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maximwtf · 2 months

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“Fret not, all will be well.”

Xianyun x Reader

Words: 2k

Google Docs Pages: 3

Warnings: chronic (joint) pain but I guess the mentions are very brief, could just go as a sickfic, hurt/comfort angst you know the usual. Mother is mothering

Opening: Having been Xianyun’s disciple for years, you finally move to the harbour. Though, trips to Mt. Aocang to see your master started to feel like a chore after your body started to ache. Word of this pain spread to her unknownst to you. This making the adeptus seek you out.

AN// Reader can be any gender! Oh no, is that another very self indulgent fanfic I see?! Yes. But these help with the bane of my existence so I might as well keep making them. This also gives me a chance to learn how to write for her, because I’m a firm believer that more content of her is needed :”D. I found her way of speaking hard to follow up on without hearing her talk constantly, so I apologise if any of her lines seem off.

I proof read this fairly quickly, so any mistakes are on that.

“Fret not, all will be well.”

After years of studying the adeptus arts with Cloud Retainer, you moved back to Liyue Harbour. Got yourself a comfortable house to live in, and built your new life around there. From time to time you would still visit the all too familiar mountain that your master ruled. You’d sometimes bring in notes and greetings from Shenhe and Ganyu whenever they couldn’t find the time in their busy lives to visit the crane. An overall nice set up you’d gotten yourself into.

You couldn’t deny that the scenery along the way to Mt. Aocang was also beautiful, bringing you joy as you made your way each time. As rough as the trip from time to time was, it was always worth it in the end. You could tell the visits delighted the adeptus living alone, bringing her peace of mind to hear that her disciples were doing alright.

Though as of recent, you had found it hard to make it all the way to her. Body aching badly enough to not even make you dare to try. You began giving your regards to Cloud Retainer through Ganyu or Shenhe instead, staying home and working as you’d usually. Though, as much as you had hoped otherwise, the condition seemed to worsen over time.

But even with life getting harder due to the aches, you couldn’t find it in you to complain. After all, you lived comfortably and didn’t feel the need to bother anyone with this. Maybe even still hoping that this would eventually pass. That having been one of the main reasons why you hadn’t told Cloud Retainer why you stopped visiting her like you’d done in the past.

But even with the hopeful mindset, you had to admit to yourself that doing daily tasks had become more challenging. You'd already taken a few days off work to rest, but that hadn’t helped as much as you had hoped. Your form ached just as much each morning, having to find the extra courage to get up and prepare breakfast.

So in hindsight, the fact that the news of your worsening condition had spread shouldn’t have been as much of a surprise as you’d taken it as. Especially with how close you were with the people around you. Them figuring out something was wrong was no surprise.

Though, you didn’t notice any of that happening. Being busy enough with keeping your daily routines together.

And that was exactly what you were doing this morning. Sitting up from your bed with muffled groans, eyes tired from the lack of sleep. With a yawn you attempted to gently stretch, wiping your eyes to maybe rub away the exhaustion behind them. You didn’t know if it ever actually went away at this point, but you stayed hopeful.

As normal as this morning had been so far, it was going to turn upside down soon enough. And that happened as soon as a knock echoed from your front door. It alerted you, chasing away the last bits of sleep from your mind as you took a hold of your nightstand to stand up.

You stumbled with the first few steps, cursing to yourself silently before shaking the nagging attitude off for whoever was at your door. With a deep breath you tried to pull something that resembled a smile on your face before opening the door to see who was on the other side. But that facade of a smile soon fell when you saw your master standing outside, patiently waiting for you.

Your eyes widened for a brief moment, trying to quickly collect yourself as to not embarrass yourself in front of her. “Good morning, master.” You began, watching as her keen eyes looked around your house quickly before landing on you. “May one come in? Perhaps join you for breakfast?” She asked, a polite invitation with a clear hidden meaning. But who were you to decline her offer, after not being able to go and see her yourself for such a long time. “Ah, of course. Come in.” You mentally sighed, stepping out of her way as she walked through the threshold.

Her feather-like clothing swayed smoothly as she made her way to your kitchen, seeing how messy it looked. You cringed at seeing the dishes you’d avoided cleaning, knowing it would put a strain on your body and even the thought of that felt unwelcoming. But it most certainly was not a good look for you in her eyes. But she was kind enough not to mention it, hiding the scowl mixed frown from her face before turning to you.

“Word of you got to one, making one wish to come and see you.” Xianyun said, seating herself on one of the chairs gracefully. You didn't know what she was talking about. Not having any memory of talking to Ganyu or Shenhe about yourself, you weren’t so sure what she’d heard and from who. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean, master,” you replied before turning your back to her in an attempt to prepare tea for the both of you. Still fully listening to what she had to say. “One heard you had fallen ill, thus making you unable to visit.” She said, voice observant as she watched you gently. You cringed at the explanation, assuming the people around you must have spread the word around. “Ah, I see. Well, worry not for I am perfectly fine.” You hummed, taking a hold of the cups with a low hiss. You hadn’t had the time in the morning to mend yourself into a better shape before making something to eat. So these tasks hurt to do, but there was no way to explain this to Cloud Retainer in simple means.

But perhaps you didn’t have to explain. The hiss and careful movements must have been enough for her to form a deeper frown on her face once more. “One does not recall teaching one’s disciples to lie, hm.” She said with a huff, some offence in her tone but you knew it wasn’t serious. You were more worried when you heard her stand up. You swallowed hard, turning to see her after placing down the cups. “One may not know every mortal illness, but that does not mean one is blind.” She continued, placing her hands to her hips. You weren’t sure what she was looking to gain from this, drawing in a deep breath. There was no way out of this with her. You’d have to explain what had been going on.

You leaned on the kitchen counter, looking away from her as you collected your thoughts. “Well, I wasn’t necessarily lying when I said I was fine. It’s merely some joint pain.” Cloud Retainer gave you a look, tilting her head a little as if to point to the mess in your kitchen. Not to even mention the rest of the house. “Well- It may or may not stop me from doing certain tasks sometimes, but it honestly is nothing to worry yourself over.” You sighed, not sure if you were trying to defend yourself or make her worry less. “One does not worry themselves, one merely came to see where you had been,” she huffed but after reading her expression it wasn’t hard to tell that she was only keeping up appearances with the comment. She had come here for exactly what you accused her of, worry.

There was no getting through to her. You sighed, shaking your head gently before giving in. “Very well. It hurts enough to have stopped me from climbing the mountain to come and see you. And maybe it also affected the appearance of my living space.” You huffed, turning your eyes to her form, giving her a strong ‘you happy now?’ look. And in return she gave you a moment of deep silence before crossing her arms over her chest. “Words of comfort are not one’s strong suit, but allow one to prepare the tea for you. We shall sit and talk after.” She said, and without another word you understood the look she was giving you as ‘go sit down’. And that you did with no further complaints.

You abandoned the kitchen, not wanting to sit in silence in the same space as her as the water slowly boiled. So you retreated to the nearest couch, huddling up on it to the best of your ability. You’d figured a while back that sitting with your legs criss crossed or straight were the only two pain free ways of sitting. So, choosing to cross your legs, you waited for your master to come back. And whatever entailed when she did.

In no time the sound of her heels alerted you, the sound getting closer and soon a warm mug was placed on the table in front of you. Xianyun herself sat on a stool you kept under the table, crossing her legs.

Taking a hold of the mug, it warmed up your hands. Not even having noticed how cold your hands had gotten, it felt nice. Bringing it up made the steam hit your face, but it wasn’t too hot, making you confirm that the tea probably wasn’t too hot not to drink. So you took a sip, holding back a wider smile at the taste. It reminded you of the tea you used to have with her back when you’d just started as her disciple. The teas she made had a specific taste that you couldn’t chase whenever you made it. At some point having started to believe that perhaps it was the effect that happened when you ate any food someone else had made. It just tasted better. And so did the tea she prepared, bringing back pleasant memories.

But that train of thought was interrupted as she spoke up, placing her mug down gently. “One had time to ponder on your condition. One believes there may be a stronger medicine one could prepare for you in order to relieve the pain. One also feels the need to remind you, that one is always here for you. You need not but reach out.” She spoke, a sense of comfort in her words which somehow managed to embarrass you.

You gulp down the rest of the tea, placing down the mug to reply to her properly. “You need not do that for me, if it’s any trouble-” You started, but she raised her hand slightly, shaking her head. “Nonsense. One wishes to help, it is no trouble. So fret not, all will be well.” And the way she managed to word everything out brought a sense of comfort that overpowered the embarrassment. Perhaps she was correct, all would be well if you had someone helping you. So you agreed with a nod. “Alright. Thank you, Cloud Retainer,” you added, a tired yet grateful expression on your face.

A short, rather awkward silence fell upon the two of you. As if she wanted to say something but wasn’t so sure how. “Hm, as eloquent as one may be, there is not much more I can say. So allow one to tidy up here and you take a rest. One will wake you up in due time.” She requested but truly there was nothing you could say to protest against her. She was going to do it regardless. “You really do not have to,” you mumbled while laying down carefully, reaching down for a felt. You groaned lowly at the action, shoulder not giving out enough to unravel it. “One does not feel obligated to, fret not.” She replied, even as rhetorical as your silent comment had been. But almost as if automatically while speaking, she’d gotten up enough to unravel the felt for you before turning towards the kitchen. You blinked a couple of times at her action, not mentioning anything of it as you huddled to a more comfortable position. You’d thank her once you woke up again, was the last thought you had before the sleep you’d been losing recently caught up with you.

#xianyun x reader #cloud retainer x reader #cloud retainer #xianyun #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #x reader #genshin x reader

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shakysniffles · 2 years

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a quiet hello post :)

look i'd memorised all my fave blogs and was starting to search them every night bc I was that horny for sneezes this wasn't going away any time soon

I'm Dorrie, and all personal info I’m comfortable sharing is in my blog description. This kink is extremely sexual for me and you should know that in advance. I will sometimes post non-snz sexual content. I will update tags as needed (see below). If I slip on a tag feel free to let me know (politely) but my headspace isn't always great at remembering details.

should you choose to follow please be aware that you can expect posts that are n/s/f/w and that involve mess and contagion. I do not apologise for finding deliberate contagion hot and if you can’t distinguish between sexual fantasy and reality then I recommend you don’t follow me.

this is intended to be an 18+ space for my own personal use - by interacting you confirm you are also 18+. I periodically block followers with no age in their bio.

I'm open to conversation/RP with people and have a background in writing fic, although I'm not yet brave enough for true self-indulgence :P

tag list and OC descriptions below the cut:

🛌 - colds / flu / illness

🌼 - allergies of any kind (pollen / animals / dust / perfume etc.)

🪶 - feathers

🧪 - science or scifi adjacent (i assign this one on vibes :P)

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💦 - mess

🤧 - contagion

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📚 - stories or snzarios

🔂 - wavs / audios / videos

🎨 - art / photos / images

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🏳️‍🌈 - queer content

♂️ - male sneezing (cis or trans men)

♀️ - female sneezing (cis or trans women)

note i don’t currently tag nb, gen/derfluid, gen/derqueer or unspecified genders. I also try not to tag people’s OCs bc i know sometimes they use multiple pronouns. I also only tag queer relationships if explicitly queer, so no character A / character B scenarios. I might change that bc sometimes often I am thinking of queer characters when I reblog.

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🥵 - descriptive and hot af

🫠 - [redacted] (it’s the horny tag)

🫦 - not snz / other kinks (will add specific tags as I feel like it)

🌌 - posted by me (both snz content and personal posts)

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Character Symbols

I use the following to help me find posts associated with particular OCs. None have names that have stuck yet but I’ll briefly describe them here. edit: i like how these got longer and longer the more I wrote lol...

🌺 - [she/her] high class spy who appears very gentle but hiding a steel resolve. Snzfckr, very in love with her partners 💛 and 🖤. Has a rather strong sensitivity to dust and owns an adorable puppy <3 Has some slight dom tendencies and really enjoys watching people putting on a bit of a show while holding off on her own pleasure and edging for as long as she can.

🖤 - [she/they] another spy, met 🌺 on a mission and decided to switch sides and is now a double agent. Isn’t often around as a result :( also a snzfckr and discovered this in a snzing while hiding scenario, but isn’t yet ready to explore it much :) Clams up at people telling her what to do and finds it very difficult to relinquish any kind of control or be vulnerable in front of others due to years of only being able to rely on herself but 💛 and 🌺 slowly earn her trust and are very sweet and patient while they wait for her to be ready.

💛 - [they/them] ray of sunshine <333 Has a wonderfully sneezy pollen allergy, which extends to floral perfumes, and very eager to please 🌺 and 🖤 and will happily induce for them. Sneezes are very drippy and spray all over and constantly borrowing tissues or handkerchiefs because he likes how flustered it makes 🌺 and 🖤. They’re just being a shit on purpose, they’ve never been ill prepared despite their laidback attitude in their life, but they LOVE to tease by asking for snzy supplies.

💚 - [he/him] He gets all the himbo tags not bc he’s dumb (he’s not!!) but his brain stops working when he’s sneezy and he comes over all bashful and clumsy and his sneezes sneak up on him so fast that he gets rather sloppy with his covering. He’s absolutely mortified by the whole affair and is very apologetic and interrupts his apology with yet more sneezes. Very messy and snotty and LOUD, his sneezes are a whole spectacle and a half. He doesn’t have any allergies, he’s just prone to head colds. He’s also really artsy - loves to paint and play music and is very generous and shares everything with his friends and family :) I sometimes ship him with 💖

🧡 - [he/they] snzfckr, scientist, lonely heart. lives with an android he built himself (💿) and they get up to some wild times together. He’s pretty clumsy but when he’s sick he plays it up bc they’re super fucked up and there’s nothing they like better than spreading those viral particles far and wide and he really really gets off on it. They also get turned on by their own sneezes and if he’s being honestly, he loves being all gross and disgusting and sneezing openly and spraying over everything. However this is all very much only in his own home, they do take their work super seriously and have a minor mental block with regards to sneezing in public so when he loses control at a conference it’s the absolute worst thing that could have happened and in the aftermath he runs into 💖 and they get together soon after <3

💖 - [he/him] another scientist but much shyer than 🧡 He really enjoys letting people take the reins in a relationship and He’s so polite like literally the nicest guy ever and at first 💿 has beef with him for “taking over” and tries to torture him with allergens but this only revealed that he’s also a snzfckr (just much more mild in manner) and at first he was super embarrassed at being found out bc he thought 💿 had gone snooping but the misunderstanding was soon cleared up and the happily sneezing household now gets along swell :D Sometimes I ship him with 💚 bc I like the art / science contrast <3

💿 - [she/it] the most sadistic lil android you never knew. Not technically a snzfckr but she was programmed and built by 🧡 to help him and it interpreted that to include helping him get off so it’s really just an extension of their desires. but it has an AI brain so it’s developed and evolved beyond that and now enjoys torturing both 🧡 and 💖 and frankly anyone foolish enough to ignore warnings about being left alone with her....

💙 - [he/him] obligatory businessman always down for an office fuck :P Son of the CEO, is actually genuinely good at his job, garners a lot of respect, and is set to become the big boss some day... if he can stop sleeping around the office lmaoooo... was put onto snzfckery by a secretary he slept with while he had a brutal cold and he has a bit of a praise kink so it all meshed rather well and he’s more than happy to keep exploring snz kink further. Bit of a workaholic and frequently shows up to work while atrociously unwell and his brother will come out and drag him home. He has some awful allergies too but swears up and down that they don’t affect his work - meanwhile the entire teams’ getting a free shower while he tries to present because he’s pretty damn useless at stifling

🔘 - [he/him] ngl he’s just a dilf and frankly i’m embarrassed about him <3 amalgamation of every old man I find attractive and he gets tagged when I get the vibe lmaooo. technically 💙‘s CEO dad but I try not to think to hard about that part bc 😳😳😳

Might add more later for example it’s a real tragedy I have no milf character but lmaooo this ought to do for a start.... I keep the universes pretty loose so although you can probably see three clearcut stories / worlds, they do overlap however I see fit.

#heyo folks #sneeze kink #sneezeblr #now need to go through all my fave old posts and ~~collect~~ them #aka reblog #uh #yeah #🌌

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lunapaper · 1 year

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Album Review: 'Being Funny in a Foreign Language' - The 1975

Is it time to complain about another 1975 album already?

With moody album art and a piano-laden opening track, you’d be under the impression that Being Funny in a Foreign Language was marking a shift towards more dramatic fare or that it expands on the bloated self-indulgence of Notes on a Conditional Form and 2020’s A Brief Enquiry into Online Relationships. But instead, we get a general rehash of the glossy 80s sophistipop of earlier eras.

The glassy pop funk of ‘Happiness’ recalls the bubbly California vibes of ‘Girls’ and ‘She’s American.’ The sweeping lounge jazz of ‘All I Need is You’ is eerily reminiscent of ‘If I Believe You.’ ‘When We Are Together’ has an earnest country-folk bent similar to ‘The Birthday Party,’ while ‘Oh Caroline’ echoes the shimmering coastal pop of ‘Settle Down’ off the band’s 2013 debut (one of their best tracks). Even the sax solos return with a vengeance, to the point of distraction.

The second half of Being Funny in a Foreign Language feels particularly gloopy and saccharine.

‘'Cause I don't need music in my ears/I don't need the crowds and the cheers/Oh, just tell me you love me/'Cause that's all that I need to hear,’ Healy cries on ‘All I Need to Hear,’ sitting alone in his kitchen utterly bereft with no food in the fridge. On ‘About You,’ he muses like a lovesick schoolboy, ‘I know a place/It's somewhere I go when I need to remember your face/We get married in our heads/Something to do while we try to recall how we met.’ ‘Wintering’ is destined to soundtrack a Netflix Christmas original, mark my words. Healy even manages to out-Healy himself with lines like: ‘Alex is a sculptor and Olivia’s been a vegan since 10/Vin wears dresses whilst Debbie coalesces in a fleece that doesn’t work.’

Parklife? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Sometimes the lyrics are just downright lazy. Healy even admits as such (‘I’ve tried to find another name a thousand times/But the only one that rhymes is ‘Oh Caroline’).

‘I’m in Love with You,’ meanwhile, is cloying with its jangling guitars, ear-bleeding chorus and copious amount of shimmer (Dear God, this record has so much fucking shimmer). It’s doesn’t even sound particularly romantic: Healy appears dismissive at times to now-ex girlfriend FKA twigs, especially when it comes to some ‘black girl thing’ she’s doing.

I get that he ends up apologising to her. But why put it in in the first place? I’ve said it time and time again, but if it was any other male artist, they would’ve been cancelled into oblivion for such a line, especially in this current climate. Even Harry would’ve copped a lot of shit, but he’d don a sparkly hat or something, and all would be forgiven. Healy, for some reason, always seems to survive the scrutiny, no matter how loud it gets online. Why is he so special??

Though he does reminisce with a girlfriend on final track ‘When We Were Together’ about the time they were both cancelled on the same day – him for being a ‘racist’ and her for being a ‘slag.’ But all Healy probably got was an angry Reddit thread and a few hundred tweets, so I’m sure he got off easy in the end...

He also admits to gaslighting her (‘I didn't know that it had its own word’). Again, if it were anyone else, blah blah blah, is anyone even listening at this point?

First single, ‘Part of the Band’ fulfils the Healy pseudo-intellectual nonsense quota, even if it is just a weak facsimile of their other zeitgeisty tracks like ‘PEOPLE’ and ‘Love It If We Made It.’ Earnest strums and disjointed orchestral tones provide a backdrop to the singer’s self-indulgent musings, cramming in every political talking point of the past couple of years in some vain attempt to provoke:

‘I know some vaccinista tote bag chic baristas Sitting in east on their communista keisters Writing about their ejaculations “I like my men like I like my coffee Full of soy milk and so sweet, it won’t offend anybody” Whilst staining the pages of The Nation.’

It’s total parody at this point. And yes, Stereogum, I am doing the jackoff motion with my hand.

Then there’s ‘(Looking for) Somebody to Love,’ giving an incel school shooter fantasy a bouncy John Hughes-esque soundtrack. I’m not averse to deceptively poppy songs dealing with dark subject matter, but it’s got nothing on the eerie apathy of ‘Pumped Up Kicks.’

When ‘Part of the Band’ was released last July, it seemed to confirm to even some of their most ardent fans that The 1975 aren’t quite as fascinating as we’ve been led us to believe over the years, and Being Funny in a Foreign Language only further proves it. Healy, as usual, is more preoccupied with buzzwords, cliches, and getting a rise out of people than putting any real emotional weight onto his words, while the production is strangely flat and tinny. Not even having Grammy Producer of the Year Jack Antonoff on board seems to make much of a difference.

Being Funny in a Foreign Language was seemingly received with rather little fanfare. Singles came and went without a trace. Even four months on from its release, there’s more news devoted to Healy’s controversies than to the album itself.

At least Notes on a Conditional Form had a bit of ambition and some variety (as messy as it was), along with a totally undeserved air of self-importance. But this? This... is just another 1975 record.

And that’s the worst thing a 1975 record can possibly be: Boring. Even after (mostly) rejecting computers in favour of jam sessions, all they could manage to produce a bunch of mostly forgettable mid-tempo songs that sound a lot like their older ones. In the space of just a couple of years, the band has gone from pompous pop provocateurs to just plain dull.

Like, what the fuck am I supposed to make fun of now??

- Bianca B.

#music #the 1975 #being funny in a foreign language #new #reviews #albums #Bianca B

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suna-reversed · 3 years

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𝐩𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡

toji fushiguro x reader

You could have anyone you want

Why would you want to be with me?

I’m nothing special

WC- 8k+ || MINORS DNI !!

my fic for the “great conjunction collab”

Warnings/tags- (unprotected sex, oral sex, slight voyeurism, choking, nipple play, mating press, size kink, slight breeding kink) (historical AU, non-canon timeline, greek mythology, hades-persephone retelling, mentions of misogyny/sexism, depression, religion, hurt/comfort, angst, heartbreak, major character injury, descriptions of blood, violence and death, manipulation)

𝙀𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙖 - 𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙙

It would be an understatement to say that Toji, despite being one of them, had never felt like part of the clan and had hated the whole Zenin bloodline through all his years of suffering.

And the only thing he hated more than his own blood? It was the damned nobles who looked down upon him- mocking his lack of power under whispers and rumours. The spineless cowards didn’t even have the courage to spit those venomous words at his face.

He kept note of every single one of them- it was hard not to with how their laughs echoed in his mind each night as he dug his nails into his palms. So of course his attention was bound to drift towards the mother and daughter from a titled family that happened to take residence in the Zenin estate when they got news that their home down-south had been attacked.

𝘼𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙚𝙖- 𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙮

Your home had not been attacked. It was all planned of course- your travel to the mountains up north that crossed the Zenin abode, your mother having fabricated the news so that she had an excuse to find an honourable match for you from one of the most powerful clans. Her sly spies had already done the dirty work, providing you with two suitable men- even if one of them was twice your own age and the other known for his aggressiveness.

The white gown your mother had dolled you in and the orchids she had braided into your hair had every single eye focused on you as you made your way up to your chambers. You kept your head down, too nervous to meet the eye of anyone- hoping no older man took an interest in your facade of purity and innocence and decided to stake his claim on your body. Oh, how you wished you could get away from this life, get away from the wretched woman you had to call your mother, get away from all of it- the stupid clan- the stupid suitors- the stupi-

“Ah!”

You yelped as your body crashed into what seemed to be a rock hard wall of muscles, the scent of night chilled mist and cedar taking over your senses. You blinked.

Gulping, you moved back a step, ready to start sputtering apologies before your mother peeled your skin off for already having embarrassed yourself. Instead, your words stayed stuck in your throat as your gaze met with an intense pair of orbs- filled to the brim with the rage of achilles, but somehow also his sorrow. Your breath hitched in your throat, and in the back of your mind, you knew you should do something- move, apologise, scowl like a noble lady would if nothing else- but all you could do was stand there stunned, the man’s stance mirroring your own.

You flinched as the pot-bellied butler who was leading you down the hallway came back, and you thought the dark haired man might kill him right there for interrupting the burning moment between you two. Instead, you were shocked as he let himself get pushed to the side, stuffing his hands into his pockets, head down as he made a beeline towards the exit.

