#the flashes are perhaps the most functional and i hear are having a great run of comics right now!

[bitimdrake]

how would you describe arrowfamily in canon? Cause i have seen conflicting things ranging from "Oliver Queen is a terrible horrible person" to "canon arrowfamily is what people think batfam should be like/if you want fanon batfam you want canon arrowfam" and it is confusing

Disclaimer first. A full, proper, arrowfam read-through is next on my list once I finally catch up with the bats, but I haven't gotten there yet. I have still read a whole bunch of comics, and by virtue of how the DC universe works, I've seen a fair bit of the arrows scattered throughout. (In particular, I've read a lot of Roy via Titans and Outsiders.)

So I can give a broad strokes answer here, but I'm not going to try to claim a deep meta analysis of the arrows yet.

I think the quickest way to explain the contradictory information is this:

batfam fans take up most of the space in DC fandom

for whatever reason, it has become highly popular bat fanon to use Oliver Queen as a scapegoat Designated Terrible Dad to show how much better and cooler and nicer Bruce is.

This is not a fair or accurate depiction of Ollie.

(Nor, for that matter, an accurate depiction of Bruce, but that fanon diversion is intentional and less like throwing shrapnel at a guy who isn't even part of this.)

People who actually read comics and like Ollie therefore try to push back on this extreme and ooc demonization of him, and also vaunt the arrows in general.

Said pushback is sometimes an exaggerated overcompensation.

Basically, no, Oliver Queen is not a terrible horrible person, nor even a terrible horrible father.

And I would say the canon arrows are a lot closer to what fans are desperately trying to find (or just make up) in the bats. There are various things that are true of the canon arrows/Ollie and of the fanon bats/Bruce that are not true of the canon bats/Bruce. [All post-crisis disclaimer.] Examples:

Ollie is outspokenly liberal and this is a well accepted piece of his canon characterization. (Meanwhile DC writers try very very hard to make Bruce Totally Apolitical and therefore acceptable to all readers. Not that anything is ever actually apolitical.)

Ollie also hates cops! And rich people! For a significant chunk of comics, he lost his fortune and was better off for it, realizing he could never be truly good if he were still a billionaire.

The common fan argument about how Bruce totally isn't abusive; he's a good dad who's just been written that way once or twice by bad writers is...actually not that far off from describing Ollie? He hit Roy once in a comic about How Not To Respond To Addiction; in another comic he was revealed to have secretly known about and abandoned Conner, despite this not lining up with previous comics showing how he really wanted to be a dad. Both of these things are canon and bad, no doubt! But he is also usually a lot better, and has shown an ability to grow and change. (Meanwhile canon Bruce just has a consistent pattern of abuse.)

Subjective, but Ollie seems to really think of himself as a father and delight in it in a way that Bruce just kinda...doesn't.

All the arrows, from what I can tell, actually like each other.

They don't try to murder each other either.

But, as you surely notice, being closer to batfanon desires doesn't mean the arrows literally are the fanon batfam. Like the bats, they are not a perfect model nuclear family (nor should they be!). They too have had conflict and dysfunction (Roy and Oliver stopped talking for a significant period of time!). And they do indeed exist in a comic book world driven by crime and superheroics and conflict, not a fluffy fanfiction world driven by comfort and interpersonal reassurances. (This is not a dunk on fanfic, which I love, just a reminder).

so tl;dr, the arrows aren't a perfectly fluffy fanon family either...but if you see a batfam fan throwing Ollie/other arrows under the bus to make their fave look better, that is definitely bullshit.

#* #ask #anon #*dc #dc #arrows #ollie queen #canon vs fanon #ALSO if you have come to dc comics via batfandom #and the thing you are MOST interested in is this idea of a big loving superhero/vigilante family #may i recommend to you: anything except batman comics #the superfam is very loving and supportive! #the flashes are perhaps the most functional and i hear are having a great run of comics right now! #wonder woman's cast is full of respect and love and bonds of sisters and warriors! #and yes even the arrows get closer on account of liking each other! #the bats are so goddamn dysfunctional and that's why i love them #and if you are on board with that too then jump on in and have fun #but if you are looking for a giant family that is all love #you are probably not going to have a good time. you are going to be desperately pulling out slivers of what you want #from a piece of fiction that is not actually designed for it. and indeed often designed for the opposite. #and that is not a failure of your tastes. but it is also not a failure of the fiction!! #it's a mismatch #you want to go read about wally west instead i think

[cinephiles-delight]

An Open Letter To Screenwriters: Please Stop Watching Marvel Movies

If you’re reading this and have a Netflix subscription then odds are that, like myself, you recently had the (debatable) pleasure of watching the Russo brother’s latest directorial outing, “The Gray Man”.  

For what it is, the film makes great on all of its most exorbitantly crafted, high-octane “Mission-Impossible” action sequences, most of which are driven by a captivating use of hyper-dynamic cameras and splashy, colorful lighting schema (including one particularly jaw-dropping fisticuffs shot on a firework-launching barge).  

Despite its traditionally conceived and executed premise, however, you may have noticed that the film feels distinctly… different, from all the other big-budget spy action thrillers (M:I, Bond, Bourne, etc.).  The cinematic ethos it cultivates is, I would argue, somewhat perplexingly not one of the standard gritty spy thriller/shoot-em-up flick, but instead one eerily reminiscent of a Marvel movie.  

While (slightly) more grounded than perhaps the majority of Marvel’s superhero tentpole films, “The Gray Man” represents in both form and function a rather transparent attempt by the Russo Brothers to adapt their lessons learned in franchise filmmaking to the world of the modern-day gentleman spy.  

You can see this in everything from the plucky, eccentric “villain” who fancies himself a comedian, to the significant unresolved plotlines begging for a sequel, and, most tellingly, in the use (and perhaps over-use) of Marvel’s classic trick: the motif.  

My calling the motif Marvel’s trick is more than a bit of a misnomer, given that not only is it nearly ubiquitous among blockbusters, but also it’s well-nigh been the most important stable-horse of Hollywood screenwriters in the classical school for the better part of a century (it’s part of what makes “Casablanca” tick, for crying out loud).  

For context, in cinematic terms a motif is any object, line of dialogue, particular camera/lighting arrangement, or sound which recurs several times throughout the film at key moments in an attempt to accentuate emotional and/or narrative beats.

The motif can be used for a nearly limitless number of applications, but most frequently it’s used as a sort of cinematic cheat code in order to easily manipulate an audience’s emotional response.  It’s applied most often using a repetition-variation format, in which the motif is introduced in one context early in the film, reinforced in a similar context at a later point, and then re-introduced towards the conclusion in a new (typically bittersweet or tragic) way.  

To demonstrate, imagine you’re watching a slasher movie.  

In the opening scene we’re shown a family moving into their new house on a bright, sunny day, and as the father and daughter are unloading boxes from the moving van their golden retriever runs in between them and dashes into the house (there’s probably at least one close-up of the dog in there somewhere).  

Flash forward a few minutes of screen time: the girl and her little brother are at the table eating breakfast when all of a sudden their lovable, dopey dog jumps up and grabs a slice of toast out of the boy’s hand, wolfing it down in close-up.  

Finally, maybe twenty minutes into the film, the tone shifts and we’re given a nighttime interior close up of the golden asleep on a rug by the front door.  He looks up groggily and notices that the door is open.  Curious, he trots over to investigate when BAM! The killer grabs the dog and strangles it off-camera while you hear yelps followed by a thud.  

This is how a motif is employed in its most simple and effective incarnation: introduction, repetition, variation.  The filmmaker and screenwriter show you something seemingly unimportant, then proceed to imbue it with narrative importance through repeated emphasis, until finally they somehow alter or break it in an attempt to pull at your heartstrings.  

As you can certainly guess, this doesn’t necessarily have to be contrived to make the audience sad–my puppy narrative could just as easily be flipped to tell the story of a dog who’s been routinely beaten finally being rescued, for instance.  

This positive version of the motif is commonly used in blockbusters as a sort of social engineering hack to endear the protagonist to audience members (typically in the form of a catchphrase or action) and is more often than not wildly effective.  

However, as one might surmise, the effectiveness of a motif is amplified the longer the screenwriter drags out the build-up, “delaying” the variation stage of its implementation.  A prolonged cycle of repetition is challenging to achieve in the span of a ninety-minute feature film, and as such simple motifs such as catchphrases or signature actions are much more frequently employed in serial entertainment (traditionally television).

Enter the Russo brothers.

When they were tasked with directing and engineering the Marvel Cinematic Universe’s most ambitious endeavors, they (alongside many of the Marvel creative team members) began to construct their movies almost as if they were giant episodes in an ongoing network series: each installment had a micro-narrative which is resolved by the end as well as elements of the macro-narrative which is resolved over the course of several installments (e.g. “The Winter Soldier” is one episode in “The Infinity Saga”).  

This narrative re-imagining of the feature came complete with the introduction of a heavy reliance on motif through association to drive audience attachment (e.g. Iron Man and AC/DC, Thor and literalism, etc.).  

The more we saw specific characters doing or saying things that were particular/signature to them, the more we came to view them not as fictional characters but as concrete individuals–an effect typically reserved for long-running sitcoms and other serials (similar to how fans of decades-long soaps will often describe characters as part of their family). 

Marvel’s Infinity Saga “ran” for roughly a decade and included twenty-three installments, making the MCU older than the vast majority of actual network television shows by the time “Endgame” premiered–more than enough time to enable the most hackneyed forms of motif to function perfectly in their capacity to make us feel.

The problem this creates for the blockbuster landscape, however, is a simple one: an installment in the MCU does not function in any way like a normal feature film.  

It’s comparing apples to oranges.  

Yet, regardless of this fact, screenwriters in the (non-superhero) blockbuster industry are now looking to Marvel to try and extract some of the secret formula which seems so often to give its movies verified box-office invincibility.  

And the most heinous of these adoptions are the more puerile forms of the motif.  

I challenge you to walk into a random theater this summer and see any movie on the marquee (barring, of course, actual Marvel films) and walk away without having been subjected to the indignity of at least one cringe-worthy, shoe-horned catchphrase or moment of desperate, unashamed pandering to times-gone by (by my estimation you’d be lucky to come out with only one).  

The absolute worst of these belong to the category which seems to telegraph the most blatantly low estimation of its viewers’ intelligence: the flashback motif.  

The “flashback motif” is what I’ve chosen to call those instances in which a film takes raw footage from either an earlier installment in its franchise or from earlier in the film itself and simply drops it in the middle of a scene, without alteration.

There was, perhaps, a time when only the campiest of camp movies would utilize such a ham-fisted method to remind you of things you’d previously seen, and that was for good reason.

The true crime of the flashback motif is that it comes across as nothing more than a coddling of or condescension towards the audience–an implicit belief that without this blatant “refresher” we would be completely oblivious to the cinematic parallels the filmmaker is trying to draw. 

As such it was rare, if ever, that such a device was used. 

Lately, however, examples of it have begun to pop up all over the place, including “Top Gun: Maverick”, “The Matrix: Resurrections”, and–sadly to say–“Nope”.  

For example: when in “Nope” OJ looks into his truck’s side view mirror and sees the giant alien eyeball, we as viewers are suddenly thrust into an unexpected and unnecessary flashback to the scene in which a production member holds up a mirror ball to OJ’s horse.  I classify this not as a typical flashback but as a flashback motif only because the mirror ball has already made two separate appearances in the film (repetition and variation).  All the more reason why this sudden incursion of the past into the present is, above all, completely gratuitous.  The audience knows the ball is important, we get that animals can’t be looked in their eyes or can't look into mirrors without going wild, and we can make that connection ourselves with an absolute minimum of effort.  

Peele’s use of the flashback motif is, however, tasteful in the extreme when compared to that of “Maverick”.  

Early in the film, we find Maverick leaving the military dive bar he’s been ceremoniously thrown out of, when all of a sudden he sees Rooster through an open doorway banging out Jerry Lee Lewis’ perennial “Great Balls of Fire” on the bar piano, with a host of his peers singing along with great alacrity.  It’s at this moment that the filmmakers so generously gift us footage of Goose doing precisely the same thing in the original “Top Gun” film with little Rooster sitting on top of the piano.

Disclaimer: this scene is not inherently bad.  

I wouldn’t even say it’s bad, period.  

In fact, it works quite well, and its conception is fantastic.  Its execution, however, is nothing less than insulting.  

Let’s break this down piecemeal.  First, there’s song selection: there’s no compelling reason (other than the fact that his dad sang it once upon a time) for Rooster to be playing, specifically, “Great Balls of Fire” at this bar.  What’s more, the song’s nearly forty years old, and somehow the film expects us to believe that every single twenty-something pilot in Fightertown, U.S.A. knows the lyrics backwards and forwards?

Sure, you can argue that perhaps this is Rooster’s signature act, and that he’s been doing it at this specific bar and with these specific people for years–but every living soul in that room was belting out Jerry Lee Lewis bar for bar, and there’s no way I’m buying that every one of those people had met Rooster before, let alone heard him sing “Balls of Fire”.  

As far as I’m concerned the only explanation, diegetic or otherwise, for the sing-along scene as pictured is that the screenwriters and filmmakers wanted to weaponize old-timer “Top Gun” nostalgia.  

Second, why include the flashback footage?  Who’s going to the theater to see “Maverick” without being at least tangentially aware of the famous “Great Balls of Fire” scene?  Perhaps that’s too harsh of a critique–this is a tentpole film after all, meaning it needs to appeal to all audiences, even those who haven’t seen “Top Gun”.  

At that point, though, you might as well just slap a “Previously On: Top Gun” segment right after the trailers and call it a day.

Which is, of course, almost exactly what the latest “Matrix” sequel did, but its flashback motif usage was so appalling and extensive that it’s probably best to just leave well enough alone.  

As bad as the flashback motifs are, however, they’re not a product of the Marvel Cinematic Universe–though they do make a cameo appearance in “Thor: Love and Thunder”–and we can’t blame the Russo brothers for them.  

The plucky catchphrase trend, on the other hand, is an entirely different story.  

As previously mentioned, the Russos found incredible success working with screenwriters who prioritized the creation of signature taglines and catchphrases, the most memorable of these being, arguably, Captain America’s “I can do this all day” (I still remember the goosebumps I got watching Evans deliver that line to Thanos in theaters).  

What’s important to note about the MCU, though, is that they’ve earned the effectiveness of this tactic.  They’ve had twenty three movies worth of character development in which to imbue those words with a meaning beyond their superficial cheesiness.  

The problem is that the use of catchphrases (which are themselves a form of motif) is undeniably “cheesy”–a fact which Marvel itself has admitted by lampooning the seriousness of Roger’s catchphrase in a song for his eponymous musical from the “Hawkeye” Disney + series.  And when screenwriters for non-Marvel films begin adopting this and other similar motif-driven narrative strategies, they fall flat on their face: bearing nothing but the sad, cheesy tuckus of hack writing.

Nowhere is this more evident (and most obviously attributable to the MCU) than in the Russo brothers’ “Gray Man”.  

In one of the film’s most astonishing fight scenes, “Six” subdues a home intruder in pitch darkness, the scene being lit almost exclusively by a flashlight held by Gosling’s character.  As the fight concludes, Six is confronted by his employer’s young niece, who (incredibly concerned) asks him if he’s alright, to which he responds, in classic quippy fashion: “Just another Thursday”.  Later in the film Six is injured nearly to the point of death, and as he is being carted away reassures his employer’s frantic young ward he’ll be alright by telling her, once again that it’s, “Just another Thursday”.

Now, I’m not saying this is the worst screenwriting ever, or even that it’s necessarily bad.  Catchphrases and taglines can even work well within a single film (again, see “Casablanca”), but at the end of the day, if the dialogue doesn't feel natural–if the repetition feels forced–it’s not going to land.  

Motifs are a powerful tool in screenwriters tool belts, and when used correctly can deliver the perfect emotional punch that a scene needs.  But, as the Russos’ heroes are so want to remind us: “with great power comes great responsibility”.  

My advice to anyone setting out to write a blockbuster screenplay, then, would be to take a long, hard look at your script and duly ask yourself: “is this going to sound stupid when my actor says it?”  

If the answer is yes, or if you have even the slightest suspicion that it might be, please, for all our sakes, leave the catchphrases for the superheroes.

#motif #catchphrase #movie tropes #movies #movie #movie review #Movie Reviews #the gray man #gray man #chris evans #ryan gosling #ana de armas #thor love and thunder #top gun #top gun maverick #tom cruise #miles teller #nope #jordan peele #daniel kaluuya #marvel cinematic universe #marvel #thor

[p-antomime]

hear what?

— minors don’t interact

— wc: 760.

content + warnings: 18+, including: dom!bakugō, fingering, a bit of degradation, masturbation, heavy make-out maybe (?), exhibitionism.

pairings: aged up!bakugō x fem!reader

— bnha masterlist.

Bakugou was strangely uneasy, giving short answers without the same usual temperament that you and your parents were used to. And this made you apprehensive about whether there was something you had done or said that had made him uncomfortable, or, perhaps, the food had not pleased him?

In short, many personal questions blooming in your mind for very few answers springing up.

The tension between the two of you dissipated a bit when you went to your room to change from your casual clothes into your pajamas. Bakugou was frequenting your home enough that your parents allowed the blonde to sleep with you in a locked room, though you were mortified enough not to try to make any sort of sexual advances or moves on your boyfriend with your parents being mere steps away from the two of you.

As soon as you returned to the living room with the utensils used at the table being removed by your boyfriend, you swore you saw his shoulders tense painfully as soon as your feet stepped over the doorframe, and then there was confirmation that indeed, something was wrong. But what?

— Hm, Mom? Are you both finished? — You asked, referring to the plates and forks and spoons being carried to the sink by Katsuki's strong arms.

— Oh, yes! — She answered promptly with a friendly smile, not at you, but at her boyfriend, who was proving strangely helpful today. — We just need to wash up, but the dishwasher can do that for us. — The older woman nodded her head in the direction of the machine.

— Okay, great. — You took your attention from your mother to Bakugou and gave yourself the right to grab one of their wrists after watching him leave the last fork in the sink before you began to walk quickly and awkwardly away from the landlords and up the stairs in order to reach your room. And after reaching it, yours hands pushed Katsuki into the room and mouth whispered: — What is it? What's wrong? Is something bothering you? I...

Your sentencedidn't come to an end and in a brief blink of an eye Bakugou was slipping his arms around your waist to unbalance you toward your bed and knock you onto it. He analyzed your body covered by little more than a thin cloth and ran his tongue over his lips before leaning down to fasten his mouth against one side of your neck where he began to leave brief bites, sucks and kisses. Your body seemed slow to process your boyfriend's quick actions, but not slow enough to hesitate to tangle your hands in his blond hair as a fake way to ease some of the tension that was beginning to build inside you as Katsuki's lips explored the skin of your neck and managed to make currents of pleasure run down your back, permeate your abdomen, and make you wetter and wetter.

Bakugou knew you better than you seemed to be aware, and in a way it was frightening that the smallest of his actions could make you get caught up in a mood whose main core was pure carnal and lewd pleasure.

— You like that, don't you? — He whispered against the bones of yours collarbones after leaving kisses on the skin there and sliding his body to meet between your feathers in a matter of a few seconds. — I bet what turns you on the most is the idea that you could be caught at any moment, isn't it? Dirty slut, my dirty slut. — And then you seemed to have a mental click of your conscience trying to function properly again.

— I-If they listen, Katsuki... I... — Bakugou looked up to stare at you for a few seconds before pressing the tip of his index finger against your cloth-covered clit and flashing a debauched smile as you squirmed and tried to crawl away from him in the sheets. — They'll hear, fuck, Katsuki...

At your immediate response, the blonde leaned up to cover your mouth as his other hand went beyond the waistband of your shorts and panties to run his fingers slowly over your folds that were beginning to get wetter, as if begging for his touch.

— Hear what? — Bakugou played dumb before running his tongue over the lips that suddenly seemed too dry and looking you straight in the eye. — Let's make a bet, hm? The first one who moans won't cum all night. — His fingers made gentle circles over your clit.

And neither of you had even bothered to go lock the bedroom door.

#bakugou smut #bakugou #bakugou x reader #bnha #bnha bakugou #mha #mha smut #bnha smut #katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #katsuki smut #katsuki bakugo #bakugo smut

[poesparakeet-fics]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Critical Role (Web Series) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Caduceus Clay/Caleb Widogast, Caduceus Clay & Caleb Widogast, The Poly Nein - Relationship Characters: Caleb Widogast, Caduceus Clay Additional Tags: Tickling, ler!Cad, Lee!Caleb, Punishment, Injury, Injury Recovery, Caleb Widogast Needs a Hug, Caleb Widogast is a Mess, Teasing, Queerplatonic Relationships, Pinned, Wrestling, Forced Self Love, And for once I don’t mean that in the sexy way., Safewords Series: Part 3 of The Poly Nein Summary:

Caduceus shows Caleb the consequences of dodging a healing spell around people who love you.

This one’s SFW, so please enjoy it here or on AO3!

This is what happens.

They came home battered, beaten and pissed besides. The others hung around for Jester’s prayer of healing, but Caleb slipped away, too full of old wounds and grey memories to give up his new wounds quite yet. His head ached and his side pulsed painfully while he climbed the stairs. He was nearing his door when a great, heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

“Here,” a warm voice hummed from behind him, “lemme get that for you.”

“Oh Herr Clay, it’s–”

 Caleb’s sentence was choked out by a sudden sucking feeling accompanied by a sharp sound  in his chest as Caduceus’ spell took hold. 

*POP*

Caleb froze, then swayed in his tracks. Perhaps the injury had been a little worse than he thought. He turned around to thank his friend, only to see thunder in the firbolg’s eyes and freeze. He had seen Caduceus upset, annoyed and disappointed, but he wasn’t sure he’d seen him furious before. Until now, that is.

“For real?” Cad’s voice was still it’s usual low, placid cadence. He closed his eyes and pinched the top of his nose.

“Wh-”

“That was a broken rib, Caleb.”

“I was just going to bed–”

“You didn’t take a lick of healing from Jester.” He paused while Caleb floundered under a wave of embarrassment, guilt and stubbornness. “Your rib would have been the first thing to heal, since it’s the most life threatening. Unless you had a dagger through your heart I didn’t know about.”

The lie that was ready on Caleb’s tongue died there.

“I… ah… I did not know it was broken.” He finished lamely.

“That is not…” Caduceus closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, “That’s not the point, you… dammit, OK. OK, We’re gonna deal with this.”

His hand closed around the back of Caleb’s coat, and the now-healthy wizard yipped as he was lifted effortlessly off his feet. As easy as it was to forget Caduceus’ quiet anger, it was easier to forget his rarely-used strength.

Caduceus pulled Caleb into his quarters.

“Caduceus, what–”

“It was one thing when you were still too broken to function or believe anyone could care for you. But that’s not what’s happening here, right? You know better than this now.”

Caleb felt a panicked little chill run up his spine as Caduceus carried him like a suitcase.

“Caduceus, just— wait, I didn’t know–”

“Of course you didn’t. That big, stabbing pain in the side of your body, next to all the vital organs? I can see why you weren’t concerned.” He set Caleb on the oversized bed, and used a stern look to him in place.  “Take off your shirt, I want to check your other ribs.”

“Caduceus, your spell worked fine…”

The firbolg regarded him with mild astonishment. “You really gonna fight me on this?”

Caleb swallowed, and pulled his coat off, then his holsters and shirt. He sat politely and quietly on the edge of the bed, eyes downcast. Caduceus sat next to him, tugging at his arms to manipulate his torso and peer carefully at him. Eventually he let out a breath.

“It looks like the spell healed all of the physical damage.”

Caleb was just starting to relax with slumped shoulders when one large hand caught him across his chest from behind and pulled his torso across Caduceus’ lap. That gave him a chance to catch the wicked twinkle in his friend’s eye and start fighting, but it was too late at that point. He was pinned with both wrists held over his head by Caduceus’ left hand, his torso stretched over the width of the firbolg’s lap while a heavy right elbow held his hips in place.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Caleb squeaked, legs kicking feebly against the mattress. 

“Making sure you remember what happens when you dodge heals from now on. I’m gonna check every one of your ribs, I’m gonna do it until it’s done, and you’re gonna take it because if you bamf away from me, I’m just gonna have to get other people involved.”

With that Cad started to gently trace Caleb’s short rib with a pinching finger and thumb, reaching across the wizard’s body so his arm could block Caleb’s attempts to curl up in a ball.

“Wait, I– Oh, noho!” 

Caleb threw his head back to laugh, every squirm just sending him deeper into Caduceus’ embrace. He could feel the firbolg’s mass shaking against his side, chuckling at his reactions.

“One. That first little one looks OK. Is it supposed to be that small? I should really learn more about human anatomy, huh? Two…” Caduceus moved up one rib, and Caleb’s laughter pitched up despite himself, “Hmm, yeah, that looks good too. So, did you think of what could have happened, if you went to bed?””

“Whahat?” Caleb gasped, unable to grasp the question under the onslaught he was suffering. 

Luckily Caduceus didn’t need him to. “It could have punctured your lung. -Whoops, there’s three.- It could have killed you in your sleep. Four.”

Caduceus was a good way up his ribcage now, and the precision attacks on every solitary bone under thin skin was escalating Caleb’s desperation pretty rapidly. Being stretched out over Cad’s lap made it feel like his breath was being chased out of his chest by long downy fingers.

“Please! I’m sohohory!” He squeaked, heels drumming against the bed. 

“Someone would have found you, cold and dead in the morning. Five. You know, we might have been able to bring you back, but that scar? From finding you? That’s a lot harder to heal.”

Caleb felt a sharp roll of guilt across his stomach. Not that he could express it. “Ahahaha- I-I’m sorry, pleaheeheese!”

“Hm. Are you sorry you did it or are you sorry I caught you? Six.”

“Both!” Caleb squealed, perhaps a bit too honestly.

Caduceus chuckled at him again. “Well, at least I know you’re not hiding things from me anymore. Hmm… where’s seven?”

Caduceus fingers dug around curiously, pretending he couldn’t find the rib he was currently torturing. Caleb thrashed with tears springing into his eyes, but he made no progress in escaping at all. It was like being tormented by a fuzzy mountain. 

Caduceus made a frustrated sound, stopping his torment for a second. Caleb sucked in a few deep breaths.

“You made me lose count,” Caduceus explained, voice full of patently false regret, “I’m gonna have to start over.”

“Nein!” Caleb yelped 

“You’d better hope you have more than nine ribs.” Caduceus teased, laughing when Caleb let out a frustrated growl.

Caduceus’ fingers returned to his lowest short-rib and started counting them out again, quicker than before. This time Caleb was crying by 3, trying desperately to stay still and expel all his ticklish agony without making Caduceus start over again. 

“OK, I found seven this time. Are you ready?”

Caleb sobbed and shook his head no, but Caduceus continued anyway, ignoring his squeal.

“Pleaheeheese! Please, I’m sohohorry!”

“Eight. I do believe you, now,” the firbolg answered, “but the only way you’re getting out of this is to use that special word.  And since you’re too stubborn to use that thing when Jester tortures you for fun, I’m guessing you’re not gonna use it now, when you know you deserve it. Not for little old me.”

Little old Caduceus was currently tickling a powerful mage to tears without so much as a bother, but Caleb didn’t have the breath to point it out. The first time Caduceus had seen the Nein really tickle Caleb to pieces, he had broken it up. Jester had to have a patient talk about safewords to convince him it was OK. Now he was wielding it against Caleb, and if he could, the wizard definitely would have pouted about it. 

As it was his face was forced into a bright smile that he tried to hide against one bicep, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes to roll past pink cheeks and red ears. His feet kicked helplessly at the air when Cad’s fingers moved again.

“There’s nine. So I think you’re just gonna have to take this, but if you’re cooperative and not stubborn, we’ll get through it quicker, OK?”

Caleb wanted to wail that he didn’t know what that meant but settled for just wailing instead. Caduceus was quickly getting to the ticklish spots that his holsters usually protected.

“Ten. So, are you gonna do it again?”

Caleb felt a flash of panicked confusion before he remembered what had gotten him into this mess.

“Nein!” he wheezed between fits.

“Good to hear. Eleven. Why aren’t you gonna do it again?”

“Bitte! Pleheeheese I can’t” Caleb choked, breathless.

“Oh, yeah you can. Come on, why aren’t you gonna do it again?”

He switched to one finger and a lighter touch, leaving Caleb in hysterical waves of giggles while also giving him a chance to catch his breath a little.

“Because- it would- ahaha- upset theheehee others!”

“Hm. Well, I’ll take that for now. Twelve! Now, what’s gonna happen if you do it again?”

Caduceus had to realize that the shrieking wizard had no way to answer, so he answered for him.

“This is what happens, right? We have a zero tolerance policy from now on.”

Caleb sobbed and nodded in understanding, his whole body bending to try and save the one patch of ticklish skin without any success. Then Caduceus’ hand started to wriggle and prod into his armpit and his whole body jerked like he was electrified. 

“AAHahahaha nahahahaha!” Caleb couldn’t get enough of a break to beg for mercy.

“Hmm. Looks like that’s it. Is twelve the right number?”

“Yahahahas!”

“Oh, well, good to know then.”

Caduceus released him, letting the teary-eyed wizard’s arms snap down to belatedly shield his ribcage, his face disappearing into his hands while his body shuddered with laughter.

“Shh,” he soothed as though he wasn’t the perpetrator of Caleb’s state, “ just breath.”

Caleb tried, rolling onto his side to breath into Caduceus’ linen shirt. Hysterical, pitchy laughter jerked out of him when the other man tried to pat his back and immediately stopped with a soft apology.

“You… just… please never do that again.”

“I think that’s up to you, based on the arrangement we just agreed to…”

“-under torture!-”

“… and I mean, it’s gonna happen again. At least one more time tonight.”

There was a moment of heavy, terrified silence.

“…What?” Caleb felt like a cup of ice water had been poured down his back. His eyes went perfectly round.

“I said I was gonna check all your ribs. I feel like if I don’t follow though I’ll set a bad precedent.”

Caleb immediately tried to scramble away from Caduceus, and he would have hit the floor if the firbolg hadn’t reached out to grab him around his middle and hoist the smaller man into his lap.

 “Mist! Nein! You can’t, please!”

Caduceus started the patient, gentle work of getting a grip on the wriggling wizard in his lap. He kept his right arm looped around Caleb’s middle, his other arm working to try and grab a flailing wrist. When he wasn’t quite quick enough he made a frustrated sound in Caleb’s ear, right before planting a raspberry between the smaller man’s shoulder blades.

“Hold still!”

Caleb let out a wordless peal of squealing laughter under the onslaught of soft lips, velveteen nose and wooly beard. It bolted down his spine and made his whole upper body collapse.

One big, soft palm gripped his now-limp wrist and heaved it upward, exposing his currently un-tormented right side. Caduceus looped his right arm under Caleb’s captured one, bracing his palm on the back of the smaller man’s head. Caleb’s left arm was pinned against his chest as Caduceus’ other arm wrapped around him to keep him in his seat and hover downy fingers over Caleb’s exposed ribcage.

“Pleaheeheese you’ll kill meeeheehee!” Caleb whimpered through anticipatory laughter, eyes glued on Caduceus’ hovering hand. 

“Sssh.” The firbolg soothed into the back of Caleb’s head. “I’m not gonna kill you. We’re just gonna take it really easy, OK?”

His left hand started to rub Caleb’s side in smooth circles, each one climbing higher than that last

“Nooohoohoho!” Caleb whined, eyes squeezing shut as the firbolg’s fingers found his short rib. 

“One.”

“Bitte!” Caleb squealed through gritted teeth.

“I want you to repeat after me, OK?”

Caleb tried to turn and look at him, teary eyes astonished, as though Caduceus had asked him to move the moon.

“I -yeeheehee!- I can’t! Please!

“You can, I promise. We’re gonna start off really easy. How about “I deserve to live.”

“Whahahahaat? I can’t–”

“Two.”

“-Aaah! Nohoho! OK, ok, please!”

Caduceus only gave him a moment to take a breath before it spilled out “Ideservetolive!”

“Very good!” The hand holding Caleb in a half-nelson patted his head. “How about ‘I don’t deserve pain.’ for number three?”

“Ahahaa! Says the one torturing meheeheehe!”

“Ha! Are your ribs hurting? It’s a good thing I’m checking on them. Four.”

“Aaahaaa! I don’t deserve pain!”

“See, you’re doing great,” Caduceus praised, “we’ll be done in no time. I know this one’s going to be a little tough for you, are you ready? Five. I want you to say ‘I’m loved and I deserve that love.’”

 For the first time that night, Caduceus’ request made Caleb’s jaw lock up. 

“Nein— no, aah! I can’t!” He managed to whine through his teeth and the increasingly hysterical laughter that Caduceus was pulling out from deep in his chest.

“You have my permission not to believe all of these for now, but I want you to say every one. Six.” “AhahaHA! Nein, habt Mitleid! Mehehercy!”

Caduceus snorted. “On your ribs or on your low self-esteem? Actually, don’t waste your breath. I already know the answer. Seven.”

“Aaaaii! Please! I c- I can’t remember whahahat I’m supposed to sahahay!” Caleb sobbed, body starting to go limp with exhaustion in Caduceus’ arms.

The firbolg laughed, letting up for a moment to use his sleeve to wipe the tears off his captive’s cheeks. 

“I’m loved…”

“I’m… loved…” Caleb panted, his unpinned hand holding on to Caduceus’ currently-stilled tickling hand for dear life, as if it might save him.

“And I deserve that love.

Even breathless and exhausted, Caleb winced like the sentence left a bad taste in his mouth. “I… deserve that… love.”

“Hey, good job. That was one of the hard ones.”

The sound that started to flow out of Caleb was somewhere between a panicked giggle and an exhausted sob. One of the hard ones.

“For this one I’m gonna need the whole phrase. ‘My name is Caleb Widogast, and I am a good man’ Are you ready?”

“No! Please have mercy!”

“Aw, sorry buddy. Not this time. Eight…”

“NIEN, can’t– s'too m-muhuch pleaheese–”

“Nine indeed!” Caduceus chuckled, fingers jolting upward to take advantage of the joke. “It’s not too much. I know you can do it.”

“I c-c- NO PLEASE I can’t while you–  CAN’T! BITTE!" 

Caduceus chuckled, fingers jumping up to tweak the next rib and yank a short little scream out of Caleb before he stopped moving his fingers and froze, still and menacing.

"That’s ten. Come on. I can’t make you believe it but I’m gonna make you say it.”

Caleb’s weight was leaning into Caduceus’ chest, his head leaning back against one solid shoulder with his eyes closed as he gulped in breaths.

“I'm… a good man.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Caleb Widogast… is a good man.”

“Aw, very good.” Caduceus praised, squeezing Caleb in a small hug. “Ready? Almost finished. Eleven.”

Caleb didn’t even plead this time, he just started to laugh again with his head still thrown back against Caduceus’ shoulder. 

“Last one, I promise. I want you to say "I am going to take care of myself for the people who love me, or Caduceus is going to tickle me until I scream. Every time.”

“I CA- I CA- nohohoho! Too lohohong!”

“Twelve.”

Caleb’s back arched and his feet kicked while he shrieked, unable to get even the first part of the sentence out. Caduceus did have a little mercy, then, pausing to let Caleb suck in the breath he needed.

“I'mgoingtotakecare *pant* of myself *hic* forthepeople *hic* who love me or… *hic* this is what happens…”

“Every time.” Caduceus reminded him, tapping his fingers on Caleb’s top rib.

“Every time! Every time! Pleaheeheese!”

Finally, Caduceus let him go, angling himself so the wizard could flop over onto his bedspread. Caleb curled up on his side, face in his hands as the residual laughter started to slowly die down and the shuddering feeling in his bones faded.

“Do you wanna stay here tonight? Least I could do.”

Caleb unfurled with a heavy sigh. “Ja, please." 

"Hey Caleb? What time is it?”

“Ah… *hic* probably between 10 and midnight, why?”

“Oh. No reason." 

Caleb could see the firbolg’s smug little smile, but was entirely too tired to do anything about it. 

Caduceus started to shrug off his outer layers and lowered the lamp while Caleb tucked himself in up against the wall.

"So just to be clear, this is what happens when you dodge a healing spell–”

“Yes! Yes *hic* you’ve made your point!”

“-But it’s going to get worse every time.”

Caleb just whimpered into the pillow. 

“I mean,” Cad continued, “getting Jester involved is obviously the last resort. She is the ultimate escalation. And Molly’s not far behind. Maybe Beau first?”

“Nien!” Caleb jerked himself up in the bed in a panic. “Not Beau! She’s right under Molly. Not Beau.”

Caduceus chuckled, sliding himself into the big warm bed next to Caleb. 

“So that leaves Yasha, Fjord and Veth. Wanna fill out the ranking?”

Caleb chuckled a little along with him, then whined. 

“Nooo. I feel like I’m being made to dig my own grave.”

“If it makes you feel better, you’ve definitely already done that. I saw that reaction to the raspberry. That’s how I’m counting next time.”

Caleb groaned in the back of his throat. The threats felt like they were melting him.

“Mein gotten, to think I used to believe you were the nice one.”

Caduceus chuckled again. He slung one arm over the Caleb ball next to him and pulled the wizard in for a cuddle, rubbing his back soothingly when the other man tensed up. 

“Hey, I’m done. For now. Seriously though, who’s most dangerous after Beau.”

Caleb gave a defeated sigh as he relaxed into Caduceus’ soft, solid embrace. The softly lit room took on a golden haze. Caduceus smelled like spices, cardamom and rosemary. Caleb hid his face in one wolly shoulder, his breathing evening out.

“Fjord because he teases, then Yasha because she bites.”

“Heh. So Veth’s the first level of escalation? Good to know. She seems more likely to keep this between us anyway… Caleb?" 

The only answer was a snore.

#critickle role #tickle fic #caleb widogast #caduceus clay #tk fic

[hongism]

feels like floating (when i’m with you) - j.yh x k.hj

↣ pairing: k. hongjoong x j. yunho ↣ genre: angst/fluff/sfw, single dad!yunho, teacher!hongjoong ↣ wc: 27.2k ↣ ao3 version here (contains smut) ↣ summary: liking yunho is akin to the smell of rain after a bad thunderstorm, the first star that appears in the night sky, and the last drop of sunset before the night descends. hongjoong isn’t sure if it’s his favorite thing or the one he fears the most.

​​​

Kim Hongjoong starts his days alone. Gets out of bed, does his morning routine, then goes to the elementary school ten minutes from his apartment all on his own. He runs through the monotonous and unending routine of teaching classes and watching the children on his own, sometimes stopped by another teacher in the hallway for a small chat but they never last long. Afternoons see Hongjoong watching the kids leave the school and staying in the classroom for an extra two or so hours for the one student who doesn’t get picked up until far later than usual. Then he heads home alone and concludes his day in the all too small apartment that is perfect for someone like him. “Someone like him” being a person who doesn’t need a lot to live happily or a lot to take care of himself. He has friends and family, people around him that he talks to on a daily basis, but there’s always something lacking and a certain feeling that nags at his heart when he sees parents with their children or couples in the street or his two best friends fawning over each other because they couldn’t be more in love.

And so, Kim Hongjoong starts his days alone and ends them lonely.

“Akemi darling, did your father say when he’s coming to pick you up?” Hongjoong squats down to be eye level with the little girl, bringing a hand to brush over her jet black hair and comb through the slight frizz in it. She shifts to grin at him, crooked little teeth gleaming like pearls in the yellow sunlight.

“Daddy said he’d be late again today!” She speaks with such enthusiasm and brightness, as though without a care in the world, and Hongjoong half-wishes he could hold the same optimism that all his students have. Akemi always has had this attitude about her — a never-ending joy to her disposition that Hongjoong can’t place. One would think that the little girl would at least be bothered by the fact that her dad can’t seem to pick her up on time no matter what. However, she just skips around the classroom once all the other first graders have left and waits patiently as Hongjoong conducts his afterschool work. Then roughly around five o’clock – a little over two hours after school finishes for the day – a tall, young man who can’t possibly be much older than Hongjoong (if older at all) rushes through the hallways and raps at Hongjoong’s classroom door to pick her up.

