he heads for the door.

No, no, no!

Tears start rolling down your face again as you step in between him and the door. “Uri, please,” you beg. “I’m sorry, please, I’m so sorry.”

His expression is unchanged and fear builds within you as Klaue softly tells you to move out of his way. You’re begging, pleading to him that he stay.

“Move,” he says again.

Regret consumes you as you take his face in your hands and kiss him. “Please, baby, just stay here and we don’t have to talk about it, just forget it happened, please! I’m so sorry!” The words are just tumbling out of your mouth like a waterfall.

He does return your kiss briefly, but firmly grasps your shoulders and moves you aside. “I’m only stepping out for a bit,” he assures you. “I’ll...I’ll be back.”

And he leaves.

You’re not sure how long it’s been since Klaue left your apartment. The temptation to call him was at the forefront of your mind, but that wouldn’t be the right move. He needs some time to be alone.

So now you sit on your couch, knees pulled up to your chest, fidgeting with your phone in your hand.

The sun starts to set. The golden orange rays of light slowly leaving the room and making it dark.

The apartment feels hollow and lonely. You didn’t bother turning on any lights or the television, you’re just sitting there, waiting for...something.

You stand and walk over to the bookshelf. The small collection of books stares you in the face. You pick up 20,000 Leagues and flip through it, looking at the illustrations. There’s some smudges on the corner of the pages where Ulysses has turned them.

At this point, you start to accept that he’s gone, not even having bothered with getting his things. He wouldn’t need to, he can easily go anywhere he wants, measly possessions like clothes wouldn’t stop him. Would he come back for his precious book?

He’ll probably just buy another...

You put the book back on the shelf and stand by the large window to look out at the city. Are you just a possession of his now? Something he once coveted and now has to leave behind? Are you just a remnant of this part of his life with these things?

“I always come back to you.”

That’s what he said. You’re sure you heard it clear as day.

You wander over to the bedroom and lay on your bed.

You always come back to him, too. No matter how far he goes, you heart is with him. Whoever came before him doesn’t matter because it’s him you always find yourself wanting.

The doorbell rings and you race to answer it.

You don’t bother looking through the peephole, you just swing open the door.

You feel like you can finally breathe when you see it’s Klaue. You let him in and he enters, not looking at you.

No words are exchanged as you take his hand and lead him over the couch. He looks reluctant to follow, but he plops down next to you. Gently, you guide him to rest his head in your lap like usual and you run your fingers through his hair.  He sighs and closes his eyes.

There’s a long silence before you speak to apologize.

You barely say anything before he interrupts you.

“Don’t,” he says, eyes still closed. “Not your fault that I’m irresistibly charming.”

There’s no stopping the smile on your face, his humor never failing to break through the furrow of your brow.

The two of you stay this way for awhile before he finally speaks again.

Eyes open now, staring at the ceiling, he fidgets lightly with one of his rings, using his thumb to spin it on his finger. “Told you I always come back,” he says. “If that means anything to you.”

“It does,” you say. “I’m sorry, really, that I got so upset. I shouldn’t have put that all on you. I just...it’s dangerous out there and...”

“I know,” he says flatly.

“I don’t want to be professor Annorax wondering what really happened to Captain Nemo and the Nautilus.”

He just shrugs. “Maelstrom took them.”

“So you’re saying it’s inevitable then? That that’s just what happens?”

“Captain Nemo was a man of the sea,” Klaue says sitting up. “It was bound to happen that way.”

“And what are you?”

Your eyes search his blue ones for an answer. He looks at you like he knows that you already know the answer. Your gaze begs, implores him to say it out loud and his eyes ask that you not push him again.

He breaks from your stare and kisses your hand. “Not Captain Nemo, that’s for sure,” he says with a chuckle.

It’s difficult to not roll your eyes, but you do and move to stand. Klaue grasps your arm at the elbow and pulls you to sit in his lap.

“Stop being so sour,” he says in a voice that conveys he’s trying to lighten the mood. “I’m only joking.”

“I’m not,” you say crossing your arms, still visibly upset. “I’m not kidding about this and...I want you to take me seriously about this.”

He leans back against the couch and looks away, petulant, like he doesn’t want to be scolded and is just waiting for the part where the subject changes. You’re still sitting on his lap, looking down at your hands, trying to figure out how to word your thoughts. Part of you wishes you had kept your mouth shut and then the two of you wouldn’t be doing this. You two could be laying in bed wrapped in each other’s arms or out doing something fun and it almost feels like you’ve ruined it now.

“I’m hungry,” you say softly.

It’s so terribly easy to fall back into where you were with Klaue before the fight.

The two of you are in the kitchen, working together to fix something to eat. You forget that Klaue is actually pretty decent with a skillet. He can flip the food in the pan and doesn’t let up that you can’t, despite having more cooking experience than him. He’s wearing a smug grin as he shows off.

“I get it! You can shut up about it now,” you say through your laughter with a teasing nudge.

“Someone jealous?” he teases back, reaching out to tickle your side.

“No!” you say trying to push his hand away, but he persists. “Uri!”

He sets down the pan on the stove and lowers the heat then continues trying to get at you, tickling your sides.

Soon the two of you are running around, laughter filling your apartment as you try to run away. With a squeal you leap over your couch, nearly knocking into the coffee table. You steady the centerpiece on it and Klaue seizes the attack of opportunity and wraps his arms around you making you shriek in surprise.

“Gotcha!” he says playfully tossing you on the couch.

Your sides hurt from how much you’re laughing, but you don’t want it to stop, don’t want this between you and Klaue to stop.

Bracing himself on the couch, his arms cage you. He playfully peppers kisses all over your face and neck, his beard tickles you and makes you giggle uncontrollably. Your hands on his chest, hardly attempting to push him away and then they find his broad shoulders. Slowly, they start to grip him as he begins placing open mouth kisses on you. His lips hot against your skin as he kisses below your ear down to your neck and shoulder. A hand comes to rest on your hip and slides its way under your shirt to touch the bare skin there.

You take his face between your hands and guide him to kiss you. Boldly, your tongue finds its way past his lips. Your legs fall open and he settles between them, wasting no time in grinding his hips against yours. There’s a familiar heat pooling in your center as you feel him already getting hard for you. Your hips buck into his in response and he lets out a soft groan.