You barely felt the crescent moons being engraved into your skin as your mother dragged you to your room by the arm, a clipped smile on her face.

𝙊𝙧𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙪𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙀𝙪𝙧𝙮𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙚- 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙗𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚

“Toji”

He continued walking, even as his eyes held a warning look. Gritting his teeth, he increased his pace.

“Toji-”

He shuddered. Say it again, he wanted to command, instead he turned the corner, hands curling into tight fists.

He had been confused at first, almost appalled, at you- at your audacity to try and act like he wasn’t who he was- a piece of scum, the lowest of the lowly in the clan. But it seemed like this is how you had decided to spend the rest of your time whenever you weren’t being flagged by suitors or being paraded around your mother as the ideal of a chaste loyal wife.

He had indulged you the first time you had struck up a conversation. Perhaps that was his initial mistake. His second being committed just now as he turned to you, the glee on your face making bile rise up to his throat. He had seen women like you before- well born “ladies” of the court in dire need of a good fuck, before they were packaged off like objects to a husband who’d only ever look at them as a vessel for carrying his children. Toji huffed in annoyance, eyes doing a quick scan of his surroundings before he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into one of the storage rooms right around the corner.

“Look-”

Toji cut himself off as he saw the baffled look on your face, your eyes starting to fill up with fear and panic. Somehow, he found himself speechless, the bitter words of telling you to go look for pleasure in a whorehouse now dissolving on the tip of his tongue.

He knew who you were being considered as a match for- having overheard the conversation during a clan meeting- it was supposed to be the sons of one of the higher ups and he could already picture the half wilted life you’d be living. And right then, something clicked in Toji’s mind- all those years of hatred and resentment flashing before his eyes as you hesitantly stepped back, tears welling up in your eyes, and right there, Toji knew what he wanted to do- what he had to.

He took a deep breath and your heart hammered even harder in your chest. He had been different from the rest of them- you had known it from the first time. However, now you doubted your own wits, trying to recall the ways of combat you had seen the soldiers back home perform- even though you didn’t quite see how you’d succeed against the tall burly mass of flesh that towered above you. You jumped back as he strode right towards you- eyes clenched shut, hands raised in front of your face ready for the impact and pain.

You were met with nothingness, barely feeling the light brush of his arm as he moved past you.

Toji sighed at your almost childish antics, even though he agreed your actions would have been justifiable if it was any other man having pulled you into such a secluded place. He waited for you to calm down, lazily looking for the latch of the huge glass window situated on the other side of the room. He easily lifted it open, biceps flexing as he did so- placing his hands on the ledge before pulling himself to the other side.

He turned back towards your gawking figure, rolling his eyes, ready to put forward the offer that would decide if you were worth his time and effort or not. He extended his hand, trying to ignore the heat crawling up to the tip of his ears at the giddy relief-filled grin that spread across your face as he asked,

“You ever visited the countryside princess?”

You must be an angel in disguise, he finds himself thinking. It terrified him- the time he had spent staring at the column of your neck, watching your chest fall and rise with every breath- and the time he could have spent simply admiring every crook and nook of your body.

You looked serene in the golden hour of the afternoon, lying on the grass with your eyes shut, sunlight cascading down your figure making it seem as if you carried your own halo. Toji was afraid you’d sprout wings any second now, disappearing away to someplace heavenly- someplace better than the hell you were about to be condemned to- someplace that didn’t have monsters like him. But at last, you were only a human- soon to be one of the Zenins if nothing else.

The time you had sneaked out to the lake in the countryside with him had not been the last of your rendezvous. You had been quite different from what Toji had expected. You hadn’t made any advances towards him but you weren’t the pure little thing everyone believed you to be either.

You were smart to say the least- a trait that families often suppressed in women of your status, trying to force them into nothing but submissive concubines for their future husband. You were oddly aware of it- had mentioned your doomed fate quite a few times now, and he was struck by how you always laughed, as if your own self being stripped away was a joke. You seemed to do that quite a bit, and he understood it in some twisted way of his own plight.

Even as his mind kept reminding him that you had still grown up being pampered, being spoiled, having others do your work for you- others like him. But conversation had flowed so naturally with you, he found himself showing you more and more of his places of solitude he had found all over the village through his years of misery.

You were also naive in many ways, but still blunt in twice as many. Toji had rolled his eyes as he had asked you what you did with your free time back home- the answer was expected- it always had to be something related to the arts and education, trying to pump the ladies full of culture so that they have something to talk about at the dozen balls and galas they’d be attending every month. However, he had almost choked on the pear he chewed as you had started listing names of erotica after erotica- the titles being lewd enough to let him know just how filthy the content inside would be.

You had burst into laughter at the look on his face, crumbs of fruit left on the side of his mouth making him look even more bizarre. You had reached up your fingers almost instinctively, eyes widening as you realised you had brushed them over the scar he never seemed to talk about. His hand was wrapped around your wrist in less than a second, halting it in place.

He had stared right back at you, breaths heavy, eyes calculating as he loosened the grip around your skin, but not before he lifted your fingers to press against the mark once more. You swore you could have heard the drumming of your heart, and perhaps he did too.

As you brushed away the remaining bit of the sweet fruit, you couldn’t help but notice the flush that had formed on his cheeks, even as he scowled.

𝙀𝙧𝙤𝙨- 𝙥𝙝𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙧𝙚.

“You’d better be quiet or everyone’s going to know what a naughty little slut you are.”

You’re bent over the table in the storage room that has somehow become your portal of escape from the person you have to pretend to be. It’s not the first time Toji has whispered his filthy administrations into your ear, but he’s never done it quite so close to where anyone could walk in and catch you red handed.

Perhaps it was the fact that his face had turned a sick shade of green at the sight of your suitor tucking your hair behind your ear, your lips twitching upwards at something he said- the same way they had twitched up the night before when he had risen from in between your legs, the taste of yourself flooding your mouth as he had pressed his lips to yours.

This is exactly what you were here for, and despite it, Toji knew who’s name you screamed at the end of every day. So then why did another hand on you ignite a bestial flame inside his chest? Why did he feel the need to pull you away in the dead of the night amongst the crowd of tipsy people, ridding you of the fabric of your dress in one swift movement as he had pressed you against the nearest surface.

You didn't panic for even a moment, you knew it was his hand just from the touch of it, his hot breath against the shell of your ear, and his throbbing member pressed against the curve of your behind as a thumb rubbed circles into your hip bone.

You throw your head back against his muscular chest, craning your neck upwards till you meet his eyes- they soften for the briefest of moments, but the way his tip brushes against your underwear-clad core seems to fill them with raw electricity once more. And you think he’s going to fuck you right there- make you cry out his name for letting another man so close to you. Instead, you gasp as his rough hands grab the flesh of your thighs, kneading the muscle as he spins you around, a smirk being flashed your way as he gets on his knees.

He looks ethereal in that moment. And your breath hitches in your throat as you realise you’ve made a fallen angel bow before you- have tricked him into thinking you can cleanse him of his deeds when the only sinner in this room was you. The way his lips press against the inside of your thighs, nose rubbing against your freshly flowing juices- it’s tantalising, even worse when he takes both your hands in his as they try to find solace in his locks, pinning them to your sides onto the table instead.

He rests his chin right below the apex of your mound, eyes wandering to your face as he sighs, the lazy but smug curve of his lips accentuating the scar you had grown to cherish as much as your own heartbeat.

Your chest is heaving, the sound of your heavy breathing hanging in the silence of the room as you look down at him. If this was to be his ruination- his fall from grace- Toji would die a happy man. The scent of you is lingering right below his nose, his mouth watering alone at the thought, but he cannot seem to pull away his eyes from your beguiling face, bathed in the moonlight. The words seem to escape him before he can think twice of them.

“Do you know how beautiful you are? It’s truly distracting.”

You’ve barely let his words settle in before he presses his thumb right against your wet heat, rubbing small circles onto your sensitive bud. You don’t have a chance to respond as he proceeds to dive into your drenched cunt- his tongue giving kitten-licks to your clit, lapping up any wetness that dares to drip down. You cry out loud as two of his fingers join his mouth’s onslaught, slapping a hand against your own mouth remembering where you were.

The sounds filling the room as he suctions your clit in between his lips are filthy- arms wrapping around and under your thighs, pulling your arousal even closer to his starving mouth, the new angle of your leg being thrown over his shoulder letting his fingers rub against the spongy spot inside your walls that makes the coil in your stomach snap. You’re grinding against his face and he’s letting you, nose pressing onto your clit as he licks up the remnants of your juices, fingers continuing to fuck you through your climax as they quiver and shake around his head.

You’re still coming down from your high, body hanging limp at an awkward angle against the hard wooden surface. His strong burly arms are easily lifting you up, carrying you towards the other side of the room- right towards the glass window. Your eyes widen as you realise the malicious idea that has popped up into your lover’s head, but you’re barely able to put in two words of protest before your feet are hitting the ground, the cold surface making you gasp as your tits are pushed against it. You’re crying out loud as he rubs his thick length against your soppy folds.

“Toji- someone could see us- we shouldn’t- ah!”

You’re cut off as he lines himself up at your entrance, a pleasurable burn down in your core as his girth stretches your walls. It always hurts. No matter how many times he’s made you cum on his fingers and tongue or prepped you up with an ointment- his size is something no one would ever get accustomed to. He knows it too, but tonight he seems to care less about taking it slow and letting you adjust. You honestly cannot care less too, not when you're gushing around him as such when he’s barely even halfway inside.

“Too big Toji- too much.” You’re mewling, hands trying to grip onto something.

“You can take it- fuck just let me-”

He’s hastily moving his fingers across your stomach to rub your pulsing bud, groaning lewdly at the way your cunt flutters around him, letting him move deeper inside of you.

The growl that leaves him as his tip hits your cervix is grossly animalistic, making you moan loudly. His other hand is coming up to grip your jaw, cheek pressed against the glass as he lifts up one of your legs, the angle letting him thrust in and out of your poor drenched hole even deeper. His thrusts turn sloppy, eyes clenched shut above you as the sounds of his balls slapping against your flesh with each thrust fill the room.

You’re both groaning in unison, his strokes getting faster as he feels your walls clamping down on him. You’re choking on a breath as his hand moves to wrap around your throat, the sensation making you moan even louder.

“Call me selfish-”

A sharp smack is delivered against the flesh of your ass causing you to arch your back, the action making your tits press up against the window even more,

“... but I don’t ever want anyone else to touch you.”

His lips have been suctioned to your neck, your delightful noises being muffled as he’s turning your head to the side till his tongue slips into your mouth. He tightens his grip around your neck and you’re seeing stars, along with the pace of his fingers on your clit and his rapid thrusts making the well in the bottom of your stomach come apart, tears of pleasure slipping your eyes, the feeling of his seed painting your walls making you clench against him amidst your own orgasm.

You barely feel the arms cradling your body, carrying you to set you down on the table. You furrow your brows as Toji strips himself of his shirt, and your eyes widen at the thought of him ravishing you once more so soon. Instead, you shudder as he swipes it against your sex, cleaning up his mess.

The way you beam at him, even in your exhausted state, is honestly worth the ruined shirt- he finds himself thinking as he moves to pick up your dress from the ground. He clicks his tongue as he realises just how much of shreds he had ripped it into in his feral daze. He’s lifting his head to meet your eyes, wondering how he’ll tell you that you have to find a way to get back to your chambers in this state-

“Oh-”

Your saccharine voice is pulling Toji out of his thoughts, surprise forming across his face as you burst into laughter at the sight of what he’s sure has cost twice as much as all the clothes he’d ever owned combined.

“How well do you think I’d fare going out in one of the potato sacks?”

How could he have not smiled right back at you.

𝘿𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙨- 𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙚

Toji had never wanted to rip his own heart out so badly before, inject his blood with ambrosia so that he could be worthy enough for the goddess that was ready to abandon her sanctity- her piece of heaven- for him. He had always known how it would end- in an empty heath of a fire gone out long ago, the only thing keeping it burning now regret and sorrow.

Love could not have sustained you when there was barely enough space to breathe, when there was barely enough food for your kids to live off of. Once the love faded, all that’d remain would be your wish to go back to the past, getting drunk on forgetfulness so that you can survive within the stone cold walls of a house- not a home.

Once again, Toji knew what he had to do- knew he willingly stepped into this hoping to ruin what was supposed to be the prize of his own blood- in order to humiliate them and fulfill his revenge.

He also knew he was the ruined one now as thoughts of you plagued his mind day and night- how his tactful game of cat and mouse had turned into sweet kisses and hushed giggles, and how all he wanted was to find a pit stop in time where his blood did not matter, where the sins of his past did not matter. But despite it all, he knew he couldn’t have dragged you into his own hell, even if you begged him to take you.

He sighs.

You had recited the exact conversation you had with your mother- laid yourself bare before him as you poured out your heart- letting him know that it’d be worth tasting the 7 seeds of evil even if it meant living in hell for half your life.

He had thrown his head back and laughed.

“You really thought our little getaways meant anything more than a fling to me? More than just a decent fuck?”

You stood still, mouth agape at the words that had slipped past his lips, a hand fisting the fabric of his shirt right above his heart, desperately searching for the pulse of the man you’d grown to adore over the past few weeks.

He had looked down at you, the scar you had so tenderly ran your fingers over twitching upwards- in amusement- in laughter, face contorting into one of resentment- of revulsion before he had suddenly stilled.

“Did you forget your place princess? Pretty little head got too lost in a fool’s paradise- did you forget you are one of them- always have been one of them.”

He had spat the last words at you and you wanted to shake your head, wanted to tell him he was utterly wrong, but all you could do was clutch on even tighter to him.

He had put his hand over yours and you had almost begged for him to tell you that this was a sick joke- almost pleaded for him to intertwine his calloused warm hands with yours as he always did- as he had when he made you scream his name, instead you had found yourself gasping at the icy touch as he flicked away your wrist, brows furrowing in repulsion at the contact- at you.

The tears that had slipped through your eyes had only worked to make him throw his head back like a giddy child once more. He had looked up at the sky as if he was mocking the gods in Olympus - look at how I’ve so beautifully wrecked what you created,

while you had stood there looking up at him as if he was your religion, mouthing,

this is not a joke, love me, love me.

𝙊ï𝙯ú𝙨- 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙮, 𝙖𝙣𝙭𝙞𝙚𝙩𝙮 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛

You felt raw. But you did not fight the black hole opening up in your chest. You let it settle into your bones, nurtured the hollowness- ignited it until you felt it turn into flames instead.

You couldn’t have let the ice creep into your heart- it would mean giving up the tears, giving up the feeling of wanting to be swallowed whole by the ground beneath, and that would mean you no longer felt- no longer harboured the only thing that made you feel alive in the cage of bones and flesh your troubled mind resided in.

There was a heavy pain in between the arch of your shoulder blades- like your wings had been clipped and your halo ripped away.

You ignored the scowl that rose to her face, the way she flinched as you leaned over to rest your head in her lap. You couldn’t tell if the wetness on your cheeks was yours or hers- mourning the daughter she was going to lose. You felt your mother’s burning gaze through the back of your head all throughout the journey back home- could already feel the wrath of your father and the nasty bruises that were to come as her hand came down to rest on your head.

You instead found yourself being locked away immediately- not a single word from anyone. The only time your door opened was for a maid to serve you your half portioned meals. Not like you had an appetite or a will to do anything else.

Days passed by, perhaps weeks or months, and you counted the scattered marks on the wall beside your bed like you had done once with the freckles across his back, and you waited- for what? You weren’t quite sure yourself. You waited and waited until the day your door opened, but it wasn’t the regular pitter patter of steps of the maid who served the food.

Instead, your eyes met the raging ones of the head of your clan, and for the first time in days, an icy shiver creeped up your spine.

----

The torment you’re put through is much worse than expected. You were well aware you were to be disgraced, to be stripped of your title, but somehow the gaze of your own friends and family avoiding your beaten bloody form and ignoring your whimpers and cries of agony was what had stung the most.

The world seemed to be upside down, fading in and out of hues of colour and greys and blinding lights. You could barely feel the blood dripping down the back of your head and into your shirt as your gaze managed to remain focused on the window outside of the rattling carriage you lay in, panic rising in your chest as you recognised the familiar scenery.

You fought your hardest to stay awake, but you lost to the increasingly heavy pressure against your head, hoping your blood would run dry before you had to face the hell you were being thrown into. As your head lolled to the side, you wondered if satiating the hunger within you was worth the price you were paying- if this was what happened to every soul that had brought the god of the dead to his knees, wondered if you were the first to do so- wondered if you’d be the last.

𝙃𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙨- 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙙, 𝙜𝙤𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙧𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙩

Toji had left the clan- made a living of his own by doing what he did best, by doing what he was made to- destroying and causing wreckage till there was no piece of his soul left to be salvaged.

He had avoided news about you like the plague, and had still ended up finding out that you were locked away back at your home from the gossiping servants. He had chuckled bitterly, what had he been expecting? He was right after all, you'd never have to face any consequences in life, and soon this whole scandal would be swept under the rug and you would be well on your way to marrying another wealthy brat, having filthy little kids with him who’d have the same luxuries in life and-

Toji found his heart dropping, the axe along with the freshly chopped wood he carried thumping down against the forest floor as he reached the entrance of the wooden cabin he had taken residence in. He saw the pool of blood first- the familiar mop of hair later.

No-

He must be hallucinating-

But he still found himself moving out of his own accord, gathering the crumpled figure into his arms, feeling a thick fluid drip down his skin- stain through his shirt as he tried to pick you up. A chill ran down his spine as he realised what those savages had done for your body to resist even in an unconscious state-

And that’s when his eyes slid to the nails in the ground, the sharp metal going right through the flesh of your fingertips, a note pinned to your abdomen in between your shredded dirtied clothes-

“We don’t want the gross wreckage of your perverse ruination. Keep the whore since you wanted her so much.”

A sea of rage rose in the back of Toji’s mind but it stilled, the vicerating waves crashing against the shore that was the barely noticeable action of your chest heaving. He held back what was a choked sob, mind barely sane as he took out the nails as gently as possible- a man so familiar with death yet utterly horrified by it as he counted your laboured breaths, thanked every deity out in the universe for every huff of air that he could feel against his chest as he carried you inside.

—

How do you kill a god?

You had asked him once. He had raised his brow, ruffling your hair before pushing you down onto the bed once more, intent on at least letting you know how you got to heaven.

How do you kill a god?

It now echoed in his mind as he watched your broken body lay on his bed, having done everything he could have to fix you up even though he feared there would be wounds more than just the physical ones when you gained consciousness- if you gained consciousness.

How do you kill a god?

Pit him against another god. Let him stare at his own reflection and see all his glorious flaws until he’s falling to his knees, begging for the taste of ichor to be washed out from his mouth, begging to be stripped of his damned divinity- because the curse of immortality is a heavier burden to carry than the curse of mundane suffering- because it’s easier to drown in a sea full of blood than live with it staining your hands.

𝘼𝙥𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙩𝙚- 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚, 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣.

“How do you kill a god?” You had asked him once.

Afterwards, you had lain awake late into the night as he had given you a taste of his own holiness, bare in his arms as he had muttered the words into your hair, barely a whisper as they escaped past his bleeding lips,

How do you become a god?

The burning light attacked your eyes and you flinched loud enough for your own ears to ring, and then flinched even harder as the hot searing pain spread through your body, especially across the tips of your bandage covered fingers. You tried to use your voice but your throat was like a desert and your own harsh whisper scraped against your sensitive ears.

All you could do was stare up at the unfamiliar ceiling, lying numb, waiting for your saviour- or perhaps your torturer to come.

All had gone still once the door opened, your gaze falling onto the familiar hands that carried a bowl of water and about a dozen different small bottles in a basket. You stared through him, through his wide blown eyes and through the sigh of relief that left his mouth as he rushed towards you.

How do you become a god?

There was much more you had wanted to tell your mother. You had told her you were sick of pretending, sick of being the goddess of spring when everything you touched died in your hands- how every beam of light you emitted was a stolen one from another soul. Perhaps, you had always craved pomegranates and death - had always willingly walked into the darkness with a smile and open arms.

How do you become a god?

You let him plead and writhe to have a taste of your lips - make him believe it is his only salvation. And right when his lips meet yours, you dig your teeth in deep and not let go, even as his fingers grip the column of your throat and his growls rumble inside your mouth. You let the trail of crimson coat your tongue and feel his tears burn your flesh- you make him taste your blood and take his throne.

—

He says your name like it’s a prayer and you want to rip out his heart.

Instead, you turn your head towards the wall opposite to where he stands, clenching your eyes shut, hoping the next time you wake up it won’t be here.

Still, you can hear his voice. Every single day of every waking moment- even as you sleep- even as you wake up in cold sweat haunted by the bittersweet melody of his laughter the day he crushed your heart in two, or the time your own blood nailed you down into the earth.

But most of all, you hate it when you can hear the gruffness of his voice, still heavy from sleep as you let him cradle your head, shushing you- letting you know it was just a nightmare- but it was a nightmare you had lived through- a nightmare he had put you through.

Not that he didn’t acknowledge it equally as much. It was odd- almost laughable the way he was so desperate to bring even just a flicker of the light back inside your eyes, breaking free from his stoic and tight lipped demeanour to whisper grossly sweet nothings into your hair.

He had explained his regrets the first few days that you had refused to even look at him, simply staring at the wall as he stripped you of your clothes to redo your bandages, not even the barest of reaction visible across your face. He had caused this.

The first words you had muttered to him weren’t of hatred or anger or sadness- they were said into the heavy air, late into the hours before dusk at a point in time where your bones still couldn't support the burden of your body,

“I need to pee.”

You had said it through gritted teeth, had scowled throughout the process of him picking you up and carrying you into the bathroom, giving you privacy to do your business.

The second time you had spoken to him was right after and it had somehow dented itself much deeper than he had expected it to, even as it was all he had been preparing himself for in the past few days,

“I hate you.”

You had said it with no anger, no poison in your words- had simply stated it like it was a mere fact.

“I know.”

—

It was weeks later and you seemed to have fallen into a strange routine.

He’d go out to do his filthy work, come back bathed in blood and dirt, even as he washed himself off outside thinking he was sly with it. You’d pretend not to notice as you’d cook for yourself, sometimes leaving bits behind as leftovers even if you had purposely spilled the extra bit of rice- had regretted it as soon as you had realised you had done it because he hadn’t had dinner in three days.

Perhaps it was the irony of the situation, and maybe even the cold winter air creeping into your bones that let him move from simply holding you when you woke from your nightmares- to him warming your bed at night even when you dreamed of nothing but the scar beside his lip.

Still, you let him know you despised him every night that he pulled your body against his chest and every morning that he rubbed his warm hands up and down your arms. Even as you felt yourself leaning into his touch, felt your heart softening at how he’d mutter apologies into your hair while he thought you were asleep, how he’d pay attention to the foods you took more of and made sure to get twice the amount next time, how he’d shred his own shirts to provide you with cloth for when you got your monthly cycles. Yet, you couldn’t find any other words to say to him.

𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙥𝙝𝙤𝙣𝙚- 𝙌𝙪𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙐𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙂𝙤𝙙𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨, 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝, 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣

You had woken up alone as you did on most mornings, grateful that you wouldn’t have to face the shame that came with having your limbs tangled with him. The day was like any other yet different, perhaps it was the monotonous dread of living a life such as this- of having to live at all after being stripped of everything you had called yours.

You had somehow ended up taking steps outside of the wooden door, outside of the small garden the burly man used to grow his own vegetables, and even farther outside the vines and shrubs that kept the cabin hidden from any unwanted visitors.

You had walked and walked till your feet carried you to the edge of the world, a never ending fall down below from where you stared at, the sound of water flowing signalling the presence of a river running deep under the steep cliff.

You had stopped walking, the silence of the forest being the only noise to have outdone the heavy emptiness in your heart in months. And you simply continued to stand there, bare feet digging into the dirt and grass and stone, barely realising when the light faded away and darkness took over. Hadn’t it always been like this?

It had taken no more than two rounds of the house and the trail of footsteps in the garden out back for Toji to realise you had left. His heart had dropped into his chest as he had followed the dents of your feet in the ground, careful not to step on them as his mind bitterly reminded him that it may be the last of what’s left of you by now.