Jeong Yunho. A strangely Korean name for someone whose daughter bears a Japanese one, but Hongjoong assumes that’s on account of Akemi’s mother and the fact that they live in Kyoto. Speaking of the girl’s mother, Hongjoong has never seen the woman before. She has never come to pick Akemi up from school, never come to school functions, parent-teacher meetings (not that Hongjoong has ever had to have one with Akemi’s parents since she’s his best student), and he has never heard any mention of her in the slightest. He has Yunho’s contact information and nothing else, so — and it’s not any of Hongjoong’s business honestly, just a thought that nags at the edges of his mind — he can only assume that Yunho is a single father.

That thought is the only reason why Hongjoong even considers staying so late after hours to look after the girl. That along with the fact that every single time Jeong Yunho comes bursting into his classroom, the man looks like he has run three marathons in a row and has no time to remember to put his ass on in the morning. (He never forgets to though. Hongjoong has checked. On occasion. Discreetly, of course, he can’t very well ogle his student’s father in plain daylight.)

But in any case, the man seems to have a hard enough life, so Hongjoong doesn’t mind looking after Akemi. It’s not like he has anything else to do with his life outside of the elementary school; all he does is go home, do some planning for future classes, maybe watch some television or read a book, then go to sleep. On weekends, Hongjoong might get daring enough to go to the bar with his friends Wooyoung and San, but recently that has been nigh impossible since he can’t bear to see them fawn over each other for more than ten minutes. He only has himself to blame for that at the end of the day. He was the one who introduced the pair and set them up on a date together, so yes, mistakes were made, Hongjoong admits it, and he regrets it only half-heartedly because they are genuinely happy together.

Back to the matter at hand though, Hongjoong just genuinely enjoys his job as a teacher and taking care of his students no matter what. Even if it means losing a bit of time in his all too small and dingy apartment once school is over.

“Same time as usual?” Hongjoong inquires, tilting his head a bit to the left. A soft smile creeps onto his lips, an attempt to comfort the girl even tho it’s unneeded since she still bears the same smile as always.

“Maybe!” Akemi pulls her head up and draws the colored pencil in her hand, scanning her little drawing with critical eyes. “Do you think Daddy will like it, Mr. Hong?”

Hongjoong releases a loud laugh at the girl’s nickname for him, and Akemi grins back as bright as ever. She adopted the nickname at some point during the first term, maybe back in May once it started becoming a daily thing for him to look after her every day once school concluded. She didn’t miss a beat during summer break either, coming back in September to continue with the same schedule and nickname.

“I’m sure he will love it, little butterfly.” If possible, the girl positively glows at the nickname, one that Hongjoong gave her quite some time ago on a whim.

“I think we’re running out of room on the fridge. But Daddy loves hanging my pictures up.” Akemi hums to herself and lifts the colored pencil once more to continue her work. “Mr. Hong, when can we do lessons again?”

“Hm? We have lessons every weekday.”

“No! Piano lessons! We haven’t had lessons in a long time!” Akemi protests, slamming her little hand flat against the desk with a small huff. She whips around to face Hongjoong, and in that moment Hongjoong is taken aback by how brightly her eyes shine at the thought of the small lessons.

In another life, perhaps Hongjoong would have been a professional pianist since that is what he studied and labored after in university, but those dreams eventually fell flat and he traded them for the thought of being a teacher instead. Being able to teach Akemi… it lets him get to have one last glimpse into those dreams and think about what it could have been like to fulfill them, to see himself in her and watch the way her eyes light up when she plays a certain passage correctly. Hongjoong has never dreamt of having children himself – being a teacher is more than enough exposure to kids as it is – but he thinks that having a kid like Akemi would make the experience quite a bit better.

“Maybe tomorrow? Your dad will be by soon to pick you up so I don’t think we have enough time today.” Hongjoong offers through a small smile, and Akemi just bobs her head in agreement. She brings her blue colored pencil back down to her little drawing and continues to color without a care in the world.

And sure enough, it’s only seven minutes later that a hand comes down on the door to the classroom, rapping at the wood frantically until Hongjoong moves to open it.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Kim. I had a meeting run late, then got caught in some traffic because there was an accident on the highway. I tried to get over here as fast as possible, but I know I’m still pretty late. I’m sorry for keeping you late. Again. As usual,” Yunho rambles as he comes face to face with Hongjoong. The rant is a typical one, one that both isn’t necessary and is entirely understandable so Hongjoong doesn’t feel a need to hear it. Still, he responds with a wide smile and flashes his teeth.

“It’s perfectly alright, Mr. Jeong. Akemi is a delight to be around as always. We worked on some drawings today! I believe she has one for the fridge at home.” Hongjoong steps aside to let the man step into the classroom, willing himself not to look at the way his white button-up clings to his body and strains around his broad shoulders. Yunho leans over the desk Akemi sits at. A grin pulls at his lips in an instant, a quick change to his demeanor as he sees his daughter that causes his cheeks to glow with joy. There’s something so raw and beautiful about the love in his eyes, a kind of love that transcends the need for words, and Hongjoong can see it often in the parents of his students. Fascinating. He doesn’t know how else to describe the emotion but in his twenty-six years of life, he has seen a multitude of different loves. This one is the most fascinating to him since he doesn’t have a child of his own to experience it with.

“Daddy, daddy! I drew a butterfly today! A pretty blue one! We can put it at the tippy top of the fridge like it’s flying, right?”

“Of course, Mimi.”

Mimi. Huh. Hongjoong definitely does not think about what it would be like to call the little girl by that name. That would be something too grossly domestic and beyond the line of things that are okay for him to say as a teacher. Because that’s all he is. A teacher. Yunho’s daughter’s teacher. Yeah. He’s doing great, by the way, just peachy.

“Why’d you draw a butterfly, little one? Hm?” Yunho runs his all too long fingers through the little girl’s hair as she shows off the drawing to her father, smiles nearly identical in the way they scrunch their cheeks and noses.

“Mr. Hong calls me little butterfly! So I wanted to draw one!”

“That’s…” Yunho shifts to look at the much shorter man, and Hongjoong just about throws up on the spot. The man sinks his front teeth into his lip, biting back a smile that has Hongjoong’s insides turning to mush.

Fuck, he has a really nice smile.

Like a terribly nice one that is exactly the kind Hongjoong would fall for in seconds back in high school or college. He blanches. All the color leaves his cheeks and blood rushes down to his toes. It’s not weird to give students nicknames, right? Why does it feel like Hongjoong is overstepping his boundaries? It feels like he’s done something wrong and–

“Her mother used to call her that.”

Oh dear god. Hongjoong has truly fucked up beyond belief. This is the end of him. He had no way of knowing – how the hell would he have figured that out? – but he still feels like he has walked to the end of a plank and leaped into shark-infested waters without anything to protect him from their sharp teeth. Maybe being eaten alive would be better than this awkwardness though. Maybe Hongjoong needs to see someone for thinking such a thing.

Yunho seems to catch what he has just said a moment later and shakes his head fervently, brown bangs fanning over his forehead with the movements.

“Ah, sorry, why – why did I say that?” Yunho huffs out a shaky and nervous laugh that somehow still sounds pretty to Hongjoong’s ears even though it shouldn’t. “Um, thank you again for… yeah, uh, for watching her as usual. Um, I tried to call the school and let you know that I would be late again but I forgot the whole ‘no calls after school hours’ part!”

“I can just give you my cellphone number?” The words are out of Hongjoong’s mouth before he can stop them, and damn, he really needs to learn how to hold his tongue around this man. His jaw stays hanging open well after he finishes speaking, but he’s still reeling from the shock of hearing himself say such a thing. Yunho blinks back at him with wide, doe-like eyes. Somewhere in the back of Hongjoong’s mind, he distinctly thinks pretty, but that thought is rudely shoved aside as he tries to recover the situation. “Like, I mean, so you can – to tell me if you’re going to be late. On a school day. So I know if I need to watch her.”

Good riddance, Kim Hongjoong. Like you don’t watch her every day regardless.

“Um, yeah, only if you’re sure? I wouldn’t wanna intrude into your personal life or anything. That would be inappropriate of me…” Yunho trails off to look at some random piece of furniture in the corner of the room.

“I’m sure! That would – that would probably be best honestly. I mean, the receptionist leaves so soon after the school closes that you wouldn’t ever be able to reach me if you’re running late. You wouldn’t be intruding. Not like I have much of a personal life outside of teaching anyway, uh, why am I telling you that? That’s not important, um, phone number! Let me write it down for you!”

Hongjoong turns on his heel to go find whatever he can to scribble his number on before he chickens out too much, head reeling and spinning. He knocks into one of the desks along the way and almost trips over the chair, which causes Yunho to lunge forward in a rush to catch him, but Hongjoong flings a hand up to ward him off.

“I’m fine! Ha, should watch my step! Might knock into a table or something, right?” Hongjoong tries to flash a toothy smile, eyes turning into soft crescents just before he knocks into yet another desk.

“Mr. Hong! You’re so clumsy today,” Akemi giggles. Hongjoong’s embarrassment surges as Yunho looks over him with nothing but sheer concern, and the temptation of crawling into a hole for the rest of his life sneaks up. He can almost hear San chastising him for thinking such a thing though, a small nagging voice in the back of his mind saying ‘no, Joong, you can’t just become a hobbit even if you are the size of one’. Rude as hell, first of all, because hobbits don’t really live in holes, and Hongjoong is not the size of one but that’s beside the point.

Hongjoong finally reaches his own desk in one piece and tugs out a plain sticky note to write his number down as hastily as possible. Akemi continues speaking to her dad, telling him some story about what she did on the playground during recess today and how another student’s mother came to pick him up early. Hongjoong really tries not to listen in (because again not his business!) but there does lie a distinct sense of longing in Akemi’s tone, even if she’s too young to truly understand what that longing is. Whether it’s a desire for her father to come sooner when he picks her up or an inherent desire to have another parental figure in her life, it’s present and there and hurts Hongjoong’s heart a bit more than it should.

He pushes that to the side in favor of carrying the sticky note, which now holds his cell number of all things on it, to Yunho.

“You can just, uh, call or text whenever. On weekdays of course.”

“Yeah, on weekdays, schooldays, yeah.” Yunho bobs his head while speaking, hastily agreeing with Hongjoong before taking the sticky note from his hands. Their hands may or may not make contact when he does so – one of Yunho’s long and spindly fingers running over Hongjoong’s knuckles – and Hongjoong full-on panics at the small contact, yanking his hand away in a rush with an embarrassing blush creeping up his neck. At this point, Wooyoung would probably point and laugh at him then call him a whole gay disaster and a half.

“Well, I hope you have a good evening!” Hongjoong blurts to break the tense silence.

“Thank you, yeah, thank you. Um, you too! And thank you again for always staying late for her. I know you aren’t paid for that and it’s probably a burden.”

“It’s – look, it’s no issue at all, I promise. I wouldn’t be a teacher if I didn’t enjoy spending time with kids, and Akemi is a delight to be around as always. She’s so well behaved and wonderful. Reminds me of myself when I was her age!” Hongjoong reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, laughing off Yunho’s concern as best he can.

“Are you saying you’re well-behaved, Mr. Kim?” Yunho chuckles a bit under his breath. There’s no alternative meaning to his words. There is not. Hongjoong cannot read into that. He refuses to think too deeply about it. So why does his brain go straight to the bedroom? For fuck’s sake, Hongjoong needs a drink, and preferably the strongest one imaginable.

“I used to be, at least.” Hongjoong really needs to stop putting his foot in his mouth like this. Yunho most definitely picks up on the possible innuendos in the topic at hand because his eyes grow a bit wide with each passing second, then he chokes on a cough, dipping his chin to his chest in a hurry to hide his embarrassment. “Uh, in any case, don’t feel bad about being a bit late to pick her up. I get the sense that you have a very busy life on top of being a father. I don’t want you to feel rushed if you have more to deal with.”

“I mean, that’s life, isn’t it?” Yunho reaches down to comb his fingers through Akemi’s hair again, a soft and fond smile painting his lips as he looks at the little girl. “Alright, Mimi, let’s get home. I still have to cook dinner and get you in bed on time.”

Hongjoong would be lying if he said that he isn’t bothered by those words. Because they nearly confirm that Yunho is taking care of Akemi on his own and without help. He’s the one to bring her to school, pick her up, take her home, cook dinner, tuck her in, and work late hours. Hongjoong doesn’t understand how he can do all that on his own. He can hardly take care of himself and remember to put food in his body; he can’t imagine having to be fully responsible for another human being the way Yunho has to. If he were more bold and perhaps less of a disaster himself, he might offer to do more to help the man. It isn’t his place to offer, however, and he is still making presumptions with all this.

“Can we invite Mr. Hong to dinner, Daddy? As a thank-you gift like you mentioned?” Akemi whips to face her father, bright eyes stretched impossibly wide.

Cue the alarm bells and sirens of panic. Hongjoong is just about losing his mind, in case you couldn’t tell, and he should not be so thrown into disarray the way he is. Maybe it has just been that long since he had even an ounce of mediocre human contact with anyone outside his immediate friend group that the idea of spending time with a new person sends him into an alternate dimension of extroversion.

“A-Ah, I couldn’t intrude in such a way.” Hongjoong shakes his head even though no one is looking directly at him.

“I’m, uh, I’m sure Mr. Kim has other plans for dinner. We shouldn’t spring plans on him like this, darling. Maybe—” Yunho shifts to look at Hongjoong with an imperceptible gleam to his eyes that will have him thinking for weeks about what it could mean “—maybe some other time.”

“Maybe some other time.”

“Like you mentioned.”

Hongjoong really doesn’t have a crush on the man or anything like that; Yunho is merely a rather attractive man and happens to be his ideal type. But the prospect that the comment has does make his stomach do a little flip and turn every which way, and that is dangerously close to developing feelings for the man. So, he does what any logical anxiety-ridden human being would do.

“I’m free on Friday. If, well, if that might work for you.”

Yunho’s thin lips fall agape, tongue poking forward to swipe over the front of his teeth.

“That… actually, yeah, that would work. Are you sure though? I don’t want you to feel obligated or anything. I could always get you a gift card if you’d rather.”

“No, no, I’d love to come for dinner. If you’ll have me that is.” Hongjoong, you dipshit, he literally offered.

“Of course we will. I would really love to thank you for all you do for Akemi and me. I just… don’t how else to do it.” Yunho motions towards the little girl, who now hums happily to herself and collects her belongings into her school bag. “She’s been wanting to invite you for quite some time but I was, uh, nervous about asking you to do more than you already do.”

“I can’t think of anything better than a nice dinner.” Hongjoong offers up a small shrug if only to quell the churning of nerves in his gut that only heightens when one side of Yunho’s lips quirks up into a smile.

“Well then, I’d better hope my cooking can live up to those expectations.”

I’m sure it can. Hongjoong has to bite the tip of his tongue to keep the words from slipping out but he manages to return Yunho’s grin with one of his own.

“You can let me know a good time that works for you whenever we’re closer to Friday. I’m sure my schedule will be clear.”

And maybe when Hongjoong breathes the words out in a tone that is a bit airy and light, Yunho’s wide eyes blink back at him with as much gratitude as those dark orbs can hold. There’s such a gentle warmth to them that Hongjoong truly feels like he is the one doing something nice for the man rather than the other way around.

…

“So let me get this straight, even though this is far from the straight category,” Wooyoung starts, palms facing Hongjoong’s exasperated expression as he mulls over his next words. San sits at his side with an equally perceptive stare, but Hongjoong doesn’t bother to look at the latter man. “You want your student’s father’s dick up your ass?”

“Wooyoung, no!” Hongjoong protests in an instant, already midway to dropping his head on the granite countertop. How he could afford an apartment with such granite is mind-boggling, but he’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, as the saying goes.

“Then you want your dick up his ass? Look, hyung, it’s either one or the other. You can’t have both at once, maybe you can alternate days or something but—”

“I wonder if you could though,” San chirps. He shifts to look at his lover who sends a confused glance in his direction with little other acknowledgment. Hongjoong already knows where this conversation is headed without needing San to continue it at all, but the man must not pick up on Hongjoong’s mental screams for him to stop. “I suppose the actual asshole and dick are too far apart for that to be probable… unless you’ve got a toy. Then you can simultaneously ride a toy and fuck someone and have the best of both worlds.”

“Why are we having this conversation? We do not need to be having this conversation! At all!”

“Dipshit, just have a threesome at that point,” Wooyoung remarks before shifting to smack San’s arm hard with the back of his hand.

“Is that your way of saying you wanna invite Seonghwa over?”

“No, you idiot, Seonghwa is engaged.” Wooyoung rolls his eyes as though San has just said the unspeakable, then returns to staring Hongjoong down with sharp eyes. He pauses a moment there, seeming to remember something, and chimes up once more, “Besides, I dipped my toes in those waters, and Seonghwa is far too gentle and vanilla for my liking. I’m sure Yeosang absolutely adores that himself, but I need to be demolished in the bedroom.”

“Gross, just – too much information, Wooyoung!” Hongjoong groans. The man in question just lifts his hands to his head as though to defend himself.

“Okay, first of all, I will personally body you just for saying that in front of Hongjoong. Secondly, when the fuck did you sleep with Seonghwa?”

“Like… um, a couple months before he and Yeosang got together? I don’t really remember it all too well because – well, it was boring, okay? Don’t tell him I said that, he’ll rip me a new one.”

“I would pay to see Seonghwa fight you honestly.” San glances over Wooyoung’s smaller frame, eyes narrowed in a way that shows he’s mentally measuring Wooyoung up with Seonghwa, who is far taller than him to begin with so that’s just a disaster waiting to happen.

“I know you would, which is why I’m not giving you head for the next three days just for that.”

“God, you two are so gross.”

“Three days? Come on, isn’t that a bit harsh?”

“Hello, um, can we talk about my gay panicking instead?” Hongjoong pleads, motioning towards himself with flopping hands, and Wooyoung only snorts in response at first. San huffs out a sigh but relents in the discussion. He leans towards Wooyoung, chin coming to a rest atop the man’s shoulder, and despite all Wooyoung’s insistence that he was annoyed, he just leans into the touch. A hand reaches up to comb through San’s black hair.

You see, Hongjoong might be fascinated by the love a parent harbors for their child, but there is something else that sends him reeling far more often. The most daunting and terrifying kind of love is the romantic one that he runs from so often. Maybe that is why he can’t bear to be around Wooyoung and San as much as he used to because they display it with such ease and carelessness, like love doesn’t hurt or burn or ache the way Hongjoong knows it does. He has had many a relationship in all his time on Earth, and unfortunately, they have all ended in a crashing burn of flames and chaos – quite literally for his last relationship – so forgive him if he is a bit bitter and scalded by those failures.

It isn’t that he is not happy on his own. He has a nice apartment meant for one and that’s lovely, along with the betta fish Seonghwa and Yeosang bought for him as a moving-in gift named Karl, who is cherished company even if he just swims around his tank without doing much of anything. The point being that Hongjoong has never actively sought out a relationship or a special someone because he has never thought that he actually needed it.

Why seek something that could hurt you when you’re perfectly fine on your own?

“Listen, this is all beside the point,” he starts, waving a dismissive hand through the air in an effort to shut the other two men up. “We’re here to talk about how I accidentally agreed to go to his house for dinner knowing damn well that I don’t know how to socialize with a stray cat in the street let alone a very cute man who happens to be my type.”

“So you have a date.”

“It’s not a date, Woo! It is a somewhat casual thank you dinner that is… quite casual.”

“Date or not, you better not wear that fucking sweater vest that you insist looks good,” San remarks. His lips curl into a scowl, and he shakes his head ever so slightly at the mere thought of said article of clothing.

“Hey! It does look good!”

“It makes you look like you’re going through a midlife crisis!”

“Well, maybe I am!”

“You damn well must be if you’re behaving like this but still insisting that you aren’t even a little bit attracted to this man and don’t see potential in him!”

San’s words shut Hongjoong right up in an instant. Of course, the man isn’t wrong about the statement. Maybe that is what Hongjoong has been adamantly avoiding since Monday, and these past four days have just been a blur of anxiety surrounding the potential of falling for Yunho. Wooyoung must read the distress on his features.

“You can always back out and say that you need to raincheck. You shouldn’t cause yourself any extra worry over something like this.” Wooyoung draws his brows together to add to the concern already on his features.

“Kind of shitty of me to cancel an hour before the dinner,” Hongjoong grumbles, bringing his arms up to cross over his chest in a defensive manner that Wooyoung picks up on instantly.

“Joong…” There is far too much sympathy in his stare; maybe if Hongjoong were feeling particularly self-loathing, he would go so far as to say it looks like pity. He knows deep down that it isn’t pity. Wooyoung has been with him for every breakup in the past eleven years, they have been best friends for longer than that, and perhaps at one odd point during their teenage years, they had an escapade of their own that caused issues in some of Hongjoong’s relationships before. Yet even though Wooyoung knows him better than anyone on the face of the planet, it is always San who picks him apart like he’s a book. Hongjoong feels his prying and perceptive gaze on the side of his face before he says a word, and he makes the impulse decision to spew nonsense just to save himself from San’s impending lecture.

“I’m not interested! I’m not, and I don’t want to be. I will do this one dinner so he can feel fucking better about himself, then I will put all thoughts of him behind me.”

San draws his lips into a tight purse.

“Look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t see any hint of potential in him.”

Hongjoong jerks to look the taller man in the eye, gaze wavering a bit as he tries to come up with a reasonable and believable response. That is answer enough for San, and he shakes his head with a frown painting his features now.

“Don’t throw away something good just because you’re scared, Hongjoong.”

“I’m not scared.”

Lie. They all know it too.

“Then promise to see this dinner through without trying to sabotage yourself.”

“Fine,” Hongjoong relents. That must be enough for San because he flips his frown into a soft-sided grin and nods in his direction. As though on cue, his phone dings with a notification atop the counter, and Hongjoong glances down at the device at the same time that the other two men do.

“Prince Charming awaits!” Wooyoung chirps through a toothy grin. Hongjoong has half a mind to lean across the counter and smack him upside the head, but instead, he snatches up his phone to read the message that just came through. It is, as expected, an address complete with an all too cute smiley face emoji at the end that makes Hongjoong want to scowl just because of how damn adorable it is. He hastily types out a ‘thanks, I’ll be there soon’ response and hits send before Wooyoung can tell him to play up the flirting and hit on him. “Okay but seriously don’t put on that sweater vest!”

“Jeez, I won’t!” Hongjoong waves the man off as he retreats to his tiny bedroom only to have Wooyoung trail after him with shuffling feet.

“Do you still have that leather jacket I got you last year?”

“I’m not wearing a leather jacket to a dinner with my student and her father.”

“Can you at least wear something a little less… teacher-y?” Wooyoung runs a hand through his hair, a sigh escaping him as he glances over Hongjoong’s closet in dismay.

“What are you trying to say?”

“You dress like an old man. I want you to at least look cute.” Wooyoung hums a little to himself while drumming his fingers over his chin. “White button-down with that brown cardigan you have and some cuffed jeans. And the black oxfords that you redesigned. So you can show off how cute and artsy you are! Oh, do you still have those wireframe glasses you used to wear so much? Let’s get those too.”

“Isn’t this too much effort? What if he’s just – I don’t know, wearing sweatpants?”

“You really think he’s gonna be wearing sweatpants?”

“I, well, maybe not—” Wooyoung interrupts him with a harsh slap to the back of his arm, knuckles hitting his skin so hard that it burns a bit.

“Good, now go get changed. No complaining or I’ll bite your armpits.”

“That’s an oddly specific threat…”

“I said no complaining!”

Hongjoong grumbles a little under his breath as Wooyoung tosses the closes he picked out at his chest, then he slips into the bathroom to quickly slip into them. He shouldn’t even be putting this much effort into the outfit or reading too much into this dinner because it’s nothing more than a simple thank-you dinner. He keeps reminding himself of that fact over and over. It isn’t an invitation to be friends or to have some semblance of a casual relationship, even if Hongjoong would kinda like to be at least friends with Yunho. He’ll probably get there, talk with Yunho about Akemi’s schoolwork, then leave.

Wooyoung springs on him the second he steps out of the bathroom in the new outfit, hands pushing the wireframe glasses he mentioned earlier onto the bridge of Hongjoong’s nose and setting them straight. The man’s lips twitch into a smile as he leans back to admire his work.

“Perfect. He won’t be able to take his eyes off you.” Wooyoung presses the pad of his index finger against the tip of Hongjoong’s nose, leaving him with that before stepping away and motioning towards the door. “Now go have fun, and try not to overthink this whole thing too much.”

“You do realize who you’re talking to, right?”

“Oh hush, you twat. If nothing else, just take it as an opportunity to do something nice for yourself. I know clubbing with Sannie and me isn’t always your favorite, so here’s a chance for you to do something else. And! Since I know you and I know you would do something stupid, if he invites you to stay for drinks after his daughter goes to bed, you fucking say yes, okay?”

“He most definitely won’t do that but whatever.”

…

As it turns out, that is exactly what Yunho does. He corners Hongjoong while the shorter man stands at the sink, washing the plates used for dinner by hand because he demanded that Yunho let him do something in return for the incredible meal Yunho prepared for his visit. Perhaps Hongjoong just takes so little care of himself that any homecooked meal is a good one though; he is far too used to eating instant ramen on the couch after work and calling it a healthy diet by eating a handful of blueberries afterward. He couldn’t put a name to the dish Yunho made even though Yunho mentioned it when he walked in the door. His mind was too addled with anxiety because there the impossibly tall man stood with a crisp white button-up and really nice black trousers that definitely show off how good his ass is (not that Hongjoong could look for long because Akemi came rushing to the door as well).

All throughout dinner, Yunho kept him occupied with questions and menial chatter, things about the school and what the curriculum for the year is. It added up in Hongjoong’s mind; he had already figured that Yunho would wanna talk a lot about Akemi and school rather than anything personal. The scene was oddly intimate despite the less than personal questions. Just the three of them – Hongjoong, Yunho, and Akemi – seated around a small wooden table in a pretty standard suburban home. That was the moment Hongjoong got the nonverbal confirmation that Yunho is indeed a single father, then the verbal confirmation came when Hongjoong slipped his shoes off by the door upon Yunho’s prompting.

“It’s just the two of us, so I apologize if the house is a bit of a mess. I only have time to clean after work.”

Hongjoong insisted that it was fine and that he could not even see a single speck of dust in the house, which Yunho had laughed too loudly at and the sound rumbled in Hongjoong’s gut for too long.

Yunho is smart, Hongjoong will give him that. He makes sure to snag Hongjoong when he has no escape, hands coming to rest on the edge of the counter as he looks to the shorter man with wide and hopeful eyes. Hongjoong nearly drops the plate in his hand because of the way Yunho’s eyes seem to twinkle under the yellow lights of the kitchen.

“Um, you don’t have to say yes, but I got a bottle of red wine for tonight if you’d like to stay and have a drink? I’m about to put Akemi to bed. I normally, uh, drink alone on Friday nights.”

Well god fucking dammit Jeong Yunho, why did you have to say it like that? The man could probably weave the saddest sob story in existence with just those gleaming eyes, and Hongjoong would bend over backward for him because he can’t help himself. And Wooyoung’s words are ringing so loudly in his head that he can hardly think straight. He’s willing himself to say no despite what his friend said and the look in Yunho’s eyes, yet the words that actually come out of his mouth are —

“Yeah, I’d love to!”

Maybe the smile that decorates Yunho’s lips afterward makes it worth it.

“Cool, yeah, I’ll be quick I promise. She normally doesn’t take long to get tucked in.”

“That’s fine. Take your time!”

Yunho leaves with a nod, and it gives Hongjoong a moment to breathe easy while he’s gone. He takes his precious time in cleaning the remainder of the dishes just so that he can stay busy and not have to stand around waiting. In all honesty, this is a disaster waiting to happen. Wooyoung made sure to drive him over both because he wanted to see Hongjoong off and insisted that Hongjoong would get wasted while at Yunho’s so he had to be the responsible one. (As though Wooyoung has ever been responsible a day in his life; Hongjoong is always the designated driver on club nights because the man throws alcohol back like it’s his job). His alcohol tolerance could prove to be an issue though, so it’s probably for the best that Wooyoung drove him. Even a single glass of wine could make him tipsy, and he is a nervous drinker on top of that.

It’s fine, it’s fine. It will be fine. Just one glass of wine then you can tell him that your friend is waiting outside. Is it lame to have your twenty-five-year-old friend pick you up when you’re twenty-six? Why does this feel like high school?

Hongjoong doesn’t realize he’s standing at the sink and scrubbing a wet rag over the same plate over and over again until Yunho comes up on his right.

“You good?”

“Fuck – I mean shit, damn, um, fudge! Fudge. Yeah, fudge.”

Yup, there’s a great example for your kid, Yunho! Hongjoong mentally uppercuts himself in the nose as he sets the last plate on the drying rack and fumbles to put everything back in its proper place. Yunho huffs out a loud laugh, chin tipping back to expose the long column of his throat, and Hongjoong most definitely spends far too long staring at the way his tendons twitch.

“Well, that explains why Akemi always tells me to say fudge when I cuss in front of her.” He shakes his head, still laughing a bit under his breath. He slips away from Hongjoong’s side, and the shorter man uses it as an opportunity to catch his own breath and calm his racing heart. “You big on wine, Mr. Kim?”

Mr. Kim. The name sounds a bit odd and foreign on Yunho’s tongue in such a setting, and Hongjoong has to tell himself that that discomfort is the reason why he says what he does next.

“You can call me H-Hongjoong if you’d rather.” He can’t keep from stuttering in his sudden state of nervousness, and Yunho twists to look back at him from the other side of the kitchen.

“With the stammer and everything?” Yunho jokes through a hum. Hongjoong whips around to face him, a bit of disbelief coating his expression, and the other man just lifts two empty wine glasses and motions back towards the dining table. “You can call me Y-Yunho then. For solidarity.”

Hongjoong would really love to punch him in that pretty mouth of his because curse him for being the entire package. Was being tall and attractive not enough? God had to make him cute and adorable, along with having a beautiful natural flush to his cheeks that comes out when he smiles or laughs? And he has a nice ass and a good sense of humor? Hongjoong is absolutely screwed and not in the way he wants to be. He is gonna leave this dinner tonight fully whipped for this man. The brief and fleeting thought to call Wooyoung for backup and get the hell out of here earlier than intended crosses his mind, but that is swept away when Yunho straddles a chair and spreads his legs far wider than is even remotely necessary. Hongjoong’s body just moves on its own at that point, and he finds the seat on Yunho’s left.

It feels like there is lead rushing through his veins rather than blood. Almost a heady sensation like Hongjoong is already drunk despite not having had a drop of alcohol yet. Yunho rectifies that quickly though, pouring a glass of the dark red liquid and passing it over to Hongjoong with long fingers splayed over the bottom of the glass. He doesn’t drink from it right away as much as he wants to. It would be bad etiquette to start drinking before him surely, and the stretch grin Yunho wears when he notices the gesture almost hurts Hongjoong’s heart.

“So, Hongjoong, I don’t believe I know how old you are.” His name sounds really wonderful coming from Yunho’s lips, but that is a dangerous thought. And Yunho looks dastardly good taking a languid sip from his wine glass. Focus, Hongjoong, focus.

“I’m, uh, turning twenty-seven in early November.”

“Oh?” Yunho sounds genuinely surprised by that, head tilting to the side to accentuate his shock. “I would never have guessed. You hardly look twenty-three.”

“I get that a lot. Youthful genes blessed me.”

“Apparently so. I swear I’ve got to look older than you and I’m twenty-six.”

Ah. Younger than expected. Hongjoong honestly assumed the man was older than him simply because he has Akemi, and while the girl is only six, he figured Yunho would at least be upper twenties. He hopes that the shock doesn’t read too well on his features but he has no such luck.

“Shocking, I know. Had Akemi early while we were still in college. Lots of… it was both good and bad, but it turned out to be more than worth it in the end because she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Yunho stares at the table while he speaks, but Hongjoong can see emotion shining clearly in his dark eyes regardless.

It’s that same raw and open one he saw before, the purest form of love he can think of, and he has to gulp down some wine to keep from getting overwhelmed by the mere sight of it. Despite having technically known Yunho for five (nearly six) months now, Hongjoong still can’t find it in him to think it’s appropriate to breach the subject of Akemi’s mother. This is still their first personal one on one conversation, the first time they’ve exchanged names, and Hongjoong can’t very well ask something so personal this soon.

“I’ve been a bit curious, so I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Yunho starts, looking to Hongjoong with a bit more fervor in his movements. “What made you think to call Akemi butterfly? I don’t think I’ve ever come across another person who calls her that.”

“Her mother used to call her that.”

Hongjoong should have prepared himself for the question because that statement Yunho had made earlier in the week opened a door that would come back to bite him later. This must be later.

“Um, I hope this doesn’t… sound odd or anything, but the first day she came to class, she had a clip in her hair. One with—”

“A blue butterfly on it,” Yunho finishes for him.

“Y-Yeah. It stood out to me since I’ve always liked butterflies myself.” Hongjoong thinks back to the pair of shoes he left by the door with small blue butterflies painted along the sides. “You probably didn’t see them when I came in, but my shoes – uh, they have butterflies on them too.” He motions past Yunho’s shoulder and towards the door, but Yunho only stares directly at him and nowhere else.

“I noticed that! It look hand-drawn too, or maybe painted?”

“Painted, yes. I reform clothes I own sometimes and shoes as well if I come up with a cool enough idea. Just a side hobby, I guess, like piano.” Hongjoong sips at his wine to busy himself and not focus on the way Yunho gazes at him intently. He isn’t used to this: talking about himself, his interests, things he does in his spare time. Wooyoung and San know him well enough to have witnessed his growth into those hobbies, and he doesn’t really have discussions like this with his fellow teachers. Maybe he mentioned it once or twice in passing to Seonghwa, but he and the man likely changed the topic quickly. It’s a little bit embarrassing for him as a twenty-seven-year-old to talk about what he enjoys doing like he’s back in high school or college. Something about the way Yunho offers an encouraging nod shoots that insecurity out the window.

“You know, Akemi talks about you a lot when I pick her up.” He drags a finger over the rim of his wine glass, eyes trained on the liquid inside. “She loves talking about you more than what she learned or her friends in the class. This is probably weird but I think I’ve learned a lot about you through her. The piano lessons and drawings, how you’ll sometimes draw pictures for her or show her your reformed clothes and shoes. I’m seriously grateful that you’re her teacher and that she has you in her life.” The words are spoken with too much emotion for Hongjoong’s liking, and his gut melds into a deep pit of growing agony.

“You don’t have to…” Hongjoong can’t even finish the thought. You don’t have to thank me, he wants to say. Yunho shakes his head.

“As much as I do to support us as a family and provide for her, it still falls short more often than not. Maybe this is too open of me, but I work a typical nine-to-five job as a business firm. Most if not all of my friends live out of town or work in similar fields and have lives like mine. When I have to go out of town for business trips, I have to leave Akemi with a friend in the next city over. I don’t – I don’t get to be the dad that she deserves to have. I can’t teach her new things, play with her in the park, and sometimes I can hardly… hardly spend time with her in general because of all that. The fact that you are so ready and willing to sacrifice your time for someone who isn’t even your kid or responsibility is quite telling of how good you are as a person. I am glad that she can have you as some sort of father figure in her life.”

“I can – I can hardly take any credit,” Hongjoong whispers, not daring to raise his tone any higher than that.

“You don’t need to,” Yunho replies in a tone just as quiet. “This dinner… I know very well that there is nothing I can do to repay you for what you are doing for Akemi. My heart will never be satisfied no matter what because you – you are doing something that even her mother refused to do, and that is simply to not leave her alone. I guess that’s my way of saying that I admire you quite a bit, Hongjoong.”

Hongjoong’s heart is in absolute shambles. Yunho is being too open, too raw, too giving in his emotions. It’s like Hongjoong can see straight through his chest and into his heart, pull the organ out and listen to every pang and stitched scar over it with ease. He is merely being genuine with Hongjoong, yet that one thing is more than all of Hongjoong’s exes combined could not do. He wills his mouth to work properly, jaw stuttering and wavering without purpose for too long before he can speak again.

“If y-you ever need someone to look after Akemi while you’re out of town, I would be happy to do so. My apartment – where I live, I mean – it’s not too big, but I would gladly sleep on the couch so she can sleep in the bed, and I live alone so it’s not like there would be anyone else with us and—”

“You’d truly do that?” The shock in Yunho’s voice almost hurts to hear, like he can’t believe anyone would do such a thing for him. In the back of his head, Hongjoong internally questions those friends that Yunho mentioned and how reliable they truly are. It catches him off-guard though. He isn’t making the offer because he wants Yunho to like him or trust him or anything unsavory. He would make the same offer to any parent who needed help; Hongjoong truly values his job but he cherishes each student of his even more than that. Seeing people struggle on their own is never pleasant – a thing he recognizes in others but refuses to recognize in himself – so if he can make Yunho’s day to day life even the tiniest bit easier, then he would jump at the opportunity.

“Of course.”

“Are you truly real?”

Hongjoong needs at least another glass of wine in him before Yunho starts having an existential crisis, but this sort of disbelief seems a bit different, something that stagnates the air between them and lets them hover in each other’s breaths like it’s the only thing that matters.

“I would hope people value you enough to give you the bare minimum of what you deserve, Yunho.” Hongjoong doesn’t realize that it’s the first time he’s used the other man’s name until he folds his lips into a soft grin.

“You forgot the stutter.”

Hongjoong dares to smile back, nose scrunching up and cheeks rounding under the wire frames of his glasses.

“My apologies, Y-Yunho.”

Yunho doesn’t respond this time, but there doesn’t seem to be a need to. The air returns to its pleasant trill, alight and humming with the beads of anticipation, and Hongjoong settles into the cloud with a newfound sense of ease and comfort in front of Yunho. There remains a stark sense of fear in his bones, one that does not care for the thoughts of where this might lead, what feelings will bud in his chest as a result, or how hard Hongjoong will recklessly fall because that’s how it always is.

“I don’t know if — this may be too bold but, uh, would you like to come for dinner again?”

This is a slippery slope and Hongjoong is already in the midst of falling.

…

It’s October now, nearing November in less than two weeks which will mean another bland birthday for Hongjoong to pass through with little interest and lots of enthusiasm from both Wooyoung and San. In the past six (yes, six) weeks since his first dinner with Yunho and Akemi, Hongjoong has been over to visit at least eight times. Once a week was the agreement he and Yunho came to after the second visit, the kind smile splayed over Yunho’s lips too much for Hongjoong to say no to, but the spare two visits came as a result of a spur of the moment decision on weekdays where Akemi begged for more time with Hongjoong and Yunho demanded to treat him to dinner as thanks. It is pleasant. Too pleasant. Hongjoong already knows that he has tumbled into a dangerous territory that consists of feelings of euphoria and happiness, butterflies churning in his stomach every time Yunho’s tinkling laugh graces his ears, and no matter how much he tries to push it out of his mind, he can’t.

Hongjoong likes the man. It would be much easier if he knew that Yunho did not like men at all, but alas he learned of that a while ago, maybe on his sixth visit to the Jeong household. What had they even been talking about again? Oh, right it was about being a disappointment to their families.

“You don’t talk much of your own family, Hongjoong. Is that a… sensitive topic?”

“Oh, uh, no. It’s not that I have a bad relationship with them or anything like that. There is a bit of tension? I guess you could call it that. I stopped going home to visit them because the plane tickets were getting to be too much and every time I walked in the door, I would just get an earful about how I never bring a wife home.”

“Not into marriage?”

“Not into women.”

Yunho had choked midway through a sip of wine, and Hongjoong thought the man was going to keel over on the floor with the way he was coughing, cheeks blazing red in embarrassment. Once he had finally recovered enough to speak again, Hongjoong’s heart plummeted, but only because he knew there was no way for him to back out of the crush that had formed.

“Well, we have disappointed parents in common then. Mine couldn’t believe I had a kid before marriage, then just about had a heart attack when Akemi’s mother walked out. Made things even worse when I brought my first boyfriend home for the holidays when Akemi was three. They were at least glad when the next girlfriend came around, but I can’t seem to make a relationship stick enough to live up to their standards. They at least love to dote on Akemi and look after her when they can, so I guess I can’t complain all too much.”