When he pulls away for air, he takes a second to look down at you, eyes scanning your face. He’s a little out of breath, but so are you.

Your hand comes up to his face and your thumb brushes across his cheek.

He’s so ruggedly handsome, like those swashbucklers in those romance novels or movies, except he’s far from the romance part. He’s more like the morally grey character that you’re not supposed to fall for, but you end up falling for them anyways.

“Why do you look at me like that?” he asks breaking you from your thoughts.

You blink, not realizing you had been staring. You pull your hand away from him. “Like what?”

“Like it’s the last time you’re gonna ever look at me. You always do that,” he says. “Why?”

“Because it might be,” you say.

You convince Klaue to put a pause to having your way with each other long enough for the two of you to eat. The two of you opt to eat on the couch and to watch a movie. It’s some classic adventure flick, but you’re not paying attention. You’re too focused on how the events of this morning dissipated as if they hadn’t happened. Where was there to go from here? This you had to sort out, but you only have one more day with Klaue before he has to leave.

Your feelings are all over the place and it’s difficult to pin them down. There are a lot of questions you have to ask yourself: What do you want from this? Can you keep going even if he doesn’t return your feelings?

That last one has your throat suddenly feeling tight.

You must have fallen asleep during the movie because you’re in your bed with the covers pulled over you. Quickly, you sit up, ready to spring out of bed, thinking Klaue’s left you alone again.

By the time you throw the blanket off of you, he enters the room with a hand behind his back and one rubbing the back of his neck. With a heavy sigh he just sits next to you on the bed and reveals from behind his back a small jewelry box. “Don’t like to see you upset,” he says softly. “Forgot I picked it up for you the other day.”

You take the box and open it. Inside is a dainty necklace with a pink diamond pendant. You don’t even take a second longer to admire it, you just shut the box and set it aside. “Thank you,” you say quietly.

Sensing something’s wrong, Klaue runs a hand through his hair and his head hangs low, defeated. “Baby, I don’t know what you want from me,” he says.

“You,” you say. “Just you.”

“I can’t do that,” he says stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Least not in the way you want.”

“You can start by laying next to me,” you offer with a smile.

You pull back the covers next to you and pat his side of the bed. He chuckles and kicks off his shoes, removes his shirt, and lays next to you. He wraps an arm around you and you snuggle close against his chest, inhaling his scent, fingers running over his chest and the curls of hair there. He’s half asleep already, but you’re wide awake.

Moonlight creeps into the room and faintly illuminates Klaue’s face.

“Ulysses,” you ask softly.

“Hm?” Eyes closed, his brow furrows.

“Even if...even if you don’t love me, could you love me?”

In between his light snores, he mumbles, “Dunno...Maybe.”

“Is there anything you do love?” you ask.

There’s some incoherent mumbles from him before he makes any sense. “Sleeping,” he grumbles. “I like sleeping.”

You smile a bit at that. “Ulysses?” you whisper.

“Huh?” he grunts tiredly.

“I love you,” you say. “I’ve loved you for a long time now. And...I don’t think I’ll stop loving you anytime soon.”

He’s quiet, only the sound of his open mouthed snores filling the silence in the room. You feel relief at the thought that he probably didn’t hear you. Nestling close against him, you rest in his arms.

[windfalling]

THE FALL [1/5]

"You can unlearn what was taught to you," The Stranger said, his voice almost gentle. "We will do it together." Osha discovers her strength in the Force with The Stranger to guide her.

[buwheal]

OH!!!!! HAVE YOU CHECKED THE CYBER CAFÉ DUMPSTER by any chance? there HAS to be some leftover cake there!!!! i heard there was an event recently!!

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Chapter 5 - Wouldn't It Be Nice?

<<First Chapter - < Prev Chapter - Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N, Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Dubcon, Plus-sized Reader/OC, female Reader/OC, John introduces Doll to some normal people, Everyone learns new things about each other, Manipulation, PTSD, Doll has a tragic backstory, Doll is kinda sorta Catholic? Who knew (me I knew)

~3.8k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above but honestly this chapter is pretty mild all considered.

Ghost, Soap and Gaz come back a few hours later with the blue sports car (a bit scratched up, but tail-light repaired) and a pick up truck that looks a lot like the one John had before, but a generation older, and green instead of gray. John speaks to them briefly before he coaxes you into the truck and drives off, promising that the others will be gone before you get back.

He drives a few miles down the road, and pulls up in front of a little farmhouse. It looks idyllic, children and a dog playing in the yard. Two people on the porch wave, and John hops out and circles around right quick to open your door and help you down.

The couple trots up to greet you both. "Who's this?" The woman asks, looking at you and beaming. "You finally introducing us to a girlfriend?"

"Doesn't feel like the right word, does it, doll?" John winks at you, like your circumstances are all just a funny little blip, nothing nefarious or terrifying about it.

"No, it doesn't," you agree, keeping your face carefully neutral. "I'm Dalisay. Nice to meet you, um, Melissa, right?" You stick your hand out and shake hers. There’s no sense in being rude to them, just because they know John. He’s probably smart enough to keep his old life, and his boys away from his new one as much as possible.

"The very same! We were a bit worried John was going to be an eternal bachelor. Nice to see he's found someone." She introduces her husband, Rob, and her kids, Hannah, Haley and Jackson, who are ten, seven and five, respectively.

"Do you want to see the puppies?" Haley asks, grabbing your hand. Jackson grabs the other one and they pull you along to the garage, not waiting for an answer. You very deliberately don’t look over your shoulder at John, because you’re fairly sure that he’ll be looking back at you with a sickeningly hopeful expression. His comments from last night still ring in your ears, and you’re not willing to indulge that foolish fantasy of his.

The puppies are in a play pen with high enough walls to contain them, but still allow their mother to hop in and out. She hops out to inspect you, sniffing your outstretched hands warily. Her tail starts to wag after a moment, and you give her a proper pat, smiling. The dog has soft ears and a silky, black and tan coat, but you're not sure what type of dog she is.

"What's her name?" you ask, kneeling down.