He knew where the trail you had walked along led- had himself sat on the edge of it once, legs dangling off as he his mind had replayed the memory of your glossy eyes and crestfallen face when he had hit you with those fatal words months ago. Toji’s breath hitches in his throat, hands shaking as he pulls away the last branch blocking the view of the edge of the cliff.

His feet are moving faster than his mind can think as he all but falls onto his knees, clutching your abdomen as if you’d disappear forever if he let you go now. You turn around in his arms, a look of confusion on your face, your eyes still as hollow as a void but all he cares about right now is the steady thumping he can feel with his chest pressed to yours. He’s clenching his eyes shut, taking a deep breath before he’s sliding his hand into yours. You don’t protest- letting him lead you back into the warm safety of his house and he’s too relieved to consider whether your lack of resistance is a good thing or not.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed and you can hear him ruffling through something in the bathroom, door ajar, eyes glancing towards you every two seconds as if he’s expecting you to bolt out the door any second now. For once, you don’t want to stare at the wall as he walks towards you, getting down on his knees- making a blow of nostalgia hit you right in the gut. But your eyes remain fixed at the top of his head, at the dark locks that had grown out much more since the last time you had let yourself gaze at him.

You only realise what he’s been doing as you notice the bowl of water kept on the floor, hands gently lifting up your dirty feet, cleaning them of the mud and the blood from small scrapes. He’s lifting up your legs onto the bed once he’s done, adjusting your pillow as a gesture for you to lay down. He’s blowing out the lamps and soon enough you feel the mattress dip, his arms engulfing you tighter than ever before. You can feel the slight tremble in them and you feel guilty for the small pinch in your chest. You wait for his breathing to steady, head to fall limp into the crook of your neck before you roll over towards him in the dark, eyes set on the small crinkle between his forehead and brow.

The warm hand that cups Toji’s cheek has him convinced that he may have lost his mind. Opening his eyes, he knows for sure that you have. Especially as you slide your other hand into his, pulling it till it’s placed onto the crest between your collarbone and chest, adjusting it a little more towards the left. Toji’s staring intently at you, wondering if this is your way of telling him that you’re still alive- that even though you’ve been cursed and damned to living in this hell, your heart still beats- it still fights.

Toji bares his own emotions through a gesture- pulling the small hand that holds his to the apex between his upper ribs- pressing it till your fingers feel like they might just pass through his flesh. He hopes you know that if he could, he’d snap each one of his ribs open so that you can reach inside and press the palm of your hand against his beating heart, rip it right out of his body and spit inside the hollow space of his ribs with contempt- even then he’d survive on your hatred alone if it means surviving with you for the rest of his life.

“I don’t hate you.”

The words are whispered in the dead of the night with no emotion, no trace of forgiveness or affection- simply stated as if they are common knowledge.

The soft lips coming down on his own have his mind spinning. He realises what it is you wish for- to be able to live once again as a human, to feel once again as a mortal- he can almost almost hear you saying the words into his mouth as your fist bunches up the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m tired of being a god.”

He can feel his own sentiment being passed right through as his hands slide under the cloth of his shirt that you wore, exploring the expanse of your reverenced skin, mouthing his response against your cupid’s bow.

“I’ll worship you even after you fall from grace.”

And he does, pulling himself up on arms above you, dipping his fingers into your soaking sex, making quick work of ridding you and himself of your clothes. He’s tucking your legs against your chest, feet dangling over his broad shoulders as he comes forward to meet your lips. He’s pulling away and you’re mewling at the loss of contact- the loss of his taste.

“Do you want this? Do you want-” He takes a deep breath, forehead coming forward to press against yours till your noses brush against each other, “...me?”

Your response comes in the form of sliding your hands to the back of his head, pulling him forward till his lips crash against yours once more- bucking your hips up till the tip of his massive girth is brushing against your heat. He doesn’t miss the moan that escapes you, eagerly kissing you back, moving to litter a plethora of kisses against your jaw- your neck- your collarbone. When he comes back up to your face, he’s well aware of the effect he’s had on you- the want in your eyes as you lift your hips against his once more, a small plea leaving your mouth.

The need that comes over him is animalistic as he moves a hand down to position himself before sliding into your soppy hole, he swears he can see stars with how hungrily you swallow him in. You’re gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he strokes your insides so languidly. Your faces are close enough for you to feel his breath on your mouth, to feel the fall of the hot droplets on your cheeks, your own tears of grief- of freedom- of a love gone to waste so long ago combining as he continues to thrust in and out of you deeply.

He’s dipping his head and the tears are being kissed away as his hand moves down to play with your over sensitive bud. You can't stop peppering kisses against his lips, moaning his name in his ear as he hits a particular spot inside you. He can feel you getting closer with how your breaths get deeper, fingers moving faster, strokes getting sloppier.

You feel the tight coil in your stomach start to unravel, and all it takes is for him to lower his head and suction his lips around one of your nipples for you to come apart underneath him. He’s reaching his own arousal soon after, pulling out to spray his seed onto your stomach. He all but collapses on top of you, rolling over to his side once he catches his breath, another hitching in his throat as he finds you crawling onto his lap, legs straddling his waist as you bury your face into his naked chest.

This is what being a god feels like. The taste of wine coating your tongue and the way his lips meld with yours- swallow you whole and then spit you out. You reach for him again in the dark, his chest panting against yours as the moonlight cascading from the window hits his face. You rest your chin against the centre of his chest, looking up at him with droopy eyes, his own stare right back at you- filled with tenderness and affection.

“No one will ever hurt you again, I promise.”

His voice is gruff and heavy, but carries a sincerity warm enough to send tingles down your back. You can’t quite place the look on his face, it's determined- pointed. You can feel the unravelling of the violence beneath his skin as his hand comes to cradle your jaw, and you wonder just what kind of monsters the god of the underworld plans to unleash.

His hand moves to caress the back of your head, adoration-filled eyes raking over your still panting figure. He presses his lips to your temple and says your name like a prayer. It all floods in- the pain- the love- the sorrow- the joy- you’re sobbing and he’s holding you like he has time and again. Only this time, he finds himself awestruck by the spark of ember that comes alive in your eyes, even if just for a second, he knows you’re going to be fine.

The god of the dead had bowed before you, offered you his crown, his throne- would have ripped off the flesh from his own back and handed it to you without any hesitation if only you asked.

You were the goddess of spring and everyone had loved your life and light, but who except him had acknowledged the death and destruction that came along- had reached out their hands into the rotten parts of your flesh and kissed every bruise and scar?

This was Toji Fushiguro’s life now, coming back home to his precious darling each day- the only burst of spring in his everlasting winter, the only ray of light in his world swallowed by darkness.

Tonight, as you lay on him bare-bodied and covered in sweat from your previous feat, he finds you asking him about the season, about how far the harvest festival was. He’s confused at your sudden curiosity but answers you nonetheless, telling you it’s in a fortnight. He finds himself asking why.

“Every single member of our blood attends the festival- they had waited for it while they kept me away.”

It’s the first time you’re talking about the incident and he can feel you quiver in his arms. It makes his blood boil, and he finds himself protectively pulling you even closer into him.

“...they had wanted each and every single one of them to get a chance to cut through my skin.”

That’s all you say before falling asleep, the tears on Toji’s chest making a storm of anger rage inside his mind.

It’s a fortnight later and Toji watches the red and orange hues of the flames making your face glow brighter than the sun.

You’re standing there hand-in-hand with him, looking over the half wrecked ruins of the village, the screams of the people you had grown up with- who had taken no less than a second to turn their backs on you- who had left you to die- now echoing in your ears. Right on the edge of the hilltop you stand on, you see a small figure running towards the slope, clothes burnt, high pitched sobs filling the air as it succumbs to the heat that had spread through it’s bones.

She must’ve been eight or nine years old judging from her size and half burnt frills of the frock she wore. You know she’s at peace, much like the many others who would’ve faced nothing but agonising hardships being raised in the hands of your cruel persecutors- all of whom lay as nothing but bones and ash and dust now.

Toji’s worried that he’ll find the same emptiness he’s spent months breaking through as he glances over at your face. Instead, there’s a fire being reflected in your eyes, a sadistically deliciously smile stretched across your supple cheeks. He finds his own lips curving as he grips your jaw to turn your head and press his lips to yours, the screams and shouts of your monsters merely anything but white noise as your fingers come to tangle in his hair.

After all, Hades may have been the god of the dead, but it was Persephone’s wrath which brought upon the destruction.

credit- prompt list

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#jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen angst #jjk smut #jjk tw #jjk angst #jjk hcs #toji angst #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji smut #toji x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #toji fluff #gojo smut #sukuna smut #hades persephone retelling

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hercleverboy · 3 years

Text

jealous

spencer reid x reader

summary ↠ spencer comes to terms with the fact that the reader will never love him the way he loves her.

category ↠ angst

warnings/includes ↠ heartbreak, unrequited love.

word count ↠ 2.6k

“But I always thought you’d come back, tell me that all you found was heartbreak and misery.” — Jealous by Labrinth

‘I'm jealous of the rain

That falls upon your skin

It's closer than my hands have been

I'm jealous of the rain’

Spencer loved the rain.

Well, not exactly. He loved to watch how it fell from the grey, angry clouds above as he sat warm and cosy in his apartment. He loved the rain if he was safe inside. He wouldn’tlike to get caught in a downpour, however.

He watched contently as the droplets fell against the window, staining the glass and jarring his view of the street below. It made him feel peaceful, and he would argue that there was no better sound to read to than that of the rain.

His focus dropped from the copy of ‘War and Peace’ in his hands, his mind focused on something else entirely.

Not so much something but someone.

Y/N had been Spencer’s closest friend for years at that point, having met him a few months after he’d started working at the BAU.

They spent pretty much any moment they could together. Spencer took her to museum exhibits and art galleries and she would listen intently as he rambled. He’d always stop mid-sentence and blush, apologising for getting ahead of himself but she’d simply smile and shake her head.

“You don’t ever have to apologise for sharing your wonderful knowledge with me, Spence. You know I could listen to you all day,” She’d say, “Keep going, please?”

He never could say no to her.

If there was anyone in the world he felt most comfortable with, it was her. She never ridiculed him or babied him like the team had a habit of doing. If there was a case that ended poorly she never pushed for him to confide in her, giving him the time and space to disclose his feelings when he was ready (something he was incredibly grateful for.)

For a long while, things were strictly platonic for Spencer. One day she was his best friend, the person he felt the most himself around, and the next day it was something more. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment in which his feelings for her changed, or what had caused them too. Since when had her welcoming hugs begun feel so warm? At what point had her giggle caused the butterflies in his stomach that he’d only ever read of in great poetry or love stories?

He tried to push the feelings away, he really did, but ultimately his attempts to avoid his newfound affection for her were fruitless. Nothing could be done, he finally had to face the facts. He was in love with her. In love with every adorable quirk, every smile, and every part of her; even the parts she deemed unworthy and ugly, he loved them all the same.

He wanted her to be his so badly.

There was only one slight problem.

Y/N wasn’t his to have. She had a boyfriend, a long term one at that. She was in a committed relationship with a man that wasn’t Spencer and he’d still allowed himself to fall in love with her.

Nice one, Spencer.

Spencer looked up at the clouds above him, frowning at the sight of the different shades of grey they were. He looked over at Y/N who walked alongside him. He’d gotten them tickets to a Russian Film festival, and he’d insisted she went with him so he could do a simultaneous whisper translation while they watched.

“It looks like it’s going to rain.” He broke the comfortable silence between them, his voice wavering slightly.

She looked up, a grin coming to her lips at the sight. “I hope it does, you know I like the rain.”

He chuckled lightly at that. “I do too! But who wants to be caught in it and end up soaking wet?”

She gasped in mock hurt. “I’m sorry Mr. 187, maybe I want to get caught in the rain, like a scene in some cheesy rom-com.”

He shook his head at her, his gaze dropping back down to look at the pavement beneath them.

Then the downpour started, just as Spencer had predicted. The rain was heavy and cold, essentially soaking them in seconds.

Spencer ducked under nearby shelter, pulling his coat tighter around him. He looked back over at Y/N, surprised to find her stood out in the rain, her arms outstretched and a grin on her lips.

“Y/N! What are you doing? You’re gonna get cold!” He shouted out, trying to make himself heard over the loud pelts of rain.

“I’ll be fine!” She called back.

“You know there’s a widespread myth that you lose the most body heat through your head. Studies have actually concluded that you only lose about ten percent of heat through your head.” Spencer shouted, and she turned to him with a smile, one that dismissed his facts. “You’re not even wearing a jacket, Y/N!”

“You know as well as I do, Doctor, that there’s no direct correlation between the rain and getting sick, so don’t even try that with me.”

“You’re right, but there’s a very real chance of hypothermia. Actually, last year it was reported that approximately 700 people in the US died of hypothermia-”

“Spence!” She grinned, politely interrupting his statistics. “Come join me! Live a little!”

He shook his head adamantly. “I’m okay, thank you. But you carry on.”

He watched on in awe at the sight before him. He pushed all the statistics on the probability of her getting sick to the back of his head, focused on how she looked it that moment. Her body was lit only by pale moonlight and dim streetlamps, but Spencer thought she’d never looked more beautiful.

He should’ve told her, then. Should’ve told her how much he loved her, how he could give her everything she craved, more than her boyfriend ever could. He wondered how he would put into words that he’d find a way to give her the world if she asked for it.

But he said nothing.

He could envision himself saying it.

He allowed himself to dream of speaking the words, how her face would light up and he’d finally get to hold her the way he yearned to. He thought of how proud Garcia would be of him since she’d practically been begging him to make a move ever since she learned of the situation. (” It’s not that simple, Garcia. She has a boyfriend!” “That’s a minor detail, Reid!”)

He could picture himself saying the words. He could see how she’d look over at him with those adorably furrowed brows and stunning eyes. The rain would pour over them like in the scene from Pride and Prejudice, as he finally dared to say the words he’d held onto for so very long.

‘I love you, most ardently.’

His very own Elizabeth Bennet.

But he said nothing.

Instead, when she came back over to him, her figure shivering as the cold finally set in, he simply offered her a cheeky grin. A simple look that said, ‘I told you so’. He quickly shrugged off his jacket and placed it over her shoulders, waving off her protests that he was going to get cold now.

As if that mattered, as long as she was warm.

Any attempt to sleep seemed useless. No matter how many poems he read to himself in his mind, sleep simply wasn’t coming. With a frustrated huff he moved to lie on his back, staring up at the ceiling defeatedly. Although he wished it wouldn’t, his mind travelled to Y/N. His heart lurched and just the thought of her, accompanied by the newest of the plethora of emotions he was feeling- jealousy. He wondered if her boyfriend knew just how lucky he was to be lying next to her, to have the privilege of holding her close, of telling her he loved her.

Spencer wasn’t a possessive man, he knew very well that Y/N didn’t belong to him, nor did she belong to anyone. She wasn’t an object to be had, and Spencer would never treat her as such. However, he found himself wishing to a being he wasn’t sure he believed in that she would be his. Perhaps it was selfish and wrong, to hope that she’d turn up heartbroken on his doorstep so that he could pick up the pieces of her broken by another man. It was definitely selfish to wish her so much heartache so that he could ultimately get what he wanted.

He recognised that she didn’t owe him anything. She didn’t owe him her love in return for his. But that almost made it worse; that this situation was nobody’s fault. It wasn’t Y/N’s fault for not returning his affections, nor was it her boyfriends’. It wasn’t Spencer’s fault either, he knew that deep down. He knew that no matter how many times he wished he’d told her sooner, before another man had swept her away, it wouldn’t have changed her feelings for him.

It almost brought him to tears. It’d be easier, he thought, easier if she did something that made me hate her. But he didn’t hate her, he didn’t think he ever could. He loved her more than he’d ever loved anyone or anything and there no words to describe the burning pain in his chest as the realisation that he was all alone dawned on him.

Y/N didn’t love him. At least, not in the way he wanted her too.

He could almost kid himself into thinking that she was going to knock on his door, tell him she’d left her boyfriend and confess her love for him. It was silly, and really doing him more damage than good to indulge in this self-serving fantasy he’d created, but it was the only thing that gave him enough peace to finally fall into slumber.

He nearly said it one day.

It was a Friday evening, and they were sat together at his apartment, having just finished watching a bunch of films. Y/N was mid-tangent about an interesting fan theory she’d read up on, while Spencer sat next to her trying to clear his thoughts.

His mind was screaming at him, this is it, it said, this is your chance. He knew it was selfish, quite possibly the most selfish thing he’d ever do. Especially when she was with someone else, the man she was building a life with- and Spencer was going to tear it all down with three simple words.

The most selfish thing he’d ever do.

And some part of him, some silly, hopelessly romantic part of him told him she wasn’t going to reject him. No, instead, she would admit she loved him too- and everything would be okay. Right?

“Y/N I-“ He interrupted her, and she looked over surprised as she stopped talking. She took in his tone of voice; how pained it sounded. She watched at how he cringed for interrupting her, his trembling hands coming to clutch fistfuls of his beige coloured cardigan in a nervous attempt to calm himself.

He evidently had something he needed to get off his chest.

“Yeah, Spence?” She prodded when he didn’t speak.

“I- I have to tell you something, something I should’ve told you a long time ago.” He rushed out, his voice shaking. He knew he’d have to force himself to say the words. He told himself to stop thinking so hard and just say them, because he knew all too well that he wouldn’t get the opportunity again.

“Okay. It’s okay, take your time. It’s just me.”

“I-I” He stuttered, trying to force the three simple words to leave his lips but he couldn’t seem to do it. He desperately wanted to, and it ached because he could feel them on the tip of his tongue.

Then his eyes met hers, and he stopped. His brain seemed to grant him a moment of clarity among the chaos and overwhelming thoughts. He tried to profile her, to use what he knew about human behaviour and how he’d read once that the eyes were the windows to the soul. He recalled how happy she always was when she spoke of her boyfriend, and Spencer couldn’t deny that from what he’d heard, he treated her well. Like she deserved. It shattered his heart all over again, but how could he sit there and tear away the happiness of the woman he loved? He knew what him confessing would do to her. She’d go into overdrive trying to compensate for not feeling the same, overexert herself trying to be the greatest friend she could be — and all the while she’d smile, as though the knowledge that she’d (unintentionally) hurt her best friend wasn’t killing her inside.

He couldn’t do that to her.

Not as he stared at her now, her worried eyes on him as she tried to figure out how to help him.

He couldn’t hurt her like that.

Spencer would hurt himself a hundred times over if it meant she was unharmed. He supposed that was what the meaning of love really was. Sacrificing yourself for the one you love.

He gave a sad smile and shook his head. “Um, you know what? It’s nothing.”

Her eyebrows knitted together as she scoffed. “Seriously? You’re gonna leave me hanging like that?” Her tone was amused although she feigned disappointment.

“Guess so.” He forced a chuckle, and Y/N opened her mouth to speak before the sound of her phone ringing cut through the air. She looked over at it, a small smile reaching her features at the sight of the name that flashed across the screen.

“Is that your boyfriend calling?” Spencer asked quietly.

She nodded. “I’ll tell him to call back later.” She moved her hand to click decline but Spencer’s voice stopped her.

“No. It’s okay. You should answer it now, it might be important.”

She seemed hesitant but nodded nonetheless, moving a few paces away from him before answering and talking softly into the phone. A few minutes later she hung up.

“Everything okay?” Spencer questioned.

She hummed. “Of course. He just wanted to know if I wanted to grab dinner with him, but I told him I’ve got plans with you-”

“No- no- you should go. With him.” Spencer breathed out.

“Are you sure? I thought we were gonna order in from that Chinese place you love?”

He gave her a small shrug. “We can take a rain check. You should go, I-I wouldn’t want you to be late for dinner.”

She frowned over at him, pocketing her phone as she moved closer to him. She clasped his shoulders in her hands and pulled her to him in a hug. He tensed at the initial contact, but eventually he relaxed into her hold and wrapped his arms around her.

“You know you can tell me anything?” She promised, her voice soft, warm.

“I know.” His voice broke, and his throat burned with the sob he was holding back.

She pulled back, concern on her features as she hesitantly let go of him. She promised she would give him a call later that evening before leaving the apartment.

Spencer stood for a moment; eyes fixated on the door as it closed behind her.

He wondered how he was ever going to move on from her, from the dreams of a future that was so close but just barely out of reach.

Ultimately, he wasn’t jealous of the man who got to have her.

He was jealous of the fact that she was happy because he could only wish that he was happy too.

‘It's hard for me to say, I'm jealous of the way

You're happy without me’

permanant taglist; @beyonces-breastmilk @pinkdiamond1016 @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto @thelovelyrose @averyhotchner @cynbx @calm-and-doctor @reidyoulikeabook @ssa-m-187

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid one shot #matthew gray gubler x reader #matthew gray gubler #mgg x reader #mgg #criminal minds #spencer x y/n

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fndmxreader · 3 years

Text

fandom: harry potter. pairing: remus lupin x reader | the reader simps for lupin because isn’t that all what we do daily ? summary: connected to the self indulgent series where the reader is a slytherin muggle born witch working alongside the teachers at hogwarts. note: this series will bounce around a lot involving timelines, but a lot of them don’t really have a coherent story line anyway. movie setting: prisoner of askaban. pov: she/her pronouns.

you were looking off into the distance in a daze, end of pen in mouth as your writings came to a halt and instead getting caught up in thoughts. your summer hadn’t been great, if you were being completely honest : your muggle friends were getting on your case regarding being missing for a year, you knew at some point you had to pick : the wizarding world or the muggle one, living two lives was absolutely exhausting, living them meant being two types of people - like one example, you had accidentally used a levitating spell to put a cup back and last minute your friend walked in, smashing on the floor as your hand flinched down to your side.

“ what was that crash ? “ “ i put the mug too close to the counter, “ you had laughed nervously, quickly walking towards the glass to pick it up “ it fell off as a result ” “you’re clumsiness is going to be the death of you “

that was only one of the close calls, there were far too many to keep track of, including dropping hints to the wizarding world in conversation, only to stutter and try and say you were referencing a bizarre indie movie from overseas. at this point you were trying to pick would it be even possible to choose a side ? it seemed impossible just to pick one over the other, especially knowing that no matter what route you take it would result in an empty, hollow feeling left inside of chest. you’re not sure who you could go to for guidance, you weren’t familiar with any muggle borns your own age, and talking to a pureblood or half blood would go in vein, the latter would understand to some degree, but ultimately it’s not the same and with it being so complicated, listening to people who barely got it would be a waste of time and only twist the knife in gut.

“ everyone, i would like to introduce you to remus jo - “ that was all you really heard dumbledore say before ears blocked out the world like static, everything beyond the screaming in your head made everything else seem like a distant hum with no tune, a crackle of a tv that can’t quite catch signal. your pen tapped against your bottom lip, perching against it as you eyebrows knitted together in deep thought.

maybe professor dumbledore could help, he wouldn’t get it but maybe he could shred some light on the situation ? he was always good at that.

“ miss l/n - “

perhaps it’s all just being blown out of proportion, work leave would surely be something the muggles would understand that. even if they are after photos, work gossip and other details -

“ y/n “ between the firmness and the sudden block of your view as the men stepped into eyesight causes you to flinch, reeling away from nothing in panic as you try and grasped your surroundings once more, blinking up in a rapid succession that causes concern to flash on the two men’s faces. it takes a moment to register where you were, the surroundings, what the hell was going on in general...

“ huh ? “ your tongue pokes out to roll against your bottom lip, eyes wide as you stared up at dumbledore, only for sight to break away from the one your most familiar with to the new guy... you won’t lie to yourself, you weren’t ready for seeing someone like him, especially in your state. his eyes were beaming with life, amusement dancing behind dark hues as a faint smile tugged at lips, hands pushed far into pockets as eye contact seemed to lock, your lips part to say something, anything but much like before your brain seemed to short circuit, this time for an entirely and much more embarrassing reason, “ huh ? “ you repeated again, cheeks coming to life with colour as you kept looking at the new guy.

“ this is professor lupin, y/n. the new defence against the dark arts teacher - “ speaking slower now, and you’re rather grateful for the approach because you really needed things to stop going by so quickly, the whole world seemed to flash in front of you at lightening speed.

