Prompt Post #1

[ddk_mod]

THIS POST IS CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS.
HEAD OVER TO PROMPT POST #2 TO DO THAT THING.

But please keep filling prompts on this post! Make sure to link any new fic on the complete or work in progress fills posts so it doesn't get missed.

Please read the current rules before commenting on this post.

Leave a prompt. Fill a prompt. Everyone wins!

Rules:

1. YKINMKATO. Play nice.
2. All comments must be anon.
3. If you fill a prompt, drop a link to it on the fill post so everyone find it. 
4. Warnings are nice, but not necessary.
5. Use the subject line for the main idea of your prompt (pairing, kink, general wants).
6. All types of prompts are welcome.
7. Multiple fills are always okay.
8. RPF is allowed. Crossovers, characters from the extended Marvel Universe and comics canon are allowed, but must relate to the 2015 TV show in some way.
9. Drop a comment on the mod post if you have any problems with meme or the delicious account. If you crosspost to AO3, please add your fill to the DDKM collection!

ETA: we now have a discussion post! for anything you want to talk about. 
ETA2: we have a delicious account! it's only got the first ten pages of prompts at the moment, but mod is very slowly adding the rest. mod would greatly appreciate it if you put keywords in the subject of your prompts, because figuring out one-word summaries is hard. (for anyone who doesn't have a delicious account/hates the page style, use this link)

Comments

[Fill] Secondary Heart - Part 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

Hey friends! I've never filled anything here before, and I'm not positive how it works, but...here's this. Thing. It's just Wesley's backstory for now, so, not quite what you asked for, but I'll get there. This is unbetad and unedited, so it's probable that there are some stupid typos in here. This may end up on AO3 eventually. For now...enjoy, I guess.

______

James Wesley learns to read when he’s four years old. He loves the way letters feel in his mouth, loves the way they look on paper, their spines and curves and sharp endings. Most of all, though, he loves the way they look on skin.

Most people he’s seen have letters on their arms or their legs or their necks, and they wear them exposed. He likes to read those out loud, at first, but people don’t seem to like it, and his mother shushes him when he does. He feels special, because his letters can’t be read out loud at the grocery store: they’re not on his arm, or his leg, or his neck. They’re right over his heart, secret and special. His alone. W-i-l-s-o-n.

He doesn’t understand, at first, why his mother flinches when he runs around yard without a shirt on. He doesn’t understand why she tells him he can’t do that, he musn’t do that.

“You shouldn’t show people your letters, James,” she says, worried, always worried. “They’re just for you. That’s why people can’t see them on you. They’re just yours.”

They’re just mine. He takes pride in that, that he has something that’s just his. His mother’s letters are on the underside of her wrist, tiny print running parallel to the palm of her hand. James, he reads, sitting in her lap. His dad’s name, the same as his own. She keeps her letters hidden, too, but little James doesn’t understand why. He supposes that’s just the way of things: some people’s letters are hidden, some people’s aren’t. That’s just the way it is.

He doesn’t connect, yet, his father’s absence and his mother’s secrecy.

________

When James Wesley is six, he tells his friend Amelia about his letters. He knows he shouldn’t, but she can’t read yet, and he’s read hers (they spiral around her shoulder, bold and brilliant: Isaac), so it only seems fair. They’re sitting together in a tree house, watching the leaves flutter in the warm breeze. It’s summer, and it’s hot, and James has broken his mother’s rule and taken his shirt off because the cloth sticks and makes his skin itch. Besides, only Amelia can see, and he can trust Amelia. She’s his best friend.

“Here, look,” he says, turning to her, showing off the meticulously precise letters on his chest, right over his heart. “Look. W-i-l-s-o-n.” He points to each letter as he says it, grinning at the amazed look on Amelia’s face. He’s a bit of a show off, his mother says, but that’s alright.

“What’s that mean?” Amelia asks, her eyes wide.

“It means Wilson,” James answers proudly. “The name I have is Wilson.”