"Bonnie-bell," Hannah says. "And our other dog is Charaid."

"Proper Scottish names," you say. The kids all have a slight burr, and although Melissa sounds scouse, it's the first hint as to where you are.

"Da said we was gettin' too English, livin' in London," Haley says. "I like it better here anyway. Mum says maybe we can get some coos. "

"I grew up near Aberdeen," you say. "But I've lived in Manchester too long. Lost my accent."

"No' far off, then, aye? We're only about an hour and a bit south and west," Rob says, appearing at the open garage door to supervise. His stern face looks friendlier now that he knows you're not proper English. "Was worried John dragged some poor city girl out'f England to live out here."

You hum. "Well, I am something of a city girl now. Been in Manchester since I was seventeen."

"Weel, welcome home then," Rob says with a wink. "We'll get ye proper re-acclimated soon enough." He leans over and plucks a puppy out of the sleeping pile inside the pen, and hands it to you. The pup is at the age where its somewhere between looking like a potato and a proper dog, maybe six or seven weeks old. "Gordon setter, by the by," he says. "Good dogs."

"Cute too." You settle the puppy in your lap, petting its soft little head. Bonnie-bell licks your wrist and hops back into the pen to lay down next to the others.

"Ye want one? This girl's no' spoken for yet. John's been hemmin' and hawin' about it, but I figure he wouldna want ta leave ye home alone, neither."

"Oh, I'm not sure I'll be staying that long. I'm only here because there was an incident at my apartment and John wouldn't hear of me staying anywhere else." You're not certain why you're stretching the truth to fit around what he and his wife think is happening, but you have no idea what John would do if you did say something. Maybe he would laugh it off like you were making a joke, or maybe he would snap. You don't really think he would hurt these people, but there's a wide-eyed prey animal in the back of your mind that warns you to be cautious, to be careful.

"We'll talk about it," John says from behind you. You hadn't even noticed his approach, with the noise the kids had made when they dashed back outside. "I'm trying to convince her to stay."

"Ye've gotta buy her a ring, ye daft bastard," Rob says, laughing. "A good catholic girl isna goin' ta wait for you ta get yer head out'f yer arse."

"If you don't, I'll introduce her to some lads in town that will," Melissa threatens. "Pretty girl like her has better options than you, old man. Better make your move before she realizes it." She swats John on the arm playfully.

You laugh nervously, touching the little cross around your neck absently. The puppy in your lap seems to sense your discomfort, because she starts wiggling in your arms and trying to lick your chin, little tail wagging. John kneels down beside you so he can pet the puppy too, eyes creased with a smile. "Is that it, doll? You need me to buy you a ring?"

"John," you say warningly. "We don't need to talk about this right now."

"No, I suppose you've had a rough morning. I'll try again later."

"You're impossible."

"Think you might kind of like that about me," he says.

"Not remotely. I think you're an awful, stubborn man," you tell him. Your voice comes out softer and sweeter than you intend, like you don't really mean it, even though it's true. The smile around his eyes grows deeper.

"I am." He picks up the puppy and holds her up in front of his face. "What do you think, girl?" he asks. The little dog's tail wags furiously, and she answers with a high pitched yip. And then she endears herself to you by trying to bite John’s nose. He looks stunned for a moment, but he grins when you start laughing. “Guess we’re all in agreement then,” he says, setting her down in the pen and standing up.

You accept his hand up, and quickly put a little distance between the two of you, before he anchors you to his side with a solid arm, or tries to reel you in close for a kiss. Rob and Melissa invite you in for a cup of tea, and somehow you end up sitting at a dining room table that’s obviously mostly used for crafts, and handed a piece of blank printer paper by Haley, and told by Jackson that you should draw dragons with them. The walls of the dining room are filled with tacked up juvenile masterpieces— Dragons seem to be a particular fixation of Jackson’s, whereas Hannah and Haley have more varied portfolios.

John stands leaning in the door to the kitchen, talking to Rob and Melissa quietly enough that you can’t quite pick up his words over the children’s chatter. You hate him a little for this, dangling Rob and Melissa’s idyllic little life in front of you. The implication is obvious. We could have this, his blue eyes seem to say when you look his way. Wouldn’t that be nice?

It’s frustrating, and confusing. You want to keep him at arms length for your own safety, but he’s already doing his best to roll right past your doubts and better judgment, like they’re just silly barriers between now and the future he’s dreamed up for the two of you.

And worse, you do want it.

“Didn’t know you were an artist,” he says on the drive back. Jackson had been so excited about the dragon that you drew for him that he’d shown his parents and John.

“There’s a long list of things you don’t know about me,” you say.

"For now. We'll get there, sweetheart."

You hum, looking out the window. Spending time with the Stuarts has you wistful and homesick for something you can't get back. Days like this, you'd usually pour yourself a glass of wine, look through your family photo albums and have a good cry before going to bed early. It's been a while since it's caught up with you like this, but you'd always been reliant on your routine, burying grief in structure and familiarity. "Do we need to?"

"I'd like to."

"I'm not going to be what you want me to be."

John drums his fingers against the steering wheel. "What is it that you think I want?"

"Some little housewife. Someone soft and sweet to come home to."

"You seem plenty soft and sweet to me."

You sigh, pulling your arms around yourself. "I'm not consistent. I don't know what Johnny told you I was like, but he only knows me from work. I'm not like that all the time."

"I don't expect you to be."

"You say that now, but you'll change your mind."

"I'm not stupid enough to change my mind based on a bad day or two, doll. You're allowed to be upset. I wouldn't blame you if you spend the next week slamming doors and snapping at me. I'm still going to like you." He puts a hand on your knee and squeezes gently. Men like him shouldn't be allowed to have such attractive hands, and you shouldn't be attracted to hands like his, scarred knuckles, a few fingers broken and healed crooked. You know he's killed people, know it would be so easy for him to kill you. It turns your stomach that you feel any kind of desire for him at all.

Men like him are no different than the ones that killed your parents. Dealing death is not a noble trade, there's nothing honourable about exporting violence.

You push his hand away, and keep your eyes trained on the window.

He sighs, but he doesn't press the issue, just clicks on the radio to fill the silence.