“ oh “ a pause, then it really began to register “ OH ! “ it was the most beautiful example of a pin drop ever to grace hogwarts’ walls ( yes, dumbledore will be thinking about it years to come ) - you jump up rather clumsily and hold your hand out to the man “ hi, sorry - i was just ... never mind, hi ! “ you repeated again, the embarrassment settling deep within bones, making itself at home in the creases of mind that would take weeks to weave out. but regardless of the mocking in head, you do your best to not feed it and give it anymore attention... at least for the time being. lupins much bigger hand wraps around yours, a firm but gentle grasp as he finally takes the moment to speak himself.

“ that’s quite alright, i can tell that we disturbed you. in fact i believe we should be the ones apologising, however professor dumbledore here insisted on the introduction - “ it came easily, between tone of his voice and the warmth of his hand, you’ve never felt safer, it was like being in a warm hug beside the fire on the night of winter; you mentally slap yourself for acting like a teenager towards a complete stranger. your eyes however, narrow towards dumbledore, in a way blaming you own pathetic display on him. a faint smile on his lips as he made up some excuse to leave the pair of you alone, not at all hiding the way his eyes twinkled with amusement at the scene that played out.

your hand flexed around remus’, far too busy sending daggers at dumbledore walking away than the fact you were still holding the older man hostage, not helping the murmured “ ugh, he can be such an arse sometimes - “

“ i believe that’s apart of the charm “ remus chimed, your eyes moving back to his as you smiled up at him once more, less tense than what your face was previously “ um, miss l/n ? your hand - “

“ oh, fuck, sorry - “ instantly your arms folded across your chest, the blush only darkening your cheeks “ i promise i’m not this socially inept, well, at least to this extent - “

“ oh, don’t fret. i’ve met much worse people, i myself tend to panic in social situations. they’re not my forte “ you shoulders relax, though you can’t help but note that he seemed surprisingly at ease even with the confession. your eyes dance around the staff room, much to your own relief they seemed to be back to focusing on their own work.

“ well, you’re doing much better than me if that’s any help. so, you’re teaching dark arts - ? “ then the conversation seemed to spark to life without much spluttering after that, eventually both sitting on the couch and bonding over lessons; including how you got your position in the first place, your arm rested on the back of the furniture as your body turned fully to him, the longer the pair of you were sat there, the more they progressed beyond work and more into personal ones, about experiences outside of hogwarts and within the walls, not helping the fits of giggles that bubbled in your chest.

“ being a slytherin comes with the natural title of ‘dark pranks,’ most of us tend to live up to the name. people demonise us, so we give them a reason to continue it. that certainly doesn’t end at our humour, i think it shows more than ever in that aspect - “ you giggled again, head shaking “ i remember my friends putting a real snake in one of the gryffindors bed covered in animals blood, the girl panicked for weeks - but they started it ! “

“ i must say being a gryffindor myself, i feel like i should be offended on behalf of them. then again, my friends here were trouble makers as well. their pranks could... “ wrist rolled in the air, and while there’s a hint of pain twisting in features and a haunted look that seemed to cover bright eyes, there was still a fondness in how he spoke “ extremely, well and truly out of hand ? “

“ ahah ! “ it’s like a triumph, finger pointing at the others face “ you can hide behind the fancy wording all you want, professor. but you gryffindors can be just as over the top as the rest of us, if not more so ! “ he knocks your hand away from his face playfully, grin widening as mock offence does its best to take over features.

“ firstly, you may call me remus, second of all, i will agree with nothing you say, i would never stoop so low. “

your heart skipped a beat at the notion.

“ you may call me y/n, only when you admit i’m right - “

a nice joke to push down the giddiness of calling him by his first name the short hours of knowing him.

“ how very slytherin of you - “

“ how very gryffindor of you to point that out, remus “

the back and forth banter eventually came to a halt, as minutes ticked by it was time to go to the great hall for food and to sort out the new years. you and remus walked in a comfortable silence, a lightness surrounding you both as it showed in your steps, and showed in the way his lips remained locked in a subtle smile. you were left with one feeling... finally, dumbledore hired someone worthwhile. you would also give him a hard time for that awkward bow that he did at dinner.

#remus lupin x reader #harry potter x reader #hp x reader #teacher!reader series.#the man. the myth. the good doggie -#MSODHSOIDHSOIDH #harry potter corner.#god this took days to write i dont even know why im sorry im a sham

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ranger-kellyn · 3 years

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I wanna write about them now, but I'm still nervous of making them out of character..

Current mood is, I wanna draw AND write. :/

(this ended up being WAY longer than i thought it would so bear with me)

i know all about that, so allow me to share a quote with you from my favorite book. It's said twice, but the first part is a little long, and potentially spoils some things with what's in between the dialogue pieces so

Page 334, Cemetery Boys by Aiden Thomas

"You ready?" Julian asked, a curious look on his devastatingly handsome face. "No," Yadriel confessed, his voice tight. Julian grinned. "Do it anyways."

A special shoutout to my best friend, @dinosrawr, for finding the pages for me, introducing me to that book in the first place, as well as being the reason i bring this quote up in the first place!

i can't remember what I was stressing over. some art project, probably. worrying i wouldn't be good enough at it/it would be bad/etc etc etc

they hit me with the "do it anyways" line, and something about it was just. enough. to kick me in gear. and while SURE, it meant something extra because we both had read the book, it's something I try to remind myself of when I'm stressing over if something will be "enough".

Do it anyways.

And if it comes out "bad"? It comes out "wrong"? If they're not Perfectly In Character? (and i KNOW how dismissive this sounds and so i apologise for that) It's not the end of the world.

Painters can get paint all over them. Ceramicists can get covered in clay (trust me!! i at least have a degree in that one!!!) In my 2d drawing classes I'd come home covered in charcoal.

Writers seem to be held to a weird high standard. like. Get messy. Write something bad. Write something self indulgent.

Just in my purah/robbie fics alone? -Age of Calamity Epic??? I'm adding so much stuff it's self indulgent and i KNOW I have moments where I'm going to be going against the "balls to the wall confident"-type Purah is. I'm gonna say that she has insecurities. Insecurities that maybe her character wouldn't even actually ever have in a million years. But the fic will make ME happy, and if someone else happens to enjoy the fic as well?? excellent. -Autumn In Goldcliff?? this fic started kind of as a joke, because it's literally using the Hallmark Christmas Movie Formula. That being said, you better BELIEVE they will be 10 kinds of OOC. I'm still excited to write it. -From The Ashes?? oh my god. this is my "all three sheikah end up deaged" AU. you better BELIEVE i'm throwing all kinds of self indulgence in here. -Long Story Short? Big City Hallmark. In this one. Robbie is a country boy from a teeny tiny farming town. Purah is the new CEO of the company that oversaw his parent's farm, and she lives in the Big City. We're romanticizing the Big City in this one bc i'm so tIRED of how hallmark romanticizes small towns (lived in one growing up- not as glamorous as hallmark makes u think) -Untitled College AU? nothing but self indulgence baeby -Press Restart?? this was one of my very first purobbie fics i outlined. in this one, robbie ends up deaging himself as well, post calamity being sealed, and Grante ends up reuniting the two. -Untitled ANGST: Angst Angst Baby -Lick The Frog?? (tentative title) this is a sex pollen fic. I don't need to say any more than that to tell u how self indulgent that is. -Untitled Mindswap Fic??? This one is literally just a JOKE to MYSELF. I lAUGH when I work on this one. This fic is for nobody but myself. -Untitled What Could Have Been fic?? title alone is self-indulgent, and i literally cOULDNT handle the angst so i'm working on two separate "alternate endings" for this fic. -Untitled "5 Times She Almost Saw His Eyes and The 1st Time She Actually Did"- you inspired this one, anon. -Untitled P&R showing off their fossil monstrosities to Impa: a direct quote from Impa, [about Arctozolt] "You ruined a perfectly good pokemon is what you did!! Look at him!! You gave him hypothermia!!" Clearly, I'm only barely taking that fic serious because I would rather have FUN

So like. TL;DR

Be self indulgent. Write the fic YOU wanna write.

To end this with another "quote" that I try to remind myself when I'm stressing over the quality of my work:

“From failure you learn, from success… not so much.”

It's all so much easier said than done, and there's PLENTY of days I have where I can't even get myself to take any of my own advice.

But I believe in you, anon <3

If nothing else, I'm here to support you work <3

#cemetery boys is one of my absolute favorite books ever #and meet the robinsons is one of my favorite movies ever #so like #it's a good thing they both have great quotes #anonymous #you were probably not even remotely asking for all that but i just like to Talk #(i say as an introvert who in fact does NOT like to Talk-talk lmaO)

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softowlhours · 4 years

Text

paperclip chains

akaashi keiji (officeAU!)

a collection of scenarios following you and akaashi as you try and finesse the art of navigating life as working adults.

genre: a bit sad at times, but hopefully fluffier in the future.

a/n: my first piece of writing and this is pure self indulgent because work is hard and nothing makes sense sometimes. hope you all enjoy and find some comfort in it.

word count: 3500~

pt. one 🦋 blank like a sheet of paper. 🦋

[friday. 3:00 p.m.]

someone had cracked open the window. the air inside the office had been much too oppressive, stale with the smell of the murky, insipid coffee you could get from the cafeteria. for free. staff privileges, they call it. late afternoon sun pours in through the large square windows. it ignites the office, dying it in the shades of an inferno. however, the warmth of it does not reach akaashi’s heart. the way the rays set everything aglow was in contrast to the chill crisp autumn air. akaashi could hear the leaves rustle, clinging to the branches waiting for that particular gust of wind, strong enough to blow them off. the leaves would then twirl and twirl until they’d softly land on the damp earth becoming one with it again. he wishes he were a leaf.

He tries to focus on nature’s gentle melody, but the hubbub of the office is overbearing. the incessant clicking of alphabets on the keyboards, the murmur of pages being turned, someone sneezes loudly and it is immediately followed by lazy ‘bless you’s’. his ears are attuned to the low electric groan of the printer, and he hopes someone would get up and unclog the jam of papers before the white noise drives him insane. he ends up doing it himself, almost losing a finger in the process as he tries to pull out a badly stuck paper from the printers’ rollers. today had been one of those days where nothing had gone right, a domino of disasters triggered the moment he’d opened his eyes. these days had been coming by way too often lately for his taste. he felt tired.

none of these turmoils showed on his exterior though, he wore a calm, unbothered mask. despite his depressing inner monologue, he diligently read through the manuscript highlighting bits he’d like to go over with the author at their next meeting.

it wasn’t like akaashi hated his job, infact, this was his dream job. he loved what he did but sometimes his love for his work was eclipsed by the politics the workplace was entrenched in. the naivety from when he had first joined almost a year ago had worn off quickly. it took him a mere week in the workforce to understand that a job demanded more than the list of skills and tasks specified in the job description. in any office, beneath the veneer of civility, there always remains an undercurrent of competition, jealousy, idle minds looking for entertainment at the expense of each other. there were people who did not love their job, the free loaders who somehow never did their share but managed to take home their bag of coins. they would slack and slack some more until the burden of their neglect would be shifted upon the shoulders of the new comers. too timid to resist. he pulls out his leather bound planner, a gift from his friend to celebrate him landing the role of an assistant editor all those months ago. it is almost filled from start to finish with his scribbles and the leather is soft with constant handling. his eyes scan past all the work he had wrapped up for the day, until one of his seniors had dumped an endless stack of files containing short stories that had been sent in for the monthly writing contests. they’re not short anymore when you have a hundred of them to read at once. apparently, the senior had a date he’d forgotten about and had to leave early. akaashi couldn’t report this to the boss, he knew how offices worked. its venomous hierarchies slithered like snakes ready to diss whoever defied them. rookies must act like rookies. akaashi quickly jots down in his planner a list of things he must get done over the weekend and the bulleted list slowly fills up two entire pages.

when he wasn’t picking up after someone’s mess akaashi did enjoy what he did. he enjoyed being on top of his work, found an euphoric satisfaction in duties well done. while his colleagues took it easy during the day and whined as they worked overtime in the evenings to meet deadlines, akaashi was most probably done for the day by then and already at home; fresh out of the shower and lighting his favourite candles that made his bedroom smell like cinnamon. he’d curl up under his soft comforter letting the tension of a busy day dissipate from his body. he kept his favorite books on the nightstand and would read them as he waited for sleep to come.

“akaashi-chan,” he hears the soothing voice of his supervisor, an old well natured man in his sixties who had worked here for almost thirty years. he walks upto akaashi’s desk, his eyes crinkling with a gentle smile as he takes in the mess that was his desk. “its difficult being a rookie, huh?” hatori-san says. “i would’ve just let you gone home, but the design and printing departments are an anxious bunch. they’re breathing down our necks for the final draft of the magazine two weeks before the release date.”

“please don’t apologise, hatori-san. It’s always like this towards the end of the month.” you aren’t the one who should be apologising.

“hmm...” the elderly muses, “maybe you should dilly dally like your colleagues, afterall, who is to blame you? the youth are meant to be reckless. ”

“but hatori-san if i did that not even a quarter of our magazine will be ready by the end of this month!” akaashi’s voice is filled with amusement, and mild terror.

hatori-san chuckles. “yes, yes i’m aware. i’ll rely on you then akaashi-chan. i do have a bit of good news for you though.” a bonus-

“we’re getting another assistant editor on monday, hopefully your workload can be halved from then on and a be little more manageable. i’m worried you’re starting to look older than me akaashi-chan.” he jokes. “i’ll leave her in your care.”

❀ ✿ ✿ ❀

[friday. 8:20 p.m.]

he stays in the office until late that night, finishing as much of his work he can before the words on the screen begin to blur and he can feel his brain churn in his head. he packs the documents he needed to read over the weekend, putting them neatly in his black briefcase. the temperatures have dropped quite low and with his tan coat on and a scarf wrapped around his neck, he steps out into the world. outside, tokyo is buzzing with life, the lights twinkle and a bubbly atmosphere engulfs even this usually grim and dull part of the city; where most companies found their home. salary men and women chatter excitedly as they pour into the office district from the high rise buildings of concrete and glass. groups of people stand on the sidewalk chatting amicably, smoke rises from cigarettes, plans to go hangout at karaokes, bars and restaurants float in the air.

it wasn’t that akaashi did not have friends, or ever had trouble making any. he was easy going, attentive and though not the loudest in the room, he was enigmatic. people were drawn to him. especially the weird and loud ones. not that he minded. not that he ever judged. which is what made people open up their hearts to him so easily. they knew he’d take them for who they were. but, like earlier today he couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease that clawed at him. he had his dream job but the hours he spent on his desk day after day, the endless exchange of apathetic emails, the unlimited cups of coffee, had all amalgamated into a kind of hollowness. he felt empty instead of fulfilled. he idly wonders if bokuto-san ever felt this way, or knowing him, did he charge straight ahead without any inhibitions? if you asked bokuto whether he could see himself playing volleyball for the next twenty or fifty years, bokuto would say ‘yes, ofcourse!!!’ in a heartbeat. and akaashi knew bokuto would mean it.

he wonders how hatori-san had spent his entire life in that office. could i do the same?

akaashi considers hanging out with some of his friends from university, maybe take hatori-san’s advice and just let go and forget everything for a while. he could be your typical 20 something, going to the bars with his 20 something friends where they’d shit talk their rude colleagues. He could console that one friend who wouldn’t stop crying over his ex-girlfriend who left him 3 years ago, every time he’s drunk. he could go home with that girl at the opposite end of the bar who wouldn’t stop looking his way, and who in his drunken haze, he thinks to be pretty. but eventually akaashi decides he is too tired to do any of that.

much later, when he settles into bed, he mindlessly picks up a book from his nightstand. he starts reading from where he had left off the night before but his eyes don’t really register a single word. for all he knew, he could’ve been staring at a blank sheet of paper. after a few more minutes of seeing nothing, he puts the book away and buries himself deep underneath the covers.

he feels the tears fall.

❀ ✿ ✿ ❀

[monday, 9:45 a.m.]

its odd. akaashi feels well rested. very very well rested.

his eyes fly open, and the first thing he sees is the blue sky peeking from the gap between his curtains. he’s afraid to look at the time.

9:45 A.M. well, shit.

akaashi feels winded by the time he makes it to the floor where his office was.from the door he sees hatori-san standing next to akaashi’s chair, his back towards him. akaashi’s heart is in his throat, an apology that sounds fake dances on his tongue. he then hears hatori-san chuckle. a soft female voice says something he cannot catch. ah, the new assistant editor.

“good morning” he calls hoarsely, as he approaches them.

“Ah, hello akaashi-san,” his supervisor beams, “meet y/n. hopefully, your new partner in crime.”

“i was told i’m supposed to help slow down your aging process.” her voice is soft, and despite the shyness there is a mischievous lilt to her tone. “i’ll do my best. please do guide me.”

hatori-san excuses himself. she’s practically buzzing with excitement, akaashi notices. before he can say anything, she pulls out a brand-new notepad from her bag, pen clicking open. she looks ready to take on the world.

he has to bite back a smile. she’s cute, cheeks flush and lips in a pout as she jots down something on it. he genuinely wonders what it is she writes, considering he hasn’t even spoken yet. her hair is neatly tied away from her face but a few stray tendrils fall and delicately frame her face.

he wonders if this is how he had looked on his first day at work. face pink and eyes bright. probably not as cute though, oh no, definitely not cute. he internally cringes at the memory of his awkwardness.

but you miss it. that excitement.

“it’s fine.” he says, “please just sit down and relax, i’ll guide you as we go through our daily routine.” he gives her a small smile.

they spend the morning, going through the basics of the trade, she's a fast learner, he notes. and later during the lunch hour he divulges to her the little ‘how to survive in this office 101s’. he tells her how how she mustn’t drink the free coffee they hand out at the cafeteria (even though he’s come to accept it himself, for he welcomes caffeine in any state and form). he suspects they reuse the coffee grounds more times than considered acceptable. how if you ever jammed the printer, try and leave before anyone realises it was you if you don’t want to be the recipient of death glares from colleagues all day long. He tells her which restrooms are the best and which elevators reach their destinations the fastest. the grimmer and more ruthless bits of working here can wait, he thinks.

passion was something he lost some time ago and hasn’t been able to find ever since.

“make sure to take it easy.” he mumbles to her as they are putting away their trays, “if work gets too much, you can always place the manuscripts and drafts on my desk when i’m not looking.”

she looks at him incredulously. laughter bubbles from her lips as she tells him with mock indignance that she’s better than that. she asks the cafeteria lady for two cups of the infamous coffee, offering him one.

“lets toast!” y/n proposes .

“to what?”

“to all the times we’ll be the the last two brain cells holding up this company. together.” she jokes, touching her paper cup to his.

he likes the sound of ‘together’.

❀ ✿ ✿ ❀

#akaashi keiji #akaashi x reader #akaashi scenarios #haikyuu!!#haikyuu imagines #hq!!#haikyuu fluff #haikyuu scenarios #reader insert #hq akaashi #akaashi fluff #akaashi keiji fluff

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idiot-children · 4 years

Text

haven't been on this account in months plus i don't even post writing on here but Hey have some unnecessarily angsty self-indulgent bullshit sanders sides fic!! mostly just a vent thing but ehh I like Roman too much to care

To Fall On Your Sword

TW for suicide, mild descriptions of gore, severe emotional distress (if there's anything else PLEASE let me know)

Roman sank down into his room, wracked with violent sobs. It was too much. Too much. He stared into a mirror - his room was full of them, just in case he got too separated from reality. Just in case he started seeing things. Because his reflection grounded him. But now, all his reflection was doing was making him painfully aware of how unbelievably pathetic he looked. Pathetic and alone. Because he was, and he knew that now. Thomas had given up on him, and at this point, staring into his reflection and desperately trying to make out something good, he didn't blame him. He wasn't even a real side, no wonder he was so useless, maybe he should fuse with Remus again, maybe then he'd be a real hero, maybe then he'd be useful, maybe then Thomas would love him again- oh god, never mind the adoration, never mind the fame or the romance, he just wanted Thomas to love him. That's all he wanted. And now he'd never get that, and it hurt, oh god it hurt.

He was bleeding. He wasn't sure how, or when, but the mirror in front of him was broken, shattered on the floor, and his fist was covered in shards of glass and stained in his blood. More than anything he wanted to punch the real thing, to let out his anger on something that deserved it, and maybe then he could finally bring himself to swallow his insatiable pride and become what he needed to be, what Thomas needed him to be.

He settled for letting out a sob that was really more of a scream and falling to his knees, his face stained with blood and tears.

He didn't care if anybody heard him. What would they care anyway? They had more important things, bigger things to worry about than the half-side with the hero complex having a temper tantrum like a teenager who'd just discovered My Chemical Romance and had decided that the whole world was unfair to them in particular. And maybe it was. Maybe the universe decided to fuck him over the second Patton decided that half of him - and, he really had to admit that Remus was part of him now - was too disturbing to exist. Maybe the second he was deemed 'the good twin' the universe decided that was enough good luck for his whole existence. He could feel the edges of dozens of glass shards beneath his knees, digging into his legs, he could feel them ripping open his skin from below; he took comfort in the sensation of hot blood running down his legs like paint, like some morbid art of his brother's design (although, come to think of it, what was the difference between his art and Remus's, anyway?). His breaths came out short and unsteady, half of him desperate for someone to find him, comfort him, tell him everything's going to be okay, and half of him praying that this moment of irrefutable weakness could be something secret, something that maybe, if he could just find even the slightest bit of good fortune, he could keep to himself.

He only half heard Patton knock on his door, only half heard him call out empty comforts with that soft but oh-so painful voice of his, and, logically, only half completely pretended he couldn't hear him. It took almost a minute for him to leave. Roman couldn't tell if he had gotten the message, or if he had just gotten bored. Either worked for him. He didn't want to speak to Patton. He didn't know who exactly he wanted to speak to, but it wasn't Patton. He didn't want to be comforted. He didn't want to have to act like he was feeling better only to go back to pressing down his desires and pretending he was okay with total self-sacrifice. Because he wasn't, of course he wasn't, but he conceded that Patton had to be right. Because if he was going against Patton, he was going against Thomas's morals. And if he was going against Thomas's morals, that would make him evil, and he wasn't evil, he couldn't be evil, he couldn't let himself be evil; Remus was evil, his brother, not him, he wasn't like his brother, he wasn't, because he couldn't be, because he wouldn't let himself, because-

Deceit's words were still ringing through his head (he didn't have the willpower to call him Janus). Maybe that was why, for a brief moment, he was so unshakably convinced that he was the villain. Maybe just the memory of the betrayal, the vulnerability on his face made him want to throw up, made him believe, for that brief moment, that maybe he was in the wrong. Like he had been with Virgil.

Just like he had been with Virgil.

So maybe he was the villain. Maybe he had always been the villain. He was an adult, he could accept that. He could accept that no problem, that he was... evil. That he was in the wrong. That maybe the mindscape would be better off without him. Maybe Remus could do a better job after all.

After all, there was only ever meant to be one creativity. He wasn't even supposed to exist. Maybe... maybe if there was only one creativity, everything would be normal again. Thomas would be happy. That's what he wanted, right? He wanted Thomas to be happy? That was what was important. That was the only thing that was important. Not him, not his feelings, not his fragile self-worth, what mattered was Thomas. So he made up his mind.

But if he had to go, he'd go out with a bang.

He considered ducking out. Maybe it would be fitting, considering how he treated Virgil, to leave quietly in the same way he had planned to. But they had gotten Virgil back, and Roman... didn't plan on coming back. And then he looked at himself in the mirror, one of the mirrors that hadn't been shattered, and considered for a moment that the sword in his belt really hadn't gotten enough use. Fine. That was fine. He could fix that.

He unsheathed the weapon with trembling hands, holding it out in front of him with the blade pointed towards his chest. He didn't want to say he was scared, but then, he supposed lying to himself wouldn't do him any good anymore. He didn't bother wiping the tears from his face. It felt freeing just to be able to cry like this, nothing held back, nothing hidden or repressed. He knew Patton would be upset. He'd have to be. It was in his nature. But he'd get over it. He'd move on. He liked to think that Virgil would miss him, miss their back-and-forth, their playful teasing; that mopey emo was dear to him, although he'd never admit it to his face. Logan wouldn't care. Logan's job would be easier, without someone like him getting in the way of Thomas's health - and he supposed the same would apply to Janus. And Remus... well, Remus would be free. Free to do what he wants. Roman supposed he deserved it, after so much time repressed. And Thomas would figure out what to do with him. This was for Thomas's sake, after all.