Hongjoong hadn’t let the conversation go any further than that, swiftly changing the subject because he was terrified of letting it continue and exposing the ugly and gross bits about his own past to Yunho. He isn’t ready for that. It would be too intimate and vulnerable. That’s what he has to tell himself at least.

Now Hongjoong finds himself yet again in Yunho’s house, but this time the situation is far different. First of all, it’s a Sunday night and not a weekday. Secondly, Yunho is not home. Hongjoong did not break-in, as suspicious as it sounds. The previous Tuesday evening found Hongjoong over for dinner and Yunho mentioned that he had to leave in the morning for a business trip so they wouldn’t be able to do their typical Friday dinner.

“Do you need me to watch Akemi?”

Hongjoong hadn’t even hesitated to ask the question.

“I was hoping to ask if that would be too much actually. I… I would really appreciate it. I’m not used to midweek trips, but I don’t want her to miss school because of this.”

“I’d be happy to look after her while you’re gone, Yunho. I can bring her to school with me in the mornings.”

“Would you please? I can – I can pay you for it or something. I wouldn’t want you to do it for free or–”

“I want to do it for free. Please, Yunho, it’s a – it’s what friends would do, right?”

Friends. Yeah, Hongjoong had breached the invisible line and defined their relationship then and there. Before then, they hadn’t spoken of it or said anything definitive about what they are. Hongjoong couldn’t very well say yeah it’s because I have a crush on you actually so don’t worry about it.

But in any case, that led to Yunho dropping Akemi off for school on Wednesday morning with a little travel bag of clothes and belongings so that she could have her things while she stayed at Hongjoong’s. Hongjoong brought her home in the evening right after school, which was quite the fever dream because he hadn’t gone home on time like that in months.

It was a steady process they formed: go to school a bit early for Hongjoong to prepare his things for the day, leave right after school ended, spend time doing fun things a kid would normally do after school, eat dinner, and go to sleep in Hongjoong’s all too large bed while the man slept on the couch.

On Friday after school, Hongjoong dared to take Akemi to the park to go cloud watching, then they went and bought matching pairs of shoes to bring home and reform together. Hongjoong had drawn small butterflies across the side of Akemi’s white sneakers and told himself that he wouldn’t get too attached to the little girl. That would make the end of the school year far too hard to handle because he wouldn’t get to move up with her to second grade.

For Saturday, he took Akemi to an ice skating rink and held her hand tight against his as they slid over the ice together. An elderly couple watching their grandchildren from the side of the rink asked if Hongjoong wanted pictures with his daughter. Akemi begged for him to say yes with such big and bright eyes that he couldn’t even bother correcting the couple. His cheeks still hurt from laughing and smiling so much even though several hours have passed since then. Hongjoong brought Akemi home to her house rather than his afterward since Yunho said he would be coming home in the evening, and they agreed to meet up after so Hongjoong could return the spare house key.

That is why Hongjoong finds himself seated on the leather couch in Yunho’s living room, thumbing through the channels mindlessly to keep himself busy as he waits for Yunho to get back. Akemi has already been put to bed since she was tired after ice skating, and Hongjoong managed to make a pot of mac and cheese without burning the kitchen down, which is good by his standards. It’s well past eight o’clock, and Yunho said he would be home by six so Hongjoong is maybe sorta kinda starting to get extremely worried about the man’s whereabouts. In fact, he’s about to try to call the man to see if everything is okay when the door handle jiggles. Hongjoong jerks to shut the television off, eyes wide with a nagging panic that someone is trying to break in, but the door swings open to reveal Yunho at long last.

Saying he looks exhausted would be a gross understatement. He looks worse than ever, tired and overwhelmed in every way, but as his gaze falls to where Hongjoong sits on the couch, a shaky sigh slips from his lips, almost as though he is relieved to see the other man sitting there. It tugs at his heartstrings, makes his stomach drop a bit too much, and Hongjoong inhales sharply to bury the feeling.

“I already put Akemi to bed,” Hongjoong whispers, scared to speak any louder than that. Yunho offers a nod but nothing else in response as he shuts the door behind him and drops his travel bag to the floor. He doesn’t even smile, which is something Hongjoong has never seen from the man. He seems to always be wearing a smile no matter what, and Hongjoong can’t describe the odd, misplaced pain in his chest that comes with seeing the blank slate that is Yunho’s expression. “How was your trip?” Careful, calculated, wary. He isn’t sure what is overstepping, but this is the best he can do right now.

“It was… it was fine until the end. I’m sorry I’m late. Stopped at the store to get some groceries and uh—” Yunho stops himself there, hand coming up to run through his dark hair. Hongjoong feels compelled to get up. His legs work before his brain does, and all of a sudden, he is on both feet and moving closer to Yunho for some godforsaken reason. He doesn’t even know what he intends to do until his hand reaches up to grasp at Yunho’s shoulder, shaking the man from his thoughts and offering the faintest bit of comfort.

“I’m here.” Yeah, you’re right in front of him, idiot, I think he knows you’re here.

“I ran into Akemi’s mother.”

Oh.

“She was with the – the guy she cheated on me with.”

Oh. Hongjoong didn’t know that was what had happened between the two of them. He didn’t think to ask, and it wasn’t his business too either, but it makes his heart go out even more to the man because damn. How shitty of a person do you have to be to cheat on your partner after having a damn kid with them?

Hongjoong doesn’t know what the right thing to do is. He racks his brain and tries to find some hint as to what the best idea is, but all he can come up with are memories of how Wooyoung would envelop him in a tight hug after a rough night of memories full of exes and pain. So that’s what Hongjoong does. He leans into Yunho’s space, slots himself in that tiny crack in Yunho’s heart, and wedges himself there. Arms reach higher to fold around the back of the man’s neck until Yunho is forced to bend down a bit and accommodate Hongjoong’s much shorter form, but the taller man hugs him right back in an instant. His breath is hot on Hongjoong’s neck as he releases a shaky exhale, burying his nose deep into the shorter’s neck. It’s all he can do right now, yet it still doesn’t feel like enough.

“She had the audacity to ask about Akemi.” Yunho’s tone is nothing more than a whisper now, like he couldn’t speak louder if he tried, and Hongjoong has a sneaking suspicion that it’s to keep from crying. “Asked if I’d given up on her yet and when I s-said no, she… she said Akemi would be better off if I did give her up.” Yunho tightens his grip on Hongjoong’s waist, arms enveloping him so deeply that Hongjoong can feel his palms squeezing all the way around his sides. If not for what Yunho said, Hongjoong’s mind might drift into unsavory territory. “Am I a bad father, Hongjoong?”

That question hurts so badly to hear. It’s like a knife in his chest that sinks deeper and deeper with each passing second. He doesn’t need time to come up with an answer though; the words are already waiting on the tip of his tongue before Yunho even finished the question.

“No. You’re the best father in the world, Yunho. You do so much for Akemi. You work long hours to provide for her, bring her to school and take her home for education, give her toys and let her do things she enjoys. You take care of her, love her, cherish her the way a father should. You don’t let her want for anything. You give her your absolute best, and that makes you a good father.”

“Yet I can’t give her a mother. I can only give her me.” Hongjoong can’t take the tone of his voice. He pulls back a bit, hands still wrapped tight around Yunho’s neck, and he tugs Yunho until they can look each other in the eye.

“There is no rulebook for parenting, no matter what the internet says or what other parents might say. No commandment says that a child must have two parents to grow up well and have a good life. And it isn’t your fault that Akemi’s mother made those decisions or walked out on both of you. You were the one who stayed, who continues to stay and fight for her still. I wish you could see through my eyes and know that you are doing well.”

“I-I don’t know what to say, Hongjoong.” Yunho’s dark brown eyes swim with unspoken emotions and gratitude, along with some other quivering feeling that swirl amongst them, but Hongjoong can’t place what it is or whether he wants to figure it out.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Hongjoong lets a smile tug at his lips. It’s an invitation for Yunho to do the same, and this time he does, gracing Hongjoong’s eyes with the sight of that precious smile. It sends his stomach spiraling as always, and he has to internally fight the blush that threatens to creep up his neck.

“I need a drink. Or thirty.”

“You can put yourself to bed with one,” Hongjoong huffs. The minimal space between their chests is suddenly making itself known, and he vaguely registers how neither of them have pulled completely away or moved back yet. Yunho’s fingers twitch at his hips.

“Can I convince you to stay for one?”

How can Hongjoong say no to that?

His response to the question is to detach himself from Yunho’s body and move back towards the couch, sending a quick look over his shoulder to see if the man will pick up on what he’s insinuating. Yunho blinks at him in confusion for a few moments. Realization only hits when Hongjoong plops down on the cushions, and he jumps into action, rushing to retrieve some glasses and the wine bottle from the fridge. The look of pure relief on Yunho’s features when he comes to join Hongjoong makes the decision to stay more than worth it.

Over the past few weeks, Hongjoong has come to realize that these moments – the ones where they drink and talk over menial things – are the only ones Yunho has to himself. It’s the only time he gets to do something for himself that isn’t work or taking care of Akemi. Hongjoong briefly wonders when the last time the man went out on his own for fun was but ultimately decides that he doesn’t want to depress himself with the thought.

“Did Akemi behave okay while I was gone?” Yunho inquires, glancing at Hongjoong out the corner of his eye as he pours the drinks.

“Like a dream really. I have no complaints.” Yunho’s cheeks bunch up a bit, and he passes Hongjoong a glass that is far too full of wine but Hongjoong drinks it regardless.

“The pictures you sent were nice to see. I was missing her when you sent them so… perfectly timed.”

Pictures? Hongjoong doesn’t recall sending pictures. Oh wait, yes he does. He sent some as soon as they got home from the ice skating rink, some that the old couple took as well as pictures of Akemi at the park and the shoes they painted together. He tried to push that out of his mind because it felt too domestic for his liking, but it also felt wrong to keep those pictures from Yunho.

“Ha, yeah, the couple who took the pictures at the rink thought I was her dad.” Fuck. Shit. Kim Hongjoong, why the hell would you say that? You aren’t even drunk yet. Hongjoong drinks at his wine with more intensity now, nervously trying to drown his panic in the red liquor in the hopes that it will help somehow. Thank goodness Yunho just smiles wider with nothing but a joyful mirth to his gaze.

“You would be a fantastic father.”

“There’s a difference between being a good teacher and a good parent,” Hongjoong mumbles into his glass.

“I know.” Yunho’s gentle gaze is turning him to jello, or maybe even better, a melted pile of ice cream on the floor. Hongjoong is internally begging for him to change the subject and move onto something else so that Yunho won’t keep staring at him in such a way. He has no such luck. “Do you wanna be a dad one day?”

“I, uh, I’m not sure. Sometimes I feel like being a teacher is more than enough but it would be nice to get to do things like go to the park or paint or something like that with a kid of my own. I barely have my life together as it is, I can’t possibly imagine trying to raise a kid on my own. T-That’s kinda why I admire your efforts so much. But I gotta… gotta find someone who will put up with me long term.”

“You don’t have anyone?” Now that question shocks Hongjoong. He has always pinned himself as the type who is very obviously single and alone, but Yunho sounds like he truly believed the opposite.

“You thought I did?”

“I just – well, I – someone like you, I just figured that you’d be taken.”

Someone like you.

Taken.

Oh dear, Hongjoong needs more wine. He lunges forward without thinking after downing the rest of his glass, refilling it to the same height that it was when Yunho initially filled it. There is no negative connotation to Yunho’s statement, and that is what scares Hongjoong more than anything else. His brain’s first reaction is to think of all the ways he could ruin this here and now, how best to run away, how to set his relationship with Yunho aflame before there is even an opportunity for it to go anywhere, and he hates himself for that but it is to protect himself from the pain.

He knows how this ends, and he would rather destroy it himself than wait for Yunho to leave him.

“Nope, not taken! Can’t keep a relationship to save my life actually.” Hongjoong silently begs that Yunho will understand that he means that he is the problem, not all the exes in his past relationships.

“Any terrible exes I need to know about?”

Why would you need to know about them? Hongjoong wants to ask but he bites his tongue and tries not to think too hard about it.

“Uh, just that all my relationships have ended in flames. Quite literally for the last one.”

“Oh? That sounds like an interesting story.” Yunho hums a little to himself, eyes darting from the ceiling back down to Hongjoong’s face.

“It’s really not… just one bad relationship after the other honestly.”

“I can relate to that quite well, I think.” A deep sigh falls from the man’s lips. He swirls his drink around and watches the liquid toss and turn in the glass for a few moments before Hongjoong finds it in him to say something.

“You’ll find someone who will do right by you.”

“Perhaps, perhaps. Maybe I’m just moaning because it’s been over a year since my last relationship. Haven’t really found the time to go out and meet new people this year.”

“Better than me,” Hongjoong mumbles against the rim of his glass before taking a long drag of the liquor. Curse him for being such a damn lightweight because he can already feel a bit of a tipsy haze slipping over his mind and clouding his thoughts. “It’s been two years since I had a stable relationship.”

“How many unstable ones did you have in-between?”

“Why do you ask?” Hongjoong can’t keep the question off his lips.

“Curiosity?”

Hongjoong waits until he has swallowed another half of his glass before mustering up the courage to answer Yunho’s question, but that proves to be a mistake because the quick intake of alcohol makes his head swim.

“Three or four undefined sexual relationships maybe? All left when I got too attached or because they found me boring outside the bedroom.” He could have done with better phrasing than that. The way he said it makes him sound like an absolute sex demon, which Hongjoong doesn’t think is appropriate to talk about or mention to Yunho, but again his reason is quickly leaving him thanks to the wine.

“They have bad taste then. You are by far one of the most interesting people I’ve met, and I mean that in the best way possible.” Yunho gnaws on his lower lip after speaking, and the corner of his mouth twitches up into a strained smile. Hongjoong mimics the smile with equal awkwardness. The action draws a throaty laugh from Yunho, a sound that reverberates in his chest and sends Hongjoong’s heart into a mad state of gay panic. “Hongjoong, are you already tipsy?”

“Hm?” In Hongjoong’s defense, the most he’s had while at Yunho’s place is one glass of wine and nothing more because he usually is careful enough to watch his alcohol intake. Maybe it’s the mixture of his poor panic-riddled heart and the drinks? Is that possible? He doesn’t even know.

“God, you’re so — you’re already tipsy, aren’t you?”

“I’m not tipsy!” He refutes in haste, but there is already a heat rising up his neck and cheeks that betrays his state of slight inebriation.

“Oh, you’re not?” Yunho tilts his head to the side, exposing the long column of his neck to the yellow light above them. Hongjoong spends too much time eyeing that exposed bit of skin. “You seem a little tipsy to me. You look a little flushed.”

“That’s not tipsiness.” Hongjoong presses his lips to the side of his glass as though it will hide his blushing cheeks. Yunho’s next laugh is an endearing one, and Hongjoong drinks it up like it’s his wine.

“Low alcohol tolerance?”

“I’m short. And petite. And small. Not a lot of space to put alcohol in my body. Besides you’re so—” Hongjoong gestures wildly with his free hand to Yunho’s form before him “—big and broad and wide so you can fit a lot more liquor in there.”

“I do have rather high alcohol tolerance, I’ll give you that. Because I’m… big?” Yunho lets his words trail off as a smirk overtakes his lips. Hongjoong’s cheeks could not get any redder than they are in this moment. The other man must find this absolutely hilarious because he releases a laugh that is far too loud and will most definitely wake Akemi up, and he realizes this a moment too late, hand flying up to cover his mouth. Hongjoong breaks into a fit of laughter with him, falling into Yunho’s space without thinking. He’s caught by gentle hands, and one of those hands moves to catch his teetering wine glass before it can tip over onto the couch. They laugh like that, together, full of each other, pushing themselves closer and closer into one another until every sense is so full of Yunho that Hongjoong thinks he could get drunk off that.

“Daddy?”

Hongjoong moves back so quickly that his vision blurs into a hazy mess. Yunho is still chuckling under his breath even as he turns to look over the back of the couch.

“Mimi baby, why are you up? Hm? Was Daddy being too loud?” Yunho places his glass on the coffee table and pushes himself to his feet, hastily rounding the couch so that he can meet Akemi by the stairs. Hongjoong feels useless as can be, but he just continues to sit where he is and watch the scene unfold before him. Yunho squats down to be eye level with the little girl and brings his hands up to comb through a few stray tangles in her hair.

“I heard you laughing with Mr. Hong!”

Yunho’s chin dips to his chest as he laughs again. He pinches the tip of Akemi’s nose between his index finger and thumb, reveling in the way the girl squeals in delight.

“Yes, well, Mr. Hong and I were laughing about a joke Daddy made.” Yunho glances over to where Hongjoong is sitting. The mirth in his eyes makes Hongjoong take another long sip of wine, but it’s not enough to drown the butterflies flying through his gut. “You should get back to bed, angel. We can’t have you going to bed too late or you’ll be sleepy in the morning!”

“Can you tuck me in, Daddy? Pretty please?”

“Of course, Mimi, I missed tucking you in at night the mostest of all while I was gone.”

“Mr. Hong tucked me in every night! And he would show me the pretty butterflies he painted and would read me a poem to help me fall asleep.” Ah, Akemi, why would you mention that? Hongjoong hides his face behind the safety of his glass and tries not to see whether Yunho turns to look at him or not.

“Hm, yes, Mr. Hong is quite the angel, isn’t he? We gotta go to bed though! Come on, up, up! If you don’t hurry your little booty up the stairs, Daddy is gonna catch the little butterfly and gobble her right up!” Yunho leans in to pinch her sides, but Akemi squeals and darts out of the way, her short and stubby legs flying up the stairs and out of his reach. Yunho moves with her, and Hongjoong can’t keep himself from laughing as he watches the scene unfold before him because it’s just so damn cute and domestic. He couldn’t be more whipped if he tried.

Against better judgment, Hongjoong decides to pour himself one more glass of wine and tells himself that it’s because the cheap store-bought wine is good enough to indulge in more (but he knows it’s to chase the feelings away instead).

“Okay, one little butterfly safely put back to bed without any issue.” Hongjoong doesn’t even hear the man come down the stairs, too busy reclining against the couch cushion and mulling over his drink like the lonely gay he is, and Yunho’s sudden presence behind him startles him more than he’d like to admit. The man stands right behind the back of the couch leaned over it so he can speak into Hongjoong’s ear with too much teasing joy to his tone. Hongjoong just about melts on the spot because holy hell the feeling of Yunho’s warm breath cascading over his ear and down the side of his neck makes him feel even hotter under the collar. He tries not to think about how if he turned his head just a little bit to the left, their lips would touch, and he truly tries not to cave in to that desire and do so. Yunho lingers there, pressed into Hongjoong’s space without moving.

“So.” He isn’t sure what possesses him to say that or where the thought is going. Yunho dips his head as he laughs, and Hongjoong swears up and down that the man accidentally brushes his lips over the bare skin of Hongjoong’s neck. He pulls away too quickly for Hongjoong to process it any further though, sliding back around to the front of the couch to sit down beside him again.

“So, two glasses is all it takes to get you drunk?”

“Tipsy.”

“You admitting it?”

“Fucking smooth, Jeong Yunho.” Oops, did Hongjoong say that out loud? He could have swore he said it to himself only, but the way Yunho is smiling at him tells him otherwise.

“I can be much smoother than that.” Now, Yunho isn’t drunk in the slightest. He doesn’t seem tipsy or affected by the alcohol at all, and he claimed to have a high alcohol tolerance so Hongjoong knows that he isn’t saying things in a drunken haze. So why does it sound like he is flirting?

That’s just how he normally is. It doesn’t mean anything. He talks like that all the time.

“Doesn’t sound convincing, but okay.” Hongjoong gives a small shrug of his shoulders before mentally punching himself in the nose. Tipsy Hongjoong is a menace who should not be allowed to speak for more than two seconds.

“Oh? Should I be convincing then?” Yunho twists to look at him. Hongjoong’s heart stops dead in his chest. One large hand stretches out to take his wine glass from his hands and sets it on the coffee table beside the bottle. He is leaning back into Hongjoong’s space again, this time pushing so close that Yunho’s hip brushes against his knee. Hongjoong could fall forward and —

“I wasn’t done with that,” he protests instead, watching the glass rather than Yunho.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Yunho murmurs back. His tone is much gentler and less teasing this time, and Hongjoong might even go so far as to say that Yunho seems to genuinely care. “I shouldn’t have let you have any if I had remembered that you would have to drive back. I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine!”

“Yeah?”

“Tired. Really tired. Like this couch is way too comfortable and I will fall asleep if you don’t stop me,” Hongjoong babbles. He’s all but forgotten about the flush on his cheeks and how foolish he must look right now. For some reason, the only thing his brain can manage is the thought of placing his hand on Yunho’s knee and leaning against his shoulder. The man shifts before he can do that though, pulling a leg up to mimic Hongjoong’s position. Oh. Now Hongjoong really could fall against his chest and just take a nice nap there—

“Maybe you should stay the night.”

“Yunho.” Why is he saying the man’s name?

“Hongjoong,” Yunho responds with a slight smile. Gonna kiss that stupid pretty mouth one day, Hongjoong thinks to himself, eyes narrowed on the man’s lips. “Can you please stay the night? I don’t think you should be driving in this state.”

Hongjoong tells himself that he needs to say no because staying in dangerous and will only make his feelings worse. Instead, he drops a hand to Yunho’s knee and smiles so wide that it hurts his cheeks.

“Okay.”

Yunho exhales a sigh of relief. His hand falls atop Hongjoong’s, the weight so heavy and warm over him that it makes him see stars. Hongjoong twists so that he can slip his fingers over Yunho’s.

“I-I can let you sleep in my bed. I know you’ve been sleeping on a couch for the past week. I’ll take the couch instead.”

“No, no! Noooo, Yunho, you don’t have to!” Hongjoong protests quickly. He flops back on the couch, forgoing the fact that he still has a grip on Yunho’s hand, and the man moves with him, his other hand flying up to steady himself on the pillow that Hongjoong lands on.

Their noses bump against each other.

Yunho doesn’t move away.

“Hi friend,” Hongjoong whispers to quell his rapidly beating heart. Friend. Friend? Hongjoong, are you serious? The man hovering above him can only laugh.

“Hi Hongjoong.” Is Yunho looking at his lips or is Hongjoong seeing things? The man seems to shake himself out of whatever is plaguing him and pulls back to a sitting position. “Are you okay to walk or should I carry you up the stairs?”

“I’m fine!” Hongjoong insists, slipping off the couch cushions and standing upright. He moves far too soon because blood rushes to his head and makes his vision go spotty in the edges. His legs turn to jello in the blink of an eye, but there goes Yunho again, hands finding Hongjoong’s hips and keeping him upright without hesitation. Hongjoong has to keep telling himself that this is what friends would do, Yunho is just doing this as a friend, he is only helping Hongjoong out because they’re friends.

“Next time, I’m watching how much you drink like a hawk.”

“Next time, I’m making sure you get drunk,” Hongjoong grumbles as Yunho loops an arm around his waist and slings one of the shorter man’s arms over his broad shoulders. The heat of his body is too comfortable. Hongjoong debates falling asleep standing up like this but Yunho squeezes his side a little tighter to keep him awake.

“Good luck with that. I’m a tough nut to crack.” A laugh slips from Hongjoong’s lips, and he turns to push up closer to Yunho, caressing his ear with the barest touch of his mouth, and he can feel the way the man quivers under the touch.

“Nut,” he whispers, stifling a giggle.

“How immature, Mr. Kim.” Yunho clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth but still manages to smile as he walks Hongjoong to the edge of the stairs. Hongjoong has to bite down hard on his tongue to keep from saying something much worse. He would preferably like to kiss Yunho on the same spot of his ear, work a path of wet kisses down to his neck and kiss him there as well, but he convinces himself not to.

Yunho drags his slow ass up the stairs with quite a bit of difficulty since Hongjoong’s drunkenness is apparently bad enough for him to struggle with even moving his legs properly. Yunho doesn’t seem to mind, nor does he complain about it either because he lugs Hongjoong until they reach the top of the stairs, pausing to pass him a smile that makes Hongjoong giggle like a schoolgirl in an embarrassing way.

“Mr. Jeong, you’re so cute,” he whispers as he lets his cheek rest against the man’s arm.

“From where I’m standing, you’re much cuter, Hongjoong.”

“Oh?” The sigh slips out without him intending for it to, but he doesn’t bother to correct himself.

“Do you need me to repeat myself?”

“Will you?” Whatever possesses Hongjoong to say that is unbeknownst to him because he had no clue where they come from or why they fall from his lips.

Yunho pauses, looks to the ceiling, then offers a small shrug of his shoulders. His voice is still hushed, no doubt because Akemi is sleeping behind one of these doors.

“Only if you want me to.”

What? Hongjoong catches that much through his dizzied state. Yunho hoists him forward, pushing his way in through one of the doorframes at the top of the stairs. It’s a bedroom, Hongjoong can see that much out the corner of his eye and in the fuzziness of his vision. Yunho pulls him forward a bit more, hands still secured around his waist, and Hongjoong feels like he’s positively floating under the touch.

“Please?” He typically isn’t one to beg or be desperate, but just this once, Hongjoong finds himself wanting to hear the words again.

“I find you quite cute, Hongjoong.” Has Yunho always been this close to him? Hongjoong’s head is no longer pressed to his arm, and Yunho has turned his chin so that he can properly look Hongjoong in the eye.

“I like that.”

“What do you like?” Yunho unravels his arm from Hongjoong’s shoulders, shifting the man so that he can set him down on the edge of the bed. Hongjoong lets him, eyes wide and glassy as he looks up at Yunho.

You.

“You calling me cute,” Hongjoong slurs. A lopsided smile takes over his lips. “Friends can call each other cute, right?”

“…Sure.” If Yunho hesitates in his answer, Hongjoong doesn’t have enough brainpower to process it.

“Cute,” Hongjoong coos moreso to himself than to the man beside him. “You’re so cute, Yunho.”

He can’t help himself any longer. He grabs for Yunho and plants a hand on either side of his face, pulling his head towards his own. He tugs with a bit too much force though because Yunho’s forehead smacks hard on his and knocks Hongjoong back. Yunho is forced to throw his hands down on either side of Hongjoong’s body to stabilize himself before fully crushing the shorter man.

“Ah, I’m such a mess. I’m a tipsy mess. A mess, Yunho, an absolute mess,” he mutters, eyes searching the other man’s face for a sign of discomfort. He finds nothing except a slight red tinge to Yunho’s face and drags his thumbs over the balls of the man’s cheeks.

“An adorable one nonetheless.”

Hongjoong finds himself stretching his neck up a bit. Yunho’s tongue darts out to drag over his lower him, eyes flitting from Hongjoong’s down to his lips and back up again. The visual clue is there, Hongjoong sees it, it’s impossible to miss even while drunk. Yunho’s next words only confirm his suspicions.

“I-I… Hongjoong, I – I want to kiss you b-but—”

“Do it,” Hongjoong blurts before he can stop himself.

“You’re drunk, Hongjoong. I won’t – I won’t take advantage of you like this, not while you’re drunk.”

“I want you to kiss me.”

“Maybe when you’re sober,” Yunho whispers. He hoists Hongjoong further up on the bed with such little effort that Hongjoong’s heart soars in his chest. “Do you want to change clothes?”

“Don’t have anything to wear,” Hongjoong grumbles back. The sudden change in topic hurts him more than he’d like to admit, and the thought of having Yunho so close yet so far away makes him want to sob.

“I have clothes.” The words are stilted and cut short like Yunho wants to say more but can’t bring himself to do it. Hongjoong refuses to move or react. Yunho takes it as an unspoken agreement and slips off the bed to stand up straight. “Let’s get you changed, Hongjoong. I’ll set out some clothes for you.”

When Yunho’s warmth disappears from his side, Hongjoong stretches a hand out after his back but ultimately lets it fall to his side uselessly. He can only watch on with tired eyes, growing more tired by the second as Yunho pulls a shirt and pair of pants out of his dresser. Hongjoong forces himself to sit up and takes the clothes from Yunho’s hands.

“Do you need help changing? I can—”

“I got it, I got it,” Hongjoong interrupts with a small wave of his hand.

“I’ll step into the bathroom then.” Yunho grins a bit before disappearing into said room so Hongjoong can stumble around and change.

“Yunho!” Hongjoong calls out as he’s switching out shirts. “Are you still there?”

“Do you need help?”

“Hm, no, no. Just checking to see if you’re still there!”

The sound of a huffed out laugh echoes through the door.

“I’m still here, Hongjoong.”

“I’m done changing!” It’s a half-truth, but it’s technically a full truth for Hongjoong because he only sleeps in a shirt regardless. He doesn’t bother putting the pants Yunho gave him on mostly thanks to the ridiculous length of them but also because Hongjoong never sleeps with pants on so it seems pointless. He throws himself back on the bed, rolling over to one side of the overly sized mattress as Yunho comes back into the bedroom.

“I – oh, um, Hongjoong, you… pants?” Yunho motions to his all too bare legs.

“Don’t sleep in them,” he mutters back, words still slurring a bit.

“Fair enough, uh, I suppose.” Maybe Yunho’s gaze is lingering a bit too long on the exposed skin of Hongjoong’s thighs, just at the midway point where Yunho’s shirt stops and skin begins. Yunho jerks his head to look in the opposite direction. “If you need anything, just let me know. I’ll be – be downstairs, yeah.”

Yunho doesn’t leave right away. He lingers by the bed, long fingers tracing over the edge of the mattress and eyes staring holes into the side of Hongjoong’s head.

“Can you… would you stay, Yunho?” Hongjoong dares to murmur. He’s too afraid to look Yunho in the eye, too scared of what he might see there (read – rejection). Yunho’s jaw stutters.

“I want to b-but that would be inappropriate of me,” Yunho whispers back. Hongjoong isn’t sure what he wants. He extended an invitation not once but twice, all that’s left is for Yunho to quit stalling and talking himself out of it. He just needs to commit, which is a cruel irony of Hongjoong to say because he can’t commit to even having feelings for the man as it is. Still, Hongjoong can’t be the only one pulling if Yunho isn’t going to move with him.

“Goodnight then, Yunho,” he says through a slightly bitten back tone that conceals his true feelings.

“G-Goodnight, Hongjoong. I hope you – please sleep well.”

Hongjoong is passed out under the sheets before Yunho can even get out the door. The only dreams that plague him that night are the thoughts of what might have happened if they spent the night crammed into each other’s space with little regard for what lines they were crossing or what boundaries they skipping over in Hongjoong’s drunken rush. Every dream he has ends in a nightmare.

…

In the week that has passed since Hongjoong’s drunken night at Yunho’s house, Wooyoung has warned him about getting too attached to the man at least three times. Hongjoong wishes he could say that he doesn’t remember a thing from that night but he remembers it all. The lingering touches, the laughs exchanged in breaths that mingled together, the near kisses, and most of all the way Yunho was so close within Hongjoong’s reach yet so far away at the same time.

“Maybe you aren’t ready for this.”

“For what, Wooyoung?”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all. I’ve seen enough people hurt you, and I do my best to help you recover every time, but I’m always scared that there’s gonna be one worse than the rest. One I can’t fix.”

Yunho is making conversation with Akemi on his right. Hongjoong can barely touch his food thanks to the uneasy feeling settling in his stomach, but he forces some food down just so that Yunho isn’t offended. He can’t quit thinking about that damn conversation with Wooyoung, the latest one that had the most lasting impact on his damn overthinking brain.

“Do you want this, Hongjoong?”

“He doesn’t.”

“How do you know that? You said that he literally wanted to kiss you.”

“I was drunk. Probably only said that because of the way I was acting.”

Maybe Hongjoong can move back home and find a job there. Or he can find a different school so he doesn’t have to see Yunho and his stupidly perfect face anymore.

“Are you tired, Mimi?” Hongjoong pulls his focus back to the scene before him, trying to shake the memories of that conversation out of his mind. Akemi nods her little head in agreement, and Yunho reaches out to comb his hand through her hair. “Okay, butterfly, run upstairs and brush your teeth. I’ll be right there.”

“Can Mr. Hong come tuck me in please?”

Hongjoong’s eyes widen a bit at that. Yunho twists to look at him, lips parted a bit in disbelief, then he returns to smiling at Akemi.

“We’ll see, angel. Head upstairs first.”

Akemi gets up from her seat with a loud giggle and darts around the table within seconds, gone from sight before Hongjoong can even blink. Yunho stands as well, albeit much slower, gathering his plate and Akemi’s from the table to head into the kitchen. Hongjoong follows suit with his own plate. His gaze finds the back of Yunho’s head.

“Do you want me to tuck her in?” He asks once Yunho sets his plates in the sink.

“Would you please? She will probably refuse to sleep unless you do it.”

Hongjoong replies with a smile and a nod, placing his dish on the counter and pulling away to follow Akemi up the stairs. Maybe it’s because he was already too deep in his thoughts but the act of tucking Yunho’s daughter in and putting her to bed before they indulge in some wine feels grossly domestic. It’s funny how much he hates the thought of it because this is what he’s always wanted: a family to come home to, spend time with, and be loved by. If it’s what he’s always wanted, why is his mind telling him to run away?

Akemi is crawling into bed when Hongjoong arrives in the doorway.

“Mr. Hong, Mr. Hong! Do you have a new poem for me?”

“Where did we leave off last time, little butterfly?” Hongjoong hums, stepping further into the room as he pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“You read one about stars and wasting time!” Akemi tugs her sheets up to her chin, bright eyes blinking at Hongjoong with endless wonder, and he grins at her enthusiasm.

“Hm, I have one about love but it’s a bit sappy.” Hongjoong squats beside her mattress and rests his elbows on the edge. Akemi twists to rest on her side.

“I wanna hear it!”

“Okay, okay, close your eyes and listen closely. This is a word we use to plug holes with. It's the right size for those warm blanks in speech, for those red heart-shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing like real hearts. Add lace and you can sell it. We insert it also in the one empty space on the printed form that comes with no instructions. There are whole magazines with not much in them but the word love, you can rub it all over your body and you can cook with it too. How do we know it isn't what goes on at the cool debaucheries of slugs under damp pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-seedlings nosing their tough snouts up among the lettuces, they shout it. Love, love, sing the soldiers, raising their glittering knives in salute. Then there's the two of us. This word is far too short for us, it has only four letters, too sparse to fill those deep bare vacuums between the stars that press on us with their deafness. It's not love we don't wish to fall into, but that fear. This word is not enough but it will have to do. It's a single vowel in this metallic silence, a mouth that says ‘oh’ again and again in wonder and pain, a breath, a finger grip on a cliffside. You can hold on or let go.” Hongjoong concludes with a small sigh, thumb dragging over his screen and blinking down at the typed words with a painful burn in his chest. Akemi’s eyes are squeezed shut, and he thinks the girl is asleep so he slowly gets back up and stands straight again. Before he moves to leave the room, he bends over Akemi’s bed and presses a soft kiss to the girl’s head.

“Is that how you and Daddy feel about each other?” Hongjoong’s heart almost stops dead in his chest. He chokes on air. What does Akemi know about love? About their feelings? About Hongjoong’s feelings?

“Go to sleep, little butterfly,” he murmurs before retreating for good, this time with heart heavier than lead.

Love. Hongjoong doesn’t know if he’s ever been in love. He hasn’t stopped to wonder if he has or not, hasn’t bothered putting certain labels on his past relationships out of fear of greater heartbreak.

He runs into something on his way out of the room, arms swinging up to lessen the blow only for his palms to land on Yunho’s chest as he hits the man. A small curse slips past his lips but it’s thankfully spoken too quietly for Akemi to stir in her bed. Yunho’s expression is unreadable in the darkness. Hongjoong can’t move his hands away from Yunho, and the man doesn’t ask him to, merely placing his hands over Hongjoong’s. He pulls the shorter man out of the room like that, and once they’re fully in the hallway, Yunho reaches around his shoulder to shut the door to Akemi’s room.

“This word is not enough but it will have to do,” Yunho murmurs. “What poem is that from?”

“Variations On The Word Love by Margaret Atwood.”

Yunho sinks his teeth into his lower lip. So close. Hongjoong tries to pull his hands away but Yunho keeps him in place, slowly guiding him to the stairs with little effort.

“We’ll fall down the stairs, Yunho.”

This word is far too short for us, it has only four letters, too sparse to fill those deep bare vacuums between the stars that press on us with their deafness.

“Right.”

“Let’s go downstairs,” Yunho mutters, finally releasing Hongjoong so that he can walk on his own. So far away.

It's not love we don't wish to fall into, but that fear.

Hongjoong’s legs are wobbling on his way down the stairs. This intimacy is foreign. It feels too much like a dance, one that only Yunho and Hongjoong are aware of and only they know the steps to, and Hongjoong can’t recall a time when he ever danced around a person for so long. People take what they want from him and leave him. That’s what Hongjoong is used to, and that’s what he knows how to handle after all this time.

Why is Yunho different?

It's a single vowel in this metallic silence, a mouth that says ‘oh’ again and again in wonder and pain, a breath, a finger grip on a cliffside.

They find their way to the couch where Yunho already has wine out on the coffee table, their unfinished glasses from dinner there as well. Hongjoong sinks to the cushions with a slight exhale of breath. He reaches for the wine immediately like the liquor is an extension of his body.

You can hold on or let go.

Hongjoong is afraid more than anything else that these feelings will ruin him forever, that Yunho will ruin everyone for him because he just seems too perfect. They fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, slotted in each other’s space even as Yunho sinks down beside Hongjoong and their thighs brush together. Hongjoong wants to let go, to see this fail if only to prove that he was right about it all along. His heart is holding onto Yunho like he’s a lifeline.

“I wouldn’t expect you to read love poems, Hongjoong,” Yunho hums before taking a long drag of wine. “Are you secretly a hopeless romantic?”

“I’m not even sure I can make myself believe in love at this point.”

“How badly have you been hurt in the past? To think like that?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I used to think like that myself. Right after Akemi’s mother… after I found out. There was a short period of time where I knew she was cheating but couldn’t bring myself to say anything. I wanted to try to make things work for Akemi b-because I wanted so badly to give her two parents. I wanted to do everything in my power to make sure that she could have both of us growing up and that she wouldn’t be left with just one of us. Guess I failed her the minute her mother decided to walk out.”

“Yunho,” Hongjoong starts, voice hitching a bit in his throat.

“I’m not — I don’t say this to have your pity. I don’t want that. I guess – part of me wants to open up to you because I care about you but also because I can’t help myself around you. Maybe I’m just a fool though.”

“No, Yunho, I—” Hongjoong can’t finish the thought. Why can’t he give? Yunho sits there and pours his soul into every word, bares the most painful parts of himself without hesitation, and Hongjoong can do nothing but whine about how shitty his life is. “I’m the fool,” he whispers after some time has passed. “I’m scared. My last – my last relationship was s-so perfect up until the end, and I’m so afraid that it will happen again. I’m terrified of letting myself g-go enough to let someone in that way.”

“It’s okay to be afraid, Hongjoong. No one is asking you to stop being afraid. Even I’m still fearful of what could happen in the future or if I try again.”

“I guess it’s because I’m used to the pain of heartbreak.”

“That doesn’t mean it will always be that way though,” Yunho whispers, and Hongjoong dares to make eye contact with the man. The stare doesn’t hold for long though because Yunho moves to pour himself another glass of wine, and Hongjoong watches the liquid pour into the glass in silence. Yunho doesn’t speak again until he’s filled his glass and taken a lingering sip from it. “You deserve a chance at happiness too, Hongjoong.”

His response comes in the form of a small choking sound as he drinks too quickly from his wine and inhales the liquor on accident. He coughs his way through it, waving Yunho off when the man leans across the couch in a fit of worry, but Hongjoong really can’t handle him being any closer than he is.

“I-I am happy,” he finally manages to say after clearing his throat.

“Alone?”

“I’m fine on my own.”

Why seek something that could hurt you when you’re perfectly fine on your own?

Hongjoong finds himself asking the question again, though this time he can come up with many more answers than he is willing to admit.

“Every time I look at you, it’s like seeing a reflection of myself. I can see how lonely you are behind that mask you wear.”

“I have friends.” He sounds defensive, and it’s because he most definitely is getting defensive.

“You know that’s not what I mean, Hongjoong.”