When you get back to his house he sets you up in a cozy room down the hall from the more open main space where the kitchen is, an office of some kind with a couple of arm chairs and a desk with a clunky looking laptop set on top. The room smells kind of smoky, but you're just glad to have a door you can close while he "moves some things around". He opens the laptop up so you can watch something, but you just curl up in one of the armchairs and fall asleep.

When you wake, the door is open, one of your blankets is draped over you, and there's a mug of tea sitting on the desk, alongside a couple biscuits. You uncurl, your muscles stiff and joints cracking from not moving for too long, and pick up the tea. It's cold, like it had been left a while ago, but you drink it anyway, and eat the biscuits. There's a note underneath, explaining that John had run out to the shops, and that he'd be back by 18:00. You shake your head, and check the time on the laptop. 18:00 exactly.

Military habits must die hard. You imagine he’s usually prompt too, so you wander out into the main room, and put the clean dishes in the rack away. You realize that the living room side has been rearranged, condensed to a slightly smaller footprint, with some open space left by the far corner behind the bigger couch. The smaller leather sofa has been replaced with the little red love-seat from your apartment, and your T.V. is sitting on it’s familiar perch on the refinished credenza that you’d painted twining vines and little red flowers up the side of. You’d found it on by the curb on the Kinsey’s street a few years ago, and your friend Ripley had bused over and helped you carry it all the way back to your apartment.

You’re not sure you like seeing more of your things merging into John’s house, like any of it belongs there when you still want to insist that you’ll be leaving soon. You hate him for being presumptuous, but you can’t help but think it’s sweet, too, that he makes space for you so readily, that he’ll happily include your painted flowers and colourful blankets and bright red couch into space that was all his just twenty four hours ago. That he would leave you tea and biscuits for when you woke up, that he would tuck a blanket around you while you slept. You’re not used to someone wanting to take care of you, and it feels strange.

Strange, but nice too.

You glance at the clock on the wall, realizing that it’s twenty past six, and John still isn’t back. It’s getting darker out there, the sun nearly setting, and as much as you try to tell yourself that you’re not worried, it’s hard to deny the stab of relief when you finally see the truck's lights pull up the wooded drive.

You slip on your trainers and step outside as he parks. He grins at you around a lit cigar as he hops out. “Did you miss me, doll?” he asks, insufferably smug.

“Your note said you’d be back at six,” you say lamely. “I just wasn’t sure if you’re usually on time.”

“Usually am. Got caught talking to Wells, down on the corner. Seems someone drove right through his fence last night. Teenagers, like as not. I’m goin’ to help him fix it tomorrow.”

“Oh.” You grimace. He must know it was really you. “Sorry about that.”

“No harm. By the sounds of it, you’re quite the driver. Soap said you nearly ran him off the road. That what they teach these days?”

“Defensive driving is well and good, but offensive driving gets you the last good spot in the lot,” you say.

He laughs out loud at that, and leans over to pick up a big paper bag from the passenger side. “Here, can you take this in while I grab the groceries?”

You take the bag (which is slightly greasy and smells like curry), and shift it to one hip. “Can I take anything else?”

He nods and hands you a second paper bag, this one with two wine bottles inside. “Wasn’t sure if you liked red or white, so I got both.”

You settle the bags in your arms and turn to walk away. “Bad time to tell you I like rosé hm?” you tease, glancing over your shoulder.

“Terrible timing. But that’s alright. One more thing, doll.”

You turn back toward him, and he’s right there. One big hand cups your jaw and then his lips are on yours, pressing a kiss that tastes like smoke against you. You stand frozen, holding onto your cargo for dear life, too surprised to do anything. It’s just as well, because in that moment you’re not sure if you’d slap him or pull him closer.

He pulls away without trying to deepen the kiss, which is a relief. You’re certain that you’d drop dinner and the wine.

“John, that wasn’t fair.” Your feet are still frozen in place, and his hand is still on your cheek, his fingers threaded into your hair.

His eyes practically sparkle. He’s entirely too pleased with himself. “Not fair because I kissed you, or not fair because I stopped before we got to the best part?”

Your cheeks flame hot, and you pray that he can’t feel it. “You can’t just— You’re impossible.” It takes concentrated effort to take ordinary, measured steps to the door instead of running. The effect he has on you is apparently very obvious. He never would have tried it if he didn’t know you were teetering on the edge of giving in already.

Boundaries need to be set-- Set and followed-- before you can really even contemplate letting this get any further. Unchecked, you have no doubt that John will have you underneath him in a matter of days. Once that happens you know he'll never let you go, and you'll never have peace of mind if you don't really get to know him first. You know he's not as good as he makes himself out to be, but you suspect he's a better man than your deepest fears might whisper to you. He's genuine about his wants, but that's not enough. You need to know him before you can trust him.

You set your packages down on the table and turn to open the door wide for John as he carries a tote full of groceries into the house. “Thanks, doll.”

The paper bag rips when you open it to pull take-out containers out, setting them on the table neatly. "John, can we talk?" You ask, glancing at him as he stows things in the fridge.

"Course, doll. What's on your mind?"

Nerves threaten to choke you, so you take a steadying breath, in and out, trying to quiet the sea of dread that pitches back and forth in your stomach. “You can’t just take what you want from me. Not if you’re serious about wanting this to be something. I’m afraid of you, John, and I’m not going to fight you. If you push me, I’ll fold, and I’ll hate you for it.”

He pauses, holding a box halfway lifted to the cupboard. It takes a moment before he moves again, setting the box on the shelf slowly. The silence is palpable in the room, settling across both of you like a thick blanket of snow. You fold the ripped takeout bag flat, nervous, the crinkle of heavy paper hardly breaking through the rush of blood in your ears, the panic that grips you by the throat. It’s as though the admission has given your body the chance to catch up with everything that’s happened in the last two days.

You’d been drugged and taken from your home, you’d been handed off to someone you didn’t know, with no clear indication if you’re free to leave or not, you’ve been picked up and manhandled and shot at.