He stared at the edge of the blade for a brief moment. He could see his reflection, pitiful and tear-stained, as he forced himself to smile. For the good of Thomas. He took a deep breath. His words came out firm, clear, but with an uncertain tremor to them, shaking in what could have been fear, despair, or anger.

"I'm not a hero."

He didn't scream as the blade pushed through his skin. He didn't sob, or yell - nothing that dramatic. He just gasped slightly as the pain choked every noise he may have had out of him. He laughed slightly. Blood seeped out from under his red sash, staining the white fabric as he collapsed limply to the side and closed his eyes.

He woke up to a voice. Well, actually, several voices - all in whispers and hushed tones. He wasn't expecting to wake up at all, so it came as a surprise. But the second he opened his eyes, blinking a little to reduce the misted blur that obscured his vision, the voice of who he could only assume was Logan rang out through the room, right from his side. The only thing that dissuaded him from the assumption that it was Logan speaking was the audible worry in his voice.

"Patton." He heard soft, trembling sobs coming from the other side of the room. He also noticed for the first time that he felt almost calm, and nostalgic, and the pillows underneath him were just soft enough that he felt like he could lie there forever. "He's awake."

There was a moment of silence, swiftly proceeded by the familiar warmth of Patton's arms, wrapped around his whole body tighter than he had ever felt it before, like a mother's final hug to her son before watching him leave his childhood home. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. Logan cleared his throat.

"I appreciate that you're relieved, however, please refrain from doing even more damage to his-"

"Roman, what were you thinking!?" He blinked a few times, just to make sure he was seeing clearly. Why was Deceit so worried? "Oh, yes, what an incredible idea, impaling yourself on your own-"

He winced. Deceit's expression softened.

"Look. I'm... sorry for yelling. But if you think you could have gotten away with that without stressing us all out, well, I don't even know what to say to you."

He opened his mouth to say something, to retort, maybe, or just to apologise, but was stopped in his tracks by Logan.

"Don't speak yet, I'm not sure how much damage you did, and I don't want to aggravate any damaged areas. I'm sure you understand." He nodded, still dumbfounded by the fact that he was alive. Logan cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. "I feel obligated to let you know that I agree with Janus. What you did was an awful, irrational act, and I'm not going to lecture you on it, because I feel like you already know, but... Roman, when we found you like that-"

"He cried for three minutes straight. Virgil timed it." Patton smiled, over his own hiccups and relieved sobs. Logan coughed.

"Yes, well, it was a shock. For the record, Virgil cried-"

He was cut off by the sound of Roman being slapped straight to the face. He blinked.

"Where did you even-"

"That's for making me worry about you, bastard." Virgil said, looking Roman directly in the eyes so fiercely that Roman could almost believe he was genuinely mad. Patton opened his mouth as if to object, but decided to just let Virgil say his piece. "You don't just do that! Jesus, Roman, you could have died!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm fairly sure that was the-"

"Shut it, Deceit." He hissed. Deceit shrugged. "I couldn't care less what the point was. You fucked up, princey!"

"Language!"

"Sorry Patt." He smiled sheepishly, before turning back to Roman. "You're lucky the snake got to you when he did."

Roman stared at the odd congregation. He hadn't expected this. He was bad for Thomas, he was a villain, he was so awful to Deceit, they had every reason to let him go, but... Deceit - no - Janus had saved him. God, what was he thinking? He felt his eyes misting up with tears as he watched the rest of the group argue. But argue lovingly, as they always had. He would have missed this.

And as he watched the others leave, on Logan's suggestion, so that Roman could get some well-needed rest, it was Janus who hung back.

"Just so you know? What you did was not selfish. It was self-destructive. Which, arguably, is much, much worse. So don't go blaming me."

He shook his head, smiling weakly. Janus returned the gesture.

"Oh, and just for the record, your brother was here just before you woke up. I told him I wouldn't tell you, but... I daresay he was crying much more than Logan."

He winked, before turning on his heel and walking through the door. Roman smiled to himself once again, leaning his head back on his pillow and closing his eyes.

He would have missed this.

#i come back to this account and the first thing i do is post angst smh #suicide tw #sanders sides #deceit sanders #virgil sanders #sanders side fic #roman sanders #morality sanders #patton sanders #roman angst #angst #sanders sides angst #janus sanders #remus sanders #think that's enough tags idk how to tag things

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floralkittygambler · 3 years

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@critical-hazbin @devils-advocutie @what-the-hazbin I have Gasu on notifs because I really loved the quality of his fanart (Velvet needs love ❤️). Confirmation hes part of the team, as well as designs some merch and runs the Val account (Good on him! His art is incredible, again Velvet needs more love ❤️) but I wanted some thoughts on this. Firstly, the auto translation is gonna be shit bc they usually are but I’m interested in the focus on Val’s sex appeal and staff interactions with the characters.

Personally, Val’s sex appeal. It’s subjective I suppose? But I feel making a pimp have that is really good PROVIDING it’s backed up with why it’s dangerous and the vile nature of such people in a genuinely threatening manner (publicly, he needs to show more affection to Angel and Vox in a way that seems believable, partnered with subtle hints that it’s fake and he’s a pos. avoid teen drama as it can look fun and appealing to kids!

As for staff interactions with fiction, do that in your own time and have fun - I implore! However when you’re publicly and professionally representing a product and company, you NEED a set layer of professionalism as well as empathy towards the consumers and your products potential impacts on them. This is TWO staff members publicly romanticising and interacting with a fictitious character in ways to appeal to ships and profession. Probablyfakeblond and Gasu have now publicly done this - now with younger audiences, this is dangerous to make pimps JUST seem ‘sexy’ and ‘quirky’, and make their behaviours seem fun. Because pimps really don’t care if you’re legal or not. An insecure teen who’s easily influenced and desperate enough for love, money or ‘clout’ is a walking dollar sign as far as they’re concerned. These folks are EXCELLENT at manipulation and reading body language. Val just appears... stupid, to be honest. And his faux teen drama excuse of a love life with Vox just makes both their threat levels seem disgustingly low and comedic - even the abuse is supposed to be a punchline (and if it’s not, this is a terrible way to present that).

Overall, these accounts could be fun and interesting insights to the HH/HB universe, but that potential is wasted on staff publicly making a teen drama of every character, ships being a focus, many characters being neglected INCLUDING main characters, personalities nullifying any decency in a good designed character, publicly interacting with characters in an almost ship bait way, clear displays of self indulgence, these making more of a mess of an already poorly stringed together plot line and overall...

The lack of professionalism and visible breaks in the fourth wall for staff indulgence (which almost shows off a privilege of the team in a NEGATIVE way - the privilege is in the art/characters/plot building NOT you’re ability to have people potentially ship you with your favourites, it’s blatantly unprofessional) is just... I COULD say cringeworthy at best but that just feeds into cringe culture (though I think we’d all cringe at someone walking on a path of Lego’s barefoot - make that the new cringe culture, things we cringe at legitimately whilst some madlad just doesn’t give a fuck and faces it - jackass style). In reality it’s lack of professionalism that seems to dismiss real toxic behaviours as quirky humour is appalling for a business. As a business woman, this really makes me nervous of the hands these shows are in as well as the mixed messages, lack of research and lack of compassion for the real world effects. The promotion of toxic behaviours being a ‘quirk’ (sexual harassment being ‘cute/romantic’ to full on abuse) especially towards the influencial minds of the audience is terrifying. The real message won’t just be lost - it already IS. Maybe I’m being too paranoid, but once you have kids in your life, you see the effects so much more clearly and it’s terrifying.

The staff aren’t treating this with the sensitivity it needs. It’s just a shagfest, self indulgent, imbalanced, plot holed, immaturely handled mess. I’d expect better behaviour from the staff - and this isn’t even roughing upon the member who appears to have some disturbing fixation towards rape. It isn’t just upsetting, it’s terrifying. They’ve let the underage work illegally on the products (Al comic - FULL ID PROOF IS A MUST IN HIRING). There’s been numerous accusations of art theft that are brushed under the rug, I’m incredibly concerned. Though it’s clear this is going to be a fucking mess. When Blitzos IG posted about “Wish me luck” on him having sex to keep the Grimoire, there was a glimmer of reality - fans actually showing concerns for the feelings of deep discomfort from Blitzos side. That is before Stolas posted, then all memories of Blitzos feeling were lost. Husk being upset with Angel or uncomfortable leads to fans harassing HIM for being ‘rude’ or ‘needing to apologise to Angel’ - why? For being uncomfortable? There’s a LOT of victim blaming for “uwu gae ships” that fetishisizes gays (gays are fuckin PEOPLE not some kink-) and then the canon gays such as Chaggie are given so much shit for “crushing fan dreams like chalastor”. Funny how compatibility is involved their but the second Husk and Blitz show discomfort and no compatibility, it’s “but it’s true gae lovezzz” - how disrespectful to sexual harassment victims (ESPECIALLY male victims who people already treat as a fucking joke-) as well as turning a sexuality into a kink. I’ll be honest, rl person x fiction isn’t my issue - it’s how they’re handling it. Are the staff a part of this universe then? Why? What do they contribute? Why is this their story? Or is this self indulgence that fellow staff and fans can uwu ship? There’s nothing wrong with real x fiction but their needs to be a limit (fixation is unhealthy and self indulgence so openly is far from professional standards).

PLEASE don’t fuck this up SpindleHorse. There’s potential here for something original and enthralling, please don’t waste this over temptation and immaturity.

Sorry to tag less and I hope you all can see this, just unwell.

#hazbin hotel #character development #vivienne medrano #concerned fan #think of the message you want to share and the delivery #the plot is a mess #back to basics #I’m sick so please forgive any error #room for discussion #stans and antis dni

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goldeneyedgirl · 4 years

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Part 2 of MCU/Twilight verse

“That MCU crossover I’m writing that actually hasn’t mentioned the MCU at all yet.”

Alt 7: Found Family

Rating: T for swearing

Words: 2,551

Summary: Twilight X MCU crossover. The Snap doesn’t just kill humans. What happens next?

Notes: Is this even Whump-y enough to count to Whumptober? I don’t know, everyone’s grieving. I made myself watch Endgame again and I found something useful. I know it probably feels like I wiped out a lot of characters, but there’s method to my madness. I’m desperately resisting the urge to make some obvious corrections to the MCU, and I’m pretty sure the last two chapters are going to be needlessly self-indulgent. And yes, I need a title.

Part One here

two. survivors

What happens next?

It’s a good question, and one Alice used to be able to answer. Her predictions have… well, they haven’t stopped, but there are less. Maybe she’s not saying everything but he doesn’t press.

They stay in Forks. It’s the easiest option, really. They have resources at the Forks house - all of Jasper’s computers, Rose’s cars, Carlisle’s medication stash. And for, now, it makes sense to keep up the masquerade - the orphaned Cullen kids, in that big old house.

And Seth Clearwater. Neither of them have made more than polite inquiries about the Quileute reservation, because what can they do, really? They weren’t allowed on the land, and nothing they offer will be accepted. Seth doesn’t want to talk about it either, so they just… don’t. Not yet.

The first announcements and news reports are hard to listen to - half of all living creatures. Humans, animals, plants, sea-life… just gone. Then there are the people who survived, but died in the aftermath; the patients in surgery with the dust of their surgeons sinking into their chest cavity, the passengers on an airplane, the school bus with no driver. The news plays on, listing losses and catastrophes until he loudly asks if Seth wants to play Xbox instead.

Alice goes with them, and sits crosslegged on a recliner, watching them.

“Carlisle would have liked that,” she says suddenly, when Emmett realises the error in picking a war game - should have opted for a racing game instead.

“Liked what?” he asks, as he gets up to change the disc. Seth doesn’t say anything, playing with the recliner buttons instead.

“‘Half of all living creatures’,” she quotes. She’s been wearing one of Jasper’s t-shirts under her cardigan, and the scent of his brother is fading the longer she wears it. “Carlisle would have appreciated that. That the universe thought we were living creatures. Might have convinced Edward that we weren’t total monsters, either.”

Seth looks up at her, confused. “Why wouldn’t you be living creatures?” he asks, concentrating at the recliner tips him right back.

“We don’t breathe or age or change,” Alice says, a smirk playing around her face as Seth yelps when the entire chair begins to tip, but luckily it doesn’t fall.

“But you eat,” Seth accepts the controller Emmett passes him. “And you’ve got families. That means you still count.”

“I wish we didn’t.” Emmett doesn’t realise he’s said those words aloud until he realises Seth and Alice are both staring at him. He wants to explain that if they didn’t count, then there wouldn’t be five vases lined up on the mantel (three empty) full of dust. That he wouldn’t be sitting here playing Xbox with Seth Clearwater, and Alice wouldn’t be wearing leggings and her husband’s t-shirt, looking brittle and tired. That he wouldn’t go into their room every night, and bury his face in Rose’s clothes to keep himself from going insane.

But he doesn’t need to. They both understand - Alice sits with Seth when the boy sniffles and tries to hide it; Emmett hears Alice padding around Jasper’s office, having a conversation with thin air, questions asked to silence. If there was some loophole they could grab with both hands and exploit, he knows he and Alice and Seth would take it, humanity and life and all those upright and moral things be damned.

“Just what everyone needs,” Alice muses, leaning back and stretching like a cat. “A world where humans and animals were cut in half but the vampires weren’t.”

And she’s right. That would be a mess. The fucking end of times.

“That would be a cool movie,” Seth says absently, focused on the screen and forcing Emmett’s car off the road and into a ravine.

Alice watches them play for awhile before getting up. A few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door and low voices. Charlie Swan, with Carlisle’s phone. Emmett lets Seth win a second race, focused on the conversation Alice is having - why it took Charlie so damn long to bring the phone, how they’re holding up; his irritation at the delay it took to get Carlisle’s phone is tempered when he hears the genuine concern Charlie has for Alice. He doesn’t know much about Bella’s father, but he seems like a good guy.

Not that Alice needs to act the part - she looks broken. Most of the time he feels like he’s seeing a part of her that he shouldn’t be seeing, that the loss and grief that becomes her is somehow shameful to witness; it’d be less awkward to see her naked than to see her twisting Jasper’s t-shirt in her hands with that glassy look of hopelessness she tries to hide.

Alice feels the same about him; that Emmett without Rose is devoid of that joie de vivre, that endless good humour, the extra joke. He feels tired in his bones, deflated, and distracted with the space in his chest that Rose used to fill. He feels like an old man, when he was never finished being a young man, never made it to middle-age.

But they are trying. Especially with Seth in the house - he’s taken over the bedroom that Esme planned to give to Bella, mostly because it didn’t stink of vampires as much as any other room; and neither of them wanted to dismantle Esme’s studio or Carlisle’s office. It wasn’t really much - a mattress and boxspring, a dresser and desk. Alice had given him a laptop to use, and found some new bedding for him, and occasionally even remembered that a fourteen year old boy shouldn’t be eating pizza six nights a week, and probably needed more boundaries than they were giving him. But Alice isn’t maternal, and her attempts at forcing vegetables and a bedtime on Seth usually get forgotten within a day or two.

Charlie Swan leaves, and he listens as Alice puts Carlisle’s phone into his vase, and then he focuses on the game so that Seth doesn’t think he’s letting him win because of pity or anything.

—

It’s not until late summer than people start bothering them. Parents of classmates who suddenly don’t have any children of their own to worry over. Colleagues and acquaintances who feel some kind of lingering responsibility. Busy-bodies, usually a part of some self-aggrandising self-appointed community group butting into everyone’s grief.

Alice ignores the early attempts to interfere, to crack open both the metaphorical and literal door for anyone who isn’t Charlie Swan. She’s taken to doing the oddest tasks, but Emmett doesn’t ask. At the moment, she’s painting every single door in the house with a swirling pattern of flowers that is tiny and detailed and fills up the day. Esme would have a conniption if she saw her lovely doors like this (he remembers when Alice and Jasper first arrived, and her art projects ran afoul of Esme - she had apologised and channeled that manic energy into embroidery instead; there’s a pair of unspeakably ugly curtains hanging in the Vermont house from one panicked week when Jasper went off with Peter and Charlotte).

Then the harassment starts - both her and him, since he’s apparently considered her ‘guardian’. Alice hangs up the phone numerous times wordlessly before being so outstandingly rude to Mrs Newton that both he and Seth stare at her before Emmett remembers he’s actually supposed to be in charge - as far as the rest of the town knows, at least - and calls to deter any more visits or phone calls or casseroles because Alice isn’t well and the disruptions are upsetting her.

If Carlisle or Esme were here, they’d think to send Mrs Newton flowers or something as an apology, but they aren’t, and no one can get Alice to apologise when she doesn’t want to, and Seth confided in him that she’s crying when he’s hiding in the garage and Seth is totally at a loss over what to do about a crying girl that isn’t Leah, so maybe they’ll just leave it at that. Give the town something new to gossip about.

But it does spark sudden realisation in both Cullens about a topic that has been long forgotten - school. Alice and Emmett have both graduated, but Seth had not. Seth had another four glorious years in high school, even if the Res school is down to double digits of enrolments, and probably won’t even run every weekday.

Seth whines and begs and negotiates until Alice stamps her foot and demands to know what Sue Clearwater would say and that makes Seth all small and miserable, and Alice hates herself and Emmett solves the problem by making a large donation through one of their anonymous charities to the Res school so that Seth can at least do online learning, and apparently that’s a huge deal that is on the local news, and that makes Alice and Seth laugh because only Emmett would stop a teenage boy’s whining by revolutionising a tribe’s educational provisions with a cheque large enough to sustain a small city for a year.

But it’s good help - it means the children who suddenly have no parents and have to raise siblings can still study; it means that half-empty classrooms don’t necessarily mean half-empty classes; it also means that other tribes with larger losses and no way of schooling are invited to join them.

That’s one good thing they’ve managed.

He also fixed the backdoor as good as new, so it should be two, but he’s pretty sure that doesn’t count now that Alice has painted flowers blooming and dying all over it.

At some point they both bully Seth into going home again, to get his own stuff - clothes and bedding and photos and all those things you look for when you’re in a house that isn’t yours. He yells at them, they yell at him, and he storms off. But now there’s a photo of him with his parents and sister on his dresser, and a bunch of books crowding his desk, and the world’s most beat-up DS under his pillow. There are more photos, somewhere - Emmett knows that because Alice knows where they are and then one day there are two framed photos joining the vases on the mantle - one of Sue and Harry Clearwater on their wedding day, and one of Leah laughing. Neither of them knows what happened to Sue or Leah precisely on that day, but Seth doesn’t bring the ashes with him, so they don’t ask.

Summer folds into fall, and what’s left of Esme’s gardens wither up. Charlie Swan checks on them every few weeks, sounding tired. There’s a lot of work for him right now - mostly community and social issues, like scared and orphaned children hiding, people struggling with money, grief, religion. There’s been some shortages of food, since there’s less being grown, less people to process and package and ship it, and a little town hours outside of Seattle is not a priority to whomever is deciding where to send a milk delivery.

They order Seth’s food from high-end places online that deliver them quickly and quietly; Alice starts choosing long-life and bulk items, and no one needs to ask because it’s obvious things will get worse before they get better. Seth holds a pretty intense grudge against the powdered strawberry milk, though.

But food shortages are the least of their worries, as Alice uses the dining room wall to start taking nonsensical notes, and Emmett’s heard enough stories to know that losing a mate can be… well, he’s not having much fun, but the very last thing he needs is to wrangle Alice if she’s lost her mind. Dead or not, he knows he could never lay a hand on her even if she did go nuts out of love for his family, out of respect for Jasper, and out of this funny bond they’ve somehow formed, being the last ones left.

The notes turn into lists, lists of everyone they’ve ever known, in her swirling handwriting. Even people they know are gone, like Bella, goes on the list.

Then she starts striking out names, like she’s slashing with a knife - Carlisle, Esme, Jasper, Rosalie, Edward, Bella, Charlie, Sue, Leah, Sam, Jacob, Paul… Slash, slash, slash.

Then it starts getting interesting. Peter and Charlotte are gone, but so are half the goddamned Volturi (Alice smirks as she crosses out Caius, Jane, Alec, Dimitri because imagining Aro on his throne with grief-mad Marcus and only the minions is a pretty picture indeed). Carmen and Tanya have survived, but Kate, Irina, and Eleazer are gone. Garrett is alive, but Randall and Mary aren’t. J Jenks didn’t make it either, which makes things… difficult.

Alice scowls darkly as she scratches out Maria’s name, and Emmett wonders if it’s because she didn’t get to do the honours of destroying the Mexican harpy herself. Or because wherever Jasper is now, so is Maria, and Alice is left behind.

Finally, she is done, and the list is nearly balanced in living and dead. Alice’s left eye twitches, and whatever she’s thinking she doesn’t say as she stands up.

“Alaska and then Mexico, then,” she says to him, and he gives her the Look that he gives her and Edward and Jasper every time one of them forgets that not everyone has a gift and some of them have to use their words.

“We need to check on Carmen and Tanya; I think they need us,” Alice explains, still examining the list. “I saw that we need to go. And then we’re going down to Mexico.”

“Maria’s dead,” he gestures at her list, and Seth wanders in stuffing his face with Pringles, and turns white at the sight of Esme’s freshly defaced walls; evidently Motherly Wrath is something universal across all of the species.

“Maria’s dead, and left behind a bunch of fresh newborns,” Alice sounds tired. “There’s no one left for clean up, Em, no one who knows. And it will be bad if we don’t step in soon.”

There might be something cathartic in that for Alice, undoing Maria’s life’s work. Maria’s lands weren’t exactly in the wealthiest or most populated lands these days - Jasper kept a secret map that wasn’t at all a secret - and if going down there and taking off a few heads saves a mother or father or child, then maybe it’s worth the hassle.

“Fine. Alaska and Mexico,” he agrees, and Seth cheers.

“Road-trip!” he declares around a mouthful of chips. Alice rolls her eyes.

“I’ll make you up a passport,” she says, not even bothering to argue with the younger boy that he’ll be joining them. “We’ll take the Jeep, Em - Rose just finished it.”

The words hang in the air for a second, and he nods in agreement. There might be something in that, taking the last gift-gesture-offering Rose ever did for him on their End-of-the-World Road Trip. Alice can rip the heads off newborns, he can drive around in the SUV his wife carefully and lovingly put together just to please him, and maybe he’ll buy Seth a beer in Tijuana.

Closest thing they’ll ever get to therapy, he supposes.

#my fic: jar of hearts #alice cullen #emmett cullen #seth clearwater #twilight fic #i should check the jalice prompts again for ch 3 #but is this crossovery enough for a crossover?#like we're aggressively not talking about the avengers yet #we'll get there #i promise the roadtrip isn't just an excuse to run into captain america buying a milkshake or something #there is plot and purpose #we are above that sort of cloying and anemic meet cute #in this fic at least #others not so much

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tibbinswrites · 4 years

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Prompt #170: part 2

So @shypickleghostsuitcase suggested a second part where Cas tells Dean about his deal with the Empty and I just... I had to.

I don’t think this is exactly the way you imagined it, but this is just kind of what happened instead. I hope you like it ^_^

I’ve now done prompts for: #1, #2, #4 and #16, #9, #10, #20, #33, #77, #78, #170 and #502 and I’ve got one still pending (I’ll get there, I promise!). I’m not accepting any more prompts at this time.

Also, just in case you hadn’t heard already, I’m part of an incredible destiel anthology. Our indegogo page is live here and there are tiers ranging from simply gorgeous PDF copies and all the podfics to beautiful print books and a bunch of other merch like bookmarks and art prints. We’re almost 3/4 funded already! Check it out.

Anyway, on with the fic!

Read the first part here

“Dean?” Cas pushed open the ajar door to Dean’s room, gently rapping his knuckles against the wood frame. He hated the way that Dean jumped up from where he’d been sitting on the bed, the way he looked around with fear in his eyes.