“I don’t need to risk being hurt again,” he counters, pushing a bit of vehemence into his tone.

“By that logic, I don’t either but here I am, trying to rectify all the emotions in my body and make sense of them somehow. No matter how many times I’ve been hurt or how badly I’ve been hurt, I still want to keep trying because I truly believe I can get it right one day.”

Why does Yunho have to be right? Why can’t he just be an asshole and break Hongjoong’s heart that way? It hurts knowing that Hongjoong is gonna fuck this up somehow, these lingering feelings have tumbled out of control and he can’t pull them back into his stone-cold heart any longer. A second later, his vision begins to blur. He can’t pinpoint why or what’s going on until Yunho reaches a hand out and places it atop Hongjoong’s knee. Fingers splay over his clothed skin, swamping Hongjoong in the warmth of the touch, and he can’t help but notice how small and fragile he looks under Yunho’s grasp. Something wet falls atop one of Yunho’s fingers, and it’s not red so it can’t possibly be wine but Hongjoong can’t figure out what — oh. He’s crying.

“Hongjoong…”

He must look absolutely pathetic sitting here on Yunho’s couch, fat tears rolling over the balls of his cheeks with an unfinished glass of wine in his hands, but Yunho doesn’t chastise him or ridicule him in the slightest. He merely moves his free hand to take the glass from Hongjoong’s hands, placing it on the coffee table beside his own that somehow ended up over there without a word, and when he reaches back towards the shorter man, he catches Hongjoong’s face in his hands. Yunho swipes his thumbs over the balls of his cheeks with such gentle and caring fingers that Hongjoong can only cry harder because fuck, he’s touch-starved and even a hand on the knee sent him spiraling. Yunho keeps catching each tear that falls without complaint, hands never leaving Hongjoong for a second, and it causes a painful burn to blossom in his chest, one that grows and festers like a wound until it’s all he can feel.

This kind of weakness isn’t one he’s used to. Hongjoong doesn’t let the cracks show in front of other people like Wooyoung or San so they won’t worry about him not being okay, but Yunho just barged in and knocked those brick walls around Hongjoong down as though they were nothing. How does he do it? This damn blundering giant who has stars in his eyes and a laugh so bright that Hongjoong could gladly listen to it for the rest of his life is gonna ruin him forever. He won’t be able to look at anyone if they aren’t Yunho. Hongjoong wants to trust that Yunho will be better to him than all his exes were, but he can’t shake the fear gnawing away at his bones or the nagging sense of inadequacy when he looks in the mirror. Isn’t it too much? Can’t he just have this one nice thing?

Hongjoong wants so badly to throw all caution to the wind and close the distance between him and Yunho right now, kiss the man right on the mouth and tell him how he feels, but all he can do is mumble broken apologies in a choked tone.

“Don’t apologize, Hongjoong,” Yunho whispers back. The way he’s cradling Hongjoong’s face feels like too much, too intimate and too precious, something he shouldn’t allow himself to have, so he reaches up to push Yunho’s hands away from him like the touch is offensive. Hongjoong is good at only one thing and that’s ruining the good he has in his life.

“I – I should g-go. I need t-to go.” He barely remembers to place the spare key on the table beside his glass of wine as he stands up. Yunho moves with him. Hongjoong just wishes that he would stop being so damn considerate and kind and perfect. Stop being everything Hongjoong wants and needs in his life because it hurts too much. He doesn’t even get around the coffee table before Yunho snatches him by the wrist.

“I don’t want you driving in this state, Hongjoong. It’s not safe,” Yunho pleas. Anger bubbles up in Hongjoong’s gut. He’s been in this position before. He has stood in the center of a room with tears running down his cheeks and begged for someone to make him stay. No one ever did. His exes never stopped him or held onto him or asked him not to go.

“Why does it matter?” He spits back in response, and Yunho’s face blurs before him because of the tears. That question seems to catch Yunho off-guard. Hongjoong takes it as an opportunity to escape, slipping his wrist free of Yunho’s grasp and making for the door while he can, but Yunho snaps back to reality too quickly. He’s there to stop Hongjoong at the door; his hand slams against the wood just as Hongjoong turns the handle and cracks it open, pushing it back shut in an instant.

“It matters because I… it’s not safe. I can’t let you go like this in good conscience.”

“So this is about your conscience then?” Reason has left Hongjoong’s body, and at this point, his self-destructive nature has taken the wheel and is ready to drive him off a cliff. Hongjoong just might let it.

“No, I – Hongjoong, please. I c-care about you. I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want you to go out there and be alone.” Yunho’s arm stays planted against the door as though he’s afraid that Hongjoong might try to leave again.

“Can’t you be a fucking terrible person for one second?”

“I don’t know what you want me to do, Hongjoong, but I’m here for you. Please, just stay. I need you to stay, and maybe it’s selfish, yeah. Maybe I’m thinking too much about my own feelings and reading into things too much. But I know that you don’t want to be alone right now.”

“What I want is for you to be like every other person in my life and leave me when I need you most because that hurts less in the long run!”

Yunho’s fingers curl against the door until they’re tucked into a tight fist. His jaw stutters as he tries to come up with some sort of reply, one that will make Hongjoong feel better no doubt, but all Hongjoong wants is to run away. He’s nearing the edge of this cliff and it won’t be long until he tumbles over it, entering a freefall that will result in a dragging sense of pain only to land on another cliff. It’s a sick cycle Hongjoong lives in, but it’s what he’s used to and it’s what he knows how to handle.

“I don’t know what you’ve had to suffer in the past, Hongjoong, or what your past relationships have put you through. I’m not asking for you to tell me either. I just want to give you what you deserve now. You said you had friends so what does that make us? Am I not your friend too? Can you not rely on me too? I want to be close to you, but if that isn’t what you want from me, just say the word and I’ll back off.” The words roll off Hongjoong’s shoulders like they’re nothing, only one having a lasting effect on him in the heat of the moment.

Friend.

The word is laughable on his tongue, and he releases a cruel and sadistic sound that hurts his throat.

Of course. Hongjoong should have known. He told himself this would happen, he warned himself, he looked himself in the eye and said that this was the only outcome out of all of this. So why does it hurt so fucking much? Why did he give himself baseless hopes and wishes to cling to? How could he be so stupid? He drew the line himself. He defined their relationship as a friendship and nothing more. That was what he said would come out of this, and he told Yunho that that’s what they would be. He did this to himself.

If Yunho notices the way tears are flowing harder than before, he doesn’t comment, and this time he doesn’t move to wipe them away either. Hongjoong lifts a shaky and angry hand to furiously brush them off his flushed cheeks.

“I don’t want you to be my friend.” He tries so hard to push rage into the words, some sort of verbal poison that will put Yunho off forever so Hongjoong can just get over himself, but it only comes out broken and weak, like Hongjoong has zero confidence in what he’s saying because he truly doesn’t.

“Then what do you want me to be?”

Why can’t Yunho get it through his thick skull? Why doesn’t he understand what Hongjoong is trying to say?

He pushes as much strength as he can muster into his arms, hands shoving Yunho out of his personal space. Even though Hongjoong doesn’t hit him hard, Yunho’s body moves as though he does, and the man stumbles back on shaky feet. It’s enough to give him the getaway he wants so badly, but Hongjoong just has to drive the knife in Yunho’s chest a little bit deeper before leaving for good.

“I want you to be nothing to me.”

…

Hongjoong has decided that November 7th is the worst day of the year for no reason other than that it is his birthday. He has never enjoyed his birthday; it’s always an overdone celebration that makes him feel worse about getting older, and turning twenty-seven is no different. There is a lot of self-loathing tied to his birthdays every year, but that still never stops Wooyoung or San from trying to do the absolute most for him regardless. Hongjoong woke up to a bouquet of flowers and two small wrapped presents on his counter and Wooyoung on his couch. The gifts were from Seonghwa and Yeosang apparently, small things they sent since they couldn’t be there to celebrate with Hongjoong in person, and Hongjoong is grateful for them even thinking of him today. Wooyoung, on the other hand, is on thin ice.

This year, Wooyoung decided that it would be smart to do something bigger and better than all Hongjoong’s previous birthdays, which means throwing him a party. And before Hongjoong could even say no, Wooyoung hit him with the ‘I already bought all the stuff, San is at home decorating the house, your ass is coming over for drinks whether you like it or not’, so Hongjoong found himself roped into the mess without getting to a say in the matter. Maybe secretly Hongjoong appreciates it though, because he has been doing a lot of wallowing in his miserable feelings and self-loathing since that night at Yunho’s house.

It has been eleven days, not that Hongjoong is keeping track or anything stupid like that, but he has made note of how Yunho won’t look at him when he picks Akemi up from school. They haven’t met for dinner even once in the past two weeks, they haven’t spoken even a word to each other, and Akemi is the only thread hanging between them at the moment. Hongjoong is counting down the days to the end of the school year so the miserable awkwardness can be dispelled and he can move on with his life without having to see Yunho in it. He isn’t necessarily upset at Yunho anymore; it is moreso a matter of Hongjoong hating himself for doing the same shit he always does and ruining something perfectly good and wonderful. San didn’t help either with the long-winded lecture he threw Hongjoong’s way after six days of moping around by himself.

“Just admit that you fucked up. That will help you move on faster and get over these feelings. No one is asking you to be miserable, Joong. No one thinks you deserve to feel that way either, because you don’t. You are the only one making yourself feel that way, and it isn’t fair to yourself. I hate watching you go through this as much as Wooyoung does, but I won’t sit around and watch you hurt yourself without saying anything.”

He went on for a lot longer than that, but Hongjoong has selective memory and that is the only part that really stood out in his mind. Wooyoung made him swear that he wouldn’t think about that today, and Hongjoong is really trying his best not to. Part of him hoped to wake up to a happy birthday text from Yunho even though he knows that’s the last thing he deserves.

“No one else is coming, right?” Hongjoong mumbles from the passenger seat, glancing over to where Wooyoung sits in the driver’s one with one hand on the wheel and the other fiddling with the radio dial.

“That’s a surprise, shush.”

“Wooyoung–”

“You know we wouldn’t bring anyone you hate, right? Just trust us!”

But what about anyone who hates me? Hongjoong wants to ask, mind only envisioning one tall brunette with round cheeks and a stupidly adorable dorky smile. His gut churns with unspoken anxiety as Wooyoung pulls into the driveway at his and San’s shared house. It’s a somewhat recent development for the two of them — moving in together, that is — but Hongjoong thinks the pair will be stuck at the hip forever, so it wasn’t a surprise to him when they dragged him out for house shopping with them. The exterior of the house is blessedly plain when they reach the door, and Hongjoong is glad that Wooyoung didn’t decide to plaster his name in gold across the front of the building on a banner or something drastic like that.

His hopes are shot the moment he steps through the door because rather than seeing San, all he can see are broad shoulders, a brown mop of hair, and lengthy legs standing in the middle of their living room with his back turned on Hongjoong.

He nearly turns on his heel and walks out the door right then and there because how the fuck did Wooyoung manage to get Yunho to come and why the fuck did Yunho agree to be here? Surely he didn’t know this was for Hongjoong. Maybe he somehow knows Wooyoung and San through something else. Even so, how did they convince him to come? This makes no sense, and Hongjoong is reeling so much that he can’t even try to make it make even a sliver of sense. All his brain can do is go: what the fuck Choi San, what the fuck Jung Wooyoung, what the fuck Jeong Yunho.

“We were gonna invite Akemi too, but adult drinks are involved so that was out of the question,” Wooyoung whispers, leaning in close to speak into the shell of Hongjoong’s ear. “Please don’t be too mad at us. I know it’s your birthday, and we should’ve asked to make sure about this beforehand, but we knew you would probably say no because you were dead set on him hating you. Besides, he’s the one who reached out to me and asked if there was anything he could do. Found me through Instagram and saw all the pictures we’ve got together, so he messaged me and asked after you. He… Hongjoong, he won’t shut up about how much he’s worried about you. I thought I was bad with San, but damn, this man has me beat.”

San has Yunho distracted enough to where the man doesn’t notice that he and Wooyoung have come in yet, so Hongjoong takes the opportunity to reel on the man by his side and punch him in the arm. Wooyoung winces and releases an all too loud scream that betrays their presence in the house.

“Ow, you bitch!”

“Yep, there they are!” San chirps, dimples flashing in Yunho’s direction, and the man finally turns to face the door. Hongjoong is fully prepared for hell to break loose when their gazes meet. There’s nothing he can do to prepare himself for it except hold onto his breath like it’s a lifeline and wait for Yunho to spew angry words and hatred his way. It never comes. Wooyoung slips away from his side, moving to join San at the other end of the entryway, and Yunho walks forward to replace his presence.

“Um, happy birthday,” Yunho says, tone so quiet that Hongjoong almost doesn’t pick up a single word. The taller man looks nervous beyond belief, and his gaze flits away from Hongjoong’s after a single second of eye contact, slipping down to the floor instead.

“Who’s watching Akemi?” He asks without a breath of hesitation. Yunho huffs out a small laugh.

“My parents. They flew in yesterday to visit us, so I figured I could escape for at least part of the night.”

Who knows when the last time Yunho got to see his parents was yet he still decided to come to a stranger’s house for Hongjoong? Even after what Hongjoong said to him?

“You… I-I – why did you come?”

“I selfishly wanted to see you on your birthday?”

“But what I said to you and – and how I treated you… I don’t understand.”

Yunho presses his lips into a smile.

“Don’t understand what? Why I’m here? I’d hoped the gesture would be enough to convey my feelings.”

“You,” Hongjoong exhales, but that’s all he can get out.

“I hope you won’t be too mad that I brought you a gift.”

“Just you being here is enough.” Hongjoong huffs out a laugh as the corners of his eyes begin to burn with unshed tears. Shaky hands find Yunho’s collar and twist around his shoulders until Hongjoong can properly pull him into a hug. Yunho drapes his arms around Hongjoong’s waist without a drop of hesitation, pulling the shorter man in until all their senses are full of each other. “Everything about you is enough, Yunho.”

Yunho drops his face into the crook of Hongjoong’s neck, and the younger is almost definitely crying now, tears wetting Hongjoong’s skin as he clings to the man tighter.

“I’m so sorry for making you feel like you aren’t enough,” Hongjoong murmurs against the shell of the man’s ear. He runs a hand through Yunho’s hair, scraping blunt painted nails over his scalp with no particular rhythm. “Y-You’re so much more — so much more than enough.”

“Why are you making me cry on your birthday?” Yunho laughs, words reverberating against his skin, and the butterflies in Hongjoong’s stomach flutter dangerously.

“Why are you crying on my birthday?”

“Aside from Akemi, you’re one of the only good things I have in my life. I was scared I was going to lose you by being careless. I don’t – I don’t want to be careless with you, Hongjoong. I wanted to follow you out that door but couldn’t bring myself to.”

I want you. I like you. I need you. I love you. Hongjoong is thinking of all the things he could say, and the confidence is there, the willpower to say them is boiling over in his gut. San and Wooyoung watch from the edge of the living room with bitten-back smiles and a knowing gleam to their eyes. Even if they can’t hear the conversation, Hongjoong doesn’t doubt that they’ve stood in the same position and whispered confessions and promises and apologies to each other like this too. Instead of those confessions, Hongjoong mutters something else.

“I don’t want you to be nothing.”

“I spent too long hoping you would say that.” Yunho pulls his head up from Hongjoong’s neck and furiously blinks his tears away as he looks the shorter man in the eye.

“What else did you hope I would say?”

“I couldn’t bring myself to ask for anything more than that.”

Hongjoong presses a hand to Yunho’s cheek, collecting the tears staining his skin and pushing them away with the pads of his thumb.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

“I hope not. I’d like to keep you around for as long as possible.”

It’s not a confession for either of them. They aren’t admitting to anything special or telling each other how they feel or if they even feel the same way about each other. Maybe there are romantic emotions behind the words or maybe not; Hongjoong doesn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth and call anything too early. For now, he’s content with this. This admission of needing each other and wanting to be around each other. And when Hongjoong is ready, he will dissolve the line of friendship that he drew in the sand and be honest about how he feels. This is already more than he could have hoped for given what he said and how vehemently he tried to destroy their relationship.

“Um, as cute as you guys are, can you hurry it up so we can open presents?” Wooyoung croons from the other side of the room, and Hongjoong holds back the urge to roll his eyes. “And Yunho is not a present so please for the sake of my innocence don’t do anything explicit opening up over there!”

“You whore!” Hongjoong scoffs, glancing around Yunho’s shoulder to scowl at his friend. Wooyoung simply beams back at him before making a crude gesture with his hand and giving him a thumbs up. Still, they both heed his words and untangle their arms from each other to follow the other two further into the living room while Wooyoung prattles on about the new furniture he’s planning on getting for the house to a mildly interested Yunho. San stops beside Hongjoong, careening an elbow into his side and flashing his dimples. “Was this your idea?”

“Maybe? You should be glad I didn’t decide to lock the two of you in a room so you could talk shit through.” San clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Progress is progress, I suppose, so I can’t be too mad at the fact that you two literally look at each other with hearts in your eyes yet still refuse to confess.”

“Yeah, well, took you eight months to grow the balls to ask Wooyoung out.”

“Part of that was your fault. He’s your best friend before he’s my boyfriend, and I thought you would kill me if I so much as looked at him the wrong way.”

“Still might,” Hongjoong grumbles before joining the aforementioned man on the couch. Wooyoung scrambles to the side just before he sits down, making space between him and Yunho for Hongjoong to sit.

“Okay, me first, me first!” Wooyoung insists as he passes an all too large package Hongjoong’s way with his trademark toothy smile. Hongjoong least favorite part about birthdays is the awkwardness that comes with opening presents because he is the type who needs to give in return for receiving something. And if he’s being honest, he is most nervous about whatever Yunho brought him, but he tries to distract himself with Wooyoung and San’s gifts first.

Wooyoung gets him a new jean jacket along with a set of paints that Hongjoong had been eyeing for a while, adding that he got himself a jacket as well so that they could reform the clothes together as a friend project. Hongjoong pokes fun at him for the action and accuses him of only getting Hongjoong something because Wooyoung wanted it for himself at first. Wooyoung plays along with a scrunched nose, faking offense to mess with Hongjoong some more before San interrupts to pass another gift his way. Hongjoong unwraps a new pair of shoes from the man who insists they’ll add at least two inches to Hongjoong’s height just from the insoles, and he nearly earns a boot in the face for that comment but Hongjoong holds back only because Yunho is present.

And speaking of Yunho, that’s how Hongjoong finds himself suddenly looking him in the eye as the man extends a delicately wrapped box with a small blue bow on top of it.

“I wasn’t too sure what to get you but… I hope you’ll like it,” Yunho says just before biting his lip so hard that it hurts to look at. Hongjoong exhales a nervous laugh, fingers nearly shaking as he pulls the wrapping paper away and reveals the box underneath. He knows from experience that it must be jewelry of some sort, but even thinking about it can’t prepare him for what’s inside.

“Y-Yunho,” he stammers, eyes flitting between the gift and the man’s face in absolute disbelief. It’s something small and delicate, a thing that might be insignificant upon first glance or to anyone other than Yunho and Hongjoong themselves, but Hongjoong knows the second he sees it how special and precious the thought behind it is.

“Her mother used to call her that.”

“He would show me the pretty butterflies he painted and would read me a poem to help me fall asleep.”

“Okay, one little butterfly safely put back to bed without any issue.”

On a small bed of white foam there sits a little blue butterfly. It’s attached to a silver chain at the tip of one of the wings, tilted at a slight angle in the box, and Hongjoong tilts his head to match it as he stares down.

“We should get the drinks,” San cuts in, shaking Hongjoong out of his stunned reverie.

“Okay, babe. Have fun with that!”

“No, we, Wooyoung, we should get the drinks.”

“Huh? Why we? Oh! Oh. Oh my god, yes, we should definitely get the drinks. Excuse us for a second, we’ll be right back!” Wooyoung bolts from his spot on the couch, followed quickly by San, and all of a sudden, it’s just Hongjoong and Yunho sitting in the living room. Endless amounts of empty space around them yet only mere centimeters separating their thighs from touching.

“A butterfly,” Hongjoong whispers at last, and he finally dares to look back up at Yunho. Yunho doesn’t look back at him though; he has his head hung a bit, fingers awkwardly and nervously clasped around something on his neck. Hongjoong waits as patiently as he can for the man to react in some way, and once again his heart threatens to stop in his chest. Yunho unfolds his fingers to reveal an identical silver chain with a blue butterfly pendant placed in the exact same position as the one Hongjoong holds in his hand.

“It’s a, um, it’s a custom piece. The one I have, I mean. I got it shortly after Akemi’s mother and I officially split and she moved out. I contacted the jeweler who made it for me and asked if he could make another and he said absolutely, so… yeah.” Custom piece. Identical. Hongjoong might pass out actually. Yunho continues after a quick lick of his lips. “You’ve always — you always act like a father to Akemi even though no one expects you to or demands that of you. You do it willingly and happily, and I never thought I would meet a person like you in a million years. I don’t know how to show my gratitude for that but I thought that out of everyone in my life, you deserve this the most.”

A key to Yunho’s heart, his pride and joy, and an invitation. To what exactly, Hongjoong doesn’t think he could figure that out right now, but he indulges in himself a bit, turning around on the couch so his back is now to Yunho. With a quick flick of his wrist, he extends the box with the necklace behind him, giving Yunho a silent plea to put the necklace on for him. Yunho takes it in stride and pulls the box from Hongjoong’s hand. Their fingers brush for half a second, but both chase the feeling for another half-second before Yunho dips his chin with a chuckle.

The metal of the chain and pendant is cold against his skin, slipping over his neck and under the collar of his shirt before he can stop it. Hongjoong reaches up to touch the jewelry if only to confirm that it’s real, this is real, Yunho is real.

Yunho does his best not to touch the back of Hongjoong’s neck, and the older of the two is glad for it because he isn’t sure if his heart can handle much more of this.

“There,” Yunho whispers once the clasp sits attached on Hongjoong’s skin.

“Thank you,” Hongjoong says as he turns to face Yunho once more. His hand still sits atop the pendant, and he isn’t sure he could move it if he wanted to with how touched he is by the gesture of the necklace.

“You don’t need to thank me.”

A breath of silence. Hongjoong feels like Yunho is the only person in the universe at that moment, the only other human being who knows him and understands him in ways even Hongjoong doesn’t himself.

“I want to.”

“Then I suppose I can’t stop you if it’s what you want.” Yunho’s eyes are twinkling under the fluorescent lights above them, little gems that shine with so much emotion that Hongjoong is overwhelmed just from the sight of it.

“I was engaged,” Hongjoong blurts. He isn’t sure what comes over him or possesses him to say such a thing, and as soon as he processes what he’s said, he flings a hand up to cover his mouth. Yunho blinks back in equal parts shock and confusion. “I – hold on, I m-meant, uh, let me start over.” Hongjoong is begging Wooyoung and San to come back and save him from this awkwardness, but apparently, his mouth has a mind of its own because he just keeps speaking instead. “My last relationship – the one I kinda told you about – we were together for three years then he proposed to me. We were engaged for seven months and planned the wedding and honeymoon and everything. There weren’t… any problems between us, at least I didn’t see any signs of there being something wrong. A few days before the wedding, he c-called it off and said he didn’t want to marry me.”

“Wh–Why?” Yunho exhales, and the one word quivers on his tongue.

“He… found someone else he wanted to be with more. Made more money than me, taller than me, better looking no doubt – just everything he wanted and more. He didn’t even cheat on me b-but I selfishly wished he had just so that I could justify how I felt. I wanted to hate him but couldn’t even do that because he was open and h-honest and kind even then. I get scared with you because you’re so – so kind. So giving, and I get scared that I won’t be good enough in the long run.” Scared that it will happen again. That’s what Hongjoong wishes he could say, but he doesn’t need to because Yunho understands nonetheless.

Large hands cup his jaw, and Hongjoong is forced to look up at the man across from him.

“Anyone – and I truly mean anyone, Hongjoong – would be lucky to call you theirs for eternity. I hate that someone took that away from you and made you feel like you’re less than perfect.” Yunho is pulling him closer. He is sinking into Yunho’s touch, long fingers guiding him forward with endless gentleness, and Hongjoong secures a hand by Yunho’s side as he gets closer. Their noses brush, a smile twitches at Yunho’s lips, and Hongjoong is about to risk it all for this man.

“I’m not drunk this time,” Hongjoong murmurs, hot breath cascading over Yunho’s mouth.

“You’re not.”

“So kiss m—”

“Got drinks!”

Hongjoong has never scrambled to get away from a person faster in his life, and he’s pretty sure he nearly faceplants atop the glass coffee table in his rush to separate himself from Yunho.

Fuck Jung Wooyoung.

“Oh s-shit, uh, hold on, we’ll go back into the kitchen for a second! Continue!” Hongjoong hears angry whispers, followed by a loud smack and a noise of indignation coming from San as the pair rush to get back into the kitchen. Hongjoong’s cheeks burn with embarrassment. The mood has most definitely been killed thanks to Wooyoung’s interruption, and when Hongjoong glances over to gauge Yunho’s reaction, he finds a pretty blush splayed over the man’s cheeks.

It shouldn’t change anything. Friends have their moments like this, right? Friends get each other gifts and such, and maybe sometimes they nearly kiss in moments of clouded judgment. Yunho’s expression is one that Hongjoong can’t read. It’s only after he’s been staring at the younger man for well over a minute that Yunho meets his gaze and offers a shaky smile.

It shouldn’t change anything, so why does it feel like the ground under Hongjoong has been shifted in ways that he both can’t explain or reverse? The slippery slope just keeps sending him down.

…

There is an unspoken shift between the two of them from the night onwards. Nothing else significant happened that night; Yunho stayed to eat with them and drink a bit before saying that it was time for him to get back to Akemi. Hongjoong walked him to the door, put a hand on his arm, and thanked him one more time. They stared at each other’s lips for far too long, then Wooyoung started screaming about how San spilled beer on the couch cushions, and Hongjoong let Yunho go without asking for anything else from the man.

Their dinners resume as well, and Hongjoong is more grateful for that than he’d like to admit because admitting it would mean acknowledging how intense his feelings for the man are. They don’t talk about the near kisses or lingering touches either, but that’s alright by Hongjoong’s standards. He’ll take the peace and pining while it lasts because that’s the best way for him to avoid pain in the long run. He does make certain not to drink enough to get drunk like he did that one night. Things don’t change beyond that, that is until one day in mid-December when Hongjoong is back to visit for dinner but it’s quite different this time.

First, it’s a Saturday rather than their usual Fridays. Hongjoong couldn’t make it the day before because he promised that he would go visit Seonghwa and Yeosang in the new house they bought recently.

Second, Akemi isn’t present. According to Yunho, she’s off staying the night at a friend’s house for a birthday sleepover, so for the first time ever, Hongjoong is alone with Yunho in the house. He tries to insist that this won’t make anything different between them. It’s just their typical dinner after all, even if Akemi isn’t with them.

“What are your plans for Christmas?” Yunho asks midway through a bite of chicken. To be frank, Hongjoong completely forgot about the holiday. It’s never something huge or drastically special to him, so he pushed the thought of it to the back of his mind, but he should probably start debating what he’s going to be doing since it’s less than a week away now.

“Uh, I’m not sure. I won’t be going home, I know that much. Tickets are too expensive, and it isn’t worth the hassle to go. What about you?”

“I haven’t had time to think about it. Work is always busiest this time of year, but I’ll get some time off starting next week.”

“Not going home?” Hongjoong inquires, glancing over at the man.

“No, not this year. Parents are going to France for a trip so there won’t be anyone to go home to.”

“It’ll just be you and Akemi then?”

“Yup, first time too.”

Hongjoong has an idea. A bad one, but an idea nonetheless.

“If you – I, um, it will be a bit cramped, but you two could come to my place for Christmas?” He sounds too hopeful, and he probably looks a bit desperate with his lower lip caught between his teeth. Yunho cocks his head to the side. The silence that ensues feels like a ton of bricks sitting atop Hongjoong’s chest, and he’s about to backtrack and call the idea stupid when Yunho finally speaks.

“I was going to ask the same of you actually.”

“Oh. Oh! Yeah, y-yeah, uh—”

“Do you want to come over for Christmas, Hongjoong?” Yunho interjects. His gaze pierces the side of Hongjoong’s head, and the older man is certain that he forgets how to breathe for a second.

“I would love that,” he exhales quietly. Yunho hums through another bite of food and continues to finish his meal without mentioning it again, but the smile that lingers on his lips for the rest of dinner has Hongjoong’s heart doing cartwheels and frontflips for too long. They clean the dishes side by side for once. Without one of them needing to tuck Akemi in for the night, they can get the dishes done a lot faster than usual. Still, Hongjoong cannot shake the feeling that something they’re both unaware of is about to happen. Nothing about Yunho’s behavior is different tonight. Hongjoong thinks he’s acting normally himself as well.

So why? Why does this feel so different?

Yunho puts on a movie for the two of them to watch while Hongjoong finishes his one (and only) glass of wine. He might need more than that though because as much as he tries, he cannot tear his eyes away from the man on the other side of the couch. Yunho is far too attractive for his own good, legs splayed wide open and thighs on full display with one hand pressed to his right thigh and the other draped over the back of the couch.

“Are you cold?” Yunho asks after about half an hour of Hongjoong’s wandering eyes and lack of focus on the movie.

“H-Huh?” Hongjoong stammers.

“You keep curling up further and further in that corner of the couch.”

“Oh, I’m – I’m fine. I need to run to the bathroom actually.” Hongjoong bolts up before Yunho can reply, darting away from the living room in his sudden bout of panic. He doesn’t need to go to the bathroom, and Yunho probably knows that; all he needs to do is lecture his reflection in the mirror and tell himself to pull it together. He also wants to plaster the words ‘I’m desperately in love with you’ across his forehead just so that he doesn’t have to confess to Yunho himself.

No, Hongjoong, bad idea.

All Hongjoong does is splash some water across his face before returning to the living room. Yunho has shifted a bit and now has a blanket draped over his legs. When he catches sight of Hongjoong, he offers a grin and pulls the blanket up a tad.

“Just admit you’re cold and get under the blanket with me.”

“Okay,” Hongjoong squeaks out, trying to hide his flushing cheeks from view as he slips under the blanket. The space between their bodies is absolutely minimal now. Hongjoong tries to keep himself as far from Yunho’s body as possible, but he was truly cold and the warmth the blanket provides is really nice. Between the blanket, Yunho, and the soft volume of the television playing in the background, he can’t help but to become more drowsy with each passing second. Yunho’s arm is still on the back of the couch, nearly around Hongjoong’s shoulders, and if he’s honest, Hongjoong is only thinking about that and nothing else.

“For Christmas, do you want me to bring anything?” He asks after a while in a desperate attempt to stay awake. Yunho hums a little, head tilting side to side.

“I can’t think of anything off the top of my head. We can talk about that later on though.” Yunho sounds tired as well, and Hongjoong can’t tell whether that’s a good thing or not. On one hand, if they’re both so tired, it wouldn’t be as awkward to fall asleep like this, but on the other, it would be too intimate given Hongjoong’s feelings for him. “Do you want me to put up any specific decorations?”

“Hm? I don’t have a preference. It’s your home, you can choose whatever you like,” Hongjoong murmurs back, daring to let his head fall closer to Yunho’s shoulder.

“Can I put up mistletoe then?”

“Wh-What?”  That caught Hongjoong’s attention. And woke him up quite a bit too.

“I think you’d look cute under it,” Yunho whispers through a smile, leaning in to speak the words closer to Hongjoong’s mouth. “And it would give me an excuse to kiss you.”

What. What? Passing out seems like a good idea all of a sudden.

“Do you need an excuse?”

“Depends.” Yunho shrugs. The hand resting on the back of the couch falls forward, brushing Hongjoong’s shoulder before coming up to toy with a few strands of his hair.

“What if… what if I ask you to?” Hongjoong wets his lips then drags his teeth over his bottom lip. He doesn’t intend to be so seductive in the action; it’s merely a nervous habit he has, but Yunho watching his mouth move so intently that Hongjoong might melt.

“Are you asking me to?”

“No,” Hongjoong exhales. That catches Yunho a bit off-guard, eyes blinking furiously like he’s misunderstood Hongjoong’s advances and actions this whole time, but the older rushes to finish his thought. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you to kiss me already, Yunho. I’ve waited long enough, no?”

Yunho inhales so sharply that air whistles through his teeth. His eyes search Hongjoong’s features for something else, maybe a sign that he doesn’t mean what he’s saying, but all Hongjoong wears is pure determination and pent-up frustration at taking this long to kiss the man. Yunho curls his fingers in Hongjoong’s hair, gripping it like a vice but not hard enough to cause any pain.

“I didn’t expect you to be the demanding type, Hongjoong.”

Hongjoong arches a brow at that and curls his lips enough to be taunting. Apparently, that turns out to be Yunho’s limit because the man finally dips in to close the distance between their mouths. He pulls at Hongjoong’s hair a little harder to get better access to his mouth. Hongjoong is positively floating with even the smallest pressure of the kiss, but when Yunho’s lips slot against his and deepen the pressure, he thinks that there’s no way this is reality. He’s ascended to the last level of heaven and is on his way to paradise, that’s the only explanation for this.

Hongjoong doesn’t remember moving at all but suddenly he’s pushing his way out from under the blanket and straddling Yunho’s hips without missing a beat. Their lips are still connected, thin trails of spit between them that only increase in volume when Hongjoong gets bold enough to swipe his tongue over the younger man’s lip. Yunho uses his free hand to yank the blanket out from between their bodies, letting Hongjoong press closer to his chest in a heated fervor. He can’t seem to move fast enough, nipping at Yunho’s lip until the man gasps. His tongue slips in next and fills the empty space in Yunho’s mouth to clash with the man’s tongue in a show of dominance. He doesn’t get to maintain that dominance for long as it turns out because Yunho gives a sharp tug to Hongjoong’s hair, and it sends a jolt through his body so intense that he forgets where he is and what he’s doing for a split second.

Yunho takes the opportunity to push back against Hongjoong’s tongue and shove his way into the smaller man’s mouth, and fuck, if that’s not the hottest thing he’s ever done, Hongjoong doesn’t know what could possibly top that. Until Yunho slips both hands down his back to secure at his hips with a grip that’s almost bruising in force, that is. That sends Hongjoong to a different plane of existence, but he doesn’t even want to come down from there if it means kissing Yunho like this. Or maybe just kissing him in general. He hasn’t decided.

Yunho decides it’s time to breathe, unfortunately, and Hongjoong has to pull away with no shortage of internal whining because goddammit lungs, hold a bit more air so he can kiss Yunho some more.

“That was nice,” Hongjoong exhales, still staring at the soft glisten of spit on Yunho’s lips. “Can we—”

“I like you, Hongjoong.”

“Y-You what?”

“I like you. In ways I can’t explain and in ways that words can’t describe. Just saying it wouldn’t do my feelings justice, and I-I thought… I hoped to make it clear on your birthday. When you asked me why I came and I said I hoped the gesture would convey my feelings – I should have said it then. I like you, every inch of you, every part of you inside and out, maybe so much so that it’s love.”

Hongjoong huffs out a breath of disbelief, jaw unable to close in his state of shock, and all he can do is bring a trembling hand to where Yunho’s heart lies behind the confines of his chest. Yunho gnaws at his lip. The corners of his mouth turn upward.

Then there's the two of us. This word is far too short for us, it has only four letters, too sparse to fill those deep bare vacuums between the stars that press on us with their deafness.

“I-I’ve liked you for s-so long,” Hongjoong whispers once the initial surprise passes. “I didn’t – I tried talking myself out of it and convincing myself that there was no way you could ever feel the same.”

It's not love we don't wish to fall into, but that fear.

“How could I not when it’s you?” Yunho is holding his cheek now, thumb caressing his face like Hongjoong is a piece of glass in his hands. “You’re… everything I could ever have asked for in a person. Everything and more. I wish I could put it into words – how you make me feel – but the best I can do is say I think I love you.”

This word is not enough but it will have to do.

“I think I love you too.” It scares Hongjoong to admit that out loud; it’s something he could never even let himself say in his thoughts, but Yunho pulls the words from his lips with no effort at all. Like he’s meant to say it.

It's a single vowel in this metallic silence, a mouth that says ‘oh’ again and again in wonder and pain.

His chest burns a little from the heat of all the emotions running through his body. Yunho pulls him closer, one hand still wrapped around Hongjoong’s delicate waist with the other dragging soft patterns over his cheek. They have been this close for so long. They’ve worked in this standstill where they are together but apart, close but far away, and now all that’s left to do is increase the distance or close it forever.

A breath.

It is Hongjoong’s turn to inhale as Yunho sighs over his still-swollen lips.

A finger grip on a cliffside.

The way Yunho’s eyes rake over his face is intimate in a way Hongjoong can’t describe. Yunho almost speaks through only that gaze, like he’s telling – no, asking, pleading, begging Hongjoong to hold onto him and not let go.

You can hold on or let go.

Hongjoong, at last, has decided that he wants to hold on, even if the past has scarred him and the future scares him.

…

Hongjoong arrives outside Yunho’s door on Christmas day with a knot in his stomach that won’t go away. It’s not a bad sort of knot – at least he thinks it isn’t – but it is one that leaves him a bit nervous. The butterfly necklace Yunho gifted him still sits around his neck, not taken off once since Yunho gifted it to him, and the bag of gifts in his hands feels heavier than usual. He and Yunho have spoken since that night, but Hongjoong hasn’t come over again nor have they discussed what the events of that night entail for them moving forward. It would taste a lie on his lips if Hongjoong tried to say that he hasn’t been thinking about kissing Yunho every day since.

“Mr. Hong! You’re here! Mr. Hong is here, Daddy!” The door swings open to reveal Akemi, all dolled up in a precious little plaid dress with small butterfly clips in her hair, and Hongjoong’s nerves melt away at the sight of her bright smile. Then Yunho steps into view, much less dolled up and more looking like he just rolled out of bed five minutes ago, but Hongjoong can’t say that he doesn’t look damn good as it is. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks about the possibility of waking up to a Yunho with bedhead and flushed cheeks.

“Can you take the gifts in for him, Mimi?” Yunho asks, running a hand through Akemi’s hair. She beams back at him and takes the bag in Hongjoong’s hands away without complaint, which leaves Hongjoong suddenly very empty-handed and alone before Yunho. “Hi friend.”

Friend? Hongjoong cocks his head to the side.

“That’s what you said the first time I tried to kiss you,” Yunho explains upon seeing Hongjoong’s confusion.

“Hi friend,” Hongjoong replies through a stretched grin. The sight of Yunho before him is making him feel a bit bold, maybe too reckless, but he rolls with it and stretches up on his tiptoes to place a small kiss on the corner of Yunho’s mouth. “Merry Christmas.”

“We’re not even under the mistletoe yet.”

Hongjoong squints and looks off to the side, pretending to think the words through, then breaks into a broad smile.

“Need an excuse to kiss me then?”

“Never,” Yunho murmurs before dipping in to give Hongjoong a proper kiss on the lips, and it’s everything he could have wanted and more. Everything about Yunho feels safe and warm, like something Hongjoong never wants to let go of, and thankfully Yunho seems to think the same of him as his lips chase after Hongjoong’s when the shorter man pulls away.

“Daddy! Mr. Hong will get cold if you don’t let him in!”

“Yeah, Yunho! Do you want me to get all cold out here?” Hongjoong teases, stepping around Yunho to properly greet Akemi inside.

“I had to wake Daddy up because he was trying to sleep in this morning,” the little girl explains when Hongjoong squats down to be eye level with her.

“Did you? Shame on him! He should know to be up early for Christmas morning!”

“He should! He said he stayed up late, so I think he was trying to spy on Santa.”

“Spy on Santa? My goodness, Yunho, you are causing trouble left and right.”

“Yes, well, Santa and I had to meet up during the night. I had to ask him for one more gift.”

“He didn’t leave any other gifts on the fireplace though, Daddy!” Akemi protests, motioning to the hearth behind her. Yunho blinks at the spot for a moment then turns to look down at Hongjoong with a smile.

“He brought my gift to the door this morning it seems.”

Hongjoong releases a scoff to hide his embarrassment and reaches over to swat at Yunho’s stupidly long legs.