Darkness flickers in the corners of your vision. All you can hear is the pounding of your own heart, the sick, dizzying drums of war, and high pitched ringing like a flat-lining hospital monitor, and screaming, and the rapid burst of machine gun fire. No. The screaming you hear is just in your head, the gunshots aren’t real, they can’t be. It’s not happening, it’s over, it’s been over for a decade, you’re safe.

Except you’re not safe.

Hands land on your shoulders. You lash out, fists striking something solid, knocking the hands away. You have to get away, you have to hide until it goes quiet again. Arms wrap around you in a tight hug, stilling your thrashing limbs and bringing you down to the floor gently.

“Doll! Dalisay, sweetheart, you’re alright, come back.” The voice has authority. You know that voice. It rumbles, shaking loose memory. “Come on, love, breathe slow. You’re okay.” You breathe in, warm spice and tobacco smoke, not burning petrol, not scorched flesh. You’re kneeling on the floor, and John is holding you tight, thighs bracketing yours.

The fight melts out of your limbs.

You’re not safe, but you’re not in danger either. John loosens his hold on you and cups your face, his worried face eclipsing all else. “Doll, where’d you go?” he asks. “What happened?”

“Panic attack,” you lie, because that’s easier to say than My parents were killed in a terrorist attack while we were visiting London ten years ago and sometimes I get so stressed out that I forget it’s not still happening. “I’m fine, I’m sorry.”

“That wasn’t a panic attack, doll. Worked with Simon long enough to recognize PTSD. You were somewhere else.”

It’s hard to imagine that Ghost is as fallible, as human as you are, but you suppose there’s no shortage of opportunities for even the the biggest, toughest military men to to wade hip deep in trauma. The worst day of your life would be just another mission for them. The worst day of their lives would probably kill you outright.

"Yeah, I guess it was," you admit haltingly. "Everything just caught up with me. I won't let it happen again."

He shakes his head. "Did I set it off? I need to know— I don’t want to hurt you, sweetheart.”

"No, it's not like that. It’s just stress. It's been building since I got here."

"I guess that's what you meant in the truck, huh?"

You nod weakly. "I don't think I can explain it any better right now. But maybe tomorrow."

"Alright." John sighs, some of the tension in his shoulders releasing. " I don't want you to be afraid of me, doll."

"Then you're going to have to give me time, and space. I need to know what kind of man you are. And you should get to know who I am too.” There’s a wrinkle in his shirt, so you fixate on that rather than look right at him, smoothing it out with your fingers. “Let’s worry about becoming friends, for now. And then we can see if there’s something more.”

He doesn’t like that, you can tell by the way he pulls his hands back, reluctant to let go of you. But still, he nods, and smiles ruefully after a moment. “Guess I’m not as patient as I think I am. Too eager to get to the good part.”

You laugh lightly, the sound shaky from frayed nerves. “John, if we can be kind to each other, and come to an understanding, then it’s all the good part. You can’t build the things you want on foundations like this and hold it all together with sheer force of will.”

“You sure about that?" he jokes, trying to lighten the mood. "I’ve heard I’m pretty stubborn.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his. You still feel unsettled, your heart still pounding, your stomach still roiling with anxiety. The emotion in those blue eyes is something you can't identify, something fathomless that strikes you with a foreign kind of fear, the kind that's shot through with hope that you shouldn't feel.

“You don’t know me too well yet, John,” you say gently, “but so am I.”

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

[critter-covenant]

Have had fun learning how to digitalize traditional sketches, little messy but it has its charm me thinks :]

og and uncolored traditional sketch!

[blindmagdalena]

Homelander & Yulia "Empress" Bellam. art for my planned homelander x oc fic, The Hand You Wanna Hold is a Weapon. 🖤 ( art by Toyryla )

[johnslittlespoon]

what if. i said tough and sweet ch7 is done. and accidentally ended up being 20k words with two Large nsfw scenes

[kevinsdsy]

Jean Moreau was staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. He could hear Jeremy Knox, whom he shared a room with, chatting with Laila even though the door to their bedroom was closed. He couldn’t smell it yet, but he knew Cat was making dinner right now. Normally, he would’ve been helping her out in the kitchen at this time, especially because both Jeremy and Laila were disastrous in the kitchen themselves. Jean wasn’t much of a cook himself either—his past with the Edgar Allen Ravens hadn’t allowed him to develop such skills, but ever since coming to California, he had learned a thing or two from Cat, and he had managed to not burn the kitchen down.

Everything within Jean screamed to get up out of bed. His body had somewhat gotten used to 24-hour days when he was still with the Palmetto State Foxes, but it was times like these, when he was doing nothing but wasting his time, when he could feel how long 24 hours actually were in comparison of the 16-hour days he had grown up with for most his life in the nest. Jean secretly hoped Jeremy would stay quiet for a long time, so the anxious feeling of being left alone without a partner would kick in and push him to get out of bed. Instead, Jeremy’s voice was moving through the halls, leaving Jean comfortably staring at the ceiling for the past hour or so.

[dumbbunnii]

♡ ♡ ♡

[eywaseclipse]

Been feeling so feral for him lately it’s not even funny (*reads my new chapter)

[spadillelicious]

No new LDR chapter this weekend, and I'm very sorry about that :( It's very nearly done, it just needs a final editing pass! I'll post it tomorrow instead, thank you for your patience! <3

[seri-41]

MHA 424 PREDICTIONS

- Kurogiri is dead

- Koichi comes flying in

- Izuku Dad reveal

- Either Ochaco or Bakugo catch Izuku (it’s an intense war between these two ships on twt)

- Izuku has the AFO quirk now

- Todoroki family conclusion

- Tenko Shimura revived

- POV switch

- Izuku quirkless again

- AFO pulls another trump card (he’s like a fucking cockroach)

- Toga and Ochako crumbs

- Everyone is in the LOV is dead

- Future timeskip

- “This was our hero academia”

Anything can happen at this point I really have no idea what to expect 💀

[souglias]

cage of the unforgiving: chapter one [GINTOKI]

You have seen the Saviour of Yoshiwara before he earned that title. You have seen that wavy, silver-haired man before he stirred trouble with the Hyakka. You knew Gintoki even before he stepped foot into Yoshiwara. But you have forsaken too much to go back. Gintoki, on the other hand, holds onto too much to carry on.