“Is it too loud?” Dean asked, already making his way over to the record player, where soft rock was coiling through the air. “Sorry, I’ll just—”

“No,” Cas said quickly, before Dean touched the volume dial. Self-loathing curled in his gut. Sam had been right, Dean really did think he’d done something wrong, and not knowing what it was had apparently brought his inner child back out, his insecurity and deference to someone who was punishing him was heartbreaking, especially because Cas had never wanted to punish Dean. Unsure of the infraction, Dean had been tiptoeing around him for weeks now, and Cas was only now realising the full extent of it. His silly jokes had been replaced with a fearful silence, his bright smile with the occasional hopeful upturn of his lips when he dared meet Cas’ eyes. He jumped whenever Cas so much as cleared his throat and changed whatever he was doing, just in case that was the thing that had been annoying him. Cas briefly wondered if this was how John Winchester had seen his son, and if so, how had he been able to live with himself for squashing the light of Dean’s soul?

How could he?

He hadn’t meant to, of course. Cas had only enforced the distance to suppress his own happiness, not Dean’s. Honestly, he hadn’t even considered that it would affect Dean’s happiness. It’s not as though Cas had been cruel or critical, just a little distant. He re-instigated the personal space border that Dean had so thoroughly lectured him on in the beginning but that had grown smaller over the years, stopped indulging in his habit of staring, done his best to reduce those small, quiet moments that he took such pleasure in. But seeing Dean now, a mix of anxiety and anticipation on his face, Cas couldn’t believe he’d been so selfish.

“Dean, I wanted to apologise for my behaviour since Jack came back. More specifically my behaviour towards you.”

“What did I do?” Dean asked, seizing the opportunity, and Cas’ heart shattered further.

“Nothing. Dean, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you did.”

Dean blinked, his face twisting in confusion, then falling into something more angry.

“Then what the hell? Why have you been avoiding me?”

Cas took a deep breath, no use hedging around the subject. Better Dean heard it from him rather than Sam.

“Because I made a deal with the Empty and I don’t want it to be fulfilled.”

Immediately, Dean’s hackles were raised and he was ready to fight something. “What kind of a deal?” he demanded. “And how do we fix it?”

A rush of warm fondness bloomed in Cas’ chest at that. Dean wanted to help him, just like that, as though his hurt was forgotten, as though Cas hadn’t been keeping him at arm’s length for weeks. He felt cared for, and that was dangerous. But the anxiety of getting through that conversation balanced it out.

“You can’t fix it,” Cas said, smiling at Dean’s protective stance. “When Jack died the first time, I made a deal so that Jack’s soul will go to Heaven when he dies. He doesn’t deserve to be in the Empty, Dean, he deserves to be with his mother. And the Empty dislikes me for defying it so...”

“So it’s gonna take you instead,” Dean guessed, his brow furrowed in thought. “I don’t get it, Cas. That doesn’t make sense. Angels go to the Empty anyway, right? Why would it take that deal?”

“It wanted to… expedite the process,” Cas said carefully. “I expected it to take me right away but it had… other plans.”

“What other plans?” Dean’s voice was soft and wary, the way it got when he knew someone was about to tell him something that he was not going to like. “How long did it give you, Cas?”

Cas sighed, “It’s not so much a timeline as a state of being,” he said. And yes, he was hedging now, because Dean would understand him making a deal for Jack’s soul, but Cas had no idea how he would react to the next part, and he found himself afraid. “The Empty said it would come for me when I was happy. When I let myself be happy, it said.”

Dean’s face crumpled into horror-struck realisation, but despite the twinge in his chest, he kept talking.

“I’ve been avoiding you because I love you and I think you love me in the same way—Don’t say anything, please—and I am happiest when I’m around you. But I’m not ready yet, Dean. I need to see this through to the end, I need to help you fight Chuck, I need to know that you’ll be okay...”

“Without you.” Dean finished dully. His knees seemed to give out and he fell heavily back onto the bed. “Jesus,” he breathed, bringing his hands together and balling them into a singular fist. Cas saw that he was shaking. “Jesus, Cas.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Dean snapped. Then he took a deep breath and let it shudder out of him, staring down at his hands. He really had been working on his anger lately and despite everything, despite knowing he deserved nothing more than Dean’s anger, Cas was proud of him. “I—I need time to think about this, okay? And we’ll figure something out, we will, but just—right now—I need time.”

“I understand,” Cas said, already backing away towards the open door. Then, because he’d already said it once, but felt like perhaps Dean had skipped over that part in light of everything else, “I love you.”

He left before Dean could respond.

Read the third part here

#Destiel fanfic #supernatural #spn fanfic #prompt #writing #fanfiction #TibbinsWrites #part 2 of 3

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sworn-unbeliever · 4 years

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04 - Clinch

((Another based on a true story entry based on a Nidhogg Ex run. Names omitted to protect the innocent, though I did get their blessings to write this story. Thank you very much! Also thanks to @abeat for some of Nidhogg’s lines! … which we just kind of did impromptu. Anyway, I apologise for the self indulgent entry here. :D~))

wc: 1,319

Nidhogg stood before Teremy, the dragon’s body completely engulfed in the fires of his own rage. Far behind Teremy, scattered in various places far behind him, were the still bodies of his unconscious allies. A single blast from Nidhogg’s Akh Morn was all it took for them to scatter, whether in a panic or their belief that Nidhogg’s attack had finished. By the time Teremy could run up to any of them, they all laid on the ground, barely breathing, leaving the miqo’te as the last one standing. He grit his teeth. To think that he had came to believe he could protect his party but as it turned out, he couldn’t protect them from everything. He clenched a fist and the handle of his gunblade. He had been naive to believe that he could protect them. From everything… anything…

A roar from Nidhogg nearly knocked Teremy off his feet, reminding the miqo’te of the threat that still lived. Teremy skidded on the ground and regained his footing. A powerful flap from Nidhogg’s wings shot forth powerful gusts of air to the sides, yet Teremy had already spun around Nidhogg to slash away at the dragon’s vulnerable front. Puddles dropped by Teremy’s feet, yet these too became nothing more than objects drawn on the pavement in chalk for a nimble child to skip around. Teremy’s body moved naturally. Effortlessly. Gracefully. A reminder that at the very least, Teremy still had the ability to protect himself.

The vile alone from Nidhogg’s roar caused Teremy to feel a wave so heavy, he felt pinned to the ground, unable to come back up. The pure bitter hate of Nidhogg’s ire alone made Teremy feel heavy, pained on the inside.

‘Is this how Nidhogg felt?’ Teremy wondered. ‘All that bitterness, rage and ire--’

He slapped his cheeks.

‘No, I can’t succumb to his feelings. So what if he feels like shit. He’s not the only one in the world who does. I, too, have a reason to fight whether Nidhogg likes it or not. I know exactly where I’m standing in all this. Like a little pain would be enough to get me to fall over.’

He eyed his surroundings. The bridge still held sturdy despite all the battle damage. ‘The echo is on our side. As long as I secure victory, then my allies will recover. As long as I’m still standing, I have a chance to turn things around. I have no time for ifs--if I won. If I managed to fell Nidhogg alone. I only have one option and that’s to fight. And win.’

Sensing danger, Teremy shielded himself with an aether charged bullet. His instincts had proven correct as Nidhogg swiped across Teremy without warning. Instead of knocking the miqo’te back, Nidhogg found his attack parried by the gunbreaker’s blade.

“Let’s make a deal,” said Teremy. “I win, I take one of your scales. You win, I’ll join my allies over there and you’ll have vented your frustrations on me. How about that?”

“As if a mere mortal could offer me anything of interest for something as paltry as a 'deal'!”

Taking a step back, Teremy spun his gunblade like a Paladin would spin their own blade and beckoned to Nidhogg with his other hand. “Then watch carefully. You'll learn something new today.”

“I shall grind you beneath my feet, mortal!”

Nidhogg dropped fiery orbs at the ground. Once the orbs’ energies gathered, straight lines of fire shot forth all aimed at Teremy. Once again, the gunbreaker’s nimble movements evaded the projectiles like a child dancing in the air. Teremy had never felt so honored, yet so attacked at the same time. Yet, as Teremy dashed forth to attack again, even Nidhogg found that the miqo’te’s movements were different than before. More purposeful. More aggressive. Each spin acting as a clear evasive movement and to slash and strike immediately after--a fighting style that shouldn’t work in practice, yet Nidhogg found his energies waning. At the same time, Teremy felt Nidhogg’s desperation. The dragon’s ire and rage, bearing down upon him. Heavy. Suffocating.

‘Can’t expect anyone’s ire to be quelled from getting their ass kicked.’ Teremy thought. ‘But he ain’t the only one who has something to lose. I can salvage this. I can save this…!’

And then, Teremy looked up to see Nidhogg charging his fiery breath. Exactly the same as before… what fell his allies. And now he had to take that damage all to himself. He readied a barrier in front of him. Nebula. He fired off an aether bullet to further shield him. Heart of Stone.

And faith that he would survive.

Pain like none other lashed upon him. Nidhogg’s rage spewed at him and shot forth to the heavens. Again. And again. And again. With each subsequent blast, Teremy felt Nidhogg’s rage bear down on him--a rage that hurt more than any fiery breath. He popped another aether bullet to create a gentle healing aura around him. Yet, Aurora could only slowly regenerate his surface wounds. Not the weight of Nidhogg’s world upon him. At the same time, Teremy looked up to see Nidhogg moving slower as well. All those cuts and burns from a fire-endowed blade had cause Nidhogg to hobble. Limp even. Teremy wasn’t the only one on his last legs; the dragon was as well.

‘One last bout will clinch this deal. It’s kill or be killed. I’m gonna give this one last attack my all!’ Teremy pointed his gunblade above him. He fired off an aether-charged bullet which summoned lightning under his feet. He felt his battle aura rising, churning more powerfully than before. Was it the skill? His own lust for battle? Or his desperation?

Whatever it was, he had no intention of backing down now.

“No mercy,” he said softly.

In the blink of an eye, he dashed at Nidhogg, his shoulder colliding with the dragon’s belly. One palm strike with his left hand shoved Teremy back into an ideal situation to slash--his martial arts habits lived on. Whatever fuel Nidhogg had left, Teremy ignored any kind of pain to continue his assault. A beam of energy slashing down upon the dragon. His blade fully charged with fire, Teremy spun around and slashed in a relentless assault against Nidhogg. Each attack slashing harder, fiercer than the other. Jumping in the air to attack--Gnashing Fang to slash twice across his belly. Jugular Rip to slash his throat. Now on the ground, an upwards slash of Savage Claw, chained to Abdomen Tear to finish the job in a downwards slash. Wicked Talon to follow up with a series of powerful, graceful slashes. And finally, Eye Gouge to stab his gunblade into Nidhogg. The blade pierced through Nidhogg’s belly just as the miqo’te felt the weight of Nidhogg’s world finally pin him down.

He collapsed to the ground, his hand loosening his grip from Nidhogg. He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe. He felt his consciousness grow weary with Nidhogg’s rage eating him alive.

But it wasn’t Teremy that had fallen.

“Slain twice by mortal hands…” Nidhogg uttered. And with that, the dragon raised his head high and screamed his last roar of rage before he vanished completely, leaving behind Estinien crouched, panting, remnants of his possession still lined on his face.

Teremy’s gunblade fell to the ground. With Nidhogg’s rage leaving him, Teremy’s body felt lighter. He rose to his feet and retrieved his gunblade. He had secured victory, but at what cost?

Bathed by the healing light of the echo, the fallen members of the party rose from their unconscious slumber. Slowly they rose to their feet and blinked, realizing what had happened to them from their ground position. They looked around and saw no sign of Nidhogg. Only Estinien… and Teremy, who stood still and quiet, looking at a single scale that once belonged to Nidhogg in his hand.

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2020 #and after all that the birb didn't drop :|

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inspirationdivine · 4 years

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Wine and Pies || Lydia and Simon

Lydia and Simon have a revealing conversation, right up until the pie prizes arrive.

Set Wednesday

Lydia pulled the curtains closed on the dying light of dusk, as purple skies gave way to black night. Today had been long and exhausting in equal measure, and she felt loose limbed as she flopped into the couch. She tucked a leg under her, running her hands through her damp hair from her earlier shower. Soft classical music was playing through her speakers. Over the course of their entanglement, Lydia had gotten less and less particular about her appearance late in the evening. The more they were stuck, the less it had mattered. Curling up in the living room in a fluffy dressing gown with a book or crossword puzzle with Simon nearby doing his own this had almost become normal. “Do you want a drink or anything? Simon?” It was ideal, really; the couch was soft on Simon’s unusually-sore body, the music was quiet enough that he could hear every note without it irritating his ears and, most importantly, Lydia seemed comfortable as she joined him on the couch. He glanced over at her as she addressed him, his attention going from absent in his puzzle-solving to dedicated, ready to do whatever it was she asked of him but this time, she was asking if he wanted something. “Uh…” He paused, wondering if she was asking out of his necessity or if this was something else. “No, ma’am, I’m okay,” He replied respectfully first, feeling his eyebrows twinge subtly. “Unless you had something in mind.” He added; he had gotten used to her asking if he needed or wanted little things here and there and he had grown comfortable enough with asking her in turn if there was something he felt he needed. Tonight wasn’t exactly atypical but it HAD been a long day… “...Wine?” He asked timidly, tilting his head ever-so-slightly. Was that what she wanted him to say?

Lydia’s couldn’t help the indulgent smile that followed his request, along with the most disbelieving eye roll. “That wasn’t a test. None of this is a test, you know. It was just a question.” She stood up, still smiling, and walked just far enough to reach the wine cooler. Navigating around their bond had become easier over the last little while, such that she’d barely felt it tug at her today because she was so used to staying in Simon’s orbit. Lydia brought back the wine with two wine glasses, a deep fruity red for them both to enjoy. “We’ve seen each other in more than enough revealing situations in the last week, you should know by now that my bark is much worse than my bite.” Though they both knew the limit of their bond seemingly down to the inch by now, Simon still leaned slightly to give her more slack as she went around and retrieved a bottle of dark red wine and two glasses, blue eyes following her figure. “You have a point,” He agreed before hastily adding “er, about the having spent time around each other.” Far be it for him to tell someone or agree with someone on saying their bark was worse than their bite. Part of him wanted to apologise already; he didn’t usually drink so the thought of relaxing on a couch listening to classical and sipping wine never occurred to him. She was tasteful though, the way she positioned herself on the couch, the way her gown draped over her fair shoulders and even her fingers running through her hair and holding a glass of wine - she was picturesque. He refrained from apologising, instead taking one of the glasses carefully. “Thank you.” He said instead. “Today was… strangely long. I’m not even sure why.”

Lydia just laughed at his usual tact. No matter how much her mood doured when they had to interact with the outside world, whenever she was pulled out of her element and into his, in the evenings, when there were no more pretences about trying to work or anything like that, and it was just the two of them, it was easier to have fun with it, and with him. “Today did feel long. I think it’s that the sun keeps setting later, and we’re both trying to do so much.” It was also draining, spending so much time with the same person day in, day out. That didn’t really need saying anymore. “Once we solve this, what are you going to do, for fun?” Simon glanced at her with a small smile (he enjoyed the sound of her genuine laughter), then looked down at the wine he swirled in his glass rhythmically. “Oh, I’m… probably just gonna go back to doing what I did before,” He shrugged his good shoulder. “I don’t really… do that much.” There was an objectivity to his voice, not self-pitying or pathetic but mildly factual. “I go to work, then wander around town people-watching or I just go home, feed my birds and sleep.” He scoffed; it sounded very boring when he mentioned it like that. “What about you?” He asked, looking at her. “I’m sure you have a plethora of hobbies and ways to occupy your schedule.”

“No secret bowling games? Illegal urban exploration? Although in a town like this the latter is probably not advisable.” Lydia coaxed him, leaning in a little more curiously. “It doesn’t surprise me that you’re the quiet type. And I’m sure that here in Wicked’s Rest there’s more to see than your regular city people watching.” Lydia fingered her wine glass, swirling her glass in thought as she considered his question. The most honest answer wasn’t one she was sure she could give him. Simon was sweet, and good natured, and soft. Lydia had no doubt that if she told him her main plan was to continue hunting, it would frighten him away. The thought made her distinctly uncomfortable. “Return to the art circuit. There’s this art gallery with exclusive parties that I want to get into. Eat. I play poker with a small group of people on Thursday nights. That, and, well, there are a few people I want to check on. I imagine I’ll make that a priority.” “Sorry, nothing as exciting as secret bowling games,” Simon chuckled. “I’ve seen some weird stuff while people-watching, though.” Part of him wanted to add that most of his spare time consisted of helping other people out with various and sundry activities or problems but kept the comment to himself. Nothing but the last thing she said surprised him and he quirked an eyebrow slightly. She checked on people? He had gotten to know a fair amount about his host during their forcible stay together and he was able to tell that she had a well-hidden quality of empathy and kindness about her, so the more he thought about it, the less surprised he should’ve been but it still caught him off-guard compared to the ‘eat and go to an exclusive art gallery party’-- wait, eat? Eat what? He remembered her saying that she didn’t eat human food but he didn’t press the matter at the time. “That’s sweet of you,” He referred to the last bit first. “What would you eat?” He decided to ask at the risk of upsetting her; she was private and he didn’t like to ask pressing questions but he supposed his curiosity got the better of him; what would someone like her eat if she didn’t eat human food?

“What kind of things have you seen?” Lydia asked curiously. She smiled at his comment, shaking her head. There was a moral duty to help people in one’s community, and White Crest had far too many wayward souls. Her attention quickly turned to her glass at his question. Too honest, perhaps. It wasn’t like she hadn’t eaten, in a perfunctory kind of way. Locking herself behind doors and cradling Chloe and Sammy for thirty minutes at a time. Chloe would curse her out softly for leaving them alone for so long, Sammy would pick at his cuticles and say nothing, resting his head against her chest. It wasn’t much, just enough to soothe the longing in their chests, and hers in turn. Enough to keep their loyalty strong. If you don’t think you’re doing the wrong thing, then why are you hiding us? Chloe had asked. Lydia had slammed the door in their faces seconds later, the question left unanswered. “My diet is that of life itself,” she replied quietly, not out of shame but out of fear. “I can take it in increments, from any living individual's body.” Though he knew she had asked him a question first, Simon found himself acutely interested in her answer to his own question, which he was sure was an inappropriate response to someone saying that they drained the life force from people; normally, he thought, that would prompt someone to avoid everything to do with that person but for some reason, he didn’t. He also didn’t think that she had fed off of him, or at least not that he was able to tell. Then again, he wasn’t sure what that experience felt like. He wanted to ask, but… Was that what she did behind the doors? He wondered why she didn’t just drain his life force and call it a day - maybe it was too tedious? The question burned inside him, as did a few others. Simon knew she didn’t like humans… were they the ones she fed off of? Was he supposed to think she was a monster because of this? So far, he’d only met one person in White Crest who chose to be the supernatural species they were, so he was under the impression that she didn’t choose to be this way. Could he fault her for what she was? Of course he couldn’t, nor would he. He also wondered if that was one of the reasons why she was so private. He found himself tilting his head slightly again, keeping his blue eyes on her with a gentle expression. He opened his mouth to respond but honestly didn’t know what to say without making it seem like he was either undermining her honesty with a light response, ignoring what she said by answering her first question or being far too dire, which didn’t properly reflect how he was feeling with this information. “I appreciate you telling me,” is what he eventually opted to go with, his tone lacking any form of negativity or malice. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to be nosy.” He looked away from her and down at his own glass this time. “I was just curious.”

“That’s quickly becoming one of my least favourite words,” Lydia teased him lightly, ducking her head so that he could see she was smiling even as he looked down at his glass. “You wouldn’t have asked if you’d thought it was an intrusion, and I wouldn’t have answered had I thought it was a step too far. You needn’t apologise for expressing curiosity. If anything, it seems to have served you well so far, considering how little you knew two months ago.” Nothing. He had barely known at all. Simon was in so many ways a pup. Sometimes he didn’t look like he knew what to do himself. “You don’t have to make yourself so small, you know.” “S--” Simon cut himself off and instead, catching Lydia’s smile, returned it with a small, unsure smile of his own; he was glad that his question didn’t seem to ruin her mood. What she said did bring up a good point he had been neglecting whether intentionally or not; he really didn’t know anything about what he knew now before he moved into town. Some of it - a lot of it - was much easier to digest for him but he was thankful for so many opportunities TO learn through his annoying questions and curious inquiries. He was thankful again for her patience and he started to look up from his glass again but couldn’t quite make it to her face and he settled for keeping his eyes absently on the floor. He had a handful of things he could’ve responded to her with but filed them away as ‘unimportant’. “I just…” He searched for something to say that wouldn’t make it seem like he was talking about himself. “Other people are more interesting.” He said, not dishonestly, using the little boost in confidence at what he said to look at Lydia once more. “Like you. I think you’re fascinating to observe and listen to, how you solve problems, how you spend your time, even what you eat.” His face grew more expressive as he talked. “Your expressions, what makes you happy, what upsets you; you’re an impressive force of nature who’s bold and knows what she wants… at least most of the time.”

Lydia held his gaze as he spoke. She didn’t immediately sit straighter, or preen, or tease him. Her ego was already engorged, but his words sank right into a small ache into her chest. “Thank you. I’m glad you think so,” Lydia murmured. “It would be a terrible fate to be stuck to someone you couldn’t tolerate to think about. I must say, though, that I disagree with you. There are not many more individuals in this town that are more interesting than you.” Albeit, most of them were human, but that didn’t change much. “You shouldn’t talk of yourself like that.” His brow faltered; had he said the wrong thing? Simon realised after he was done that he probably put her on the spot with his… ramble. He had to stop doing the whole ‘flowery talking’ thing he tended to do. He did scoff at what she said though, not out of disrespect for her or what she said but rather at himself for giving her that impression. “There are,” He replied with a false smile on his face this time, looking back down at his wine. “Like all the people I’ve seen. There was this one who ran around barking like a dog in school until she was 17,” He remarked. “I’ve met people here who can do extraordinary things; there’s this kid who invented a machine combined with magic that he could remotely activate to deliver a fatal electric shock. I met a witch who turned mayonnaise into super glue. Nora’s an extremely talented painter and an expert of fear. I’ve met other werewolves who have full control over themselves and describe it as this amazing thing, like they actually like BEING w--” He cut himself off sharply after he said that last part and cleared his throat. “So while I appreciate the compliment, I’m… just a guy.” He said quietly.

That made her heart ache too - that smile that didn’t reach his eyes, as he looked away. His crowfeet barely shifted. Lydia might never truly understand the difficulty of being changed, of having your identity ripped into something new, but it didn’t change how much it horrified her when people admitted how little they liked themselves. “You don’t think that your pianist abilities, your kindness and the way you make people comfortable around you aren’t also incredible things?” She asked softly, shifting her weight to sit a little closer. Lydia bit her lip. “Do you not like being a werewolf because you don’t feel in control?” She asked quietly. That seemed to be the crux of it, for him, for Jeff, for Remmy. Simon didn’t move when she got closer but he wasn’t looking at his glass anymore; his gaze was unfocused, half-lidded and somewhat narrowed and an exhale escaped his thin lips. “No, not really.” It was his turn to murmur, feeling himself tense up slightly and he tried to work up another half-smile but he never got there, the corner of his mouth twitching instead. He considered not responding to her question about being a werewolf at all; he felt inherently wrong in how he felt about that situation, like he was incorrect in his judgements or feelings regarding the whole ordeal. He hadn’t been honest with but one person since he suffered the Bite eight months ago; at this point, it was easier for him to just shrug it off like it didn’t matter which… despite what anyone said to the contrary, it didn’t. “And, uh… I suppose. Sor-- Er, I didn’t mean to bring that up; I don’t know where it came from.” He did release a nervous chuckle this time. “It’s nothing, really. I just figure people don’t mind me being around for… some reason.” Because I’m ineffectual and blend in well to the background.