“You’re disgusting!”

“Yeah, Daddy! Ew! Don’t say icky things!” Akemi scrunches up her nose and feigns disgust although Hongjoong isn’t sure she can even understand what Yunho means by his comment, so she might just be playing along with Hongjoong’s show of disgust. Yunho shakes his head a little but relents in his grossly cheesy comments to say something else.

“Mimi, honey, can you run upstairs for a moment? Daddy wants to talk to Mr. Hong in private for a little bit, then when we’re done, we can open up all the presents!”

“Okay, Daddy! Can I play with my dolls while I wait?”

“Of course, baby, go ahead. Run, run! We won’t be long, I promise!” Yunho shoos the little girl off, watching her bound up the stairs with nothing but fondness in his eyes, and he continues to stare after her even after Hongjoong pushes himself to his feet.

“Talk in private?” Hongjoong asks.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I was going to wait until after gifts and such but… you decided to kiss me right off the bat, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus after that.”

“Are you saying that I’m distracting, Mr. Jeong?”

“In more ways than one, absolutely.” Yunho draws his lips into a tight purse then presses them into a thin line in the same motion. “What do you want us to be, Hongjoong?”

That’s… not the question Hongjoong was expecting.

“I’m content with it being up to you,” he whispers in response.

“If – so if I asked for us to be exclusive, what would you say?” Hongjoong’s heart leaps in his chest.

“Say the word and I’m yours, Yunho.”

“Well, you can’t say things like that. I’ll lose all my inhibitions before noon,” Yunho chuckles, dipping his head to his chest. Hongjoong takes a step closer to him and closes a bit of the distance between their bodies. He lifts a hand in a sudden bout of confidence and cups Yunho’s cheek.

“I want to be yours and only yours. Even if I’m scared of the future and what it holds, I don’t want to lose what we have or what we could have. So if you would have me, I will gladly be yours for as long as you want me.”

“And if I happen to want you forever?”

“Then you’re stuck with me,” Hongjoong murmurs. The undisclosed promises in those words sting a bit, memories of the past threatening to resurface until Yunho chases them away with his next words.

“Do you – do you want me as well?”

“I want you,” he whispers while the confidence still lasts. He delivers a quick kiss to the tip of Yunho’s nose. “I like you—” another to his right cheek “—I need you—” one where his thumb ends and Yunho’s skin begins “—and I’m madly in love with you, Jeong Yunho.”

It’s good that Hongjoong has nothing else to say because Yunho cuts off his air, lips smashing hard against his with an almost bruising force, and Hongjoong could almost cry because of all the emotions built up in his chest. He scrambles to wrap his arms around Yunho’s neck as the other man deepens the kiss. His back curls hard to press himself fully against Yunho. There’s a certain kind of desperation in his body, one that just makes him want to pull Yunho closer and kiss him for hours on end. Even if it’s not their first kiss or their last, Hongjoong cherishes it nonetheless. They only pull apart when every ounce of air has left their bodies and they’re on the verge of blacking out. Yunho gasps for air, huffing in deep breaths stolen from Hongjoong’s exhales, and it’s too close, too intimate, too everything. Hongjoong doesn’t want it to stop even for a second.

“Good because I’m in love with you too, Hongjoong. And I plan to continue loving you for as long as I can.”

He would like to think that there are unspoken promises in those words as well, ones that only the two of them know, but for now, Hongjoong will live in this moment as long as he can without thinking about the past or the future. He has Yunho now, and that's enough for him.

..

a/n: hi wow yes you made it to the end of this fic!! this is officially the longest standalone fic i’ve ever written and god it’s long as hell and took the life out of me but i absolutely adore this fic and am very proud of it and myself for finishing it! i hope you all enjoy as much as i do :c

#kpopscape #kdiarynet #kwritersworldnet #ateez fluff #ateez angst #yunho x hongjoong #hongjoong x yunho #ateez oneshot #ateez ff #ateez fic #ateez fanfic #hongjoong angst #hongjoong fluff #yunho angst #yunho fluff #yunho oneshot #hongjoong oneshot

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “A Mental Thread.”

Hello everyone! I hope you are having a good day. I, as I just learned, got a 5.5 out of 6 on my GRE writing score, which is in like the 98th percentile. You guys may not care, but I had to tell someone! I am so excited.

I guess all this writing paid off. 

Anyway I hope you have a great day!

Conn was afraid.

Fear was not something that the starborn usually experienced on a regular basis, and when he had lived with his own kind emotions had been remote, experienced through the lens of others and the collective consciousness they had shared

But now, alone in his own thoughts and feelings…. He was afraid, an emotion familiar to all species but one that brought itself to a horrible crescendo with his familiarity with humanity, and the way they experienced emotion so poignantly.

He had seen something, he wasn’t sure what.

From the minds of humans, he had come to be familiar with bright flashes of light and loud noises that blind the senses, and he would compare his earlier experience to that, being exposed to such a vast well of….. something , that he was both blinded and deafened to the world around him.

For the second time.

When he awoke he found himself floating in the ship’s infirmary. As a starborn he could not detect the brightness or dimness of light, but only its presence so understanding only the blue of the room around him as he was unable to peer into any thoughts close by. Reaching out with his memory, and trying to latch onto the nearest thing familiar, he finally found his first living being down the hall asleep in their bed. He flicked through their dreams like he was thumbing through a deck of cars.

So colorful, and so confusing, a landscape of single images stitched together into a veneer of reality, though it was simply a scaffold of thought that could be torn down in an instant of the human in question was to simply notice how strange the logic of their dreams were.

But they accepted it and moved forward their minds functioning as if the dream realm was a real place.

He took solace in these strange dreams, not because they were familiar or something he could easily understand, but because they were calming and soft and take, and couldn’t hurt him. Even the humans felt nothing in their own dream despite the frustration of being unable to run without great effort, as if they were moving through water or syrup.

Conn lifted his head and floated gently out into the hallway.

Fear tingled like fire through his limbs, but he was calm, and let the calmness of the sleeping humans seap around and past him. He didn’t really know what he was doing but he followed his fear down a thread and through the ship. No one saw him go, and no one knew that he was awake, most of them still slept and that was alright by him. 

And so he followed a familiar thread to a familiar mind, not sure what he expected to find, but sure that he would find something.

He paused outside the door billowing this way and then that staring inward at the delicate veins of the human brain. He could see it almost as if it were a visual phenomena, the sparking electrical currents of thought that ruptured across the outside of the brain like a net of brightly lit thread.

WIth each spark, he could easily predict the path of the thread and connected it to the wider neural process of thoughts. He couldn’t have pinpointed an exact source or what an exact neuron was doing, there were far too many of them, but he could still sense them there, he could still sense the thoughts and their connection to everything around.

The human brain was a strange and wonderful thing, and for the longest time he had considered it his playground to do with as he would, to dance on those strings of light and pluck at threads of thought like someone plucks at the strong of an instrument.

But now, now he wasn’t so sure.

He really shouldn't have been here, meddling with things that he shouldn’t be meddling with.

But that was hardly his nature, and so he threaded his mind into the shape of a probing needled, and plunged delicately inward.

Funny how the human thought process could be traced to a specific region of the brain.

Images flashed before him melding together with sounds and memories, which rolled over the surface of the brain like great waves on an electrical sea. He watched as decisions were made in the frontal lobe based on those sensations in the occipital lobe and the parietal lobe.

He watched as the movement center of the brain fired despite the paralysis that locked the limbs in place.

He plunged a little bit deeper, felt the veins of emotion, and the welling of fear, he knew that if he stroked long enough at those places, he himself could cause a sense of unease to grow up in the mind of the human, perhaps waking him from his strange and restful slumber, but the last thing he wanted to do was wake the sleeping creature, and so he stole forward like a thief steals through the darkness of a silent building.

He was deep inside now, not entirely sure where he was, memory was such a hard thing to understand, and he sometimes found trouble pinpointing the origin. He knew it was…. Sort of all over the brain, from the brain stem to the cerebrum, though how it all connected was too complicated for him to figure out. Perhaps if he had more time or inclination he would have taken a look, but he didn’t really care,and thought it was best to leave the study of human brains to the humans and other extraterrestrials

If they wanted it, they would have to come and find it themselves. 

As he went he experienced smells and tastes and colors and light and dark. He felt happiness and fear and joy and sadness. All in one moment he could have rent the air with a scream or his heart might have burst out of his chest in joy. Either he was floating on a cloud or he was descending into the budapest depths of depraved sadness from which it felt that he could not crawl.

But it all passed as he pressed deeper and deeper into the human’s unconscious mind, searing and searching, sifting through folds and memories, trying to find…. What?

What was he trying to find.

He thought he had searched everything here, but he knew that could not be the case.

He knew he had gone to far when he made his way down and ran headlong into the brain stem. It was strange to think that there were parts of a human body they did not have active control over. For a moment he sat, watching as the brain ignited the beating of the heart and the slow expanding and contracting of the lungs. He felt as the brain initiated digestion through the lower body, and even felt in his own limbs as blood pulsed through the human's fingers. No, he did not think he would find it here.

Whatever he was looking for was… somewhere in the unconscious, he was sure of that, but where?

Memory perhaps.

But memory was such a large palace? The human mind, and even his own held onto so much that to look through it all would have taken a lifetime. But what kind of memory was he looking for anyway.

He pushed to think, and then delved further.

He saw airplanes and vast open sky. He saw faces and people and heard little snatches of conversation like you might walking down a hall past open doorways. Again he felt the welling of emotions rolling over him like waves in a sea, though he ignored them for the mostpart. He could almost visualise the human’s stored memories as if he was walking down a very long hallway that grew darker and darker the longer he went, and the closer they got towards the end the more fleeing and confused the memories became until thy were nothing more than shadows and flickered memories of color and light, but still…. There seemed to be something beyond. 

WIth trepidation, he continued his way down the proverbial hallway, until he had made his way towards the end and finally stopped just before the widening blackness.

There was nothing here

Nothing here but a single hair-thin thread that ran back into the darkness.

He looked at that thread, looked away and then slowly began to back his way out of the human’s mind. He did not want to follow that thread, did not want to know where it might lead. A horrible feeling was welling up inside him, and he was not interested in finding out despite his general proclivity towards getting himself into other people’s business.

He continued to back away until he found himself back inside his own head sitting there staring at the net of electricity that crisscrossed the human’s brain. And from there he turned musingly, away from the sleeping figure and back towards the rest of the ship. 

He had to know.

Conn had to know that it wasn’t just a fluke, but wasn’t sure what it would mean if he did discover it.

He needed another human.

And he found that human lying flat on his back in one of the shared rooms, mouth open and drooling rather theatrically. Conn almost wondered if he was pretending to be asleep, but upon seeing the activity of his brain he knew it wasn’t faking. 

He picked this human specifically because of his straightforward he was. He wasn’t confused, he wasn’t complicated, and he wasn’t holding some deep dark secret -- Conn knew he had already checked.

So he leaned forward and into it driving down through his thoughts and emotions until he reached the haway of memory. It was just like before, in the same general place. Stepping inside he could hear the sound of laughter, see faces, and heard the sharp cutting of metal over ice. Spotlights danced in the distance, and music played from somewhere unknown.

And there he went down the years, listening to the strange babble of human language, two of them overlapping and conjoining in this human’s mind. He could see the darkness at the end of the hallway and paused. What did he expect to find there? That same strange thread that led into nothing?

Did he expect to meet something other than himself wandering the maze-like hallways of the human head.

He wasn’t entirely sure.

A pat of him wanted to turn back, but he kept moving forward, watching flickering lights. Someone was singing happy birthday in the background, and he watched a little flame flick over a cake before he passed by. The next few memories were fleeing, and based on their edges he could see that they were slowly beginning to decay, as if the darkness was reaching up to grab it.

And there he stopped.

At first he sensed nothing, just the flat blackness where memory terminated into a vast void, and he was relieved, but then, not moments later he saw it. A silver thread of light so delicate it might have been a hair cut in half, but it was there, and as he stared at it, he could see where it vanished into the blackness.

He stepped away.

This was…. Something strange, something…. Wrong

Did all the humans have these.

He turned and fled from the marine’s brain, and down the hall to where Dr. Katie slept. He didn’t even bother going slowly, but plunged into her mind rolling with facts and figures as she slept. In her memories he passed by medical school, and high school, and her childhood until he drew to a skidding stop just before the blackness, where he found the same razor thin thread.

What did this mean? Where did it go.

He might have followed but he was too afraid with what he might find to look. He backed out and found himself floating in a dead and silent hallway surrounded on all sides by the blazing inner life of sleeping humans. 

He shrunk back not sure what he was fleeing from but backpedalled until a door opened at his back and he slipped inside.

He stared at the door waiting and listening.

“Conn, is everything alright.”

He turned on the spot freezing in palace as he saw the human staring at him from behind his desk, face awash with delicate yellow light from the lamp by his side. Dr. Adric sat, hands crossed in front of him, pen resting on the desk beside him.

Conn went to back away, but ended up bumping into the wall.

Dr Adric didn’t move

Conn could see that the man could sense his fear, as easy as sunlight on a cloudless day.

“Is this about what happened last week Conn, you've been asleep for a while now. Perhaps I should call Dr. krill.”

“No.”

Conn’s own mechanical voice was rather strange as heard through the doctor’s head. Conn couldn’t hear in the traditional sense, but had to read it through the minds of others. The translation gloves on his hands lit up with his response and then went dark again.

Dr Adric paused, tilted his head, frowned, “I’d ask you to sit down, but thats not really something you do, is it?.”

Looking into the man’s head Conn cut him off, “I’m not a human, your psychology won’t ork on me.”

Adric smiled, “I have trained in alien psychological crisis prevention as well, but I am sure talking to me for a few minutes won’t hurt.”

 Conn stared, and doctor Adric stared back 

Usually , Conn wouldn’t have said anything  preferring to keep his secrets, just that, secret.

But he was too confused and too frightened to continue like this, so he floated closer to the human, knowing that, somewhere deep inside, it was holding some sort of secret.

“Something is wrong with you.”

Dr Adric frowned, “Me personally or-”

“No, all of you humans, ever last one of you. I can see it. Hiding something inside your heads just past the barrier of memory. There is something in there.”

Dr Adric leaned back in his seat and frowned, “What makes you say that.”

“Because I looked.”

Dr Adric frowned, “I knew that you looked into people’s heads, but I didn’t know that you dug that deep.”

“Your moral outrage does not interest me Dr. Adric. I want to know what I saw. Past the barrier of memory, I saw a thread leading into blackness. I do not know where it went and I do not wish to go looking.’

Dr Adric frowned, and crossed his hands, “I assure you Conn that I do not know what you are talking about. Memory is a strange thing for humans, every time we recall a memory that memory is changed and corrupted by our current mood, or even other memories that we recall it with. None of our memories are perfect representations of what happened. They degrade and fall apart over time, and sometimes they change to be completely different from the actual events. Unlike you, I am unable to walk my way down a hallway of memory, I can only recall the memory into my conscious mind and then send it back to be recorded into memory. I cannot visit the areas of the brain like you can.”

He paused and chuckled suddenly, “Isn’t that funny though.”

“What’s funny.” Conn demanded.

“Perhaps you have finally found the palace where the soul connects to the brain.” He began to laugh, a bright smile spilling across his face. Upon seeing conn staring at him, he waved a hand, “Sorry, it was a joke for psychologists and philosophers. For thousands of years humans have been looking for the exact location in the body where the soul meets the brain, all nonsense of course. I personally don’t believe in the soul, unless you can equate it to consciousness, but in that case we are nothing more than a net of electrical signals running along a bowl of fat and grey matter.” he leaned forward in his seat, “I encourage you to stop digging into people’s minds if you would, and perhaps you might find yourself more relaxed.”

Conn disagreed greatly, but the human didn’t have to know that.

He sat floating at the center of the room, staring at the man as he glanced back at his work, dark brown gold eyes flicking over the holoprojection below him.

How strange, nothing SEEMED sinister about him, at least not from here.

But perhaps he was the only one who could see it.

Humans.

It was always the humans.

Perhaps it was just these humans, but for some reason he doubted it.

Something was gong on here, and he was too afraid to find out what.

[kinktae]

flesh and blood || (M)

You are living in a society that is just now picking up the scraps that the Great Outbreak left behind after the government killed off the majority of the zombies. Still, some remain, and fear still lies within society’s walls. So imagine your surprise when the very thing you’ve been taught to fear ends up saving your life, showing you that maybe two beating hearts aren't always required when it comes to love.

pairing: zombie!jungkook x reader

word count: 6k

genre: post-apocalyptic, sci-fi, smut

warnings: guns, a semi spooky scene, crack plot written seriously, zombie jk falling for Y/N, part 2 will have smut

A/N: inspired by warm bodies and the fact that I'm a legitimate crackhead. Happy Halloween!

01 | 02 | 03

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

PART ONE 

❝ Breaking News! A group of Walkers has been discovered hiding in the ruins of a Pre-Break Out industrial zone. A conference was held in City Hall where a representative of the DEAD Team said this in regards to the situation…❞

"Ugh, turn it down Junny," You grumbled, tugging your blanket over your head in hopes to null out the sound of the overly enthusiastic broadcaster on the television, "I'm trying to nap here."

"No way! Dad, did you hear? They found a family of zombies in our town!" Your younger brother enthused, wide eyes glued to the glass screen of the TV. He was sat beside your feet on the couch you laid on and you fought the urge to kick him off the furniture.

Your mother and father walked into the room shortly after, Junny's yells summoning their attention.

Rolling over, you sat up to see your dad standing behind the couch, arms crossed over his chest as he offered the screen his undivided attention.

Though the worst times of the Great Outbreak were now thought to be over – there hadn't been a reported zombie attack in years – the fear still lingered. You were just an infant when the zombie infestation was at its worst so perhaps that fear never had the chance to sink its filthy claws into you but you weren’t naive to the way the rest of the world still trembled.

Your father’s expression was solemn and impenetrable; if it weren’t for the way his eyes always gave away what he was truly feeling, you wouldn’t have a clue that he was upset. Glimmering behind his pupils were flashes of anger and consternation, along with memories of a story you had yet to hear.

Two decades ago, your father, along with many other young men and women, had volunteered to team up with the government to help contain the outbreak, hunting down and capturing zombies so they could be whisked off to a facility where they were killed in quarantine.

While the cause of the breakout seemed to be agreed upon, there was still much about the walking dead that remained a mystery to the general public.

Decades before the Great Outbreak, an experimental drug by the name of Immortuos had been growing in popularity. It was said to do anything from alleviating chronic pain to ridding the body of illness altogether. Ten years after its introduction, Immortuos had been administered to millions around the world. As time went on, however, the drug began to show signs of short term effectiveness; within a couple of years, symptoms of the illnesses it was meant to cure began to show up in individuals once again.

Immortuos was quickly discontinued and sent back into research, leaving scientists scratching their heads as they tried to figure out where they went wrong.

And so life went on; people, old and young, continued to live and die as they did before. However, years after the drug's discontinuation, a story broke out of a mortuary that came to life in the middle of the night in a rural town in Spain. And that was how the outbreak began, millions of corpses everywhere suddenly resurrecting. Published reports of zombie autopsies found that consciousness and motor functioning had returned despite the fact that the circulatory system had never revived, leaving the bodies without blood or oxygen. Not fully dead but not fully alive either. A sort of undead. And sure enough, a direct link to the use of the drug and resurrection was discovered.

Your father rarely spoke of that time; not that you ever had bothered to ask about it. It was unsettling to think he was ever one of the people hunting down zombies.

"Does this mean I don't have to go to school tomorrow?" Junny grinned boyishly, looking up at your mother.

"Nice try, Junseo. You're going." Your mother dismissed without a blink of an eye. You chuckled at the way your little brother scowled at her words.

On the screen was a recording of what you assumed must have been the conference held in City Hall. There was a man dressed in the DEAD Team uniform speaking into a microphone from behind a podium. You focused on the screen ahead, tuning out the chattering of your family as you listened to his words.

❝ Citizens of this town can rest assured that the Walkers in question were apprehended and sent off to our termination facility. We can't stress enough how crucial it is that you continue to send in reports of possible zombie sightings. Even if it's a false alarm, the risk isn't worth taking. Remember to not engage with the undead as they will attack unprovoked. These creatures don't care who you are or what you do, to them you are nothing more than their next meal.❞

A frown found your face at the officer's words. There hadn't been a zombie attack in years. It was hard to believe that zombies were truly insatiable, will stop at nothing, blood-lusting monsters.

"I thought we got rid of them all." Junny sighed.

"Most of them." Your father explained dully. "There are a few still lingering around."

"I still don't understand why we have to wait for the DEAD Team to take them out. If I run into one on my way to the market, I want to be able to protect myself right then and there." Your mother huffed suddenly, turning away from the TV.

She had always been a formidable woman– strong and independent. You had a feeling that if she hadn’t been tied down by a newborn child, she would've been there fighting alongside your father during the Great Outbreak.

Your father let out a sigh, "We don't want whatever is inside them possibly infecting normal civilians. That's why they have to be put down in quarantine."

“Whatever. I’m just glad we're almost completely rid of those bastards.” Your mother sighed, ruffling the hair on top of your brother's head.

Your eyebrows furrowed, unable to hide your distaste for any longer.

"And we say they are the monsters..." You muttered quietly.

Immediately, all eyes were on you.

"Excuse me? What was that?" Your mother cautioned.

You held her stare unabashedly, clearly having no intention to take back your words. Junseo's eyes flickered among the two of you, knowing the nature of the conversation that was soon to come. As much as you complained about how stubborn your mother was, he knew that you had inherited the very trait you resented.

"How can sit there and wish death on all those innocent people?"

"Y/N, this again?" Your mother let out an exasperated noise.

Your eyes grew wide with defiance, "Yes, this again. It doesn’t matter if they were once dead, they are still people! We have massacred millions and I don't understand how you all don’t so much as bat an eye at the thought of it."

At your words, your mother let out a bitter laugh, head shaking in disbelief.

"And what about the people those crimson heads have killed? What about the chaos and lives sacrificed to protect us from them?" Your mother retorted.

You scoffed, eyes rolling in unwavering disobedience.

“Did we even try to help them? To understand them?”

"You didn't live through the outbreak like your father and I did. You were just a baby. There are things you don't know, Y/N." She pressed angrily, doing nothing to sway your stance.

"What if it was me?" You challenged coldly. "What if I had died and came back to life? Would your first instinct be to put a bullet through my head? Those people had families!"

"Cut the bullshit, Y/N. They're not people, they’re rotting corpses that can walk and it’s about damn time you realized that.”

It was at this point that your father had decided to step in, placing a hand on your shoulder as he stopped you from arguing further.

"That's enough. The both of you. Arguing is a waste of time. We should be grateful for one another. We're a family and we're all together. Not everyone who survived the outbreak can say the same." His tone was matter-of-fact but not cold in the way your mother's had been.

Looking up at him, his cautious eyes met your ardent ones. They were laced in a plea for you to stop... to understand.

Pressing your lips together, you nodded begrudgingly. Your dad was right. Arguing with your mother was a waste of time. It wasn't as if anything you said would get through to her anyway.

Pushing the blanket off your body, you swung your legs back over to the floor, hand reaching out for your bag that was sitting against the coffee table.

"Where are you going?" Your father asked, eyeing you as you got up and hauled the bag over your shoulder.

"Home. Joon is probably waiting up for me." You told him disinterestedly, causing your mother to sigh.

Namjoon was your best friend and roommate, and while he was definitely still up, you highly doubted it was for your sake. If you knew your best friend, he was sprawled on the couch, his work spread out across the coffee table as one of those old, black and white shows about people living on a prairie played in the background. Your mother didn't need to know that, of course.

"Y/N, don't be ridiculous. It's already dark out, just spend the night." She pleaded.

"Night, Junny." You ignored her, turning towards your brother with a smile.

"Night!"

As you pushed past your parents and made your way out of the room, you could hear as they began to whisper to each other. You fought the urge to roll your eyes. 

You always hated it when they did that. As if you weren’t adult enough to join in on conversations that were obviously about you. It was if this whole world was constantly shouting a million and one rules at you – don’t do that, don’t question this, don’t go here – but the second you asked for an explanation as to why you should listen, all the yelling fell to a whisper, as if to let you know that words were being said but that you were purposely excluded from that knowledge.

That thought weighed heavily on your mind as you reached the deadbolted front door. The sound of you prying it’s five locks open hid the approaching footsteps of your father walking up behind you.

"Y/N."

The pop of the final lock accompanied your silent sigh, turning to face your awaiting parent.

"Yeah?"

"Your mother and I want you to take the bus home tonight. We know you usually take that shortcut by the factory plant because it's quicker but that area isn't safe. Especially not now with the recent sighting."

"Sure." You lied, simply because you knew it was what he would want to hear.

"And tie your hair up before you go out. It gives you a–"

"–maximum visual field, yeah I know. Teachers have been drilling that into us since elementary school, dad." You countered easily.

Your father nodded back at you.

"And Y/N," he continued, "she's harsh but... your mother is right when she says there is a lot of things you don't know."

You bit down on the inside of your cheek, unsure of what to reply. Suddenly, your father's hand found your cheek, cupping your face affectionately as he silently thought something over.

"There's something I want to give you before you go. Wait right here."

Your eyebrows arched in surprise as he left you suddenly, returning shortly with a small, folded blanket in his hands.

"If anything – anyone – threatens you, you protect yourself. Okay?" He spoke solemnly, starting to unwrap the bundle of fabric.

"Yeah, of course." You nodded, mildly confused.

Your face fell as the dull silver of a revolver revealed itself as the object hidden in between the blanket. You always knew your father kept a decent amount of self-defense weapons in the house, a consequence of his involvement during the Great Outbreak, but this was the first time he had ever shown you one. The only other time you had come into contact with one was an accident, stumbling upon a gun mounted under your father's desk during a juvenile game of hide-and-seek. Perhaps in another life, you would have been disturbed by the discovery, but all children of the apocalypse such as yourself were taught about guns and weapon safety by the time they had learned to count so you weren't particularly fazed.

“Just in case.” Your father pulled you from your memories, his lips pressed tight.

You eyed the deadly weapon for a moment, your stomach churning at the idea of ever having to fire such a device. Hesitantly, you grabbed it, hand wobbling slightly at the newfound weight. Wordlessly, you unzipped your backpack and hid the gun away, tucking the three bullets that laid beside it into your front pocket.

You forced the sides of your mouth to tilt up disingenuously, offering him a somber word of gratitude before slipping out of the house with a faint goodbye.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Kicking at a piece of rubber, you watched as it skipped ahead, tumbling down the cracked cement of the road you traveled on. Your hair swayed behind you as you walked; you had thrown it up, not solely because of your father’s warning but simply because it felt strange not to. Like putting sneakers on without socks. In this world, stepping outside meant being vigilant and on high alert.

Naturally, you had disregarded your parents’ wish for you to take the bus home. Something that had emerged along the chaos and fear that probably wasn't initially considered was the sudden need for safe transportation. Transport industries quickly used this to their advantage, the costs of public and private transportation skyrocketing tenfold as a result. While most deemed it a necessary evil, you refused to pay for a twenty-dollar bus ride that would only take you ten minutes on foot.

And it wasn’t as if the area you were passing through was particularly unsafe. It was an industrial zone, empty and abandoned for as long as you could remember. During the peak of the apocalypse, factories and warehouses like the ones you were currently passing got raided for supplies. It wasn’t nearly as awful as it was made out to be, productivity had ceased anyway. Workers were too busy preparing themselves and their families against the army of undead to worry about showing up to work on time.

Crash!

Your stride came to a halt, one of your bag straps falling off your shoulder as you quickly whirled around to face where the loud sound had come from.

Brows furrowed, you peered through the holes in the wire fence that separated you and the property. You managed to make out a silhouette by the corner of a busted down door.

“Hello?” You called out warily.

The shadow quickly darted from view.

“Hey! You’re not supposed to be there.”

Letting your gaze return back to the fence, you found a sizeable hole not too far off from where you stood. More telling than the hole, however, were the two torn up candy wrappers lying underneath it. All at once, you realized what exactly you were dealing with.

Runaway teens were an increasing problem in your city; many of them seemingly fed up with the strict rules and regulations that arose as a consequence of the Great Outbreak. As much as you sympathized with them, a dirty abandoned factory was no place for a child.

You slipped past the fence, mind made up to get whoever was inside out and back to safety. Trudging your way through the rubble and waste, you headed towards the building’s entrance, noting the trail of candy wrappers that lead to it.

Peering inside the building, you were met with a slow-moving cloud of dust that had yet to settle down– it appeared as if a part of the ceiling had collapsed which explained the loud noise you heard earlier.

“You can come out, okay? You’re not in any trouble, I promise.”

It was dark inside, the only light source coming from the street lamps that lined the road you once stood on, their cold luminescence pushing through the broken shards of the factory’s windows.

You pushed further into the ill-lit building. There were all sorts of machines and garbage inside; the tile floor was layered with dirt, clearly accumulated through the years of trespassers coming in and out.

Spotting another silver candy wrapper, you headed down a hallway, pushing past a heavy steel door.

You let yourself take a moment to take in the room ahead of you. It must have been the more corporate side of the company, you deducted, as rows of filing cabinets lined the room, papers and ransacked charts spread across the floor. There was an eeriness to the building, you quickly realized. It was somewhat unsettling feeling to see something that once must have been the pinnacle of structure and organization in such an utter state of chaos. The room was quiet enough that if you just focused hard enough, you could imagine what it once looked like, all clean and pristine as employees walked through and went about their day.

You pushed down your uneasiness, eyes straining to guide you through the windowless room.

A rustle of fabric caught your attention and you quickly rounded about a large shelf in order to reach the child.

“Are you hurt? I heard those ceiling tiles fall–”

You let your words fall flat.

A tall silhouette stood against the wall, nothing like the stature of a small adolescent like you had been anticipating. The hair on your body rose as the sound of ragged, strained breaths fell from the dark figure ahead of you.

It took a step forward, body swaying unnaturally.

Every hair on your body stood on end, jaw falling slack as reality dawned on you.

You could hear the voice of your elementary school teacher in your head suddenly, remembering the lecture she had given you and your rowdy class on what to do in case of a zombie attack. How little attention you had paid back then, giggling over something Namjoon had whispered in your ear. Yet as you stood there in front of the exact thing you had been taught to fear, you could recall every single word, playing over in your head like a mantra stuck on loop.

Don’t make any sudden noises.

It was as if every nerve ending in your body grew cold, your feet felt impossibly heavy as fear paralyzed you, watching with wide eyes as the dark figure crept closer and closer.

Look for the nearest exit.

A panicked exhale fell from you as it's dull eyes locked onto yours. The shadow covered creature let out a noise of its own: deep, guttural and utterly inhuman.

And run.

You nearly lost your footing as you launched yourself into a sprint, not even thinking to head back the way you came in, mind blinded with white-hot panic. The cracked walls of the building echoed your frenzied steps, like a cruel game of hide-and-seek where no matter where you hid, you would be found.

Shoving past a stack of empty cardboard boxes, you found yourself in an unfamiliar storage room. Scanning the room hurriedly, your eyes fell onto a door on the other side and you quickly made your way over to it.

"Dammit!" You seethed, yanking at the handle as you realized the door you had reached was locked.

Jaw clenched, you turned back around to exit the room when your father’s words unexpectedly crossed your mind.

"If anything – anyone – threatens you, you protect yourself. Okay?"

And so you reached over a shoulder for your bag, eyes flicking between it and the room ahead of you as you picked yourself back up into a jog.

Tugging the zipper aside, you cursed at the jumbled sight of your bag’s contents. You had placed the gun on top but it must have sunk to the bottom during your travels.

You stuck your hand in further, looking to feel the cool metal brush against your fingertips.

Then, everything went dark, a low ringing finding your ears as you stumbled back, completely thrown off balance. You let out a yelp of pain and clutched your head, vision blurry and doubled.

You hissed, disoriented and confused as you had run headfirst into a large filing cabinet, too occupied with finding the gun to pay attention to where you were running. You struggled to keep yourself on solid ground, too ailed to notice the way that very cabinet had lost its footing and now teetered dangerously, seconds from crashing down onto you.

Suddenly, something seized both your arms, yanking you back as the heavy hunk of metal came crashing onto the ground.

You winced at the sound, before realizing that you had been grabbed by someone. One panicked glance over your shoulder confirmed your fears and a scream ripped through you, thrashing in the zombie's grip. To your surprise, you were released immediately, falling to your knees momentarily as you scrambled forward and away from your captor. Your escape was halted by a wall, however, forced to stop and press your back to it, eyes wide as you kept them locked on the zombie boy across from you.

His skin was a pale-ish blue, unlike any color you had seen before, his hair coarse and unkempt, nearly shielding his eyes from view. But still, you saw them: peering through his dark strands and guarded by the bruises that stained the skin around them as if he hadn't slept in ages. Shallow breaths fell through his pale lips, tinted purple from the lack of blood running through him.

“You just... You just saved me.” You marveled.

The zombie stood in front of you wordlessly, shoulders slumped forwards as his head tilted.

You knew there was a high chance he had no clue what you were saying, but frankly, you were too stunned to care. Here you were, somewhere in an abandoned factory in the middle of the night accompanied by the very thing you were raised to fear... and he had pulled you away from a falling metal cabinet.

You held his eyes. They were glossy and unmoving– lifeless almost. You shook your head; your heart had settled back into its chest, your breathing finally evening out. What coursed through you was no longer dread but an insatiable need to understand.

What did he want?

Why would he save you?

How did he get here?

The zombie let out a grunt suddenly as if it was meant as a goodbye before he turned around, beginning to leave.

“Wait!” You called out after him, putting your existential crisis on pause.

To your surprise, he turned back around immediately, facing you with unmistakable attentiveness. Did he... understand you?

“You… Today on the news... That was your family, wasn’t it?" You guessed, purely on a whim.

The zombie said nothing but you thought you saw a wave of something akin to melancholy wash over his face. No words were exchanged but your gut told you that you were right nonetheless.

“They'll be looking for you. You’ll be caught if you stay here.” You continued, swallowing down your nerves. You still weren't sure if the zombie boy could even understand you after all.

Placing a hand against the paint chipped wall, you helped yourself back up, inhaling sharply as your head throbbed. You took a cautious step toward him, hands trembling but stance steadfast.

Extending your palm forward, you offered your hand towards him, newfound determination coursing through you as the zombie boy's eyes followed the gesture curiously.

“You saved my life." You acknowledged with a nod. "Now let me save yours.”

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

"Shh! Quietly, come in." You whispered, gesturing for the hoodied zombie to follow you into your apartment.

This zombie, as you had come to find out, was particularly agreeable. While he didn't seem to actually understand your language per se, he did seem to respond particularly well to gestures and body language, which was how you had somehow managed to wrangle him into your apartment, his dirty red hoodie thrown over his head to cover his face in case you ran into another human.

The undead man's eyes grew wide, taking in the inside space of your apartment with wonder. You could only imagine it must have been an upgrade from the gloomy factory he had been hiding out in. Reaching the kitchen, you froze at the sound of the TV on and playing from your living room.

Shit. Namjoon.

"Y/N, is that you?" Your roommate called out from the couch, hearing the shuffle of your steps.

You cursed internally. On your way home, you hadn't given much thought to exactly how you were going to hide your new zombie friend from your living one. You weren't thinking much at all honestly, too concerned with getting home unseen to worry about anything else.

Turning towards the zombie boy, you extended your hand in front of you in a gesture that ordered him to stay put. He stared at it, eyebrows moving towards one another.

"Stay." You directed quietly, before turning the other way.

"Yeah." You called out, placing your bag on your kitchen counter before heading towards the living room.

"Thought you were spending the night at your family's place?" Namjoon pondered, turning over to look at you as you entered the space.

"Changed my mind." You shrugged, trying your hardest to appear nonchalant, despite the way your heart clamored against your chest. "Didn't think you'd be up this late."

Your bespeckled best friend let out a sigh, dropping whatever file he was studying back onto the coffee table.

"Yeah, I guess I lost track of the time." He mused, glancing at his wristwatch. You nodded nervously, opening your mouth to suggest that perhaps he should head to bed now when Namjoon cut you off suddenly.

“Holy fuck!” He shot up from his seat, eyes set behind you as a terrified expression fell over him. You whipped around, heart falling into your ass.

Oh shit.

"No! Bad zombie! I told you to stay!" You scolded him. He was now standing behind you, having had abandoned his post in the kitchen. He looked as unbothered as ever, his hands tucked into his hoodie as he casually looked the two humans over.

"What the fuck?!" Namjoon cried.

“I can explain.” You turned towards the panicking boy calmly.

Immediately, Namjoon jumped into action, scrambling to crouch behind the couch as if to put a physical barrier between him and the zombie.

"You– Y/N, tell me that's just a guy wearing zombie makeup. Tell me that is not a zombie standing in our living room. Say sike right fucking now!”  Namjoon squawked, his voice pitched high.

You grimaced, looking over at the indifferent zombie before looking back at your roommate.

“Just hear me out for one second–”

“Are you insane?!" Namjoon shrieked, standing up in anger before realizing he had exposed himself and quickly ducking back down. "I’m not gonna listen to you! You brought a zombie into our house– oh god. He bit you, didn't he? You're probably turning as we speak!”

You rolled your eyes, realizing that Namjoon wasn't calming down anytime soon.

“My best friend is a zombie... this is like some horrible Disney Channel movie coming to life!” He rambled on nervously, running a hand through his hair in despair.

“For fuck’s sake Namjoon, I’m not a zombie! Besides, you know getting bit doesn't turn people– that was disproved ages ago.” You scoffed, glancing over at the zombie man who still seemed uninterested despite the scene your best friend was making.

“Well excuse me if I don’t have the logistics of zombie contagion down! It doesn't change the fact that you brought a flesh-eating monster into our home, you psychopath!”

You frowned at your best friend’s tone.

“If he was a flesh-eating monster, then wouldn’t we be dead by now?” You stated matter-of-factly, hand on your hip.

“Exactly— wait.” Namjoon blinked, poking his head out from behind the couch. He frowned, glancing over at the zombie. “Hold on a minute. Why is he just standing there?"

Hesitantly, your best friend stood up from the couch altogether, "I thought zombies jumped at the chance of eating people?”

“Yes, well, for whatever reason, this one doesn’t.” You told him with a shrug. You had thought the same thing when you first came across your new undead friend.

You watched as the familiar flame of curiosity spark behind Namjoon’s eyes. Slowly, he inched his way over to the two of you, hands in front of him as if to shield himself until he was just inches away from the resurrected man.

For a few moments, it was silent, your best friend and the zombie running their eyes over one another as they each decided what to make of each other.

To your surprise, Namjoon's hand reached over and positioned itself onto the zombie's neck, pointer and middle finger pulled together as he checked for a pulse.

“Fascinating…” Namjoon murmured inquisitively as he concluded that the stranger was indeed dead.

Your shoulders, which had been locked up tensely as the two men interacted, dropped immediately, realizing that Namjoon's initial panic had subsided and been replaced with interest. It was in his nature to be fascinated with the things that scared and repulsed most, of course. He was studying to become a biomedical scientist after all.

Despite his cowardliness, Namjoon was actually quite fearless when it came to his work; he was extremely intelligent and had a natural knack for research and investigative methods. You could only hope that the prospect of having a real-life zombie to study from would outweigh any moral duty he felt to report you to the police.

“You know how illegal this is right?” He said sternly, much calmer than he initially was.

"He saved my life, Joon." You explained. "I don't know why but... I couldn't just leave him behind. Especially not with the DEAD Team on high alert with the recent sightings. They'd kill him if they found him."

Namjoon turned away from the zombie, sighing as he met your eyes.

"Well... maybe they should."

You frowned, "Joon–"

"I mean think about what it stands for in the first place: Designated Eradication And Decimation. An entire team was put together solely to get rid of these guys. Surely, there’s a reason why. The government wouldn't put a group together like that if zombies didn't pose a threat to humankind, right?”

Your brows furrowed, finding a fair point in Namjoon's words. Yet, as you turned to look at the zombie and found him placidly watching the television, you couldn’t find it within yourself to agree.

Suddenly, you were in front of your best friend, taking his hands into yours as you put on a sorrowful expression.