Gintoki x f!reader. 16+ ONLY

c/w: Rated for the crude themes and also for my own comfort, no smut, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, reader is a courtesan, reader smokes, possibly toxic behaviours because the two won't communicate straightforwardly (content warnings will be added if needed as the chapters go and pointed out each time if any)

chapter word count: 3.1k

note: thanks for opening my fic! It's my first time attempting to write in this particular setting, writing themes and character development in a multi-chapter fic, so please forgive me for anything I lack in. I did my planning and research, but it's still something new to me :"). Any constructive feedback will be well appreciated!

cross-posted on AO3 (accessible from my profile)!

All likes and reblogs are appreciated!

-

There is a famed rumour of a room in Yoshiwara. A closed space that gives you the things you desire. Anywhere, anything and anyone. Most people believe it works because of some technology that the Amanto has installed. The more absurd reason going around is magic. 

Word goes that only a select few high-ranking courtesans have seen it, and no one knows who exactly because none of them talk about it. You are of a high rank, but you are not ranked high enough to have been in it. Any thoughts of even asking about it is wishful. It’s bullshit anyway and likely entertainment among the courtesans.

But it doesn’t stop you from thinking about it. Does the grasp of the artificial neon lights reach the inside? What would you see if you ever stepped foot inside? You have a few guesses, and you always dream of them. You dream of the dojo back in Shoka Sonjuku when you hold a shinai in both hands. You dream of the classroom with sliding doors facing the outside wide open, the breeze tickling your face during lessons. You dream of your old home, your brother beside you at the small floor table before he had become bedridden from illness.

One night, you dream of Gintoki, squabbling with Takasugi in the sunny yard. It escalates to them jumping atop each other. When Shoyo finally stops the fight in his peculiar manner, Gintoki catches you staring at him. He calls your name and your heart soars. You loved it when he said your name. It was much sweeter when it fell off his tongue. He wriggles his arms out of the ground and outstretches it towards you. You reach towards it with your own to pull him up.

Before you reach him, you wake up to the sound of your screeching alarm. As if something slipped out of it, your hand feels a little empty.

It’s an absurd dream. Everything that played out in it never happened in reality. And you’re not sure what you saw in that idiotic, crude boy when you were younger. You would never admit to anyone that you liked him.

Gintoki will remain as just a stupid boy in your past, adored by your old self who has died.

But you can’t help but feel your heart drop as you linger in your futon, alone in your dark room barely illuminated by the neon lights outside. A cloud hangs over you as the day progresses. You reach for your kiseru much earlier than usual as an attempt to lighten up, before you’re done with all the customers for the date. 

You prop your arms up on your window, letting your free hand hang freely outside of the window as you take a drag. 

Then you see him. 

A wavy, silver-haired samurai with several courtesans having their hands all over him. You almost drop your kiseru three floors down. You can barely hear what he’s saying, only catching the words “let go” and “clingy”. 

He should not be able to see you, but you shift to conceal yourself at the very edge of your window. Your gaze does not stray away from him, following him until he disappears from view. And it is only then you fully realise you are hiding. 

The sliding door of your room opens behind you, causing you to jump. Your attendant, a shy little girl who goes by Asami, notices your surprise as she addresses you by your professional name; your alias.

You put on a bright smile. “Is it time for the next appointment?”

Asami scrutinises you without her gaze being sharp, then nods. “I will guide them in when you are ready.”

Is Asami starting to see through you after all this while attending to you, or are you losing your cool over a mere samurai? You’re not sure which you would prefer. “Bring them in 10 minutes. Thank you.”

The next few hours pass quickly. You start by playing the koto for your customer. In between songs, you pour sake for him with a trained loving gaze. At some point, both of you are at your window, watching the smoke billowing from Hosen’s extravagant abode. The customer places a hand on your shoulder, which you assume is an attempt to assure you that everything will be okay. Perhaps it’ll do some good to pretend to be more alarmed, and you decide to slide your arms around his tightly as your show of anxiety. 

Everyone thinks that is the end of a minor accident, and they resume whatever they are doing for some time. 

Then it happened without warning. For you, it happens as you’re cleaning your room, a little after your customer leaves.

The ground quakes and a loud whirring noise surrounds the compound. Light enters the compound. First in a slow stream, then in a flood of rays. 

For the first time, there’s a square of blue at the corner of your window. It expands like a black canvas being added with more bright paint as you shift closer to it. A pastel yellow stretches itself out at the tatami floor near your window. When you move into the sun’s rays, their warmth begins to kiss your skin. A little unfamiliar, your arm feels a little prickly with the heat. But you do not shy away from it.

This must be the work of Gintoki. A wild guess, but it is one from deep in your gut. Even as uncertainty for the future grows in your chest, you continue to bask in the light and drink in the azure sky above you.

Asami comes by and tells you that there is no news on what has happened. Before she manages to leave, you pat the spot right next to you. “Come, sit with me by the window.” 

Her eyes widen and she asks, “What if a patron comes by?”

“That will be unlikely. Everyone’s too worried about what’s going on to come without an appointment.”

She remains kneeling at the entrance of your room, picking at her fingernails. 

You add, “Don’t worry, I will take responsibility if anyone comes looking for trouble. Or you can take this as your order from me. Accompany me.” 

You take a last puff of smoke for a while and keep your kiseru away in your kimono. You don’t like to smoke in the presence of children.

Asami is stiff when she sits next to you. You remain silent, letting her make herself comfortable at her own pace. Sometimes, you despise your rank, making you more intimidating than you want to be. The only ones who do not fear you are the ones who are above you or those who see you as their enemy. But you did not have the privilege to choose, and you let the recurring thought pass again.

The day passes with you unmoved from your window. You don’t realise how much you miss the sun until it sets at the end of the day. Even after Asami leaves, you continue to watch the hues of the sky shift. Only when the sun enters its deep slumber to make way for a hazy moon, do you reluctantly pull yourself away from your window.