Lydia leant back, shifting to curl her other leg under her too, in a rather feline manner. She knew better than to keep pushing. “I hope you find someone to mentor you,” was all she said, her gaze compassionate. She’d been about to add something else, but… Lydia could smell butter. Butter and flour, baking? Maybe? “Do you have something in the oven?” She asked, just before the air in front of her exploded into a confetti of flakey pieces of pie crust. A piece of paper and a tin dropped out of the explosion into her lap, and Lydia jolted, eyes flaring. Picking up the piece of paper, Lydia frowned. “Simon? Why does this say that I’ve come third in the weird pie contest?” Simon did catch her look when she replied and he found himself regulating his breathing when she responded with her hidden gentleness, unaware up until that point that he must’ve been getting nervous as his mind kept starting and erasing and restarting sentences until he found the right combination of words. He himself wanted to say something too when he also caught the smell of something. Food, like a cake that was almost ready to come out of the-- He heard her ask about if he had something in the oven and he resisted the urge to give her a somewhat dry look as if to say ‘like you wouldn’t know if I had something in the oven’ but he didn’t have to refrain for long when the air exploded and Lydia recoiled as something landed in her lap. He tilted his head with curiosity, then almost physically bounced with a childish excitement. “Oh! Remember those pies I wanted to make? When we submitted them, I wrote your name on the slip.” He explained as he looked at the tin briefly but ultimately looking back at Lydia.

“You can’t be serious,” Lydia said, looking at him. But he was. She huffed, rolling her eyes in frustration. “Why would you do that?” She stood up, throwing the pie crust flakes off her dressing gown and onto the floor. “I realise I helped, but Simon, this was your idea, your work. Why wouldn’t you take credit for that?” The tin can rolled off her lap and clattered to the floor, after huffing for a moment she bent down to pick it up. “A tin for storing negative thoughts in? What kind of prize is this?” His gaze followed her as she stood, pie flakes fluttering about her like glitter and Simon didn’t immediately answer her, instead giving her a look that was a mixture of timid hopefulness and somewhat like a dog that got caught breaking a benign rule. “Yeah but it was your oven, house and know-how that kept the kitchen from combusting.” He replied, head shaking slightly with instinct as the tin clanged on the floor before she picked it back up. He eyed the tin with raised eyebrows. “A lot of people have receptacles they hold negative thoughts in but usually those are in the forms of diaries or other written documents.” He couldn’t deny that he was curious though. Perhaps you wrote down the negative thoughts on pieces of paper and put them in the tin? It wasn’t a very… original idea but he supposed it could’ve been worse, especially considering he hadn’t anticipated on even being available to be judged alongside the people that made actual pies for actual people.

“Simon, did you consider that perhaps I didn’t want my name involved in major town affairs?” Lydia retorted, her eyes hard to his mischievous look. As soon as she said it, the tin grew heavier in her hand, and the thought vanished from her mind entirely. “I- What did I just say?” Simon’s head cocked further to the side, almost like he was hearing something distant and shrill and he was trying to listen better. “Uh… you got mad at me for putting your name on the submission form,” He recalled in a manner of speaking. Honestly, the thought hadn’t occurred to him that she probably didn’t want to be recognised in a pie-making competition though to his credit, he absolutely didn’t enter that contest with the intention of winning; he just wanted to do something nice for everyone’s dogs. “Sorry…” He apologised out loud this time, his expression falling as his brow furrowed. “I didn’t know that it would actually be judged or that it would… win anything.”

“Uh, oh,” Lydia said. Why didn’t she remember that? All the same, Simon deflated, and Lydia felt bad that whatever she didn’t remember had done that. “Just… don’t do it again. I work hard to… maintain myself in a certain way in the public view. For important reasons. It frightens me to lose control of that.” Her hand dropped and she lost her grip of the can as it suddenly became much heavier again, and it smacked against the floor hard enough to leave a dent. The previous sentence once again lost from her mind. “That’s deeply disturbing. Either way, I do believe it’s yours now. These prizes belong to you. Your work, your innate creativity. I won’t claim credit for that. In fact,” Lydia picked up the certificate again, the corners of her lips turned up. “Let’s restore this to what it should be, hm?” Simon flinched from the sound again and his brow furrowed when she dropped the tin - he knew that she tended to be careful and precise with her movements so it was unusual for him to see her drop something as though she wasn’t holding onto the thing carefully. “I’m sorry… I’ll keep that in mind in the future, I pr-- Uh, yeah.” He scooted over on the couch closer to where she was sitting and leaned forward to pick the tin up curiously, glancing up at Lydia who was holding the certificate. The tin didn’t… SEEM that heavy but he shook it in his hands as if to see if it had anything in it. Empty. Very curious. “. ..Sorry, restore what?” He asked rather dumbly, bringing his full attention back to her.

“The certificate,” Lydia replied patiently, her momentary anger returning back to a quiet simmer, with a real, if pointed smile. She looked at the tin in his hand suspiciously, more questionable than anything else about this whole situation. What kind of third place prize was it, anyway? “No public attention, no one needs to know but you and me, but at the very least the certificate should have the right name on it. Luckily, I happen to be an expert in covering up damage on things. You’re not going to dissuade me, so come on.” Simon set the tin on the couch beside him as he kept his eyes on Lydia. His expression flitted from timidly curious to mournful that they were in this position to gentle in his smile, all passing in a matter of seconds in his eyes and brow. He stood up slowly, still holding the glass of wine and though part of him wanted to dispose of the certificate altogether - he knew he was going to have trouble seeing it without thinking about that time he didn’t read the room properly and unintentionally threw Lydia into the public eye - she had said that he wasn’t going to dissuade her, and she was correct. He wouldn’t. “I can-- I can go tell them that it was my idea…” He offered. “If that would help wipe the tarnish from your reputation.” His stomach was in knots; the more he thought about it, the more foolish he felt. He just wanted to-- and the way she smiled when-- and the looks she gave him when he screwed up-- How he failed on purpose to get her to join him in something. He thought he might’ve been frustrated; he knew he should’ve mentioned that he didn’t want to be judged as an actual contestant. And for what, a piece of paper and an empty tin? He exhaled, unclenching his jaw and he felt his grip on the glass loosening - he was thankful for the new moon, otherwise he might’ve accidentally shattered it. “You are an expert, indeed,” He replied softly, glancing down at her demure, regal frame and giving her a small smile.

“Tarnish my reputation? I think that might be putting it a tad strongly. You made pies for dogs. You weren’t like,” Lydia cringed. “that Adam fellow.” She led him into her studio, where he had already been several times before. They’d brought him in a comfortable chair, so that he could sit and read while she worked in silence for hours at a time. She grabbed an easel from by the wall and her paint pallet from the desk. It only took a drop of solvent to reactivate the restoration grade paints on there. In the lights she could see the cream shade of the certificate, the quality of the dense paper it was printed on. She saw sunflower yellow and ice pink and white, colours she could pick and mix by heart. Forty years of this, and it was easy to match the paint to the paper, carefully painting over the delicate loops of her name. “Much like you don’t like to turn the spotlight on yourself, I don’t like to lose control,” Lydia said quietly. It was easy to talk like this, focused only on the paint in front of her. With one last look for now at the tin and setting his glass on a passing table - he wasn’t going to drink it, he didn’t think - Simon followed Lydia to the studio, familiar by now in the path they took and still matching her pace as resolutely as ever. He supposed it could’ve been worse; his submission COULD’VE had a creepy melted face on it but that was… a bit much. ‘Tarnish’, while indeed a strong word, still felt like it could’ve applied but he hoped she knew that that wasn’t his intention. Either way, they were in the studio by the time he reached the end of that line of thought and he followed her around until she seemed to be set up and part of him, though he was still sore from the day, wanted to stand close enough to her to observe her work but one of the last things he wanted to do was crowd her so he settled in the chair, leaning forward on his knees and keeping his eyes on her as she worked. “Sometimes I have a hard time picturing an instance where you wouldn’t be in control,” He said mildly, rubbing his hands together absently. “Or at least be able to recover quickly.” He added as if to note their specific scenario with it.

“Yet you have seen me less in control than I think I have been the entire time I have lived here,” Lydia replied, setting down her paint brush. If one looked closely, of course, the paint was obvious. The lettering of the rest of the document was ink, not paint. But if one looked at a simple glance, they would see what they should. Credit where credit was due. Lydia had no capacity for creativity, her inspiration was made to give, not keep. But she hadn’t given any here. Whatever… dubious artistic talent the judges had seen in the pie, they hadn’t come from her. Lydia had operated the oven and the easy unstick spray. Lydia had been a tool in his art, nothing more. “Fixed.” Her tone was still cool, still unimpressed. Her hand curled into a tiny little fist, and then flexed again. “I appreciate that you’re trying to remedy this. Likely, time will be the better treatment here. Trying to change anything more would lead to more unwanted attention.” “You’re probably right,” Simon sighed, his brow furrowing and he swallowed whatever urge he wanted to say along the lines of ‘it was nice seeing that you were at least pretending to have fun towards the end of that night’; he was finding himself doubting if that’s what was happening or if that’s just what he wanted to see. He wasn’t sure what he wanted-- well, yes he did… right? He knew one thing for certain and that was to be more careful with how he… went about doing things. Part of him wondered if he put Lydia’s name on the submission to let her get the credit or more to make sure he didn’t get attention. He hadn’t thought about it being a selfish move on his part until just then and that just twisted more knots in his stomach. “Thanks for… fixing it,” He said quietly but genuinely and though he wanted to apologise yet again, he didn’t and decided to leave it at that, his hands knotting around each other nervously.

“It’s rightfully yours,” Lydia replied with finality, standing up. She rubbed her face, and thought about the sad bottle of wine left half finished in the living room, and the strange weighted tin prize. There were pie crust flakes scattered everywhere, that would get rubbed into the couch and flooring if they weren’t careful. The conversation had been so pleasant, before, soft and delicate, and heartwarming. Lydia’s shoulders slumped as she looked back up at Simon, exhausted and now disgruntled. She pushed a smile onto her features, and said, “Let’s go to bed.” Simon caught the shift in body language, getting the feeling that he had ruined the night with his… stupid pie stuff. Always something, always something for him to screw up. Her smile looked artificial, like she didn’t want to. Maybe he was just imagining it. He paused for a moment before getting to his feet slowly. “Yes, ma’am,” He replied softly.

@inconvenientsimonstrocity

#wickedswriting #para #chatzy #simon

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capnjay21 · 4 years

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A House is Never Still 2/6

Five years ago, Emma Swan disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Killian Jones’ disappearance, well, not so mysterious – given the denizens of Storybrooke all but blamed him for her murder. Drawn back to town by a series of strange events, he soon realises the story of what really happened the night she vanished is beginning to unravel, and what’s more: it isn’t over.

A/N: And here is chapter two! Again, I have to heap innumerable amounts of praise and gratitude on @hollyethecurious without whose AMAZING aesthetic I would not have even come up with the bones for this fic. You can check out her post of the art here! I'd also like to thank everybody who's hopped on board so far, I'm so glad to have you! And finally, huge thanks to the @csrolereversal event chaps, I love all of you and your support. Happy @cshalloweek!

This chapter is a day early as unfortunately I won't be able to post over the weekend as I've had some bad news in my family life, and muchos love to @carpedzem for being a true pal about that <3 as a result, the next chapter will be in two weeks, not one. I hope that's okay!

And that's enough of me rambling - enjoy!

Rating: T Warnings: mentions of suicide, canonical character death, and some Spooky Business™.

AO3 | one

-/-

2 - whispering in distant chambers

October 14th – 5 Years Ago

What were you supposed to take with you for trips to creepy old houses in the middle of the woods?

Rather unceremoniously, Emma dumped her textbooks onto the end of her bed and grabbed a rucksack from the corner. Better to be prepared. Unfortunately, most of what she knew about preparing for these sorts of expeditions had been ripped entirely from cinema, and as such the first object she could bring to mind was rope. Immediately she dismissed the idea. What the hell would she actually need rope for? After a beat of hesitation, Emma opened her bottom drawer and rummaged around for what she had hidden inside – a small fishing knife, one she had lifted from an unsuspecting dockworker when she was thirteen, for the delighted danger of it, and the way it had made her younger self feel powerful. It had moved with her to the Nolan house, although she had stuffed it out of sight to avoid Ruth or David seeing it.

Still, she didn’t know what they could expect in the woods that day. She was desperate to be helpful, especially given the gentle way that Killian had asked him to accompany her, as doubtful as she was about the legitimacy of the trip.

Brooke House did not exist. That was well documented.

She had asked Archie about it once, when she could contain her curiosity no longer. Apparently when the Jones brothers had moved to Storybrooke, Killian eleven and Liam eighteen, the elder had supported them and joined the community as a promising labourer. He made his living as a home restorer, but quickly gained a reputation for his work completing odd carpentry jobs around town. And through it all, he had often discussed the work he was completing on a small house in the north woods. Brooke House, he had called it.

After he had died, the sheriff’s department had gone looking for the property Liam Jones had spent much of his time in for any clues as to why he might have wished to end his own life.

They hadn’t found a thing.

When word got out, the entire town had gone wild. Apparently the Storybrooke Mirror had sensationalised it, painted all the talk of Brooke House as the ramblings of a disturbed man, and all had wanted to take a crack at finding it – the phantom of the forest. Not least of all Killian. Killian, who had searched for that house a thousand times, desperate to believe it wasn’t so. Emma’s heart had broken when Archie had recounted the tale, and advised her gently to keep it to herself.

It hadn’t stopped her knocking on the door to his room at the group home; she had found him staring miserably at his unpacked suitcase, knees tucked up to his chest.

Another banner year, right?

What?

We’ve all got ghosts here.

“Emma?”

A gentle knock at her door revealed David hovering on the threshold. He was just beginning to come into his broad shoulders now, shirking the lanky boy she had known as just another classmate for so long.

“Hey. Do we have rope?”

“I thought you were studying.” David took one look at the rucksack she was holding, the boots she had pulled on with the laces still undone, and the torch she was stuffing into the pack. “When you’re obviously… going caving?”

Emma laughed, shaking her head. “Close. Killian and I are going hiking.”

That had seemed like a more reasonable explanation to her, but apparently David disagreed.

“Hiking? You?”

She rolled her eyes, but had to suppress a snort. “I think we should all go hiking more. The complete surprise we’re met with when any of us suggest we’re planning to is not flattering.”

“You know it says be wary of bears, not bear claws.”

He looked altogether far too pleased with himself, so she ignored him and continued to peruse the bedroom for items she might like to take. It was mostly devoid of belongings, over the years she had learnt it was preferable to be able to pack light, but she had accumulated a few things over her time with Ruth and David which might be of value.

“How come?” David asked.

“Killian,” Emma offered, by way of answer, “he thinks he’s… oh, I don’t know.” At the last moment she decided not to elaborate. No doubt David would have his own thoughts about the rationalisation of the expedition. “Rope?”

David arched an eyebrow. “Do I look like a mountaineer?”

Emma took one look at him, the plaid shirt and the sturdy boots he wore, perfect for the volunteering he often did for the farms outside of town.

“A little,” she smirked.

David chose to ignore the jibe, and instead wandered over to where she was packing. “Why would you need rope?” Emma realised at the same moment he did that the backpack was hanging quite far open, far enough for him to take a peek at the contents, and although she rushed to close it he was quicker than her. David snatched the bag and stuck an arm inside it, before lifting out the knife with an indignant look on his face. “What’s really going on, Emma?”

She bit her lip, weighing her options – but the irked stare he was giving her, combined with the fierce protective streak she knew he nurtured and his often uncanny ability to sense her in a lie, she decided to tell him the truth.

“Killian thinks he’s found Brooke House,” she admitted, “I’m just going for moral support.”

While he blustered for a response, Emma made a grab for the bag and the knife, decidedly shoving one back into the other.

“And you think you’ll need – that?”

“You did say there were bears,” she muttered.

David was not impressed by the jest. “I love Killian, you know I do, but this… it’s crazy, you know that, right?”

“Of course I know that!” The fact he would even suggest that she wasn’t the one with all of her faculties in this situation was frustrating enough, but they both knew once Killian had set his mind on something he couldn’t be diverted. “It’s all the more reason he shouldn’t be doing this alone.”

Better they went together, that somebody was with him while he explored all the tenets this road might take him down, so someone could pick up the pieces if he couldn’t stop from shattering. That was what they had always done for each other, what they would always do. And she refused to apologise for it.

“His brother died, David.” She knew she didn’t need to remind him, but felt she should. “And it was awful. So if there’s a chance any of this is going to get him a little closer to being okay with it then I have to try.”

For a long moment David was silent, arms folded and a frown creasing his brow, and eventually Emma stopped waiting for him to reply. She didn’t need his approval, she’d gotten this far in her life without worrying what another person thought and she wasn’t about to start now – she also thought she remembered seeing some rope out in Ruth’s garage with all of her gardening equipment. She reached for her coat; Killian would be waiting.

“Fine,” David said resolutely, “then I’m coming too.”

Emma scowled. “No, you’re not.”

“This isn’t negotiable,” he insisted, and hastened to continue before she could retort, “and I know you can take care of yourself, it’s not for you – it’s for me, and Mom. Because, tough, you have people that worry about you now, and it’s important to me that you’re safe.”

I just thought you’d want somewhere quiet to study, he had said, the afternoon he and Ruth had arrived at the group home and asked if she wanted to spend the weekend in their house. It had followed a rather terse encounter between the pair of them at the library, in which she’d asked the nice but lanky boy from school in no uncertain terms to fuck off, and let her get on with her damn calculus.

Would you like that, Ruth had asked, kindly; somewhere quiet to study?

That was a year ago now. She still felt something warm and soft in her gut when she thought of the bed as hers, of the desk as hers, of the little room at the top of the Nolan house hers. She’d given up on such notions a long, long time ago – and yet it had crept up on her when she was least expecting it, in the form of Ruth and David Nolan asking her politely what colour wallpaper she would prefer for the bedroom. Her bedroom.

It meant all she could do was smile when she thought of David wanting to protect her. She didn’t need protecting, but she liked that he wanted to try.

“Does that big strong attitude work on Mary Margaret?”

David immediately flushed beet red, and Emma felt she’d disguised her own pleasure well enough with the tease.

He recovered quickly. “I’m not sure – why, does yours work on Killian?”

Immediately, she fixed him with an unimpressed look, before shrugging on her coat and lifting what she’d already gathered.

“Why are you doing this?” David asked, as he followed her across the landing. “Indulging this – fantasy?”

We’ve all got ghosts here.

Yeah? Guess that makes me just as haunted as you, then.

He’d been there for her long before she ever thought she’d find a place like the Nolan house.

He deserved her time, and her kindness; and more than anything else, she was happy to give it.

-/-

Present Day

The path leading up to the manor had become completely overgrown, the hedges on either side wild and unruly, reaching for each passerby with clinging, thorny limbs. The usual lush greenery of the entrance had become discoloured and frail, and the pure white exterior of the house had been stained by years of age and negligence. Ivy crawled up the pillars by the front door, creeping out across the brickwork like a slowly spreading sickness, and as Killian mounted the steps at the entrance he almost tripped, a tile underneath his right foot ripping clean away the moment he placed some weight on it.

He was beginning to think Regina didn’t even live there anymore – the Regina he knew would never have let the house that brought so much pride to her family fall into such disrepair, but the waitress at Granny’s had been clear enough. Regina Mills had remained at that address for the last five years, even after the passing of her father.

Killian would have liked to have been a better support for her at the time, or at least offered some condolences; nineteen was far too young to lose a parent. Unfortunately, the fact of the matter was he didn’t find out until several months after the fact, and felt then to drag her back to the moment of its happening just so he could pay his respects would be selfish, and unkind. It had been done enough times to him up to almost two years after Liam’s passing, and he would have hated to wish that kind of prolonged sadness upon Regina. Especially since she had always been prone to such periods of dysphoria on her own.

He raised a hand to the brass knocker and rapped it loudly three times.

At first, he was met with only stillness. Nothing stirred inside the house, at least not that he could hear, and not that he could make out through the frosted glass panes on either side of the door. He decided to knock again.

Just when he was about to lift the brass a third time, the door was suddenly wrenched open with force and he darted backwards instinctively – only to be met with the fierce glare of an intensely irate Regina Mills. She looked much as he remembered, tucked into a dark purple blouse and a black skirt, dark hair framing her face with her characteristic perfect precision. Older, but just as vibrant as she had been the last time, and just as poised.

As soon as it appeared the fury melted away, to be replaced with what Killian could only describe as mild interest, flavoured with a dash of displeasure.

“Oh,” she said, with a decided amount of disappointment. “It’s you.”

Killian’s eyebrows climbed up to his hairline.

“Expecting the Queen, were we?”

“Somebody with a greater propensity for courtesy, certainly,” she scoffed, drumming her sharp fingernails on the doorframe. “Most visitors call ahead these days.”

At this Killian merely spread his hands, and Regina stared at him for a few long moments. He had the distinct impression that he was being sized up, as her gaze drifted from his boots up to his hair, then flickered out into the street behind him, almost – almost warily. Her attention was back on him before he could question her on it.

“You better come inside.”

Regina disappeared through the doorway and left it open for him to follow, so after a split-second to gather his wits Killian followed her inside.

The inside of the manor, if possible, looked to be in even greater disarray than the outside.

The wallpaper inside the foyer was beginning to peel from the corners, curling sadly away and baring damp plaster out into the air. Dust and mothballs were starting to amass in the corners of the room, and the flowers that had once stood in symmetry atop the end tables on either side of the entryway to the next room had long since dropped and wilted. Killian could see through to the dining table, stacked with cartons of takeout, juice boxes, and from what he could tell, a baking tray of – apple turnovers?

The clicking of Regina’s heels led him to the left so he didn’t linger to find out, instead stepping through into what once had been the sitting room. The sofas remained, but the old television had been taken out and a large, wooden desk had been brought to the centre of the room; Killian’s jaw almost dropped at what lay atop it.

Vials and vials of strange coloured liquids, stacks of spices, herbs and greenery herded into neat little piles, and mountains of equipment covered every inch. He could make out measuring cylinders, Erlenmeyer flasks (some bubbling, some still), and a boiling flask sat poised above the flame from a blood red candle near the edge of the desk. The steam from whatever fizzled inside that flask was being captured by yet another vessel, spilling into a long, metal tube which emptied into an inky black flagon. An ancient, yellowed tome lay open at the centre, its pages marked with age and stains of various shades, and Killian could spot a crude diagram which matched the skeleton of equipment gathering materials for the vessel at the end.

Regina had gone immediately to the receptacle boiling above the candle, leaning in closer to inspect its contents with a critical eye. The liquid hissed loudly, spitting a few droplets out of the top and Regina scowled, immediately blowing out the candle.

“You made me lose my concentration.”

“I take it,” Killian mused, as he flicked a fingernail against a sour, yellow coloured bottle, which had what he could only compare to three bulging eyeballs floating in its contents staring back at him, “that you started believing in magic?”

“You and I are cut from the same cloth, Killian Jones. That much was always clear.” She dropped a perfectly manicured nail down onto the open page of the book, skimming its contents with a sigh. “We aren’t like David and Mary Margaret. Blithering, diffident clowns. I know what I saw that night, I don’t have to think twice.”

Killian – Killian, don’t –!

“Sometimes I wish I could forget.”

“I don’t.” She shot him a sharp look. “Our memories are our gift. Someone has to carry the truth.”

The truth, Killian decided, did not need carrying. It had enough power on its own.

“It’s put you on quite the path,” he observed, gesturing to her equipment. “I didn’t realise you’d become a practitioner.”

“I… dabble,” Regina demurred, but Killian could see she did more than that. She was far from the supernatural sceptic she had been while they were at school. Once she noticed his gaze lingering on the open book with the worn, heavy pages, her expression lit up – something akin to smugness overtook her then, pride in a discovery. There was a twinkle in her eye he had scarce seen outside of her pleasure at an exceedingly good takedown of a bully that had deserved it.

“After my father passed away, I found some unexpected treasures in the family mausoleum,” she supplied, running her finger down the edge of one page, but angling her body so he might lean in closer and take a look. Regina had always liked to show off her toys. “From what I could surmise, my own mother didn’t even realise it was there. It’s a book of spells, of sorts, of wicca practices. It –”

“It’s a book of shadows,” Killian realised, as he caught a look at a marking scratched into the corner of the page.

Regina blinked, surprised. “How did you know that?”

It was amazing – he’d never been able to take a look at one up close, in his experience he’d found witches to be exceedingly secretive about what was decidedly a personal journey through spirituality. He had spent some time with a coven in Pennsylvania not too long ago, but they had soon grown tired of his unending curiosity and politely asked that he observe them no longer.