"Please don't turn him in!" You begged, your bottom lip jutting out. "I know what I'm asking is a lot but I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important. There’s no one else in this world I could trust to help me with this.”

Namjoon's eyes went wide, yanking his hands from between yours. He twisted his head away from your pleading eyes, cheeks tinted pink.

"Ah, jeez, Y/N. Turning him would mean turning you in for housing him in the first place. Just because you don't give a shit about your wellbeing, doesn't mean I don't. God, you really are an idiot."

You let out a grateful squeal, wrapping your arms around your best friend, "Thank you, thank you! I knew I could always count on you."

The scientist froze in your embrace before letting out a sigh, patting your back begrudgingly as he muttered words of dismissal, neither you nor him noticing the way the zombie was now watching you two in interest, a curious expression on his face.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

"It's okay... It's just water. It won't hurt you." You promised, hand gesturing towards you as you urged the zombie man to come closer.

You were standing in the shower, clothes dampening as the running water hit your body. Namjoon was stood with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the bathroom's door frame. He had insisted on standing guard in case the walker suddenly decided that he was, in fact, hungry and went ahead and tried to have you for dinner.

The zombie watched dubiously as you beckoned him forward but if he had objections he didn't bother to voice them as he stepped into the shower after you.

"Good. Look, that feels nice, doesn't it?" You reasoned, leading his hand under the stream of water. The unnamed zombie watched as his hand grew blurry, the running water bouncing against it. The dirt that clung to his skin slowly dissipated, falling onto the ceramic tub and running down the drain.

Placing a hand against the shower wall, you maneuvered yourself around him so that he could stand under the showerhead. The zombie hardly noticed the swap in positions, however, too enthralled with the feeling of water against his hand.

"Here, now why don't you try standing under it–" You had placed your hands against his back, nudging him closer to the stream when he let out a noise of panic, whirling around to rush over to the opposite side of the shower, pressing you back into the shower wall in the process.

"Y/N!" Namjoon called out, moving forward.

"I'm okay!" You reassured immediately, pausing your best friend's motions. The dead man had both hands held against the wall, trapping you on either side.

Bringing your hands up, you placed them onto his chest, trying your hardest to ignore how empty it felt. Pushing him back, you let out a breath. Truth be told, his quick actions had startled you. As much as you wanted to believe that he was different, the truth was that you didn't know for certain if he wasn't everything the media told you he was. 

He was looking down at you, uncertainly laced across his face.

It was the first time you had gotten a chance to truly look at him this close. From here, it was easy to see how he was once human. He had pretty features– unquestionably, he would have been an attractive man when he was alive.

Something you hadn’t noticed before were the faint, blue veins that crawled up his neck and cheeks; markers of the Immortous drug that once ran through his bloodstream. Taking note of the dried patch of blood on his cheek, you pulled your wet sleeve over your hand before reaching up to gently rub against his stained skin.

"I promise I'm not going to hurt you. I’m just trying to clean you up, okay?" You assured him with an encouraging nod.

To your surprise, the hand that had been stroking his cheek was suddenly stilled, his large palm loosely covering yours. He kept it there, not as to tell you to stop but as if to show his gratitude– or at least that was what you told yourself. It was a simple gesture, but it gave you pause before a soft smile fell over you.

Leading him back, the two of you eventually found the water that rained down from the large shower head. You watched as the zombie flinched, face scrunching up as the water began to fall down the back of his head.

"Come help me get his clothes off." You called to Namjoon, and so the undressing began.

The zombie stood silently as he was left in nothing but his jeans, not understanding what was being said around him, but knowing that he was not in danger here. The taller of his two new companions, the man, rubbed a strange substance into his uncombed hair as you rubbed as his arms, a frothy, pleasant smelling matter coating his skin.

Water dripped from his bangs and ran down his face, some of it seeping into his eyes. It stung them slightly, and the zombie wondered if whatever the tall man had put into his hair was to blame. He thought to close his eyes to put a stop to the irritation but for whatever reason, he opted to keep them open for a bit longer just so he could watch you. Your hair was weighed down with the water that was bouncing off of him and onto you, face set seriously as you focused on whatever it was you were doing.

Your hands were warm, much like the water raining down his back, but still different somehow. They were more firm, and somehow more soothing. You were washing at his chest when you finally took notice of your spectator, feeling the zombie's eyes on you. Peering up at him, you laughed nervously, flashing him a small grin.

No, he decided. 

He didn’t want to close his eyes.

#bts smut #jeon jungkook #bts jungkook #jungkook smut #bts #bangtan #bts reactions #bts preferences #taehyung smut #namjoon smut #Seokjin smut #hoseok smut #yoongi smut #jimin smut #kim taehyung #kim seokjin #kim namjoon #min yoongi #park jimin #jung hoseok #bts taehyung #bts jimin #bts jhope #bts namjoon #bts hoseok #bts yoongi #bts suga #bts hobi

[nanowrimo]

Worldbuilding Simplified

Whether you want to create a cyberpunk wasteland or an underwater dynasty, worldbuilding is many people’s favorite part of writing. It can also be be one of the most confusing parts of drafting a novel! Luckily Wrimo Melody Momper is here to save the day by sharing with us advice on creating a simple world building plan:

I'm going to give you the keyword for worldbuilding in two easy steps: Plantsing. 

Stop! Don’t run! 

Yes, I am talking to you, my dear Planners and Pantsers. I know you seem to live by a strict law of being one thing or the other, but you came here for answers, and I have them. The very thing that makes the two methods great and unique is going to be what saves you from the long painful process of worldbuilding. 

So let's get down to the nitty-gritty... 

1. Have a general concept or idea of your world before you start writing.

This part may come as a relief to our planners and perhaps a bit of a nightmare to our Pantsers. To that effect, I want to clarify that this part can be as detailed as little or as much as you want. 

I want you to focus on what flashed into your head the moment you first came up with your story. What details did you attribute to it and what made you excited to write this story? Was it the setting, a character, a mythological background, or perhaps a festival? 

Once you have identified all of these elements, I want you to take them and write them all down on a piece of paper. Let these concepts become the stepping stones of what your world is about to become. For a Planner, these are the elements you will look to as you outline and begin your first draft. For a Pantser, this is the list you have next to you as you write in a beautifully spontaneous freestyle. 

Having an understanding of what made you want to write your story to begin with will come in handy as you go into the second step. It will also be your support when you start to doubt your work. 

2. Write and develop detail as you go!

Writing the details of your world tends to be where most writers find themselves spiraling into the pit of invented languages, detailed map sketches, ecosystem  breakdowns, and history that spans the length of time. It is also the part where most writers start to feel overwhelmed with the need to get everything perfect. 

If you are at this stage stop! Put down your pencil, take a deep breath, and resist falling deeper into madness. 

I am going to tell you something that's going to be very hard to hear. A large portion of your hard work will never enter your books. Yes, it is always good to have a grasp of the do’s and the don'ts of your world, but that can be figured out as you write. 

You need to cut out the middleman and just start writing. This process will allow you to identify what is relevant to your story by acknowledging what your main character needs to know to interact with the world around them. In the end, the only parts that are going to matter to the reader are the parts that the main character interacts with. Figure out what these parts are, then figure out the details of how it functions in the world you created. 

If you're worried about losing track of information as you write, keep a key of names and definitions for you to reference back to. For a Planner, you may find yourself doing this twice, once as you outline and twice as you write your draft. 

With all that said, I hope I have given at least some of you new insight and help when it comes to worldbuilding. Though worldbuilding can often be a long drawn out headache, it can also be simplified. So the next time you find yourself worrying about all the worldbuilding you need to do, please stop and consider the two steps above.

Melody Momper is a college student, blogger, photographer, and aspiring author. Her creations are inspired by her many travels around the USA and the world. She draws upon the rich cultures she has experienced to bring life to the writings and art she creates. Follow her journey on Instagram @MelMomperWrites.    

Top photo by Adolfo Félix on Unsplash.

#nanowrimo #writing #amwriting #worldbuilding #writing inspiration #by nano guest #Melody Momper #writing inspo

[senju-sekhmet]

The Leash (Part 11)

Summary: Your rescue was supposed to be as smooth as these missions can be. However very quickly, Tobirama faces off against an enemy that has no form, color or smell - and time is running short, very fast. Unless he figures out what truly holds you hostage, your life will be lost. Warnings (for the finished work): Blood, illness, descriptions of heavy injuries and graphic violence, torture (both depicted and implied), needles, morally grey territory, human experimentation, panic attacks, character death, angst with a happy ending ~6000 words (this chapter, finished work: 80.000) Previous: Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4; Part 5; Part 6; Part 7; Part 8; Part 9; Part 10 Read on AO3!   Disclaimer below the cut!

DISCLAIMER! Part two of the finale! More to go after this though as you can tell, stay with me <3 Other than that: enjoy my very self indulgent work, filled with my own headcanons and angst galore. Let me know what you think and thank you so much for reading!!!! ________

Tobirama was nothing if not dutiful. The time for your last dose had come faster than he wanted to. And he’d be there to administer it. He made sure to look more presentable before he entered your rooming using the hiraishin seal. What for, he didn’t know anymore. It didn’t matter, did it? Failure was certain, anyway. Perhaps it was for decency. Or maybe he needed the moment to recover. He was too numb. Spent from the breakdown. The short minute he spent at your shared home - that already screamed mute guilt at him - to wash off his smeared facial paint and reapply it before teleporting to your room.

You were in your bed, perfectly still. At peace. Of course. You couldn’t take any withdrawal anymore, at all - your body was too exhausted. To think this was how you’d pass - a shadow of your former self, at the limit of what you could take, physically, in every sense. You had fought a gruesome, cruel battle, gave it your everything, and now? Now, it was all for nothing. The sorrow flared again in a most painful way.

You won’t even hear his words.

He wouldn't even get to say goodbye.

Dazedly he strode closer to your bed, silently wondering where Hashirama was. He’d surely be here in a moment, he barely left your side. Your condition wouldn’t allow it - although with the seals covering your pale skin, you were stable, at least stable enough to allow him to tend to other duties, briefly. So long as the withdrawal didn’t kick in. He seized the moment while it presented itself like this.

He wouldn’t get another.

His eyes prickled again as he shuffled closer to your side. Briefly, he sat down on the side of your bed like he always had done when nobody else was around - but soon, the ache in his chest pulled him down onto his knees on the floor, by your side. The tightness inside was yet expanding and stealing his breath viciously as he wheezed past his clenched teeth for more air. Looking at you - your content face, the way your chest moved evenly albeit too fast - weak maybe but alive - it was tearing him apart. He didn’t know how to even exist with the grief that was seizing him faster than a fire ate up dry parchment.

His shaking hands reached for your cold, slender one, enclosing it in his, slowly bringing it to his face as he nearly buckled over it. Already, his chakra expanded to cover your network gently, coating it, wrapping around it in an utmost tender way. Tears welled just as the sorrow overflowed inside of him, like a barrel that was full and kept being poured in. The moment was sheer agony and yet he didn’t want it to end - to let go - because that would be the end.

Very tenderly he increased the connection to examine you, briefly - you still wouldn’t respond, but that was normal. You hadn’t woken in a couple of days during what was your lucid interval because you simply were too strained - Tobirama wondered if you could at all, really. The exhaustion was too great. Still, his examination found you were no better nor worse than the last time he performed it - your body was heavily impacted by each time the withdrawal had wreaked havoc inside, particularly your lung and heart were affected. At the same time the seals steadily streamed their support into you to keep your blood pressure up, your airways free, your attacked organs functioning. Not to mention the many wounds from the torture that had not been healing as you had been fighting for dear life. There wasn’t a part of you that wasn’t affected in some way, damaged, dysfunctional - critical, but not so that it couldn’t be helped.

It was, just like they had judged, a narrow edge they had been teetering.

And now it would tilt. The delicate balance they had managed to uphold, all they had done-

“I’m so sorry,” Tobirama finally spoke, his voice but a broken, haunted whisper. The baritone wrecked by guilt and sorrow alike, entirely unlike him and yet with an utter tenderness, reserved for you and your ears only. “I’m so sorry, Y/n.” Tears still flowed. “I’ve given it my all, my love. I couldn’t do it. I had it - I thought I had it - but in the last moment, it eluded me,” he continued, slowly cracking more by his sobs. “My failure will cost you everything,” he was practically wheezing now. “And I will never forgive myself for it. The void inside of me won’t ever be filled.” He paused for a moment to take a few shaking breaths, stroking over your forearm as he still cradled your hand to his face, rocking back and forth on his knees now. 

“Please, forgive me, for I’ll never be able to.”

He didn’t know how much time had passed when he heard the door being opened. He needn’t tune into his sensory skills to know it was Hashirama, only his brother carried the gargantuan aura about himself.

His steps froze the moment he realised Tobirama’s pose. “What are you doing?”

Tobirama didn’t move nor open his eyes. He didn’t want to break the connection with you. He’d savour every single second that he had left with you. With a numb voice, he explained the result of his last experiment to his brother, his final findings, their implications.

During it, Hashirama got on his knees by Tobirama’s side, an arm flung around him in comfort. ________

The clinking of metal armor echoed through the corridors of the interrogation and information headquarters. Two fully equipped shinobi made their way down the hall. One of them carried an odachi in front of his chest with both hands - sheathed. For now. They were given respectful nods and salutes where they passed members of the unit, but nobody questioned their purpose nor their destination. After a left turn they were greeted by a burly man with stern, pale eyes and two more members of the unit, all dressed in a black uniforms. Only curt greetings were exchanged before they descended the winding staircase down into the cell block. 

Their appearance gathered attention immediately. A rumble clattered through the bleak prison, growing with each cell block they passed. They needn’t go far. It was the middle cell block where they intended to go.

The prisoner’s gaze swept up as the group of five halted in front of his cell. Recognition flashed in his gaze, followed by laughter that carried an eerie sense of finality. “It happened, finally?”

Nobody answered. The burly man unlocked the door to enter with his two subordinates. The prisoner flashed a toothy grin, aimed precisely at one of the armed shinobi, namely the one carrying the odachi. “I’ve won,” he sneered, “I’ve fucking won, I’ve told you!” - his voice was a hoarse shout in the end, strained by the pain of a broken jaw. The three interrogators made quick work of the chains that held him tightly wrapped in the middle of the cell to ready him for transportation, arms still secured and legs only allowed a minimum of movement to walk.

The two armored shinobi watched them entirely impassively, showing not even a shred of emotion. 

The prisoner’s manic laughter echoed off the prison’s wall forlornly, hauntingly. An utterly broken sound of defiance only a certain kind person would have.

A shrill scream broke through the dismal setting. “You fucking idiot! I hope you rot in hell!” - the woman of the far end. Nobody paid attention to her.

The group made their way down the corridor that was only illuminated by a few candles along the way, passing the stairway they had taken down. The prisoner kept chattering. His voice carried a slight tremble now, “How did she die? Tell me, come on. I’ve never actually seen it, but I learned it’s fucking gruesome in the end,” his eyes were alight with sick pleasure.

The shinobi dressed in blue battle armor adorned with a white fur collar gripped the odachi so hard his knuckles turned white. His back was turned towards the prisoner, he couldn’t see the way his face scrunched under his happuri.

Nobody answered him.

He kept jabbering along incessantly. At some point the tone had taken on a perfectly fine frantic edge. Blubbering, almost, to himself. Eventually, they reached a door the burly man unlocked. The room beyond was dark but lit up as soon as they entered. No windows were inside, just like in the prison block, but no seals adorned these walls. This room was entirely bleak save for dark, crimson stains on the stone floor in the middle of the room.

The subordinates dragged the prisoner into that very center. With an ungraceful kick to the back of his knees, he was brought to kneel. The two shinobi stood in front of him and the man in the red armor crossed his arms. His expression was sorrowful, moved. But the taut line of his jaw and the coldness of his gaze betrayed no lightness about this situation.

“Zenji of the Stone Village,” he began somberly as the three interrogation unit members lined up behind their prisoner who now was wheezing on a low tune, his stare fixated on the harbinger of his fate. “The actions of your unit have endangered our borders, the civilians who live there and ultimately,” he paused meaningfully to take a deep breath - the stone cold tone cracked a little, pained lines wrinkled his smooth face. “Cost the life of one of our own.”

Immediately, Zenji’s mien lit up. He grinned widely, but he did not give the red-armored man another glance. Instead, his gaze was trained on the figure in blue, whose scarlet eyes were murderous as he stared him down, face framed by his happuri and finely applied facial paint. He looked spotless. Zenji cackled again.

“I do not wish for there to be more bloodshed,” the shinobi continued, entirely unperturbed by the behavior of the prisoner. “However our village can and will not condone these actions with idleness nor continue to nurture an enemy we cannot possibly ever release. Your kage,” Zenji’s head snapped back to the red-armored man momentarily. “Made clear he is not interested in an exchange of prisoners.”

The room became completely silent.

“I bear no revenge nor joy, but as the Hokage of Konoha, I’m here to tell you that you have been sentenced to death.”

The blue armored man stepped closer now, odachi still tightly clasped, but the man in the red armor raised his hand slightly, prompting him to stop and give him an irritated stare.

Zenji’s ragged breaths came wheezing so loudly they echoed off the walls as his wide eyes stared at the man, motionless besides the fight for oxygen.

Hashirama regarded the prisoner with the same cold gaze he had been wearing all the time. “Do you wish to speak one last time?”

That was his clue. Zenji threw his head back to release a long groan, each breath transforming more and more into a chuckle. A disconcerting lull settled over the room as it died down with a sense of finality and his eyes locked with Tobirama’s. “Oh, I fucking do,” he began, grinning widely. “To him. It’s my last wish.”

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed and he clenched his teeth, giving no verbal answer. Hashirama did instead. “Very well.”

Zenji cocked his head. “Tell me, how did you fail? What part of the leash didn’t you copy? I want to know.”

Tobirama’s eyes closed slowly and his jaw worked visibly. “Anjia…,” he began slowly, his deep voice so low it was barely more than a strained growl.

“Answer him, Tobirama. A dying man’s wish should not be denied.” Hashirama’s tone left no room for discussion.

Tobirama’s eyes opened again to give Zenji a glance of sheer hatred, his nostrils flared, scarlet glare ablaze. He did not even attempt to hide the fury in his voice as he spoke. If he spat the words out any more in fact, they’d be lost in the rage. “I created a leash of my own and tethered Kimi to it. However…,” he worked hard to find the next words, Zenji’s grin widened already, likely in anticipation for the best part of the story, “... it would appear my sealing technique differs from yours, if just slightly.”

The prisoner burst into laughter, Tobirama flinched. The sheathed odachi trembled slightly from the force he held it with. “I fucking knew it! Ah,” he replied when he had gained a grip on himself again. “The seal. The master’s finishing touch. Unique, really.” Zenji wriggled his eyebrow in a manner that prompted Tobirama to bare his teeth slightly. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to copy mine. Ha!”

Hashirama cleared his throat. 

But Zenji was not yet finished. “I’m not a liar though, y’know? I keep my promises,” the grin now was sickening. Gloating. Zenji cherished this moment as though he was an actor on a grand stage. Living it to its fullest. “And I promised to tell you everything once Y/n croaked, so here we are.”

Tobirama exhaled a wheezing breath as he stepped closer abruptly, Hashirama’s hand shooting up instantly to lay on his shoulder guard. “Brother, please,” he whispered, turning towards him slightly. Then the cold stare was back on Zenji. “You need not besmirch your Village’s secrets now.”

“Ah, ah,” Zenji sneered, “Why the fuck should I care? I’m as good as dead anyway, and I want to teach Konoha’s best scientist how he could have saved his oh so beloved.” His voice dripped with caustic smugness and Hashirama had to grip Tobirama’s forearm lest his brother shot forward and delivered the sentence just for these words alone.

Tobirama’s expression was one of sheer murder. His teeth were bared and the scarlet gaze alone was ready to kill a man - just like the rest of himself, particularly the large weapon he carried; the same weapon he had used many times before.

Zenji continued to live his show. “Now I needn’t explain the weaving process since you kinda copied it - well fucking done, man - but my seal - ah, let’s see. My seal is relatively simple!” Hashirama’s grip on his brother tightened as he near vibrated with lethal energy still, spurring Zenji to even greater extravagance. “Of course, it was passed down to me by the one who taught me, but I made some modifications,” he drawled lazily, an adventurous glint to his gaze. 

What followed was a detailed explanation about the intricacy and yet simplicity of his own sealing process Tobirama couldn’t stomach anymore - he turned away lest he drove the odachi through the prisoner’s neck on the spot, perhaps. It was impossible to tell in the dim light - the shadow looming over his face hid his expression well and with the happuri, his profile was somewhat obscured. Only the taut stance, the clenched grasp on his weapon were telltale signs of the high-strung situation - a tight coil, ready to lash out any second. 

Zenji didn’t hold back on information about how exactly he performed the seal that made the disruption stick within the leash - everyone else listened quietly. Hashirama’s mien had turned stony throughout it and the three members of the interrogation unit simply watched the man with practiced nonchalance. 

“And that,” Zenjia finished his grand, final play, “is what could’ve saved Y/n. Too fucking bad.” The grin he wore was nothing short of sick. “Maybe I can tell her too, when I’m dead, hm?”, he tilted his head.

Suffocating silence befell the room.

Hashirama cleared his throat. It was time for the execution of judgement, literally. He turned his head towards Tobirama, whose back was turned towards the prisoner at this point. “Very well,” he concluded with a loaded kind of finality.

A few moments of heavy silence later, Tobirama turned around.

His head was tilted downwards slightly, shadows cast over his face.

Then he looked up.

Smirking broadly.

He lowered the odachi that he had clasped so tightly throughout all of the conversation - more like, Zenji’s soliloquy, and stepped yet again closer to the prisoner.

The smirk became smug, and smugness became condescending as skin around his mouth wrinkled in an utterly arrogant way. There was a satisfied, bright glint in his scarlet gaze. “You are without a doubt the dumbest shinobi I’ve ever encountered,” finally, he bared his teeth in a wide grin. “And for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” His baritone voice dripped with sarcasm.

Zenji’s expression fell apart. His jaw hung open slightly and his gaze was wide as he tried to process the change of demeanour in who he deemed by now his arch nemesis. “What the fuck?”, he spat out finally when Tobirama didn’t speak again.

He simply clicked his tongue sympathetically and arched both eyebrows. “Y/n is not dead. In fact, thanks to you, she will live.” Both relief and caustic smugness were tangible in the way he worded this, no doubt basking in the moment of figuratively crushing Zenji under his heel. Who still didn’t find the words to answer yet, but Tobirama was more than happy to supply him with more fodder. “Certainly, time was running quite short - almost, imagine, almost - you could’ve won.”

Zenji’s jaw trembled beside the pain that must cause him alongside the rest of him. The man still hadn’t found his words again.

Tobirama wasn’t done with the verbal execution, however. “I truly did not know how to copy your seal after creating my own.” A slow nod, his baritone voice now came rolling smoothly, “And then it occurred to me - why not use your petty thirst for revenge for Y/n? All it’d take was make you believe she died. And here we are,” a smile  spread over his lips again. “You delivered perfectly.” Then, he had the audacity to give Zenji a single pat on the head as though he was praising a dog.

The prisoner recoiled from the touch as though it was scalding hot. “Fuck you!” he screamed from the top of his lungs, nearly tipping over from his kneeling position, had it not been for Ikuro’s hand shooting out to secure him by the shoulder. “Rot in fucking hell, Senju!” he howled, but it was no more than a little bandaid for the hurt pride.

Tobirama already turned around to Hashirama, any trace of smugness or gloating gone from his expression. “I’ll get to work. Thank you, anija,” he dipped his head slightly. Zenji was still shouting profanities at him, but it was no more than a background noise.

Hashirama smiled broadly, much more like himself. “Of course.”

Tobirama turned back to Ikuro and his subordinates. Now, he actually took a slight bow. “And thank you, too. There still is little more to be done, but I’m very grateful for your support.” 

Ikuro had already wrestled an unruly Zenji off of the floor, but the burly man wore a wide grin. “I - no, we will be expecting you. Right, Zenji? Come on, let’s get you back to your compatriots. They’ll be glad to see you again,” he finished with a dangerous chuckle.

The sounds already drowned out as Tobirama initiated the hiraishin seal teleport to the laboratory.

You only had a few hours left.

_______

You were suspended in sweet nothingness.

You had been for a while really, perturbed only by occasional nightmares. They were dim and far away, visions of what had been. Maybe. You weren’t sure anymore. 

It hadn’t been like this before. Before, your world had been on fire. You had been on fire. Being burned from the inside out and yet too powerless to scream out your agony at the world. Something - someone - had chained you up in the nothingness with no company except your torment that you suffered through, over and over again. Until it faded, and the nightmares came. You laughed about those now. Then, all was calm. For a while.

Your reason for going through all this was becoming but an abstract concept.

Until you weren’t even sure anymore what might be happening. Dimly, you remembered your strength leaving you - waking up was getting harder, eventually it was tantamount to the one armed climbing exercises you used to steel yourself with. You actually had been able to pull off something like that?

Tobirama had been by your side every waking second. His face; you’d never forget the expression. Never before had you seen him haunted by distress of this kind while his chakra warmly embraced you, while he comforted you - telling you he was working hard. You had wanted to comfort him in turn, then. He needed it more than you - he hadn’t looked fine. Drawn, worn out.

Unwell. Sick, almost.

Things must be looking very bad, you knew then. It reminded you why you went through all this. But you all were losing the fight, it seemed?

No matter how much you fought, how badly you wanted to - during the phases in which you weren’t suffering from being burned alive nor haunted by nightmares, you couldn’t wake anymore. You wanted to. So badly. But your eyes wouldn’t open and ultimately, the darkness was your lonely repose in which you anxiously waited for the next time the fire began to light up again.

But that had been fading. The fire’s burn was becoming shorter. And your consciousness was slipping more. Sometimes, you thought you felt Tobirama’s presence, but maybe that was wishful thinking.

Eventually it was just you and forlorn nothingness with the occasional nightmare. 

Had you died?

It changed. The fire returned once more - and this time, this time it felt as though you were burning away. Not like before - when it burned you out until someone snuffed out the flames - now, it consumed your very being. It became so great at some point, pain was all you were - nothing besides the scorch of the fire that ate you alive.

You realised then, this must be it - every moment more of you faded and the pain kept on roaring through every single cell of your body. But you - you were becoming duller and duller. You didn’t want to. Not yet - this wasn’t how you were going to go down, was it? Yet the promise of eternal rest after this, all of this pain - it was alluring. After all you’ve been through, was there really a point in returning?

Tobirama would choke you personally if he ever caught on to these thoughts.

But he’s not here, is he? 

You were all alone.

Ready to go. You had fought, you had tried, you had walked the road to hell many times over but eventually even your stamina would forego you.

Except they didn’t let you go. Something - no, someone was holding you back. Any time you were dipping into the part of darkness you just knew there was no returning from, there was a pull. It was forceful, unpleasant - a jolt that might have spurred your heart to keep on beating, your lungs to draw air and each organ of your body to keep on functioning. 

You wanted to reject it.

I don’t want to, anymore. I can’t. I just can’t. It hurts too much. Please.

They didn’t let you.

You wanted to cry.

You were suspended in nothingness by titan chains that forcefully kept you right on your very own pyre while pain was becoming you.

_______

He didn’t want to take any chances. But he didn’t have time, either. Tobirama had no choice but to follow the information Zenji had given as dutifully as possible and hope this was it - that the bottle of leash he had crafted was identical to what Zenji would have produced. Really, it was an all out move. His back was against the proverbial wall while yours lowered more and more into a coffin.

You were going into withdrawal again, and he knew what that meant.

Never before had he woven the leash this fast - frankly working with a larger quantity of base substance seemed to make the whole process easier, and yet at the same time more demanding. Not that he felt any of it, he was focusing entirely on getting this done as fast as possible. Once he was satisfied with the result - enough to give it to you that was, which was about the highest standard he could think of - he teleported straight into your room.

Where his brother was bent over your sweating, and shaking body as his palms glowed lightly.

The rattle of your breath - Tobirama knew it well. He had heard it many times before.

A dying person’s breath.

“I’ve got it,” Tobirama whispered as his heart spasmed alongside your flat rasps for air. Blood rushed in his ears and ice-cold through his veins. He struggled to keep the floor under his feet as he staggered closer swiftly. He wouldn’t lose you now. Not after all this, not with the solution to your demise in his hands.

Hashirama didn’t even answer him; his expression was wrinkled by deep concentration and a fine sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead.

Numbly, Tobirama plucked the vial with Zenji’s - his - leash from his pocket and effortlessly opened your mouth. Your skin was icy to the touch and so pale, were it not for your faint chakra signature, he’d have thought you dead already.

The image branded itself into his mind, scarring him forever.

He poured the leash in and tilted your head back so it’d run down your pharynx, giving your scalp a trembling stroke with his hand.

With prickling eyes, he moved to bend over you, place his palms on you as well to assist his brother in healing - no, in keeping you alive. As soon as he established the connection needed for examining and healing, the reality of your condition rolled over him like a boulder. Your body’s reaction to the withdrawal was as violent as ever, just like the substance that was causing it. A proverbial bushfire that had spread throughout all of you. Hashirama wasn’t just stabilizing you alongside the seals - he was taking aggressive action to keep you alive. There wasn’t a part of you he wasn’t actively pouring his own chakra in to keep on working. Were it not for him, you’d be long gone already - in his brother’s chakra’s embrace you’d stay alive, barely, so long as he forced your body to keep on going, and going. Tobirama was positive you were well beyond what you could take any more in terms of another person’s chakra. 

The alternative was you dying. 

It was another problem they’d deal with later. Swiftly, he began to assist his brother to split up the efforts evenly and try to keep you alive to the best of his abilities.

The next moments felt like an eternity.

Work. Work already. It was all Tobirama could think of while his chakra bolstered your failing heart to keep it on pumping, wound through your lungs into the tiniest alveoles to clear them of fluid and repair tissue damage so that you might breathe.

Just work.

Agonizingly slowly, the drug was taking effect. Already, your chakra began to clog, freeze - the muting component hit your network exactly like the leash would.

Tobirama thought time and his heart both froze in the next few moments that surely decided your fate.

The withdrawal’s flame died down and fizzled out as though water had been poured over it.

Time was starting again.

He started to breathe once more. Before he realised it, he sank to his knees at the side of your bed. He couldn’t focus any more, he barely felt the wheezes that escaped him as a few heavy sobs wrecked his torso.

He had done it. Finally.

The oppressing feeling of time running out - the rock that had been crushing him was lifted.

But the elevation did not last long.

Reality - the parts that weren’t circling around the fact you were at least not going to die due to a lack of the leash - very quickly yanked him back to the situation at hand. Already, he dragged himself up again to aid Hashirama once more, who had not once broken focus. They had stopped the destructive withdrawal, true enough; but the damages it had wrought were not gone of course. Swiftly he gathered himself to concentrate back on aiding his brother in keeping you alive, really, a task no less dire than before. Rather, it was time to tip the scales into the opposite direction now.

He couldn’t say how long the two of them sat in silence, simply forcing you to keep going by continuously pouring their chakra into you.

He wouldn’t lose you - not now, not after everything you both had gone through.

He wouldn’t let you go.

Bit by bit, your body started to function more and more on its own - requiring less of the forceful aid both brothers were providing. That wasn’t to say you were becoming stable at all - tentatively, Hashirama would nudge Tobirama to withdraw some, only to watch you relapse quickly.

As it was, your condition remained critical.

Some time later, his brother allowed himself a momentary almost-break. Hashirama hummed deeply. “She’s well into chakra overload now,” he announced somberly, gazing at your face. “However we can’t stop yet.”

Tobirama’s attention was still mostly turned inwards and towards you as he did the brunt of the work so his brother could catch a breath. There wasn’t a part of you his chakra wasn’t aiding in some way; all he managed was a brief grunt of agreement.

Effectively, chakra overload wasn’t much different than a late allergic reaction of the body to the procedures a medic nin had performed. The extend of what a patient could take and experienced varied from how well-versed the healer was - and Tobirama knew his brother’s skills to be capable of healing fatal wounds without sending the person into overload - but your system barely had been able to catch a break from the agonizingly long time of capture, torture and what effectively just served to keep you alive for more torture. And then of course, all that had followed back home, in Konoha.

But what they had been doing to you for who knew how long?

That was as good as keeping defying death itself.

Hashirama sighed deeply. “I suppose we have no other choice anyway. The next few hours will be decisive.”

An ice-cold shiver ran down Tobirama’s spine, disrupting his strained focus momentarily. 

Of course. They couldn’t keep on going like this forever - and neither would you endlessly, readily respond to what they did.

Either you’d start pulling your own weight again, or…

Tobirama swallowed heavily.

Silently, Hashirama’s efforts picked up again alongside his own to stabilise you.

_________

Tobirama had thought weaving the leash was about one of the most straining things he had done. But like so often these last few days, he had been wrong - cradling your very life with his proverbial hands was wrecking him a lot more for numerous reasons - the least of which was the exhaustion setting in.

Because if one thing was keeping him going, it was his determination - he wouldn’t, he couldn’t lose you, not now, not after all this.

Slowly, they had begun to lessen the intensity of the aid they provided and watched whether you relapsed into a more severe state or not. If you did, they settled back to the previous level - and waited again. A tedious procedure, but there was no other way.

Eventually, the time you managed without any aid from him or Hashirama had increased substantially - naturally, the seals on your body still were working strongly, though.

Both were now standing next to your bed, an eerie silence had filled the room, save for your flat, strained breaths.

Hashirama spoke first. “I don’t want to say this is over, yet,” he announced somberly. His mien was drawn, tired. His brother had his limits - keeping someone alive for hours pushed even him. Something told Tobirama he still could have kept on going, though. “Though we will watch now. Her overload is very severe. If she makes the next hours well enough…” He trailed off, giving Tobirama what best could be described as a sad glance.

Tobirama didn’t know what he felt anymore. In these last hours he felt just about any kind of extreme emotion - utter heartbreak, loss, sorrow, murderous fury, followed by exhilaration, followed by despair, topped off with numbing focus.

Truth be told, he could sleep while standing at this point. And yet at the same time, he was restless. He knew - he knew, just a bit longer. Just a bit. 

He swallowed heavily. “Alright.” His gaze was locked on your gaunt features still. “We should keep her sedated,” not that he believed for a second you’d be anywhere near waking anytime soon. “There will be no more withdrawal challenges. We’ll keep her chakra locked and use the seals to stabilise her until the overload fades.” Perhaps he was just convincing himself this would work, too.

Hashirama hummed in agreement. “Frankly her weak state may be advantageous. She’s too weak to have much of a too severe reaction now, I believe.”

Tobirama’s gaze flickered momentarily to his brother, then back to you. He hadn’t considered that angle. Then, he sighed deeply. “The irony,” he muttered finally.

A low chuckle was the answer, which irritated Tobirama slightly. However his brother’s gaze bore an honest kind of appreciation he always had a hard time spitting sarcasm at. “Either way, I’m hopeful she’ll make it. You’ve done it. The plan was… daring, but.” He shrugged.

He could only give a curt snort in reply. “I regret not having used my enemy’s pettiness and thirst for revenge for Y/n’s advantage sooner.” The solution had been so obvious when it revealed itself to him in what had been the darkest hour of all this fight. When he had crumbled by your bedside with his brother by his side. He frowned then. “Although it made the show most… credible.”

Hashirama’s mouth formed a thin line again as he nodded. His brother might not have fallen apart like Tobirama did, but his reaction had been just as intense. And just like Tobirama, he had been ready to protect you with any means available. Using his position for a mock execution was nothing difficult. “Now to find a cure.”

Tobirama sighed again and crossed his arms. Luckily, time wouldn’t be pressing him this time. Although he had not spent a single second on the matter, either. “I first will create the leash in such a way Y/n doesn’t need to suffer the psychotropic effects of the base substance anymore.” His baritone voice was firm. With the weight off of his chest, the protectiveness was filling him again. You were not going to suffer any more than you had. And he knew precisely how to make that happen. “It’ll just be medication she has to take regularly.”

Again, his brother hummed affirmatively. “Very well. Even so…,” he frowned then, growing quite stern. “You are going to sleep now. For about a day or three.”

Anger flashed through Tobirama faster than he had truly comprehended the words. “Anija, I will not-”

“Yes. You will.” Hashirama crossed his arms. “You’ve been awake for, what? Forty-eight hours? More? Don’t make me throw you out.”

Tobirama’s voice had risen in volume before he realised it might disturb you, but the ire stewing inside made it near impossible to keep it down. “I most certainly will not before I made the drug more bearable for-”

Something flashed in Hashirama’s eyes. One didn’t need Tobirama’s sensor skills to feel the surge in chakra that his brother emitted - but for him, it was like staring into the sun. Sometimes, it was too much. Like right now.

He yielded with no more than a curt “Alright,” before teleporting to your shared home.

Now, it didn’t feel so forlorn anymore.

#tobirama #tobirama senju #tobirama x reader #tobirama senju x reader #sekhmet writes

[primasveraas-writing]

And In Darkness, I Stand- Chapter 3

Kallus’ leg is never quite the same after Bahryn. But then again, neither is he.

1 2 3 4  5

3. The Ghost

The day of reckoning arrives.

Thrawn appears in the doorway, and Kallus knows that it is over. The Admiral taunts Kallus with the jamming device, the Fulcrum symbol flashing across the small screen. He has failed, and at best, he will die quickly for this discovery.

But Kallus is not one to resign himself to whatever miserable fate lies ahead. He will go down fighting, and there remains a chance to warn the rebels of the danger, as cryptic and brief as the fragment of his message is.

Kallus surges forward, attacking Thrawn with all his might. The blows are rapid and unforgiving. Thrawn targets his bad leg, yet the adrenaline overpowers the pain. Still, it is not enough to overcome Thrawn.

“Your technique is good. But… limited by your training in the Imperial Academy. Predictable.”

Thrawn is quick, strong, precise. More so than Kallus, but he does not need to win and he does not need to escape.

He throws the helmet first, which Thrawn catches easily. But the blow to his legs knocks the jammer out of his hands, and Kallus crushes it beneath his boot.

It is like clockwork, what happens next. He stands his ground, he is overpowered.

Thrawn is observant, a tactical master. He knows the weaknesses of everyone around him, and how to use them to ensure that he is the most powerful in the room.

It’s no surprise, really, that a series of swift kicks are delivered to Kallus’ right leg, which is healed but not correctly, functional, but not without pain.

Kallus lands on his back and is about to rise again when Thrawn looms over him, and brings his heel down on the barely-fixed bone. 

His vision goes white instantly; he’s pretty sure he screams, but that fact matters less than the poison in every cell in his body, than the agony worse than death as the bone shatters.

It is worse than ever before. It is worse than the first break and the flare-ups, and the burning sensation after field missions. It is worse than the night he couldn’t sleep, overcome by the need for more bacta, convinced that he would be better off without the leg, when he desperately wished he had just sucked it up and gone to the medbay after Bahryn.

But here he is. He cannot even think to get to his feet, then Thrawn lifts Kallus by the front of his shirt and delivers a punch to his chest, sending him flying into the night air, where he collides with the durasteel railing.

That might have hurt, he registers dully, but it is insignificant compared to the agony in his leg.

He loses.

But the message got through. He has not failed in totality, and the rebels have a chance.

-

That he lives is cruel. Thrawn tortures Kallus, hangs him up by his wrists like a slab of meat, and beats him. He asks no questions, and Kallus knows he would not break, but the lack of interrogation is still a relief.

This, he deserves. Under Imperial law, it is only fair that a traitor is punished. Kallus would take this over an interrogation, which is sure to follow after the assault on the rebels, and he can only hope that Thrawn doesn’t deign to do so personally.

He does not want to break. He hopes he dies before he reveals any secrets of the rebellion- not that they trusted their spy with much, in the first place.

At the end of the day, the rebels prevail, as is so ingrained in their nature to succeed against impossible odds. What’s more is that he apparently does have the heart of a rebel- some of their lucky nature passes to him, and he finds himself safely aboard the Ghost, thanked by Kanan Jarrus and Hera Syndulla alike. It is surreal, and strange, but for the first time in months, he is safe. At peace, even, at least for now.