Word goes around fast in Yoshiwara and you get up to date in less than a day. Tsukuyo is now the new leader of Yoshiwara. Hinowa has stepped down as the top favoured courtesan and she makes a living at a humble food shop behind the building that houses your room. A silver-haired samurai is one of those behind everything, and he is hailed as the “Saviour of Yoshiwara”. His popularity and reputation among the women have skyrocketed. His name has become a sweet candy on the tip of the tongues of many.

His name is everywhere now, mildly unsettling you with how it grates in your mind too.

Whenever you are not working, you wonder if he still comes to Yoshiwara to visit. Right before a scheduled appointment, you wonder if he is only a mere distance from you, eating dango at Hinowa’s shop. You wonder if he’s fucking other girls, letting them freely say his name as they please. 

Gintoki, Gintoki, Gintoki. You are sure you no longer harbour any sort of puppy love for him, but his name echoes so torturously in your mind. You want to know how he’s been. You want to hear about what he’s been up to, and where the others are. You want to see if he has grown into a fine guy, worth the embarrassment of knowing you had feelings for his snotty younger self.

Hinowa may be able to fill you in about him, or maybe you could see him at her shop. If he isn’t there, perhaps she could reach out to him for you. 

Yet along with this ever-growing desire, accompanies an increasingly bitter aftertaste in your mouth each time you serve a patron. Every lie you put out hammers a trembling nail into your heart.

You are now a far cry from who you were, especially with you having renounced your old name.

How would Gintoki see the version of you now?

Morning comes with rain. You head out to find Hinowa, an umbrella overhead. However, your steps become heavier and you stop in your tracks just as the shop comes into view. The rain beat incessantly at your umbrella. 

How would Gintoki see you now? What would Gintoki think about you?

You turn back. It would be better for him to think of you dead or missing, with the memory of you untarnished. Gintoki will never find you. He does not know you are here in Yoshiwara, and almost no one in Yoshiwara knows of your real name. There is not enough of your past lying around.

You smoke again the moment you get back. The smell of smoke in your closed room soon gets on your nerves despite only a few puffs. Shoving your window open, you let the rain splatter in and onto yourself.

–

“I apologise if this is prying, but has something happened?”

Asami’s question almost goes unheard with the distance between the door and window, and how soft-spoken she is. You just smile, asking her what led her to that question as she remains at your door. She dismisses the question.

“It’s okay, you can tell me.”

Her averted gaze comes back to you briefly as you move closer to her. “You’ve been sitting at your window a lot.” 

You fall silent, painfully aware that you’re seated right at the place she pointed out. Her statement unintentionally reminds you that you’ve been watching the streets of Yoshiwara a little too often, searching for someone you shouldn’t be. Too often for your liking.

Asami timidly looks back at you. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to be a busybody.”

You slide over to the entrance, reassuring her with a pat on her head. “No, it’s okay. Everything is okay. Regardless, tell me why you are here.”

“Lady Hinowa has requested for you to see her tomorrow at 2.30 pm at Hino-ya. You don’t have appointments during that time at the current moment.” 

Your chest knots. You tell Asami to relay that you will be there, and she heads off.

There are many reasons why Hinowa would see you. It could be about your clientele, a request for help, or intel on a fellow courtesan. There are so many reasons, such that the reason for having to do something with Gintoki should be small. 

Your night before is thankfully free of appointments, and you glance at the bright streets one last time before shutting the window. The window does not seem to filter the neon lights well tonight, and sleep eludes you with the myriad of colours on the other side of your eyelids.

After some tossing and turning, your mind idles with frivolous thoughts. Maybe if you could find that stupid room, it could give you some sleep. A room untouched by others, with temperatures unbounded by the weather outside.

You manage to drift to sleep at an ungodly hour. But whatever little sleep you got, it wasn’t good. You dreamt of a past that didn’t happen with Gintoki, again.

Gintoki was walking by your side to your home. His arms were crossed behind his head and he only looked straight ahead without a word. You walked silently too, feeling down for an unknown reason. 

“I’m sorry.”

You didn’t know why he was apologising, and you didn’t feel any better hearing it. There was sincerity in it and weight to it, but it didn’t ease the unexplained storm in your heart at all.

You don’t remember stepping through the front door of your house. But at some point, both of you ended up in your home. A steaming, big bowl of miso soup was placed in front of each of you. He had finished his portion first and he picked his nose as he waited for you to empty yours at your pace.

You flung a tissue box at him, warning him not to flick his booger onto your floor. Then, you asked him if it was good. Your brother always made miso soup for you on your birthday. It wasn’t anything out of this world, but you held it close to your heart. 

He hummed in agreement. 

This time, you wake up without any sort of call or alarm. But you feel violently awakened and sick to the stomach. You swear off thinking about the ever-so-desired room. It’s a personal recipe for a disastrous dream.

When you leave for Hino-ya, the idling courtesans eye you. One or two who you’ve known to have a distaste for you look towards you sharply. They speak softly, but loud enough for you to hear.

“Why would Lady Hinowa want to see her?” 

You don’t really know why they’re bothering to pry. Maybe Keeping Up with the Kardashians isn't enough to keep them entertained.

“Maybe she’s gotten into some trouble.”

With that follows some giggles that you ignore with practice.

Your feet get heavy once again as Hino-ya comes into view. However, you could not turn back even if you wanted to. Hinowa invites you to sit with a smile, as she wheels herself over to you with a plate of dango. She greets you with your alias, which slightly eases your worry. 

Hinowa gets straight to the point.

“Do you know Sakata Gintoki?”

Your breath catches in your throat. But you quickly collect yourself.

“He’s the one who saved all of us.”

“No, do you know him personally?” 

A moment of silence lapses between the two of you. Hinowa drops her practiced smile that she shows to customers and lets concern show on her face. 

“[name], if you don’t want to talk about it, you can tell me.” 

Hinowa is the only courtesan left who knows your name. It may have been a long while since you both talked, but her use of your real name makes you crack a little.

“Yes.”

“Did you know him from before you came to Yoshiwara?”

You nod, and she continues. “He has asked about you, looking for you with your real name,” she pauses a little as she searches your face for any emotion, “I didn’t tell him I knew you right off. He started to describe you to me… as if he knows you like the back of his hand. I only said I could do some searching on my part.”