Amelia cocks her head. “Isn’t that…a…boy’s name?”

James shrugs. “I guess…” He’s uneasy because Amelia doesn’t look impressed anymore. She looks almost…scared. She scoots away from him, shaking her head.

“My daddy told me that boys who love boys have the devil inside them,” she says nervously. Her eyes are fixed on the letters on his chest. “He said that’s wrong. Your letters are wrong.” She’s raising her voice now, backing slowly away, towards the ladder.

“Hey, wait!” He calls, blinking back tears. “Amelia!”

She’s down the ladder now, running away, back towards her house. “Don’t talk to me anymore!” she yells, her voice trembling. “You’re the devil!”

It’s like a punch to his chest. Letters could be wrong? He fumbles his shirt back on, not caring that it sticks to him. He remembers his mother’s drawn face, the worry with which she told him to keep his letters his own. Is it true? Is he really bad for having the letters he has?

He nearly falls down the ladder trying to get back home, and he does trip and skin his knee in the street. The little houses and dying lawns he passes are a blur, and one of his other friends calls to him from their yard, but he doesn’t stop. He runs all the way back home, and slams the screen door behind him with a resounding smack.

“Mom!” he yells, running through the house, frantically searching through every room. “Mom! Where are you?” He finds her in her bedroom with the curtains drawn. She’s sitting up in bed, but her eyes are cloudy, unfocused. Dull. He recognizes the signs: it’s a bad day for her. She doesn’t look at him; he wonders if she can even hear him, if she even knows he’s there. “Mom,” he whispers, scared. She doesn’t turn to him.

He backs out of her room and curls up in the hallway, crying more than he’d even known he could cry.

______

At fifteen, James Wesley has three secrets: the secret of his soulmate’s name, which he wears close to his heart, the secret of his mother’s depression, which he wears high in his throat, a permanent lump that nearly makes him choke at times, and the secret of his father’s disappearance, which he wears in the pit of his stomach, where it sits like a deep disgust.

He’s given up on “James” as a name: as he gets older, and he grows taller and leaner and his hair darkens and his voice deepens and he begins to wear glasses, he realizes that it reminds his mother of his dad too much, the soulmate who left her for someone else. He goes by “Wesley” now – not that there are many people who call him by name. He keeps to himself, alienated by his secrets, his shame, and the strange way his mind seems to work.

He sees things that others don’t, he can solve problems that others can’t, and he’s proud of that…but, at the same time, it draws attention to him, which he despises. It’s easier for him to sit alone at lunch, to spend his time in the library instead of on the field after school, than to face the whispers: faggot, psycho – or, worse, to make a friend who he could never take home, who he could never share his secrets with.

He doesn’t cry anymore, especially not at home. It just makes his mother more anxious, and, sometimes, angry. She needs him to be calm, collected, in control, so he manages that, for her. Sure, sometimes it feels like his insides are collapsing in on themselves, hollowing out his lungs until he can hardly breathe, but that is something he can handle. His own pain comes second to his mother’s; that’s just the way of things. His heart is secondary.

He wishes he could say that he doesn’t think about the name on his chest, but he’s fifteen, and he’s lonely, and he does. Often. He’s nothing if not meticulous, and he’s already searched his school’s roster for Wilsons in any grade. There’s one, but he’s skinny and vicious and his mouth spits out Wesley’s name like a curse when they pass in the hall. Wesley hates him. This Wilson is not meant for him; this Wilson is wrong. His Wilson, Wesley imagines, would be kind, soft-spoken. A listener.

Wesley knows he only imagines this because it’s what he needs. He knows it might not be what his Wilson is like. He knows it’s irrational to hope, to figure, to imagine.

But he’s young, so he does it anyway.

Re: [Fill] Secondary Heart - Part 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

This is the most beautiful thing I've read on this kinkmeme please please tell me you're finishing it oh my god.

Re: [Fill] Secondary Heart - Part 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

I'm certainly enjoying, nonnie!