But he is left alone. The rebels are making do with what little they have. They are busy, and Kallus, who once wished for the end of the entire movement and every being involved, remains in a corner of the ship that rescued him, his mind racing.

That is one benefit to it all. He’s particularly sharp now, going over what Imperial Intelligence he has memorized and can share with the rebellion. He feels little pain and can even stand, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins fuels him until the Ghost rendezvous with a rebel command ship.

He’s the last to embark, hanging back until Hera claps him on the shoulder, nearly pushing him out the door.

“Come on,” she says, nodding towards the bustling hallway. If she’s tired, she doesn’t show it, and a small smile pulls at her lips. “I’ll take you to medical.”

“I’m fine,” Kallus insists, because he feels so. “It looks worse than it is, Captain.”

“Hera,” she corrects him instantly. “And I chose to believe that if you come with me to Command then go to the medbay straight after.”

Kallus nods, because he has confronted Hera’s will a great many times and seldom triumphed. They trudge through the unfamiliar halls together, Kallus bowing his head to avoid the stares of those passing or congratulating Hera, who promises a quick debriefing then rest before reorganizing in the morning. He doesn’t imagine it will be as easily delivered to him as it will be for her, but he thinks of sleeping in a room surrounded by people he isn’t actively betraying, and perhaps talking to Garazeb soon, and the thought calms him.

A spike of pain shoots through him with his next step forward. Kallus falters, then grits his teeth and presses forward.

“Agent- Kallus,” Hera says, frowning at him. She touches his arm, gently, and Kallus is surprised at the care. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he promises. Every step hurts progressively more.

She regards him, wary, and Kallus pretends he does not see the concern painted across her face. However, she continues to lead him towards the command center once he takes another step without wincing.

The pain is too familiar, and logically, Kallus knows that it will overcome him soon. But if he can suppress it for now, if he can confront the Rebellion's leadership first, then he can deal with the injury, once placated by an understanding of his future with the Alliance.

Hera indicates that they're close, her montrals swishing as she peers around the next corner. Kallus inhales sharply once her attention diverts from him, suddenly aware that he'd forgotten to breathe.

She waves him on. Kallus' leg feels like lead. He tries to go through the door, and stumbles, lightheaded.

"Kallus, are you sure-"

"Yes," he wheezes, bracing himself in the doorway. Officials in the command center look up at him- he recognizes faces but can recall no names.

"Kallus-"

He stands straight up, preparing to look Hera in the eye, but his leg buckles under the weight, and he cries out in pain. She's supporting him now, her hands under his arms, and she's saying something, her green eyes filled with alarm.

Kallus tries to look up at her, assure her that he’s fine, but the hurt widens and spreads until it is burning at him yet again and Kallus cannot remember a single word he was going to say. He’s doubled over, and he can’t speak, nor see, and the agony consumes him, and he’s falling, falling- then all goes black.

-

Kallus opens his eyes slowly. His eyelids are heavy, and his exhausted body begs him to go back to sleep, But he’s here, in the Chimera’s medbay, and he’s not sure if he’s yet safe-

He blinks again. Someone is next to his cot- someone- Zeb.

The Lasat is slumped over, clasping Kallus’ hand. Kallus stirs, reaching for Zeb, and croaks out his name.

Instantly, Zeb wakes, sitting up straight. “Kal,” he gasps, leaning forward. “You’re up.”

Kallus nods, too tired to speak. His brow furrows, but two questions come to mind, and he can’t decide which to ask first.

He doesn’t know where he is, but Zeb is here, so he must be safe. That issue is resolved then, so:

“‘s my leg still there?”

Zeb looks confused, glancing from Kallus to his legs beneath the sheets. Then, he huffs out a laugh and takes Kallus’ hand again.

“Yeah, Kal, it’s alright. You’re gonna be okay, you hear me?”

Kallus nods again, satisfied. That is enough for now, and he lets his eyes slide shut.

-

He is alone when he wakes again, save for the meddroid fiddling with the tubes in his arm. Kallus groans- his head hurts, and he still feels tired, but other than that, the pain is not bad.

“Kallus,” the droid says, its overly-large eyes peering at him. “You are awake.”

“Yes,” he agrees, then groans as he stretches, running a hand over his face. There’s stubble on his chin and his beard. He’s been out for most of a day, then, possibly longer. And he’s here, on some Rebel ship, and not the Chimera. This explains the droid, which looks ancient, scratched and dented. It appears to have been taped together in more than one place, and Kallus smiles to himself.

“We know nothing of your medical history.” The droid tells him. “Although I have conducted many tests, there are still questions.”

“Okay.” Kallus is pretty sure that his questions (where is he, what day is it, where is Zeb) should have higher priority, but he is too out of it to protest, so he nods. “You may ask them.”

“Excellent.” A beat. “What is your first name?”

He laughs, a deep, rumbling sound emitting from deep in his throat. It’s been a long time since he’s laughed like that, and his voice was already scratchy from underuse. “Alexsandr,” he says, then spells it. Perhaps he is a good spy, after all. He doubts that anyone in Imperial Command knows his first name, either, though this is attributed to a lack of care rather than insufficient information.

There are a few more basic questions about his background and history. Kallus realizes that he’s in the Rebellion’s system now, and he wonders what his file says. Alexsandr Kallus. Coruscanti. Previously Agent Kallus, ISB, Fulcrum. Wanted by the Empire for ten counts of treason; wanted by the Rebel Alliance for one hundred crimes against humanity.

He snorts. The meddroid, which was turning away from him, pauses. “Can I help you, Alexsandr?”

“No,” Kallus says quickly. “I mean- yes. Do you know where Garazeb Orrelios is?”

“The Lasat? He has been here for the last twenty-four standard hours. I do not know where he went.”

Oh. Kallus feels heat flame his cheeks, and a monitor next to him beeps. His blush deepens when he realizes that his heart monitor made the sound; his heartbeat has just spiked.

“I will get a medic to speak with you about your leg.” The droid looks at the monitor, then back at him. “Do not excite yourself further.”

Kallus coughs, unable to look at the droid. “Yes,” he mutters, ashamed. “I will do that.”

The medic is a Rodian, who speaks in a soft tone and seems to barely remember where she is. This fact isn’t particularly comforting, but she is kind enough and patient with all his questions.

His right leg had a severe initial break that never healed correctly, causing weakness in his tibia and impeding the muscles and tendons in his entire leg. The strain that later followed only made this worse, and almost two days ago, the leg was shattered again- he broke both his tibia and his fibula. Bone fragments have punctured both his muscle and his flesh, but in short- it will never heal right, and Kallus will be affected for the rest of his life.

She explains that they operated on him, once Hera and two other rebels dragged him into the infirmary. It was easier to keep him under after he had passed out, and they did the best they could trying to prevent infection and further blood loss. He’s also covered in extensive bruises, including on his ribs.

“How do you feel?” The Rodian concludes, fiddling with one of the machines next to him.

“Like I could run forty klicks,” he mutters, staring down at his leg. Right now, it’s wrapped in bandages and some sort of brace.

She brustles, looking shocked. “I thought I made it clear that wasn’t possible-”

“It’s-” he sighs. “I understand.”

“Well, I-”

“Kal!” The budding argument is halted in its tracks; Zeb stands in the doorway, disheveled but grinning. “You’re awake!”

“I am.” He’s not, technically- he’s hasn’t yet attempted to sit up, but Kallus cares very little about the nuance, and Zeb makes his way over to Kallus’ bedside. 

“Good.” Zeb scans him with barely-suppressed joy. “You scared us,” he admits. “Hera says you just collapsed.”

“Yes, well, the adrenaline wore off.” Kallus doesn’t look at Zeb. “I’m recovered now.”

“I know.” A smile creeps back into Zeb’s tone. “I don’t believe you can be kept down for long.”

“I can’t,” Kallus agrees, echoing Zeb’s humor.

“Do you remember anything?” Zeb stops fiddling with his pants and instead smooths out Kallus’ blanket.

“A little.” His brow furrows. “I remember that you were there for me.”

“I was.”

“The meddroid says you were with me for a full rotation.”

Zeb is suddenly very interested in a spare thread on his pants. “I was,” he mumbles, and Alexsandr suppresses another smile, glancing away so that Zeb doesn’t see.

“I didn’t want you to be alone,” Zeb continues, his shoulders slouching. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up.”

“It’s okay.” Alexsandr didn’t know his voice could go this soft, but Zeb’s next words distract him from this point, his tone just as gentle.

“I’m sorry about your leg.”

“Don’t be.” It comes out flat, and Kallus looks away from Zeb.

It will heal. He’ll walk again, but he’ll be limping and limited. He’s going to have a cane adjusted to him tomorrow. He may never do fieldwork again.

“I am.” And Zeb sounds like it too, though his expression is devoid of pity. “Still, I thought you’d like to know that everyone in command is excited to have you here. It’s all anyone can talk about.”

“Really?” A jolt of surprise travels through him. “They don’t hate me?”

He sounds sarcastic, but Zeb looks back at him, completely serious. “You saved our necks more times than we can count. And you’re a goldmine for Imperial information.”

Right. His expression falls before he can help it. “You’re a badass ‘n a hero, Kal. That’s what they care about.”

“I’m not sure if I am. Or that I will be.” Kallus gestures to his leg, bound and immobile before them both.

Zeb’s expression softens, and he rests his hand on Kallus’ arm. “Right. I’m sure that will stop you.”

“It’s different. How can I help that?”

“So are you gonna retire? Hide in the medbay or go to the Outer Rim until the war is over?”

Frustration builds in Kallus, and he sits completely upright, clenching the sheets in his hands. “It’s not that simple! Of course I’m not going to- to kriff off and die- but I can’t walk!”

“Not forever.” Zeb amends. “And you’re one of the greatest minds we have.” Zeb glances around the empty room. “Don’t tell anybody I said that.”

“I’m a former Imperial, a spy and I have months of recovery ahead. I’m not entirely convinced people want me here.”

“I do,” Zeb says immediately, then glances away, scratching the back of his head. “I, er- well, I do. And so do a lot of other people.”

Kallus looks up at him, and Zeb meets his eyes again after a long moment. “Do you want to be here?” He asks softly.

“Yes, I do.”

“Good.” Zeb grins, but there is tenderness in his gaze. “Then you’ll put your mind to it and everything will work out.”

“You sound very confident in this fact.”

“I’m confident in you.”

---

I am distinctly aware of the lack of research that I’ve done. I’m doing my best to be canon-compliant here but sometimes I don’t have the energy to remember that a shower is a sonic and not a shower… so here we are.

Additionally, please take any medical jargon with a grain of salt. I am not a doctor, and I’m mostly going with “yeah that seems like it could happen” as far as realism goes. Nevertheless, thank you for the warmth with which this story has been received, and thank you all for your support!

#kallus #agent kallus #alexsandr kallus #kalluzeb #star wars rebels #sw rebels #sw rebels fanfic #swr #rebels #star wars #star wars fanfic #kalluzeb fanfiction #kalluzeb fanfic #rebels fanfic #swr fanfic #kallus fanfic #kallus x zeb #and in darkness i stand

[criticofallthings]

Hi it’s 4:43 AM and I’m back with another t h i ng. AKA apparently I write Destiny 2 fan fics at at the pre ass crack of dawn now.

Presage mission + “another one for the trauma jar D2 meme” + a love for all things Drifter related bc this poor insufferable soft man is a total fucking gem and I will never, NEVER EVER forget about those tapes that he made for our guardian to find = this stuff below

no beta, so don’t come at me for grammar issues unless you’re gonna be nice about it.

WARMTH

Drifter saw the flashing notification before he heard it, the chime muted beneath the Gambit livestream. His ghost had marked it as a priority message, something important to get at. On screen a massive Taken ogre quivers into existence. Nice. Team A was doing great and unless Team B pulled off one Hell of an invade two times over he doubted they’d catch up in time to challenge Team A. His hand hovers over the message, but his eyes flick back up to the stream. Team A’s coordination has been top notch all match and now was no exception. Drifter watched as two of them casted their supers on the Primeval ogre and it’s envoys. Orbs of power litter the field. Moments later Team A’s titan flies from off-screen in one of the most electrifying thundercrashes he’s ever seen. Globs of exploded ogre cover his hidden cams, soon to dissolve into nothingness. Gambit sirens wail and Team B’s Taken are reigned back into their cages. “Alright alright alright, last match of the day and it was a good one for Team A. Team B? Not so much.” Drifter pauses speaking into the mic, a little drama, before continuing in his showman’s tone. “Ay, but that’s what tomorrow’s for! Come on back and queue right in. Drifter’s always hungry.” He ends with a chuckle that doesn’t rise to his eyes and as soon as the guardians transmat to their ships he closes everything down. A message alert pops up on his console again, marked red for priority and sent almost half an hour ago. Damn, he thinks to himself and runs a weary hand over his face. Drifter’s other hand is on the edge of the console, index finger tapping it anxiously. Fuck it, how bad can it be? Drifter opens the message, tension rising to his shoulders, but then he freezes and his shoulders drop. He traces a few words of the message, forlorn sadness easing the laugh lines and crinkles at his eyes away. A few taps and the console goes dark. Drifter turns away and stands for a moment at the door. He lets out a sigh before starting again, yanking off his gloves before trudging towards his cargo container room.

There’s a lantern hung on the hook outside of his cargo container, the interior dark. Across the snow that never seemed to leave the Derelict, he sees whispered hints of someone carefully walking or rather, half-gliding over it. Through the gloom he spies a small pile of stuff he doesn’t remember making and an obvious lump in his bed. As he draws closer Drifter sees that the pile is actually carefully stacked warlock armor and the sleeping lump in his bed, is The Guardian. Yet again. Drifter’s lost count how many times it has been since he first offered the Guardian refuge aboard the Derelict. The first time they took him up on his offer he found them later, sleeping in a corridor standing against a bulkhead. He let them be since it was an out of the way spot. Eventually he showed them his bed, the Derelict’s only functional bed and told them to make use of it. Until now they hadn’t and he would still find them sleeping in various places aboard his ship. Sometimes with or without some pieces of armor, but also never like this. In plain clothes, more or less, sleeping bag haphazardly pulled over them. So vulnerable. And so tortured.

In sleep, Drifter found that the Guardian was an almost entirely open book. Nightmares haunted them more often than not. Sometimes so strongly that the Guardian would thrash about while asleep, murmuring feverdly, occasionally coherently about what they relived in their dreams. Tonight seemed to be one of the Guardian’s more silent nightmares. No thrashing, no murmuring, but the tight grimace of their lips and furrowing of their brow betrayed the Guardian's silence, showed their distress. Drifter steps to the cot, gently pulling the sleeping bag over to cover them better. Task done, he sits at their side and tentatively brushes a few stray strands of hair from their face. As he does so, the Guardian visibly relaxes, some tension dispelled from their face. It pulls at him more than he thought, making his chest tighten uncomfortably.

“Don’t take your armor off around me, kid...I’m not someone you oughta get comfortable around.” Drifter can’t help but let the whispered words fall from his lips at the sight before him. It was all too tragic. Too fucked up. So much pinned upon one guardian. One person. His hand moves before he realizes it and softly he cups their face, thumb tracing their jawline. Beneath his hand he can feel the muscles twitch and then slowly relax from the strained clenching of their jaw. Another measure of stress slips from their sleeping face. Drifter lets out a breath he was unconsciously holding. For a moment he thought the Guardian was going to wake up. Another trace over their jawline and Drifter takes his hand from their face. Quietly he murmurs, “why are you here…” as the tips of his fingertips trail over their cheek. He pauses, feeling impulsive and...something else...when he glances at their lips. Drifter lets his fingers ghost over their skin, tenderly coming to a rest below the Guardian’s cupid’s bow. He lightly traces the shape of their lips, feeling it out. Soft and a bit dry. There’s a thin crease of dried blood where they must’ve split their lip during combat. Or maybe bit it open themself on a previous restless night. He’s seen it happen before. Once even their tongue.

Drifter closes his eyes at that memory, a faint tremble visible only in his hands. He just about had a heart attack when he saw the Guardian slouched over with blood streaming from their mouth, sitting just outside the Gambit transmat room. He had shaken them awake, and his shock only grew when he saw them open bleary eyes and wipe the blood off of their chin as if it was normal and summon Ghost. The usually talkative bot didn’t say anything, but the way it healed them instantly and then bumped their forehead before leaving —he knew. Drifter knew that this must have happened several times before. “Mind if I...sleep s’more...here?” Their sleep-heavy voice caught his attention again and Drifter lifted his hands from their shoulders. “Nah, kid.” Drifter stood up and half turned, waiting for them to do the same. “C’mon, hurry up! I ain’t so mean to not lend you a spot to sleep.” The Guardian rose slowly to their feet, eyes unfocused and mind miles away from here. Something in him stabs at the sight and Drifter can’t face them looking so...worn. He turns away. Shoving hands deep into his pockets he starts walking, pausing only once to confirm the Guardian was shuffling along behind him. He shows them how to get to the sole cot on the Derelict.

A hand on his wrist snaps Drifter out of the memory. He looks down to see the Guardian awake, eyes somewhat clear. There’s confusion in their expression and he feels their lips move beneath his fingertips. Ah. Hastily, he pulls his hand away, clearing his throat. “ ‘m, sorry...about that.” Heat flushes his face as he turns to avoid eye contact. It’s silent for a while. Drifter stares at the rivets holding a seam of the cargo container together when he hears the crinkle of the sleeping bag being moved. He does his best to look discreetly out of the corner of his eye, but is caught. Drifter holds the Guardian’s gaze until they break off to shift towards the wall. Lifting the sleeping bag they look at him directly and motion for him to lie down. “It’s too cold.”

Drifter freezes. His mind hitting a brick wall too thick to just power through. He’s stunned into a very rare silence. Uncertainty and confusion write themselves out upon his face. Seeing him be so still, the Guardian drops the sleeping bag to place a hand on his knee. “You asked...why I come here.” They speak slowly, as if unsure about what they’re saying and are figuring it out as they say it. “You...you don’t use me like everyone else.” They look away from him, cheeks faintly pink. “Zavala, Ikora, the Vanguard...they mean well, but...they don’t get to treat everyone as people. They need a killer? I kill. Answers? I seek. Someone who might survive the impossible? I survive. Unconditionally. Righteous things and unspeakable things... Because I am a guardian. I don’t have a name. Many ghosts just go by Ghost...I’m the only guardian without a name. There was just...never time for one, and…always so much to do. Lives to save. Futures to fight for…” They trail off, eyes slightly unfocused, perhaps lost in nightmares they haven’t escaped yet. “You bring Gambit, but it’s never a real pressure to join.” Their hand slips from his knee, becoming a loose fist on the cot.

The coiling thing in Drifter’s chest squeezes painfully. He shifts, almost stands, but then changes his mind. To Hell with it all. Shucking off his pauldrons, he shrugs out of his duster and kicks off his boots. Awkwardly, Drifter lays down on the cot —it’s made only for one after all— but gives up on trying to leave space between him and the Guardian. Laying on his side, he shoves an arm under the pillow and motions for the Guardian to come closer. They move over slowly, a little unsure now. Drifter grabs the sleeping bag and covers them both with it. He’s left that arm out, unsure on how much contact would be wanted. When he feels the Guardian shivering, Drifter almost stops himself from draping that arm over them. But he doesn’t stop himself. Instead he gently pulls them close to him until their back presses against his chest. They feel oddly cold despite being recently asleep. Drifter summons a measure of solar light over his skin, just enough to let soothing heat roll off. He feels the Guardian relax, shoulders dropping the tension that had remained.

Minutes pass and just as Drifter thinks they’ve fallen asleep, the Guardian quietly speaks. “It was so cold there...and twisted…” His arm around them tightens protectively for a moment. “Where did you go? Recent mission?” The Guardian nods slowly, voice a little louder, but twice as worn out as before. “Presage...the Glykon.” Drifter hums a short acknowledgement, turning over their words in his head. He was aware of the Vanguard operation, already heard snippets of Osiris live on comms reporting tidbits back to the Vanguard. The Cabal ship was a house of horrors. Thinking on what he knew of it, Drifter came to a sudden, sinking thought. “Did you…?” He isn’t able to finish his question, half knowing what the answer would likely be. Again, the Guardian slowly nods. The tightness in his chest returned with a sting before the Guardian spoke their confirmation, a small tremor rolling through them at the memory. “...alone.” Drifter holds them close, knowing no words could ease the turmoil in the Guardian’s mind. He holds them and keeps his Light near and solar-filled to stave off the Derelict’s iciness. Eventually the Guardian’s breathing levels out and Drifter can tell they’re sleeping. Several hours later he drifts off to sleep as well. When he wakes in the early morning, Drifter opens his eyes to see the Guardian’s face next to his, still asleep. It’s the first time he’s seen them look so at peace.

#its fucking 4am #destiny 2 #destiny 2: beyond light #Drifter/guardian #nonbinary guardian #any gender guardian tbth #fanfic #destiny fanfiction #what am i even writing #warmth #fuzzy feelings #destiny drifter #destiny guardians #presage #another one for the trauma jar meme #freeform #actually I don’t know what that means #help me I don’t know how to pick good tags #edited #to include a read more break #because I wasn't allowed to on mobile #yep typing this all on mobile was a mistake #but i'll do it again #The Drifter #The Guardian #Season of the Chosen #destiny fic #72nd_Cataclysm

[walkerwords]

“The Savior Sessions” Part 3 of 33 - Negan x GN!Reader

IMAGE CREDIT: Gene Page/AMC

SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: Part three of the savior sessions. Both the reader and Negan open up about their fears on a rainy day.

Word Count: 3130

Warning: Mention of The Governor being a rapist (briefly)

Song I Wrote To: “Rain” by Ben Platt

Note: I am trying to make these as gender-neutral as possible. If you have seen me use specific pronouns or anything that counters that, let me know! Thanks! I am working on my Daryl story, but I wanted to throw this out there as I do.

--------

It was raining when you woke up.

Droplets raced down your windows and thunder rolled in the distance. You knew it would be a day that was spent mostly inside. However, you also knew you had to pay Negan a visit. 

It was odd. He had surprised you. You could still see the layers of the man he was years before, but there was something...new that wasn’t there when he stepped out of that RV and introduced himself to your people.

Since you were young, you always believed in second chances. You never really thought anyone was truly evil until the world ended. Then, you had met people like the Governor and Gareth, two men who killed who for fun, who took pleasure in the torture and destruction of others.

While Negan had done evil things, you didn’t think he was evil. If horrific acts categorize someone as unsavable, then those closest to you, and even yourself, would be considered just as bad. Nobody was innocent in the new world, but perhaps some of them could still find redemption. 

Rolling onto your back, you stared up at the ceiling as the rain pelted the roof. The drumming of it drowned out the world for just a moment and you allowed yourself just a few more seconds of peace before throwing the blanket off and getting up for the day. 

You quickly dressed and then made way your way to the window. Few people milled around in the soaked streets. A few kids splashed in puddles as their parents smiled from the cover of their porches. You watched as Gracie ran around as Aaron tried to catch her, both of them laughing the whole time. 

Your house was one of the only ones that were left unscathed from the Savior’s attack. You lived next to Rosita who would sometimes use your spare bedroom when she needed a break from her boys. However, you tended to be alone for the most part unless one of the parents asked you to watch the kids. Being a teacher before the turn, you were really the only one who was able to get the little ones to calm down and listen.

Many people figured you would be the one to take over as the full-time teacher in Alexandria, but you couldn’t do it. You loved teaching back then, but now after everything, you were so different. And while you still cared about the kids, you were now more comfortable with a gun on your hip, watching the walls, or now, chatting with a killer. 

You grabbed your coat and then headed out of your house, walking towards the infirmary. Siddiq had been experimenting with a new tea that would help improve the immune systems of the Alexandria residents as the weather turned for the worse. Laura had been his last guinea pig for a taste test and the blonde had nearly choked it down while she tried to put on a brave face. However, the doctor had seen right through her and tried again. 

You were more than willing to help him out this morning as he had stitched you up enough over the past few years. The rain soaked your hair as you walked down the road, trying to keep your jacket tucked around your neck to keep the bandage that was placed there somewhat dry. Siddiq had patched you up the day before, but you had no desire to get an infection from a ruined bandage. 

As you approached the infirmary, Siddiq was already waiting for you on the porch. “I saw you coming,” he said with a warm smile. 

“I would have been here sooner, but I slept in,” you said with an apologetic shrug. 

“It’s the weather,” Siddiq said as he picked up two mugs from the table by the door. When he handed both of them to you, you rose a brow in question. “It gets cold in that cell,” he said with a shrug of his own. You smiled slightly, oddly touched that Siddiq had thought of Negan. Then again, he was the one who had looked after the man after Rick had opened his throat. 

You took a hesitant sip of the sweet-smelling tea and then relaxed as it actually tasted pretty good. “I think you managed to get this one right, Doctor,” you said raising your cup to him. 

“Mind telling other people that?” he asked.

“I’ll spread the word, Siddiq,” you said, walking back down his steps.

“Have fun,” he teased. 

“If both of my hands weren’t occupied, I would be sending you a very rude gesture right now,” you called over your shoulder as you continued toward the main road that led to Negan’s cell.

The guard waved to you as he left his post. You figured he hadn’t been there long. You were also trying to convince Michonne to drop the guard altogether. Negan knew he would most likely be executed if he broke out and from your conversations with him, you didn’t think he would try anyway. 

Balancing the mugs in one hand, you entered the stone building, shoving the door close with your foot. “Someone has their hands full this mornin’,” Negan said as he stood by the bars. 

“Courtesy of the good doctor,” you said, approaching him and handing him a steaming mug. “Trust me, I already checked for poison.” You hadn’t but it amused him. Negan took the mug through the bars and enclosed his hands around it.

Not bothering with the chair this time, you sat on the ground by the bars, pulling your knees up. Negan joined you, leaning against the cold wall. “How was your morning?” he asked, pleasantly. You chuckled under your breath. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said shaking your head. “It’s been...wet.” Negan looked at you and you rolled your eyes. “Don’t be gross,” you warned and he raised a hand in surrender. 

“I didn’t say anything,” he said. 

“No, but you were thinking it,” you said with narrowed eyes. 

“Ah, see, would you look at that! We’re so close we can already read each other’s minds.”

“Oh, great,” you said, turning up your nose. Negan mirrored your earlier expression and rolled his own eyes. 

“So, you don’t like the rain, then?” he asked.

“I don’t care for the thunderstorms, but I like a little rain. It makes the Walkers slower and freshens up the rotten air,” you explained, sipping on your tea. 

“Yeah,” Negan agreed, “I’m not too big on the thunderstorms either. Way back when the world was still somewhat functioning, we had a massive storm that cut the power right in the middle of the school day. Kids are rambunctious enough and then you give the little assholes a power outage and well…”

“Shit hits the fan,” you concluded. 

“You sound like you have personal experience,” Negan noticed. 

“I used to teach middle and high school English,” you revealed and Negan looked at you in surprise. 

“Did you like it?”

“It was better than this,” you said with a snort. 

“Fair enough,” Negan said. You let your head fall back and that’s when he noticed the bandage on your neck. “What happened there?” Your hand came up to touch the dressing. 

“Oh, I got cut when I was helping Scott with one of the walls. Walkers snuck up on us and I tripped on a piece of metal, scratch it on my way down. No big deal, I’ve had worse.” 

“Haven’t we all,” Negan muttered and you saw a flash of something behind his eyes, but it was gone in a second. “Well, you need to be more careful (Y/N), I can’t have my BFF gettin’ munched on by a corpse.” 

“BFF?” you asked with raised brows. Negan just winked back. “Alright, Mister, today, I want to hear a story from you.”

“I thought you said you were going to tell me what your vote would be,” Negan said, turning his head to look at you, waiting. You sighed as you remembered promising him that at the end of your last conversation, but you had been doing most of the talking in these sessions and it was his turn. 

“Story first,” you told him. “Then I’ll tell you.” He looked at you annoyed for a moment before shrugging. 

“As you wish, your majesty,” he said, but then he began his story. “Alright, how about the first time I ran into a herd?” 

“Oh? Do tell,” you said, resting your elbow on your knee and watching him. 

“Right, so, it wasn’t long after the Turn. Corpses were everywhere and you couldn’t walk out the door without having to bash in some skulls. I was trying to find someplace to hold up for a few days. I was with two other people, both are dead now, but they were decent people to travel with. My wife had just died and I needed to just leave, you know?” you nodded, understanding. “I made it to Richmond and god the number of Walkers was fucking terrifying. At this point, nobody knew what the fuck was going on. Not like we do now, but it was different back then as you remember.

“We moved into the city and then when I headed into the main district, lookin’ for the old FEMA centers, that’s when we saw it. Must have been over five hundred, maybe more. It was like they were all rotating in one big circle and then the bastards saw us and...well shit, I had never run so damn fast in my life. It was like we were magnets for the things and no matter where we turned, there were more and more…” Negan let out a breath as his memories haunted him. 

“What did you do to get away?” you asked.

“Managed to get an old tow truck workin’,” he said. “Plowed that sucker right through them until we could find high ground. Wasn’t pretty, but dealing with Walkers never is.”

“I think we all learned not to go to cities again after the first time,” you said, finishing your tea. 

“You did it too?”

“Atlanta,” you said with a nod. “Though, I did it multiple times for supplies so I guess I’m the idiot here.” 

“These were the runs you went on with Glenn?” he asked and you were surprised to hear him say Glenn’s name, but you nodded nonetheless. 

“Right,” you confirmed. “Though, I wasn’t with him the day he found Rick.”

Negan was quiet then and you knew he was thinking about Glenn. A few days before, Gabriel had come to you and told you that he sometimes overheard Negan saying his victims’ names in his sleep. Negan probably didn’t even know he was doing it, but it only added to your theory that Negan felt guilt for what happened at the line-up and everything afterward. 

“The fear I felt when all those Walkers were coming for us…” Negan continued. “It was the most primal thing I had ever felt. You know how they talk about fight or flight?” 

“Yeah.”

“I never once thought to fight at that moment. All I wanted to do was run and not look back. It wasn’t until weeks later that I got sick of running and I finally made Lucille.”

“‘Lucille, give me strength’,” you quoted and his head whipped towards you. “I told you, I was good at surveillance. I guess she did more for you than we all first thought. Not just a bat after all.”

“Never was that simple,” he said and you could hear the sadness in his voice as he spoke the words.

You were wondering if you could find her out in that field. It had been years, but if by some miracle it was there, you may be able to get it. Not that you were going to give it to Negan, but maybe someday if he was let out and went looking for her, you could give that piece back to him. The thing that was hated by your people but created the resilient man before you. You figured that was something. 

“You asked me before who the first person I killed was,” you began. Negan waited patiently. “I never knew his name or if he had a family, but I remember his face and how I felt at that moment. I was terrified. We were under attack by this man who called himself The Governor. This man ran a community, a town, and he was horrible. He was a rapist, a killer, and an overall tyrant. Not somebody that would have been welcomed here or the Sanctuary.” 

“Damn right,” Negan sneered. 

“We had liberated the town and Michonne had tried to kill him so he was pissed and eventually rolled up to the gates of the prison we were living in. He blasted our towers to rubble and his men and women began killing us. We were lucky enough to be pretty strong then and we killed most of them. Daryl got his hands on some grenades and took the tank out.”

“Tank?” Negan asked. 

“I told you, son of a bitch was crazy. His people attacked and we had to defend ourselves. I was trying to wrangle all the kids with a man by the name of Tyreese. He was Sasha’s brother. He and I were almost out when this man came up and tried to kill Tyreese as he held a very young Judith in his arms.”

Taking a breath, you tried to stay calm as you recounted the events. “He was gonna kill the baby and I had one of Daryl’s knife so I just rammed it into the man’s neck. I didn’t think it would be that hard, you know? Walkers are much easier, so when the blade made contact, it almost didn’t go through. Blood flowed all over me from the artery I had severed and Tyreese ran with Judith. I watched the man die at my feet as I collected myself, but it didn’t last long. A second later and an explosion racked the courtyard and I went down. I didn’t see Tyreese or the baby until we were all reunited.”

“You did it to protect your people, to protect a child,” Negan reminded you. 

“I wasn’t upset I killed him, Negan,” you said. “I was upset at how easy it was to do it.”

“I get that,” he said and you could tell he was being honest. That was something you admired about him, he never lied if he could help it. “What happened after that?” 

“Michonne killed the Governor and I woke up just as a Walker was about to kill me. Then, Glenn came out of nowhere and killed it and I ended up staying with him and Tara as we went to find the others. On the road is where we met Rosita, Abraham, and Eugene. I didn’t know it then, but I would be killing a lot more in the next few weeks.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not and you wouldn’t be either if you knew who tried to kill us...who tried to fucking slaughter us like cows…” your fists curled in as the visuals of Terminus flashed behind your eyes.

You hadn’t realized you were shaking until you felt a hand on yours as Negan reached through the bars to calm your hands. You realized then that this was the first time he had touched you and you felt oddly comforted. You patted his hand in thanks and he withdrew it, placing it back in his lap. “So, just know you’re not the only one who has felt fear like you did in that city.”

“But you fought,” he said. 

“I did, but all I wanted to do was run. It took me a long time to run towards danger than from it. Rick, Daryl, Carol, Abe, they all taught me to fight.”

“They did a good job,” he complimented. “You are one certified badass (Y/L/N).” 

“Who told you my last name?” you asked, narrowing your eyes. 

“Judith,” he said with a grin. 

“Should have known,” you said with a small smile. 

“There it is,” Negan said, pointing at your mouth. “I like seeing you smile.” You went to roll your eyes again, but a loud crash of thunder interrupted you. You jumped. 

“Jesus,” you swore under your breath. “That is why I hate storms.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” he joked and you pushed his shoulder through the bars, making him laugh. The two of you sat in silence then, listening to the rain. This was only your third time speaking to him, but you were starting to feel a kind of camaraderie between the two of you. It was strange, but it began to feel natural. You wondered if this is how Judith felt when she spoke to him, this kind of calmness. Then again, Judith could make friends with everyone.

Negan’s eyes fell closed as he breathed in deep. In the low light of the cell, you could see the shiny line of the scar that permanently marked his throat and you finally answered his question. 

“I would have voted no,” you whispered. His eyes opened slowly and his head rolled to the right to look at you. 

“Why?” he simply asked. You kept eye contact as you spoke, making sure he understood every word. 

“None of us are saints, Negan,” you began. “All of us, Hilltop, Alexandria, Kingdom, Oceanside, we’ve all killed without a second thought to protect what’s ours. I’m not saying what you did was right, but sometimes I think back to the line-up or when you set the Walkers loose on Hilltop and I can’t help but think that I would’ve done the same if the situation was reversed. Maybe not with a baseball bat, but we’ve tortured and we’ve executed.”

“So, you’re saying that you wouldn’t have killed me because you’ve done shitty things, too?” he asked. 

“There is enough death in the world already,” you said with a shrug.

“Unbeing dead isn't being alive,” Negan quotes and you tilted your head slightly. 

“E.E. Cummings was a wise man.” 

“Indeed he was,” Negan agreed with a smile. “Thanks for saying that.” 

“I told you I didn’t hate you and I meant it. To an outsider, we’re both monsters,” you explained. “I imagine that if I had been with the Saviors, I would have seen this side as the villains. All about perception, my friend.” 

“Ah, so you agree,” he said with a grin, “we are friends.”

“Oh, shut up.”

TAGS:  @thanossexual​ @yes-sir-hotchner​ @boom-bunny​ @delusionalteenagewhispers​ @sophia-gwendolyn​ @ritajammer21

#walkerwords #savior sessions #twd #twd imagines #negan imagine #negan x reader #reader insert #The Walking Dead #the walking dead imagines #the walking dead fanfiction #TWD season 9 #Prison Negan

[mymoodwriting]

The Choice Is Yours

F!Reader x Vampire!Yuta

Genre: Vampire Dystopia

Warning: Kidnapping, Fear, Running, Betrayal, Blood

Words: 2.2K

Chapters:

One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Epilogue

Prompt: Good behavior goes a long way when a new world order is established within hours and humans wind up at the bottom of the food chain. As luck would have it you were claimed by a vampire named Yuta, so you’re saved in a sense. Many would say you’re in a rather unique situation, and despite its perks it wasn’t really something you asked for.

“Y/n… wake up.”

    Jinwoo’s voice pulled you from your sleep. The world around was still dark, but sunlight was certainly on the rise. You ate with the others by the fire and helped pack up. You felt much better, and you certainly looked better too. The journey continued, and you noticed how close to the mountains you were now, which meant the harder part was growing closer. Although, despite being better, you couldn’t keep up with everyone’s usual pacce, so you were at the back of the group. At least you weren’t alone.

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to get on my back?”

“I can walk on my own. I’ve been freeloading with you all long enough.”

“You couldn’t help that.”

“Perhaps, but thank you, really, I don’t think I can say it enough. It would have been much easier for you all to leave me behind.”

“Then what would be the point of fighting if we’re not going to help each other out.”

“Can I ask… how did you… escape all this? Or were you rescued?”  

“I’m a little embarrassed to say, but I was rescued.”

“How’s that embarrassing? I was rescued.”

“Just cause… you’d think I was strong or something considering I’m a leader in this resistance.”

“You had to learn somehow. What did you do before?”

“I wound up working as labor, on a farm. It was a small one, so easier to attack. In a way I got lucky too.”

“Do you really think… can we win?”

“I think anything’s possible, but we need to know our enemy.”

“You seem to know that fire works.”

“Fire can kill anything, but if we knew more about their weakness, then perhaps it’d be easier to fight.”

“There might be a way to learn.”

“What do you mean?”

“The house I was in, there’s these books, written by vampires, that talk about all kinds of things. They have books on humans, but also on vampires, surely those could tell us about their weaknesses.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s a little difficult to read but I can understand a good amount.”

“I guess we have our next target. You know the house right?”

“Yeah. Human servants, and honestly not the many halfbreeds, and the only vampire around is the owner of the house. The only other problem might be security. There’s an electric fence around the perimeter, it’s pretty high up.”

“Then we go under.”

“Under?”

“The house is surrounded by trees isn’t it?”

“Yeah…”

“Most houses like that have underground tunnels and hidden passageways. We could probably find one.”

“Oh… I never thought about that…”

    Around noon the group stopped to get some rest and eat. You were never one for the great outdoors, but you found yourself enjoying it. Kinda interesting seeing how quiet the world really was. You couldn’t help but wonder if it’s always been this peaceful, or a recent development. Regardless, it was beautiful.

“You good?”

“Hm?” You looked up to see Minhyuk. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“We’ll be moving in a bit, so be ready.”

“Okay, thanks.”

    When you were done eating you started packing your things, looking around for Jinwoo. You were ready to get back to it, but then you started feeling dizzy. You thought maybe you got up too fast, but leaning against a tree didn’t help. The dizziness suddenly changed and you screamed, falling to your knees. Your head was on fire, your vision blurring, others had gathered around you but you couldn’t make anyone out. The pain became too much, and you fell into darkness.

♥♥♥♥♥

    Yuta took in a soft breath as he came to, groggily taking in his surroundings. He recognized the room, knowing he was back at Taeyong’s house. He wasn’t alone though, Xiaojun was occupying a bed next to him, and YangYang was on his phone in the other.

“What happened?”

YangYang looked over. “You’re awake, how do you feel?”

“Sore… you?”

“I’m okay, just on bed rest, you are too.”

“Figured. Where’s y/n?”

“About that…”

“Where is she?!”

“Gone.”

“What do you mean gone?!”

“She wasn’t in the limo.” Taeyong said as he entered with others in tow. “You should be thanking YangYang, not yelling at him.”

“What happened!”

“What do you remember?”

“Um… the limo… it crashed…”

“It got blown off the road. We heard the explosion and rushed over. Since YangYang wasn’t wasted, he managed to get out and then get you two before the limo went up in flames.”

“But… how?”

“Humans.” YangYang added. “They attacked us. When I regained consciousness I could see them pouring gasoline all over the limo, and I noticed they had gotten y/n out. They took her.”

“Yuat…” Sicheng began. “She’s most likely dead.”

“No… no she-”

“She’s human and she was in the accident with you. I can’t even imagine the kind of injuries she sustained.”

“But-”

“Those who took her, I doubt they have the means to heal her. I’m sorry but-”

“We don’t know that!”