Her next line chips off a little of your heart. “But he’s told me not to set him up with you, because he doesn’t have money.”

Your thoughts begin to run. You imagine his judgmental gaze on you. Does he think so lowly of you now that you’d want him to pay up to see you? If money isn’t an issue, does he want to see you at all? 

Gently, Hinowa puts a pause to your thoughts with an offer. “If you would like, I can arrange a meeting for the two of you.”

He’s just making excuses so he doesn't have to see you. 

(This is the bitter pill you choose to swallow. And that will put an end to whatever wishful thoughts you harbour.)

“I don’t want to see that piece of shit either, especially since he can’t pay.”

With that, you forcibly change the focus of the conversation to Hinowa. The two of you catch up till dusk, with a few pauses in the conversation for her to serve customers their food. At the end of the day, both of you ease back into the bosom friends that you were before Hosen had locked Hinowa up.

Despite the light-hearted end to your conversation with Hinowa, you drag your feet as the distance between you and her shop grows. You can still turn back. You can still take it all back. 

But you do not succumb to the temptation calling you out behind in, only caving in when you are standing at the entrance of your building, where you can no longer see her shop. With the closed door of this opportunity, a knife twists in your heart.

That night, a client asks if you love him. Clients and patrons love to do this, and you utter it effortlessly and convincingly every time. There’s longevity with a customer only if you tell them what they want to hear.

But this time, you feel like you can no longer say it with as much faux conviction as you used to.

In the days after, you make yourself practice again and again. Until you’ve convinced yourself that you could love a stranger for a night.

-

A last-minute patron has been scheduled for the initially empty night. You berate the patron as you smear the pale white foundation on your face, though you begin to calm yourself as soon as you move on to your rogue. If someone could obtain time with you at the eleventh hour, he must be someone of stature. 

As you await him in a seiza position, the shuffling of footsteps outside becomes louder. You mentally check your smile and rehearse your attitude.

When the door opens, you briefly see a half-worn white kimono with blue waves as you lower your head to the floor. Panic courses through your body and you feel your smile waver. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be broke and unable to come. By sheer habit, you recite the greeting you give new customers like a recorder. The greeting contains your alias, sewn into a sentence with “sir” and “I will serve you tonight.”

When you raise your head to face him, your eyes meet a pair of widened crimson eyes. 

Shoka Sonjuku. Shinai. Home. Miso soup. You almost forget where you are. 

Shoyo. Takasugi. Katsura. You almost say his name, when you should not know it. You cannot, when you have chosen to start by introducing yourself as a stranger with a name unknown to him. 

[ssreeder]

Chapters: 20/? Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Aang/Katara (Avatar), others to be tagged later - Relationship Characters: Sokka (Avatar), Zuko (Avatar), Aang (Avatar), Katara (Avatar), Toph Beifong, Jet (Avatar), Suki (Avatar), Kyoshi Warriors (Avatar), Iroh (Avatar), Jee (Avatar), Hakoda (Avatar), Bato (Avatar), A bunch of OCs, Long Feng, Joo Dee (Avatar), Azula (Avatar), Mai (Avatar), Ty Lee (Avatar), Ozai (Avatar), General Fong (Avatar) Additional Tags: Violence, Blood and Injury, War, Minor Character Death, Rape/Non-con Elements, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Major Character Injury, Amputation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, possible major character death, themes similar to the first two books, Sexism, Racism (like has already been written in first two books), dark themes, Human Trafficking, Slavery, Just a lot of dark war-like themes, there will be a battle, Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Injury Recovery, Healing, Underage Sex, Underage Drinking, Animal Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Warnings each chapter, Hopefully some healing for Zuko finally, no promises, but that’s the goal, Reunions, hopefully a happy ending, Sokka gets some healing too, Non-Consensual Drug Use Series: Part 3 of Leaving It All Behind Summary:

-This is the last book of the series LIAB, please go read the other two books before this, or you will be very confused-

Zuko has been taken by the Earth Kingdom army to who-knows-where, and Sokka is determined to get him back.

But he can’t do it alone.

With Suki and the Kyoshi Warriors by his side, Sokka is headed to Ba Sing Se to find Katara and Aang so they can go rescue his fire bender.

Things aren’t as easy as he had hoped. Corruption, lies, and unknown horrors await them inside the city’s walls. None of this is helping Sokka’s mental well-being.

Hakoda and his men face a problem of their own as Azula approaches with the intentions of making it rain fire.

Sokka and Zuko will both find themselves having to reintegrate back into a life they thought they left behind, with people they hardly remember. It isn’t easy for anyone, especially when they don’t recognize the person standing in front of them.

[notnormalme]

WELCOME TO THE NEXT PART BECAUSE IN THE LAST EVERYTHING I WANTED TO SHOW DIDN'T FIT!!!

I will also say that I am sad that we didn't get any sketches of Dante or Olivier and I hope that we'll get to see them in future (I will spend the rest of my money on it as I did this time) 😭

BACK TO THE TOPIC

I thought I'd share more Noé

BC OMG LOOK AT HIM

The initial idea for Noé reminds me a lot of Kunikida from bsd and I'm very happy about it because Kunikida is my favorite character

Also, as you can see, Noé has been working as a waiter for a very long time

FSHFAHARSUTJSTSJGKDGKDG

I'm sorry that some of the photos have a different color, but I took them under a different light 😭

I AM 100% SURE THAT THIS GUY DOESN'T HAVE A DRIVING LICENSE

At one point, Mrs. Jun said that she was missing something in the character of Vanitas and when she asked her friend for advice, he said that he was very much in the style of her main characters. When asked to present his vision of the main character's appearance HE SUGGESTED THIS HAIRSTYLE

Jun ultimately rejected it BUT some of it was preserved in Vanitas' bangs! As you'll notice earlier, his hair was much messier and then it started to look more cut

Personally, I think he looks like aph Poland

I think that's all I've prepared???

BUT I'M HAVING A GOOD DAY SO I WILL SHARE SOME NICE ART EHEH

Nice art in question

Yes, I'm one of those people who watches this one scene from the opening on a loop (⁠・⁠// –⁠ //・⁠;⁠)⁠ゞ

[assassin-artist]

i am free