    Yuta couldn’t accept that, not when guilt was eating him alive. He hadn’t completely lost consciousness in the crash, he couldn’t really move, but he could hear you crying out for him. Despite the pain, and everything that’s happened, you still called for him, and he couldn’t do anything for you. 

“She’s alive… she has to be…”

“It’s very unlikely.” Johnny said. “Yuta-”

“She’s alive! I can prove it!”

“Huh?”

“There’s a tracker on her, I activated it when I took off her collar. I was gonna take it off when we got back home, but never had the chance.”

“That doesn’t… if anything, we can find the body.”

“No, she’s alive.”

“Yuta-”

“Here.” Taeyong handed over his phone. “Let’s see what happens.”

    Vampires certainly had a lot of sophisticated technology, well beyond human standards, that they kept to themselves. Trackers were common as part of the collars most humans wore nowadays, and through an application they could look up anyone, since the collars would identify the human and attach that information to the signal. All one had to do was look up the name or use the ID number.

    Of course, removing the collar would deactivate the tracking function, unless the option to physically insert the tracker in the human was made. That’s what Yuta did, seeing that the collar was troublesome for you, but also wanting to make sure he could still find you if something happened. He wasn’t happy about being right over that, but grateful nonetheless he had made the choice. It took a moment, but then he locked onto your signal, showing the others.

“See, she’s alive.”

“That location is for somewhere out in the woods.” Sicheng said. “That could just be her body.”

“It’s not! Look, I’ll activate the secondary function and get vitals.”

“Yuta-”

    Yuta didn’t listen of course, just needing to know you were okay. Even if one wanted, the collars could also adjust, usually tighten a bit, to get information on the human’s vitals, like heart rate and stuff like that. The small tracker chip could do that as well, although Yuta didn’t think of the consequences in that situation, such as the fact the chip itself had to further attach itself to the human in order to get vital readings, and that could be painful. It was a small price to pay, and if you were dead, it wouldn’t matter anyway. When the vitals finally came around, Yuta could feel himself relaxing in relief.

“She’s alive… vitals are steady… she’s okay…”

“How is that possible.” Johnny took the phone. “She was in a car accident.”

“It doesn’t matter, we have to go get her.” Yuta got up. “Now.”

“Hold on.” Sicheng held him back. “You still need to rest and recover.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“Let go.”

“Yuta, please.”

“Alright calm down.” Taeyong interrupted. “I’ll have my scouts retrieve them while you rest, is that fine with you, Yuta?”

“You’ll get her back?”

“Of course. If she’s fine, and we have her location, I don’t see why not. Besides, she’s with a resistance group, perhaps she can be useful in capturing some rough humans. You have to stay though.”

“But-”

“Xiaojun hasn’t even woken up yet and you’re worried about a human!” YangYang hissed. “What’s wrong with you.”

“He hasn’t…” Yuta looked over at Xiaojun. “He’s okay, right?”

“His injuries were a bit more severe.” Johnny explained. “He’ll recover, it’s just gonna take a while. It’s not unusual that he hasn’t woken up yet, but he’s healing, so that’s good.”

“Has he eaten?”

“Given that you’re outta commission for the time being, Taeyong provided, and he ate, so he’ll be alright.”

“I’ll be off then.” Taeyong took back his phone. “You stay in bed, or I swear.”

“I’ll stay…”

“Good.”

♥♥♥♥♥

“Y/n…”

    You slowly came too, your eyes adjusting to the sky, and then to Jinwoo. He was next to you, examining your injuries, relieved to see you were waking up.

“Are you okay?”

“I… I think so…” You slowly sat up. “What happened?”

“You started screaming and then passed out.”

“Am… am I still hurt cause of the accident?”

“You shouldn’t be. Vampire blood can heal all kinds of internal and external injuries. It shouldn’t be brain damage. Do you feel okay?”

“I mean… just a little woozy, but I’m fine… I feel fine.”

“Jinwoo is she-”

    Minhyuk came over, glad to see you were awake, but his eyes were drawn to something else. He approached and looked at your neck.

“What’s that…”

“Huh?” Jinwoo pulled you close, seeing a light red flashing under your skin. “Shit…”

“What… what is it?”

“Y/n… you have a tracker on you.”

“A what? No, no that’s not possible! I don’t have a collar! I-”

“Breathe, just breathe okay, we’ll figure this out.”

“No…”

“We can-”

“You have to go…” You wiped away the tears on your face. “You all need to go, now.”

“We’re not just gonna-”

“You have to! They’ll find me, but… but they can’t find you. Please, you need to leave me behind…”

“Y/n-”

‘“I can’t put the rest of you in danger! I won’t… please…”

“Fuck.” Jinwoo took a moment. “Tell the others we’re compromised, we need to cover our tracks and move quickly. Go!”

“I’m sorry…”

“Sh, you didn’t know…”

    You knew your little sense of freedom was gone, and you didn’t know how to take that. Whatever you had, you gave back to the group, you didn’t want to have anything they could track down. Despite your wishes Jinwoo stayed with you for quite a while. You didn’t pay much attention to him though, just trying to enjoy the outdoors. Eventually you noticed Jinwoo with a bag and he was setting down some kinda wire.

“What… what is that?”

“Fireworks.”

“Fireworks… how do you… why?”

“Vampires… and halfbreeds, they have heightened senses, fireworks are loud to us, imagine how bad it is for them. When they go off, it’ll disorient the bloodsuckers, making it easier to get away.”

“Smart…”

“Y/n, we can try to-”

“It’s in my neck Jinwoo… it’s too dangerous to try…”

“I’m sorry…”

“I wouldn’t be alive if not for you, there’s nothing to apologize for.”

“You wouldn’t have been in danger if not for us.”

“I think saving me makes up for it.”

“So we’re even.”

“Pretty much.”

“Still… I’m sorry.”

“You should go… I won’t say anything, not like I knew much of anything to begin with.”

“I don’t wanna sound awful or anything, but… do what you have to do to survive, no one will fault you for that. Here.” Jinwoo handed you a trigger. “When you see the bastards, activate the fireworks, it’ll be kinda fun to see them squirm.”

“Thanks. Be safe.”

“You too.”

    Jinwoo headed off, looking back one last time, before disappearing. When you felt he was really gone, you let the tears flow properly. The peaceful outdoors suddenly became very scary as loneliness settled in. Hours passed, you grew hungry, but you stayed in the shade of a tree, waiting for the inevitable. The first sign of trouble was when you heard a ruffling in a bush somewhere nearby. You jumped to your feet, finger on the trigger, just ready. The last thing you would do is help Jinwoo and the others, that you were sure of.

    Just as you feared, a halfbreed came into view and you set off the fireworks. No one got too close to you, everyone else falling to the ground in agony. Despite it all, you were terrified, and you couldn’t but want to run, so you did. It was stupid, there was no escaped, but in the moment you just wanted to pretend, as if getting away was actually possible. It wasn’t until the fireworks settled that one of the halfbreeds tackled you to the ground, pinning you down. You were certain something was broken because of the pain you felt, and you couldn’t even begin to imagine the bruises you’d get.

“Sorry about that, but you did run.” You managed to see Taeyong approaching you, squatting down. “Also can’t expect my scouts to go easy on you either, been a while since they’ve hunted down a human.” 

“I guess they had their fun.”

“Hm, I suppose so. Let’s get you back home.”

#yuta #nakamoto yuta #nct #nct 127 #taeyong #winwin #yangyang #xiaojun #johnny #lee taeyong #dong sicheng #liu yangyang #xiao de jun #seo youngho #nct u #wayv #nct au #nct scenarios #nct angst

[lokislittlesigyn]

OG616 : Thor 1 - Pt.3 [The Odinsleep]

[My masterlist, where all parts of this and my other fics can be found]

Pairing: Loki / Sigyn (basically an oc based off the marvel/myth namesake)

Warnings: Some mention of violence/death. All past tense.

Author’s Note: It’s getting worse.

Taglist: @high-functioning-lokipath

To be added to the taglist, just ask me here or send a message! <3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Something has happened.

Something is wrong.

Sigyn sat alone in the library, a forgotten book lying open next to her. The last remnants of evening light gleamed over the city. Fiery hues of red and gold, mixing with the slightest whisper of purple. So far, the Bifrost had fired - thrice. She heard it, the distant, low rumble.

Loki still hadn't come for her.

Healers bustled around the castle. Rumors spread.

"The Warriors Three were wounded."

"Prince Thor hasn't been seen since they returned."

"The Allfather mentioned Jotunheim."

Sigyn decided against bothering the healers or trying to find her brother and his friends. Instead, she decided, she should stay put. Things were better that way. No need to worry, she told herself. Everything would work out, and soon Loki would peer around the corner, wearing his signature smirk. Ready to tell her how foolish Thor was being, or how relieved he was to be home.

So she waited.

And waited.

She twiddled her thumbs, gazing out a window. The day was fading. Tones of amber and gold mixed with cobalt blue, where stars began to twinkle, promising the coming night. Asgard always had beautiful sunsets.

"Princess?" The guard's voice made her turn. "Princess Sigyn, the bookkeeper asks you retire soon."

"Yes. Of course…" She stood, returning the book to its shelf.

The guard didn't move.

".. Do you need something else?"

"Prince Loki requested I escort you to your quarters."

Sigyn whipped around to face him. "He’s home?"

"He is preoccupied."

".. Very well, follow me, though I wish Loki would do it himself. Where is he?"

The guard led her from the library, on the usual route back to her quarters.

"He is at the Allfather's bedside, milady."

"The Allfather…?"

"Has fallen into the Odinsleep."

Sigyn stopped. "What?"

"Allfather Odin has fallen into the Odinsleep. Had you not known?"

Without a word, Sigyn turned and walked in a different direction.

"My lady, where-"

"I need to see the Allfather."

"My lady," The guard jogged after her, "My orders were to escort you back to your room..."

"Consider this taking the long way."

"Princess Sigyn." he stressed.

Sigyn sighed, looking at him. "I ask that you please escort me to the Allfather before you escort me to my quarters."

After a moment of silence, she asked again. "Please?"

With a sigh, he finally spoke. "Yes, my lady. But only this once. I fear Prince Loki's wrath should I displease him…"

"Leave my husband to me. He can be difficult, but he'll come around."

They reached the Allfather's cavernous room. Entered.

There, in a great bed, lie Odin. Frigga was on one side, Loki, the other. A golden aura encapsulated the Allfather, cloaked him in shining light which shifted and writhed like waves.

"Sigyn," Frigga stood, "Daughter."

"Frigga." Sigyn smiled at her, but quickly looked back at Odin. It was jarring, to see him there. The king of the realm, the most powerful of all of them by far, reduced to a deep sleep. Defenseless.

Without him to govern the realm, perhaps the Frost Giants could attack again, could-

No. That would never happen.

Loki stood, staring the guard down. "I told you to escort her back to our chambers."

"Yes, Prince Loki, but when she heard about the Allfather-"

"I don't care. You should be flogged for disobeying my orders."

"Loki, have mercy on him." Sigyn glanced at him. "It's not his fault I decided to run off."

"So it was you again? Sigyn, you mustn't keep running about like this, you’ll end up hurting yourself." Loki walked over to her. But he didn't touch her, didn't take her hand like he normally would. "Go to bed, Sigyn. It's late."

"But what of the Allfather? Is he safe? Are we safe? Loki, how did this happen?"

Loki’s jaw clenched. An unfamiliar, pained look flashed across his eyes, but quickly left.

Sigyn's brow furrowed. "Loki?" He avoided her gaze. Avoided getting too close. Have I done something wrong?

Frigga walked to them, embracing Sigyn in a light hug. "My dear, worry not. Tomorrow we'll have a better understanding of how long Odin may rest… Until then, you should rest." She kissed Sigyn's forehead, then turned to Loki. "Both of you."

Loki opened his mouth to respond, but shut it. Instead he nodded, dismissing the guard and motioning Sigyn toward toward the door. She turned back to Odin, pondering as she stepped backward to follow Loki.

"Sigyn." He called.

"Coming..." She took a final glance over her shoulder before leaving the room.

~~~~

Sigyn waited for Loki to embrace her that night, but he never did. She supposed the day had been very rough, and he would talk to her in the morning.

She expected him to. To wake her up the next morning, venting about how reckless Thor had been again. How Volstagg had nearly gotten himself killed again. How everyone had acted like complete oafs, only for him to save them all again.

Sigyn would smile and lie there with him, agreeing with him, stroking his ebony-black hair. Tracing the line of his jaw. Perhaps stealing a few kisses.

But that never happened.

Instead, Sigyn awoke to find she was alone.

"Loki?"

No answer.

She pulled a blanket around herself, trudged over to the balcony. Even with her nightdress on, she felt cold.

There Loki, fully dressed as though he’d been up for hours already, stood overlooking the city.

"Did you sleep well?"

He jumped, turned to face her. "You startled me."

She pursed her lips, walking over to join him. "I'm sorry, I hadn't meant to…"

"It's fine." He turned back to the city and set his jaw firm. He didn't smile.

Didn't say good morning.

Didn't jest or chuckle or tease her about the blanket.

He didn't even seem to notice the blanket.

What's going on with you? Why aren't you yourself? My love, why won't you look at me?

".. Any news of the Allfather?" She focused on the city. She loved this city. But more, she loved the man next to her, the man who still hadn’t looked her in the eye.

"No."

"And of the Warriors Three? I heard they were wounded."

Loki shifted next to her. "Yes. Fandral and Volstagg both."

"And?"

"They're being healed." His tone was short, his jaw still clenched.

"I’m glad to hear it." Sigyn practically felt the conversation waning. Gasping for breath. Dying. She cleared her throat. "And Thor? Is he well? I didn't hear from him yesterday. Though I suspect he may be tending to his wounded pride.."

"Thor is banished." Loki spoke far too calmly.

Sigyn froze. Blinked. "... What?"

"Odin banished him."

She turned to face him, head already swimming with questions. But all she could manage was- "Why?!"

Loki huffed through his nose. "Sigyn, isn't it obvious? We went to Jotunheim. The imbecile nearly got us all killed because a few stray Frost Giants broke into the weapon's vault. Thor practically committed treason."

Sigyn’s blood ran cold. "But- You warned a guard, so you’d be stopped?"

"That was my plan, Sigyn." Loki was growing tenser by the second, and yet, he refused to look at her. Refused to acknowledge the fact her hand was reaching for his. "It's the guard's fault for taking so long; this could've been prevented."

Sigyn went silent, trying to comprehend everything.

"...Where did the Allfather send him?"

"I don't know."

"Will he ever come back?"

"I don't know, Sigyn!" He shouted, finally facing her, then stilled himself when he saw how her eyes had gone wide, how she’d pulled away from him. 

He breathed, swallowing and hushing his tone. "There's no telling when Thor may return. And now our realm is weak; we have no king, no crown prince, and no assurance our borders are even capable of keeping out two Jotuns - much less an army of them."

Sigyn swallowed. Loki turned away, running a hand through his hair.

".. They won't get in again, will they?"

He glanced at her. "I cannot say for sure."

"So they might."

"Of course they might. I won't pretend our realm is safe. None of us are safe now. Laufey practically declared war while we were on Jotunheim."

"War?" Sigyn's pulse quickened.

"He mentioned it."

"Oh, Loki.." She leaned against the balcony wall, hugged her blanket tighter around herself.

So the truce was broken. Jotuns, at war with Asgard, like they were when she was a child. Her thoughts drifted back to then – to the stories of fearsome, bloodthirsty creatures from a world of ice and darkness. Her father had told her those stories of the Jotuns he slayed. Hundreds, he said, had challenged him. He killed every one of them.

Sigyn shivered. If war came again, she would hardly be able to help – she was weaker than other Asgardians, more delicate, more… Cold. She always felt cold.

Luckily, Loki felt rather cold too.

He always said that it proved he and Sigyn were destined to be married. Her skin hardly felt different to him...

She looked back at her husband.

He hadn't moved. Still deep in thought, he stared out over the city, his brow furrowed, his body tense. She hadn’t seen him this tense in a long time.

"Loki…" She moved closer, "Whatever happens, I love you. And I trust you. We'll be okay."

He tried to smile. But there was still a shadow behind his eyes. He seemed closed off, removed... Like there was a gap between the two of them.

She returned it, nodding slightly. "We'll be fine. Just fine."

#lokixsigyn #loki fanfic #logyn #OG616 #Thor 1

[undercoverwizardfanfiction]

Welp

Woke up this week to 200+ followers! Wasn’t sure how to react! I didn’t  think i was going to get 5 followers on a blog just for my writing let alone this many so thank you!

So I’m giving you a small treat, it’s a “trailer” (i guess i’d call it that?) for the story after the Broken Butterfly. It’s part of the Fantasy series and the reason it’s so special is because it’s the first fantasy story i’ll do with more then two parts. it’ll be a long multichapter story that will take a while to tell but i think will be worth it? (Charmy take out the question mark)(no, bite me!) Because i still plan on writing a few fantasy shorts and other stories in the mean time. Including a Sci-fi au i think y’all will like

Anyway thank you all again! here’s my trailer (can i call it a trailer? or is it a preview?)

He couldn’t stop shaking

Not out of fear but from excitement as he hung from the thick tree branch his little hands had latched onto. The Child wiggled around before pulling themselves up with some considerable effort, having to primarily rely on his unhurt leg to swing up till he’s finally sitting on the branch with a giant grin. “I’m so high up!!” He said throwing his hands into the air excitedly, “Dad! Dad do you see!? Do you see how high up I am!?” He said to the black haired yokai standing by the tree, “I’m almost as tall as you!”

Len chuckled, “Yeah look at you kiddo” even though he had been to the one who had helped the Child reach the branch in the first place. The Child put his hands on the branch, wobbling slightly until they were in a standing position. He put his hands out for balance as he began walking down the thick branch at a snails pace. Lens’ hands hovered at his sides, ready to catch him if he fell, but the Child was having too much fun to be deterred by Lenards protectiveness, “Careful kiddo.” He said

“Can I climb higher?!” The Child asked eagerly.

Len looked up at the tall tree nervously, “Not today kiddo.” Before holding his hands out to him, “Hop over.”

The Child pouted for a moment, before carefully turning to face Len. He shifted his feet around and braced his legs before jumping over the small gap between him and Len who immediately hugged him, “Atta boy!”Lenard said smiling at him in a way that took away the Childs disappointment as he set him on his hip, “That new leg brace Mickey made you is really doing  you wonders huh?”

“Yeah Yeah!” He said swinging his dubbed ‘hurty leg’ that was now carefully wrapped in a brace that his Uncle had spent almost a year perfecting. Not only was it far lighter then the one they had bought from the Healing Hut, but it allowed him to run and jump with almost no trouble. Course now Len spent most of his time chasing Him down, but to the Child that made it more fun (not the time outs that followed when He took it too far, he hated those) IT took a moment for Him to notice his Dad was giving him a big if thoughtful smile and tilted his head questingly   “you’re getting so big,” Len said as a explanation using his free arm to hug him closer with his cheek resting on His temple, “I can’t believe you’re only six. You sure you ain’t really thirty? Or fifty?”

The child giggled, “No!” Before bringing his hands up squish Len’s face in his hands, causing the yokai to laugh and gently pull his hand away from his face, ‘Alright alright don’t cut your hand on my tooth.” He said, “Today is actually very special, today is when we officially start training.”

“Training?” The Child tilted his head, “Like tumbling?” He was used to that. It was fun to summersault on the soft grass.

“Not exactly, it’s a little more to it then that.” Len said kneeling down and setting Don carefully on the grass, “I want to get you started on basic fighting skills, “

The excitement the Child had felt at the thought of tumbling gave was to nervousness as he dropped his chin to his chest and poked his fingertips together, “I-I don’t wanna hurt no one though.”

“I know baby boy.” Len rubbed his scalp  before cupping his sons face in his hand, using his thumb to rub the worry line between his eyes. The Child giggled lightly at the contact but kept his gaze on the ground. “You wouldn’t be learning these skills to hurt people, but to protect yourself. And you being safe is all I care about. So is that ok with you?”

The Child puffed up his cheeks in contemplation. He still din’t like the idea of hurting people, but Len was his dad, he was the one who took him in, held him when he was scared, sang to him when he was sad. If he though it was a good idea then, “Okie, cause I love you.”

Len grinned and rubbed his scalp again ,”That’s my boy.” He said, “Now stay right here ok?” Len stood up and took several steps back and pulling out a familiar wooden handle, with a spin and a flash his hookstaff appeared. “Ok kiddo, the staff is a weapon mostly used for defense. When we start again I’ll teach you some spinning exercises that will help strengthen your hands and wrists. Its one of the most versatile weapons because even if your staff breaks in battle, you can usually find a good substitute for it nearby. But my favorite thing about using a staff is that it’s a great way to fight people off without leaving long lasting damage.” He puts the staff in a wide hold, with both hands at atleast, he shuffles his left leg forward, thrusting the opposite end of the staff forward, “See?” Len asks, “This is a basic strike, even if you get to my level this is what you’ll be using if your’e ever in a fight.” Before taking his other step forward and bringing the other end with a thrust and a shout

(#)(#)\/(#)(#)

A scream of terror coupled with a earth trembling thunder snaps Him back to reality. Half his vision is stolen by a a mixture of darkness, a icy downpour that seems content on bruising the hell out of him and a heavy fog that takes him a moment to realize is his own breath. A moment  later pain shoots through is stomach with enough force to double him over, wrapping his free arm around it as though trying to protect it from a  invisible force. Its only by plunging the object in his hand into the ground and leaning on it that he keeps from falling over completely. Desperate to offer his aching body some semblance of support.

His vision finally starts to clear  up and he realizes the staff  holding him up is unfamiliar. It is far heavier and metal and has a barbed wire end facing forward in a c-shape. Before He can contemplate why he’s holding it, a fear filled sob reaches him and reality comes rushing back in a unforgiving wave

The man in front of him is standing his with arms out, as though shielding the other man behind him who his also holding a small child to his chest. The man being protected has a large gash on his scalp that drenches his tattered clothes. Before He can comprehend what’s has them so scared, he finally notices the end of his weapon has the tangled remains of the mans shirt in its wire, as though it had been a  second away from piercing his chest cavity.

With a choked gasp, horror overwhelms Him as he takes several steps back, “I-I’m so-i’m sorry!” his vision is filled with bright lights, blinding him again has he rubs furiously at his eyes, desperate for reason or answers.

He gets both

What had once been a humble but fair sized villages is now in ruins, buildings crushed in as though a Child had stomped through with little to no regard for the life it could of held. He can hear whimpers and cries of pain around him, the hurried footsteps of people running away from the village

No not from the village.

He looks down to the weapon he now recognizes as a sodegarami to the family still cowering in front of him before covering his mouth with his free hand

He understands.

He is horrified .

“Run!” He shouts, causing the small family to jump,” Run! Get out of here before its too late!” With the grace of frightened ants, the family scrambles to their feet and hurries away. Glancing back as though to make sure he wasn’t going to chase them down to finish them. When they’re out of sight he allows himself to give a shaky sigh of relief and lowers himself down onto his knees to offer his body a semblance of rest.  Before a voice whispers by his head somehow far colder then the rain itself.

”Now now, I can’t keep having you breaking free my gargalmelly baby,”

Terror shoots through him as he spins around swinging his weapon to aim directly at the intruder.  What at first simply appears to be a shadow slowly takes from as the rain parts away from it. As though natures itself is too scared to touch the queen. Judging by her wrinkled nose the Matriarch is more concerned with his appearance then to the weapon aimed at her “And just look how filthy you are now. I’ll have to tell the maids to scrub you down when we return to the castle,” The Queen looks back to the remains of the village and its devastation, “I will say this you do make quick work. But on second thought, perhaps this isn’t the place I want my vacation castle.” She gives out a pained sigh as though reflecting on all the work she put into this ‘project’ “Oh well it was far too good for the likes of those tax dodgers anyway. I”ll find something to do with it.” She says, taking a few steps forward as though there was a floor of glass blocking her perfect shoes from being dirty.

“You-“ He is only now aware of how thirsty his is as he desperately tries to wet his cracked lips. It feels as though his entire body has been deprived of everything it needed to function properly, but he glares after the Queen, “You made me attack a village of innocents just so you can have a vacation home!?” He asks

“Now now don’t get in a tizzy, I can’t have a Prince who gets so upset so easily,” She shakes her head solemnly ,”These ,after all, are criminals. They’re dirty, weak, Ugly,  and don’t deserve mercy.” Big Mama looks off into the ruined village with almost a bored eye, “They had the nerve to say the latest tax increase was far too gargantuan for their little families to afford. But you know what I hate more then tax evaders?” She asks in her sickly sweet voice that makes His stomach squirm

He thinks of the family he had almost killed and screams in rage, grabbing his staff from the ground and plunging the tip into her chest. But before he can consider the consequences, theres a strike of lightning as the Matriarch herself appears in his line of vision unharmed, her now completely yellow eyes glaring  out from beneath her bands as tilts her head at him, “when my Princes disappoint me.”

A scorching heat fills His brain as he cries out. The feeling shoots through his arms and legs and his causes his left up to suddenly twist up his back as he’s forced to his knees, his face in the mud blinding his vision again. He hears her step closer and her disappointed sigh

”Looks like we have our work cut on you.  But until then, you have a job to do.”

Out of the corner of his eye, a darkness crawls across his vision. IT rings a terror of familiarity that makes his eyes burn before the darkness takes him completely

#()(#)\/(#)(#)

“Wake up boy.”

A strangled breath escaped Him, but the sudden reflex jerk makes pain shoot through his side in a blinding pain that makes him double over. The world has eerie white sheen to it as he struggles to fill his sting lung. The pain in his head that he h had felt previously has now spread to his eyes. He’s sitting on a chair he doesn’t recognize. There’s a cup of water in his hands that looks like  he’s been drinking out of it but he can’t remember. His hand comes up to check his chest only to find it tightly bound in bandages, through his blurry vision he can see a red stain at the center that only raises more questions then answers.

“What is your name boy.”

IT is more command then question. The voice sense a shiver down His shell that he can barely hide. It doesn’t help when the chorus of laughter joins in from his ‘visitors’ shoulders. Dark eyes glare at him from underneath his gold pointed crown, expecting obedience. He is not under any illusion that Draxum is asking out of genuine concern, but rather the same concern one would have for a favorite war horse,

Draxum expects a answer

No

His teacher demands a answer

“O-othello.” He whispers. It’s the only answer he knows to give, but he knows it’s a lie,  and that alone makes his eyes burn again, “My name is Othello.”

The Baron dips his head response, “follow Apprentice, we have a kingdom to save.” with a snap of his cloak, Draxum leaves the room. Muscle memory immediately has Othello on his feet following, his body is not the only part that just wants to lie down and give up.

His name is Prince Othello

And he is Alone

                                                       Look for

                              Do Not Go Gentle Into that Cold Night

#rottmnt #Rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt fanfiction #trigger warning blood #donnie #othello #draxum #baron draxum #rottmnt fantasy au #big mama #leonard #action #adventure

[ericsonclan]

Rockabye

Summary: Clementine and Louis are out in the woods when they hear a baby cry.

Word Count: 2856

Read on AO3:

“Been a long time since it was just you and me out here,” Clementine noted, smiling over at her husband as they walked through the woods together.

“That it has,” Louis agreed, flashing her his signature smile. “You could almost call this a date: you and I alone together, the ambient noises of the forest providing the perfect backdrop for a romantic moment or two to be stolen before we head back,”

“I would hardly call checking traps a date… but it is nice,” Clementine reached out, her hand taking Louis’. The pair let their intertwined hands swing back and forth lazily as they strolled deeper into the woods. With Maisy and Lee Kenny still so young there was rarely time where they could afford to both go out for the day. But Willy and Allison had promised to keep an eye on the kids and she and Louis had both jumped at the chance. Clementine loved her kids with all her heart but having some breathing space from the chaos was a gift to be enjoyed, one so rarely received she almost didn’t know what to do with it.

“We should take the scenic route. A little tiptoe through the tulips perhaps?” Louis grinned playfully, causing his wife’s nose to wrinkle in amusement.

“Alright. Five minutes. Then we get back to work,”

“But of course,”

Before Clementine could protest, Louis had swept her off her feet and was striding off the beaten path to a nearby patch of wildflowers. “Louis!” she exclaimed before devolving into giggles. “Put me down!”

“And risk you stepping on one of the flowers? No, my darling Clementine, leave it to me to safely navigate us to our final destination,”

“And where might that be?”

“That, my dear, is a secret,”

Clementine rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. Leave it to Louis to still come up with little adventures even after all this time. Nearly ten years together and she was just as smitten as the day they’d first crossed paths. After a few steps further, Louis placed his wife down upon a fallen log that lay near the wildflowers. Sitting down beside her, he took her hand once more. Clementine rested her head upon Louis’ shoulder, nuzzling it gently. “This is nice,”

“Best five minutes I’ve had in a long time,”

They were silent for a moment, enjoying the stillness and peace of the forest around them. There hadn’t been as many walkers around this past month, likely because most of them had gone with a large herd that had swept through the area a few weeks back. Clementine had never been more thankful to be surrounded by brick walls than when she saw the size of the herd as it slowly passed by. It had been somewhat difficult to stay behind those walls as the woods cleared out, but the time spent in lockdown had shown all of them how truly self-sufficient the school had become. Still, Clementine hoped they wouldn’t have to face anything like that again for a long time to come.

“Hold still for a sec,” Louis’ hand reached out toward her face, pausing at the corner of her eye before drawing back. On his index finger lay a single eyelash. “Go on, make a wish,”

“What?”

“Make a wish then close your eyes and blow the eyelash off my finger. Trust me, it’s a thing,”

Clementine considered her wish carefully. What did she want that she didn’t have? For years growing up on the road all she would have wished for was a home and now she had that. Not just a home, but a family that she could never have even dared to imagine. Truth be told, she didn’t really wany anything more. She just wanted things to stay the same. With that thought in mind, Clementine closed her eyes and blew away the eyelash.

The sound of a baby’s cry carried through the forest. The sound immediately tore through Clementine’s heart. Her eyes shot up to meet Louis’. They were both thinking the same thing: the children. Sprinting toward the source of the sound, both ran with all their might, their minds frantic at the possibilities of what could have happened.

The cries were coming from the opposite direction of the school. It made no sense but there was no time to try to sort through how this had happened. Clementine almost tripped, causing Louis to pause to help her. “No! Go!” Clementine screamed. Louis looked torn for a moment then ran ahead, Clementine following behind as she struggled to match his pace.

Moments later they broke out into a clearing, the sounds louder than ever. Clementine’s eyes scanned her surroundings, searching for Maisy or Lee Kenny. Neither were there. Zachariah and Savannah were nowhere to be found either. She looked to Louis, but he appeared just as lost as she was. They ran through the clearing, still searching in a panic, but there was no child to be seen. Clementine paused for a second, trying to refocus her senses to hone in on the direction the screams were coming from. There, just across from them! Grabbing Louis’ hand, Clementine ran toward the cries.

They froze as they drew near. There at the base of a large tree were at least a dozen walkers all with heads and arms lifted toward the source of the crying: a basket that dangled from one of the lower tree branches.

“It’s not one of the kids,” Clementine whispered, eyes large in disbelief.

“No,” Louis shook his head. “It’s a baby,”

“Who the fuck leaves a baby in a tree?”

“Someone desperate? Either way,” Louis drew out Chairles, “We have to act now. If they haven’t returned at the sound of its cries, they may not be coming back at all,”

Clementine nodded. Drawing the compound bow, she aimed at the nearest walker. “As soon as I hit one, the rest will see us,”

“I’ll make some noise, draw a few of them off to the side,”

“It’s a risk. If there are more getting drawn in by the baby’s cries…”

“We can do this,” Louis gave his wife a look of determination. “We have to,”

He was right. “I’ll take the first one,” Making sure her aim was true, Clementine let out a centering breath before letting the arrow fly. It shot through the air and struck its target, braining a walker before it even knew what hit it. The corpse dropped to the ground, the sound temporarily drawing the attention of the other walkers away from the baby.

“Hey!” Louis shouted, walking away from his wife to get some of the heat off of her. “Over here, deadheads! Come at me!”

The walkers eagerly gave chase, their withered legs moving as quickly as they could. Drawing another arrow, Clementine shot another one. Her aim was a bit off though. Instead of going through the brain it knocked off the walker’s jaw, already dangling by a thread of sinew. Swearing under her breath, Clementine drew again. But this time there was another walker that was nearer with one more right behind it. With barely any distance between them Clementine shot an arrow directly between its eyes before drawing her knife to face the other.

“You’re doing great, sweetie!” Louis called over before swinging out to bash in a walker’s skull. The one that Clementine had de-jawed was now making its way over to him at the sound of his voice. “Oh, you want some more pain?” Louis quipped. Swinging upwards, he hit its head so hard that the neck snapped. The walker’s head flopped over to the side, still connected to the body but dangling as uselessly as its jaw had been. With the walker posing no more immediate threat, Louis kicked it backwards, sending it tumbling into the next two walkers behind it. Striding forward, Louis brained the collapsed walkers one after another.

The baby’s cries had picked up again, its wails more like screams. The sound was drawing the walkers back and from what Clementine could hear in the forest surrounding them there were more walkers nearby. Stabbing the walker she’d been grappling with through the eye, she dug in deep, twisting the knife to pierce the brain. The walker’s milky eye burst on contact with her blade, dribbling down the hilt of her knife and onto her hand. The walker collapsed as its brain ceased to function and Clementine quickly flicked the eye and brain matter from her knife before sheathing it and redrawing her bow.  

Seeing his wife was aiming for the walker nearest the basket on the left, Louis headed right. Drawing back Chairles once more, he slammed it against the side of the nearest walker’s skull from behind before backstepping quickly. He needed to spread out the remaining walkers if he was going to be able to take them out without getting bit. A walker crumpled to the ground by the tree, an arrow embedded in the back of its skull. That was another one down. Four to go. Unless… Louis glanced backwards. A pair of walkers were approaching them from behind. Those needed to be dealt with before they got the jump on them. “Clem! We got some stragglers. You good with me stepping away for a sec?”

Clementine nodded. “Go!” She could see Louis running behind her out of the corner of her eye before she refocused on her next target. A particularly tall walker looked like it actually might have a chance at reaching the baby. Its outstretched hand brushed against the base of the basket, causing it to sway back and forth. “You get the fuck away,” Clementine growled. Her next arrow struck right on target, going through the walker’s brain and embedding itself in the tree. The walker’s corpse slouched lifeless, held upright by the very arrow that had killed it. Three more to go. Behind her, Clementine could hear Louis struggling. “Need help?”

“Nah, save your arrows! These two are just being extra cranky! Isn’t that right, fellas?” Louis looked up at the pair he was facing. He’d gotten a few hits in, but one had missed and knocked an arm off instead while the others hadn’t been enough to take down the nearer walker. “You, sir, have a remarkably thick skull. I wonder if that made it hard for your teachers when you were in school. It’s certainly an inconvenience for me,” Drawing close, Louis decided to take an alternate approach. Jamming Chairles into the walker’s mouth, he used the leverage to push the creature backwards. Kicking out the other’s knee to buy himself time, Louis walked forward, forcing the walker to stumble backwards till its back hit a tree. Perfect.

Chairles was lodged firmly in the walker’s mouth, so when Louis drew his weapon back the walker came with it. “Nice try, buddy, but no cigar for you,” Thrusting forward, Louis bashed the walker’s head against the tree before forcing it forward once more to prepare for another hit. The tree grew red with the walker’s blood before finally Chairles burst through the back of its skull, killing it instantly. Louis grinned proudly at his work before realizing his mistake. This walker was dead, but Chairles was now wedged inside its skull and there was another walker mere steps away. “Clem! A little help?”

Clementine spun round to see a walker about to grab her husband. “Louis!” The walker was inches away from her husband who was desperately trying to rip his weapon out of the dead walker’s skull. There was no time to think. Drawing her bow, Clementine immediately shot it, praying her aim was true. Before she could know, a grisly hand pulled her backwards. She’d let one sneak up on her. With a frantic cry, Clementine thrust her knife behind her, hearing a loud crunch as knife scraped bone then embedded in flesh. There was the warm feeling of blood spilling upon her shoulder before the dead walker collapsed, taking Clementine down with it and pinning her beneath its weight. Clementine groaned, her breaths labored as she struggled to get out before another walker reached her.

“Clem!” Louis was at her side in seconds. Her aim had been true after all. Grabbing his wife’s hand, Louis tried to pull her out from beneath the walker. But there were more pressing problems. A walker was approaching his pinned wife and looked intent on biting her exposed ankle. “Think again, fucker!” Louis yelled, leaping forward and swinging with all his might. The blow tore off the top of the walker’s skull. Its hair fluttered back and forth on the piece of bone dangling off the side of its head. That opening was all he needed. Sending Chairles crashing down from above, Louis obliterated the offensive creature. He then spun round to check on his wife. “Clem, are you-”

“I’m alright! Just help me get the rest of the way out!” Clementine grunted with effort, struggling to free her trapped prosthetic from under the corpse. Louis rushed over, lifting the walker just enough to let Clementine slip the rest of the way out before letting it fall once more to the ground. The couple smiled at each other before glancing over to the tree where the basket dangled. Only one walker was left, reaching for the basket in dazed desperation.

“Do you want the honors, my darling?”

“Nothing would please me more,” Withdrawing her knife one last time, Clementine snuck up behind the walker and thrust the knife deep within its skull. The walker went still and she tossed it to the side, finally breathing a sigh of relief. “We actually did it,”

“That we did,” Louis smiled proudly at his wife, stepping forward to join her. Both looked up at the basket. The baby was still crying, louder than ever. They didn’t have much time before all of this would be for naught and more walkers would come wandering in. The pair shared a look. Louis dropped to his knees. “Hop up on my shoulders. I think that’s our best bet to get the basket down safely,”

Clementine nodded and climbed on, gasping slightly as her husband got back to his feet.

“You good?”

“Yeah. Take a step to your right. One more…there,” Clementine looked down into the basket for the first time. The baby couldn’t be more than a few months old. It was dressed in a ratty, oversized t-shirt and wrapped in a blanket. Its dark skin was hot to the touch, from the heat or its prolonged screams Clementine couldn’t tell. She tried to calm it for a moment before realizing that was futile until they had it safely down. Holding the sides of the basket, she looked down at Louis. “Step back slowly. We’ll have to go bit by bit till we get it off this branch,”

Louis nodded and followed suit. Inch by inch they guided the basket off the branch as the baby wailed and writhed within it. The forest seemed quiet, but they knew that could change at any second. Clementine gripped the basket tightly, adjusting and tilting it slightly to get past the bumps and grooves of the branch. Finally after what seemed like a lifetime she pulled the basket the last few inches and it was free, the weight of the basket and baby shifting to Clementine’s arms. She held it close to her chest, smiling softly down at the baby as she shifted her grip to the handle. “Gonna hand the basket down to you then hop off your back. OK, Lou?”

Louis’ hands rose to receive it. “Gotcha,”

Once she was sure the basket had been safely transferred over, Clementine slipped down from her husband’s back. She circled round to look at the crying baby Louis now held in his arms. The baby was still wailing, clearly too overwhelmed to be comforted simply through cuddles. She needed food, water, maybe medicine. “We have to get her back to the school. Then we can head back out in search of any parents or guardians she might have,”

“Look,” Louis tugged on the corner of the blanket the baby was wrapped in. On it was sewn a single word in messy, tangled thread – a name. Juliet. “Think that’s her name?”

“Maybe,” Clementine pressed the back of her hand to the baby’s forehead. Her temperature was troubling. “You carry her. I’ll cover you with the bow,”

“Alright,”

“Just give me a minute to grab the arrows,” Walking round the corpses, Clementine retrieved her spent arrows. She wondered if the person who’d left Juliet was still nearby. Did they want her? They’d left her somewhere safe, but they hadn’t come when she cried. So were they dead or simply gone? Answers would have to come later. For now their priority had to be Juliet. Rejoining her husband, Clementine notched an arrow, bow at the ready. “Let’s go,” The pair headed out side by side, the baby still sobbing against Louis’ chest. One thing was certain: they would keep Juliet safe. No matter what.

#twdg #twdg louis #twdg clementine #clouis #twdg juliet #fanfic