The page Regina had open was to an awareness potion, designed to broaden the senses and open the mind to greater influences than it could ordinarily perceive. Whether it worked or not remained to be seen; he had found that much of what purported to be ‘witchcraft’ was as much placebo as it was genuine mysticism. The turquoise liquid she had removed from above the candle appeared to be an attempt at brewing the potion – the first or the last of many, he could not tell.

“I thought a book of shadows needed to be burnt once its witch passed on?”

“Traditionally, yes,” she mused, eyes narrowing as she surveyed him. “That’s… what my research has indicated.”

Killian skimmed the plants and herbs she had strewn around on her desk, spotting what he was looking for quickly. After removing two needle thin leaves of rosemary, he dropped them inside the flask and set it back on its place on the stand. Then, he lit the crimson candle underneath. The liquid began to bubble, slowly changing in colour from a teal shade to something far duller, and bluer. The steam began to drift into the tube above it, and when Killian heard the flagon begin to let out a satisfying hiss he knew he had achieved the correct consistency.

Regina had watched all of this with interest. A flicker of her dark eyes to the crude diagram in the book suggested she realised a beat later than he had that he had given her the desired outcome for the brew.

“Just what have you been doing with yourself for the past five years?”

Killian merely lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “There’s never enough rosemary.”

She let the comment slide with an arched eyebrow that suggested she would soon worm the truth out of him.

“I suppose you’re back in town because of David’s deluded ramblings.”

This surprised him, especially given her clear status as a believer. “You think he imagined it?”

Regina scoffed. “I know, for a fact, that he’s spent five years roiling in guilt over what happened to Emma. I’m surprised it took this long to materialise into a phantom at the end of his bed.” She hesitated, and Killian waited; people always felt more compelled to fill silence with what they knew. “But there is something happening. Look at this.”

With a wave that was more of confidence that he would follow than invitation, she marched across the sitting room to a writing desk wedged into the corner. It was covered with what Killian quickly realised was a map, mostly depicting the east coast. Scarlet lines ran across it in circular motions, tracing shapes into the continent.

“These markings, here –” she traced one with a fingertip, “are ley lines. Spirit roads. They’re often considered areas of great spiritual alignment, even –”

“I know what ley lines are, Regina.”

She pursed her lips. “Then you’ll know that Storybrooke sits at a convergence of two lines.” Her finger landed with a tap on the marker for the town. “Which means only one thing – an abundance of paranormal energy. I often observe and measure the trends in the surrounding area, spikes in electromagnetic readings, irradiated areas, the like.”

Killian grinned. “Like a ghost cartographer.”

Despite herself, a similar smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Something like that, yes. They’re fascinating to document, and a key to me unlocking the secrets in my book.” Her expression turned more serious. “But recently, my readings have been incredibly unusual. Far greater than I’ve observed before. The only thing I can surmise is something is coming – or changing. Something big.”

It couldn’t be a coincidence. David’s reports of the strange goings on that Ruby had corroborated, and a spike in some kind of supernatural energy around town? It all pointed to one thing, it had to. The only true ghost story that Storybrooke didn’t even know it had.

“And Brooke House?” The excitement in Regina’s expression slowly faded away, and she averted her eyes. Something far more sobering overcame her, but he had to know. She spent enough time in the woods. “Have you seen it?”

“No.” Killian tried to mask his disappointment, and on noticing this, she hastened to continue. “But then… I haven’t gone looking.”

He nodded mutely; the day already felt so long. As he paused for a moment to check his phone he realised he had two missed calls from David, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to talk to the man now – he was thinking about ley lines, and curses, and objects you had no sense losing and sounds you had no right hearing. Everything felt so different and yet so paralyzingly the same, and he wasn’t sure what to do with himself next.

Well, he knew what he should do.

Regina had walked back to her workstation and shut the book with a heavy thud, and it hauled him back to the present. He then found himself considering mountains of takeout containers and the dilapidated foyer he had walked through of the once grand Mills mansion. Regina neatened up all of her ingredients with an eager hand, and he recognised in an instant that they had all changed the night Emma disappeared – it had just taken a little longer to manifest itself in her.

Mary Margaret had run away; Regina, apparently, had run right into it.

“When was the last time you ate a proper meal?”

Regina dismissed him with a wave of a hand. “I eat.”

“Something that didn’t come out of a box?”

“I bake,” she insisted hotly, and at his blank look she straightened her blouse and tried to look nonchalant. Killian remembered the tray of apple turnovers he had spied through the hallway. “It helps me relax.”

Killian gritted his teeth; this was no way to live.

(Although he deigned not to own up to the amount of chow mein that had been consumed under blankets in the back of his car over the years.)

“I’ll come back round tomorrow, if that’s alright.” He framed it like he was asking permission, though they both knew he wasn’t. “And I’m bringing a broom.”

Regina seethed with indignance, but Killian shot her a glare that left little room for argument.

It was time they both stopped avoiding what came next.

Which meant only one thing for him: a visit to Brooke House.

-/-

October 14th 2014 – 5 Years Ago

In order to help him retrace his steps through the north woods, Killian had used whatever he had to hand as markers to ensure he returned the correct way. In this case, ‘to hand’ referred to a roll of bright orange string they had been using at school to help decorate for Halloween, which he had been offhandedly aiding in due to Mary Margaret’s fervent request. He had objected enough to Emma in private, arguing why on earth were they still celebrating the end of October in such a way now they were already seventeen, but he begrudgingly admitted that the work had proven its worth as he remembered the string he had hastily shoved in his pocket last Friday.

The trio – she, Killian and David – trudged through the brush, copper and gold leaves crunching loudly underfoot, pausing only for Killian to quickly search for the next marker to inform them which direction they should head in. Against the vermilion palette of the forest in the throes of the New England fall, they weren’t always the easiest to spot.

They stayed mostly in a ponderous, companionable quiet; Killian kept his keen focus on the path ahead, and David and Emma occasionally exchanged uneasy glances. Neither were quite sure what they would find once they reached the end of the proverbial trail. It was easy to fall into a rhythm of their boot prints upon the ground, and it gave Emma enough time to truly consider the kind of support she wanted to offer to their friend if it didn’t quite go his way.

“Have you thought about what you’d like to do for your birthday?”

Jerked out of her reverie, Emma shot David a reproachful look.

“You know what I’d like to do. Nothing.”

David spread his hands. “You’re turning eighteen – that’s a big deal. An adult. Finally legally able to play the lottery, and I know how much that’s been killing you to wait for.”

“Please.”

“Or vote? Mary Margaret loves to vote. After the sheriff election last month she kept her ‘I Voted’ sticker on for two weeks.”

“Is that what that was?” Killian remarked over his shoulder, hesitating to touch the tip of his finger to a piece of string wound around a nearby branch.

“You can also get married,” David continued, “file a lawsuit.”

“Join the army,” Killian offered.

“Get a tattoo.”

“Legally have sex in every state.”

This, Killian offered with a wink, and David thumped him heavily on the arm. “Hey.”

“Guys, forget it,” Emma laughed, “you know how I feel about birthdays, I don’t want to do anything. Maybe grab some popcorn and watch a film with you guys and Ruth – maybe Mary Margaret, Regina.”

“So, the same thing we do every week?” David sighed.

She shrugged. “Suits me.”

“Wait.”

Killian raised a hand and they halted obediently, only for Emma’s gaze to land on exactly what had caught his just moments before. Through the trees, around fifty or so yards away, a house could be spotted amongst the pines – if the way Killian had tensed was any indication, it was the one he believed to be Brooke House.

Emma and David broke into a jog to keep up with Killian, dashing rapidly closer to the old structure, and as they drew up to the front she took a moment to observe just what they had been led to.

The house was hugely run down, dilapidated and crooked, the white brick in the bulk of most of the structure long since dirtied by the clutches of nature, and its wooden fascia rotting in places as it oozed damp and sap. It was small, just two stories with an attic window protruding from the gable, with notable portions of the roof visible where branches had grown in between the tiles and, in some cases, pushed them free – the ground was littered with a few shattered slates on either side. Most of the windows were either cracked or missing panes altogether, and the ivy scaling the walls gave it the air of something reclaimed by the earth. The build was distinctly Victorian in style, like a townhouse, almost; and that very fact made its standing there deeply incongruous with the miles of wood surrounding them. She had been expecting a cabin or something far more rustic, a holidaymaker’s home fit for an unfair prank, but this – this was something different.

An entrance on the left-hand side hung with a wooden arch, perfectly circular and its edges reaching almost to the ground, providing a canopy over the stern, chestnut door. It was already open.

As Killian had said, a sign hung above the doorway underneath the canopy, yellowed with age, but the writing still clear enough to make out. Brooke House.

She could see why Killian hadn’t wanted to enter alone.

After a moment just to take it all in, she felt him reach for her hand. Squeezing just once, she tried to make her smile as encouraging as possible.

David led the way, a sense of trepidation gripping Killian, but after she tugged on their connected hands his boots spurred into motion and they began mounting the steps. They trod carefully, the wood mostly rotted away and creaking ominously underfoot, and the door let out a deep, yawning groan as David pushed it open wider.

The entrance opened to reveal a dark hallway, the air thick and musty and immediately scratched the back of Emma’s throat, so much so that she made sure her mouth was clamped shut even as it wanted to slacken with wonder. On their immediate left was a narrow staircase, crooked and tired with a few steps crumbling away to reveal a gaping blackness underneath. In the dim light she could just about see through to the rear of the house, and spotted what looked to be an old kitchenette and table, but Killian was switching on his torch and leading her out through another door on the right which had fallen from its hinges and now dangled dangerously into the next room. It was clearly an old sitting room, several large but indeterminate items of furniture covered with large, white sheeting, and an antique coffee table resting in the centre. The curtains were of a delicate white lace material which had dulled with age, now moth-eaten and draping miserably in front of the windows. Emma could see out into the woods, but the trees looked far more sinister from this angle - she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

She was certainly wrong about one thing; this was no holidaymaker’s getaway. Clearly nobody had lived in this house for years.

While Emma found her attention drawn to the more barren features of the house, a few moments after they entered the sitting room Killian abruptly released her hand with a cry, and darted towards the back of the room. There, hidden behind a large piece she could only assume was a sofa of some kind, was a large toolbox sat beside two long planks of wood. The fading wallpaper had also been peeled off from that corner of the room pulling outwards, baring the wood paneling underneath. Some of the dirt had been scrubbed away with clear intent, and an abandoned bucket, sponge and pair of gloves had been left underneath it.

Killian immediately scrambled for the lock on the toolbox, wrenching it open.

“This is Liam’s,” he confirmed what Emma had already suspected, as she exchanged a surprised look with David. “Look. See?” He ripped off a battered photograph that had been taped just inside the lid, thrusting it up to show her. As Emma peered closer she could just about make out the image of two young boys and an older woman with her arm around each. From the photos she had seen of Liam Jones the taller boy could just as easily be him, and the lines of Killian’s dimpled grin could be traced in the smaller of the two.

“He was here. He was right - about all of it. He’d been working on Brooke House just like he said.”

Exaggerated, deluded, fiction; that was what she had been told. The ramblings of an unfortunate young man who believed in ghosts, yet the evidence was unmistakable. At least at some stage, Liam Jones had been in this house - he had brought his tools, he had started his work, and he had just as soon abandoned it without a word.

And then his car had been found at the bottom of a ravine.

“If you’ll forgive me for saying, Killian,” David began slowly, taking it all in with caution, “it doesn’t look like Liam got much work done.”

Aside from that one, tiny corner, it didn’t look like much of the room (nay, the house) had been touched at all.

“But how could they have missed this?” Emma frowned, stepping back over to the window again to look out. She thought she could spot one of Killian’s orange strings tied to a nearby trunk. “Everyone was looking for Brooke House after he died. You can’t tell me almost every resident of Storybrooke, which includes you, Killian, just so happened to skip right past a place that fit the exact description he’d given to anyone who cared to listen?” She shook her head, doubtful. “This has to be some sort of trick, or - prank.”

“Anybody could have gotten hold of Liam’s toolbox,” David added. “Then left it here for you to find.”

In a manner that slightly irked her at first, Killian didn’t bother acknowledging their speculations; he was rifling through the toolbox instead and once she noticed, Emma immediately felt a small wave of guilt wash over her. How it got there or not, Killian unequivocally believed this toolbox belonged to the brother he had lost over four years ago. He didn’t need their suppositions at the moment, just a little time to process.

“Hey,” she said quietly, after crossing over to the corner and kneeling beside him, “are you okay?”

Killian let out a long breath, a hard crease in his brow. “I didn’t think I’d see any of this stuff again. Lost, I’d assumed, when I was moved out of our apartment. I was only twelve.” This, he offered her with a wry smile, patting a hand on her wrist to show he knew she was there. “I didn’t know what I’d want to keep or throw away back then when all I wanted was Liam home again.”

David shuffled awkwardly by the doorway. “I’m gonna go check out the kitchen.”

As if that was the first statement to properly penetrate his reverie, Killian shook his head and straightened. He stuffed the photograph into the pocket of his jacket and was about to close the toolbox again when Emma suddenly spotted something underneath the haphazard placement of the tools. She halted his movements, before carefully moving the dusty implements out of the way. Folded neatly underneath all of them was a single sheet of paper, worn along its edges as if it had been opened and re-folded many times, and Emma slipped it out.

In the wild moment of its discovery Emma had thought it might be something significant; a letter for Killian, a note about the house, a cry for help, but she sternly admonished herself when it was revealed to be a couple of simple doodles etched in pencil onto the paper. This wasn’t a movie, this was Killian’s life. In the real world you didn’t find suicide notes four years too late buried in toolboxes in creepy old houses.

She threw Killian an apologetic look, but he took the paper from her anyway and slipped it into his pocket with the photograph. It was still a piece of Liam - Emma had never known the elder Jones, but he clung to every inch of this room like a spectre. She could scarcely imagine why Killian could even bear to walk among it.

As one they decided to stand and try to catch up with David, but when they peeked inside the old kitchen he was nowhere to be found. Killian cast a doubtful glance at the rickety staircase with the splintered bannister, but Emma shrugged; he could have easily grown bored and wanted to rise to the second storey of the house. With an overly flamboyant bow, Killian gestured for her to go first, to which she rolled her eyes and obliged, albeit slowly.

The stairway creaked rather ominously beneath her, and she eyed the steps rotted away with an air of unease - it would be just her luck for one of them to give way underneath her and leave her leg hanging amongst whatever wildlife had likely chosen to take up residence under the staircase until the boys could haul her back up again. As a result she made every effort to test her weight on each step before committing to it, growing in confidence the higher she ascended.

One of Killian’s hands rested near the small of her back, gently, as if ready to catch her if she lost her balance. Despite the circumstances the thought shot a little thrill right through her.

If possible, the second floor was narrower than the first, and they had to move single file as they began taking slow steps deeper into the house. A discomfiting stillness had settled, like the farther they walked from the entrance, the more disconnected they became from the forest they had travelled through to reach it. Emma could scarcely hear the distant rustle of nature now, only the grinds and groans of the old structure, of the wind whistling through shattered panes and withered, rotting wood.

Killian walked closely behind her and she felt his sharp intake of breath, as if readying himself to speak, when a loud creak rang out from one of the bedrooms just off the hallway. Their eyes instantly snapped in that direction.

“David?” Emma called out.

There was no response, from David or otherwise, other than a second groan of old wood, like smart shoes upon dusty floorboards - at least, that was the mirage that her mind had instantly conjured, although she did not know from where it had arisen. With startling clarity she could picture the exact shade of the worn leather, pacing back and forth between the walls of the bedroom. Almost unbidden, her pulse began to quick as she kept her gaze fixed on the closed door.

“That was the noise,” Killian murmured, and she distantly registered he was speaking from close to her ear, “that was the noise that made me leave the trail, and find the house.”

Another rasp.

It did prompt the image of the old sign of Gold’s Pawnbrokers, swaying back, and forth, like an ancient metronome of Main Street.

There was something, some feeling or sensation that lingered near the place she drew breath that told her it wasn’t David, that brought the vision of soles on boards, that had her heart fluttering with each iteration of the noise, groaning, scraping, tugging her towards it like it had a fist at her breast as she inched steadily closer –

Only when Killian squeezed her hand in one quick, reassuring motion did she realise she must’ve reached for his unconsciously.

It broke the spell.

Heat rose from her collarbone and instantly she dropped it, throwing a grateful look over the shoulder. This was ridiculous. Again, she felt a mild irritation for her tendency to fall back on the conventions that cinema had spent her whole life convincing her were truth, and instead decided, hell, and marched headfirst to the source of the sound.

“Emma, wait -” Killian gaped, alarmed, but she had already thrown open the door.

Only later did she consider that doing anything in Brooke House with a show of force would be unwise, if not just as a result of the aged skeleton that the structure was built on, but luckily other than the handle clanging noisily against the wall of the bedroom, no great calamity occurred.

Instead, the door had swung open to reveal a completely bare room, other than a spinning wheel turning slowly in the corner, creaking with each full rotation it completed. For a moment Emma watched, astounded, as it seemed to move on its own, an ancient pedal rising and falling off the ground in time with its soft and measured pace; but the explanation surely lay in the missing glass panes of the window, and the gentle breeze drifting in from the outside.

Eerie as it was, there was nothing supernatural about it.

“Gods, that’s creepy,” Killian muttered, and Emma resisted the urge to laugh.

She crossed over to it and stopped the mechanism with one hand on the wheel, the pedal halting in midair as she did so. Much like the rest of the house, it was made of an old, dusty wood, and could do with a polish, but otherwise the apparatus remained largely in act. In sporadic piles beneath it, small strands of what looked like straw had been scattered about.

After Killian pointed it out, Emma raised her shoulder in an amused shrug. “Maybe they were trying to make -”

A flurry of movement in front of her face cut her off, and with a cry of fright she fell back from the window, limbs flailing reflexively against the sudden onslaught and she stumbled straight into Killian, who instantly tried to steady her with two firm hands on her upper arms. Hidden in the dark beside the wheel, a single crow had been nesting and, disturbed by her movements, had shot into the air with an indignant squawk and fluttered to the window. It hopped there for barely a second before disappearing out into the open air.

“Are you alright?” Killian tugged her round to look him in the eye, searching hers for any signs of injury.

Emma willed her racing heart to slow, immediately letting out a breathy laugh of embarrassment; she’d been a wreck ever since they entered the damn house, and she felt completely spun off her normal axis. She was supposed to be the one with the level-head, her toes curled into the ground beneath them, rooting them. It had always been her job to catch Killian when his mind was wandering away with him, not the other way round. Instead his steady presence felt like the only thing keeping her from floating away from herself.

She let out a shaky breath. “I bet you’re regretting asking me to be the one to come with you at this point.”

Killian only shook his head. “No,” he said, with a soft smile. “But we should find David.”

David, right. The third member of their party apparently still wandering the dark halls of the house.

Although the thundering of footsteps from the hallway behind them appeared to somewhat account for him.

“Was someone yelling?” David called, alarmed. After he poked his head around the door and found the pair of them a little shaken, but fine, he let out a noise of relief. “Jeesh. I was convinced the roof had come down on you or something. This place is seconds from collapsing.”

“Nothing like that,” Emma said, noticing she was still clinging tightly to the front of Killian’s coat, and instantly releasing it. “But maybe we should go.”

The statement was directed mostly at Killian, this was his journey from the off - but she wasn’t sure what else he was expecting to find. Whether this was the house Liam had spoken about or not, it seemed clear that most of his time within it had been spent in the room with the most evidence of his work, the sitting room at the front of the ground floor. There were only two other rooms that she could see on the landing, and David informed them they were just another bedroom and what looked like a study or library.

Killian seemed to weigh up his options, a tic jumping in his jaw as he looked between them.

After a few quiet moments he let out a long, agitated sigh; she could sense the source of his frustration. Needing to let something go and not being ready to was an emotion she was more than familiar with.

“Maybe we should.”

“I did find something else we could try and take a peek at,” David suggested, perhaps detecting his reluctance, “looked like the door to an attic or something.”

At the look of relief that flashed across Killian’s features, Emma immediately agreed for them and followed David out of the room. At the end of the landing, near the back of the house, he pointed out a square wooden panel in the ceiling that looked like it could be removed, with a metal ring barely wider than a finger attached to it. With some difficulty, the two taller boys scrabbled at the edges of the panel and managed to tug it out of its slot. As it fell, a rickety ladder slid down to the floor.

In an overt show of faux gentlemanliness, they both suggested Emma go first.

Rolling her eyes, she began to climb as gingerly as she could, reasonably assured in the knowledge that if something of it collapsed or she fell back, she would probably have her fall cushioned by either or both of them.

She needn’t have worried. After reaching the top safely, she could barely spot anything through the darkness; the only light dappled in from one single window at the other end of the attic, and quickly pulled her torch out to have a look around.

“Oh,” David said, once he’d climbed up to join her, “I was kinda convinced this would be something a little more exciting.”

Like the bedroom, the attic was mostly bare, save for some odd pieces of furniture scattered about, most covered in sheets. A chaise longue, a few crates and a dusty bookcase stuffed to the brim, with volumes toppling out of its edges and accumulating in piles around it, and onto a large writing desk next to it. Also atop the desk sat a selection of vials, some with contents of rather startling shades, a few candles, and several sheets of yellowed paper curling at the edges.

In pieces on the floor, a glass photo frame had shattered. The shards crunched underfoot as Emma crossed the room to the bookcase, lifting a finger to brush the spines of some of the old covers. Most were nondescript, no titles to speak of, and the rest had faded too lightly for her to make them out.

An audible clink sounded behind her, and Emma turned to watch Killian lifting the faded photograph from underneath the glass, the fragments falling back onto the floor. It was an old sepia image of a young woman with a heart shaped face, gazing warmly into the lens.

“Who is she?” she peered a little closer at the image.

Killian shrugged. “Maybe she lived here. Somebody had to have lived here, at some stage.” It certainly seemed that way. Houses didn’t just sprout from the earth, they had to be built, their foundations pressed into the ground. A spinning wheel didn’t appear from nothing, and neither did the other small effects they had found in its halls. “‘Beauty’,” Killian read aloud from the back of the photo, written in long, cursive script.

“Got that right,” David mused.

There wasn’t much else to see; the boys turned to go.

Only Emma hesitated, something catching her eye on the opposite side of the ladder; it was hidden deep in the slope of the roof, so tucked away that she almost hadn’t spotted it, but now her eyes were adjusting she could easily make out the outline of two small doors for what looked to be some kind of armoire. The doors were intricately decorated, with dark and curved painted strokes, twisting around the two handles like vines about a tree trunk.

Something in the depths of her gut stirred; like she had just heard an achingly familiar song and was overcome with a desire to move to it, the pull of something paralysingly sweet and sad beckoning for her to move closer.

She wanted to know what was inside.

Or whatever was inside wanted to know her.

Emma took just two halting steps towards it –

Before Killian called her name from the ladder, softly, and broke the enchantment.

She blinked back at him. “Uh, sorry?”

“I said we’re going,” he repeated, “You were right - and it’s getting late. We can always come back tomorrow.”

Emma hesitated, her attention still captured by the wardrobe in the corner of the attic. Killian misinterpreted her pause for a different kind of uncertainty.

“If you want to, that is.”

“Of course,” she replied immediately, the willing of her legs to start moving towards the ladder taking an unusual amount of effort. “As often as you want.”

Even as they finally departed the house to head back through the woods, the dimness outside heralding the approach of dusk and a brisk warning that soon they would run out of daylight, Emma could still feel her heart hammering when she thought of that wardrobe, shut behind the attic door that the boys had carefully lifted closed.

Something remarkable laid in wait inside it; she could feel it in her bones.

And she was desperate to find out what.

-/-

Present Day

The orange string had by now turned a murky brown against the surge of time, but Killian was still able to retrace the skeleton of the path he had taken the others down, veering off from the White Pine Trail in the north woods toward where Brooke House had stood. Dusk was rapidly approaching, and the further he walked, the more he considered that he should have waited until morning – should have returned David’s calls – should have left the ghosts that had haunted Liam Jones alone a long, long time ago.

The sky was beginning to turn from a pastel pink to midnight blue, and he had brought just two things with him for protection against the dark; the torch lit at his side, and the dagger. Its intricate, curved edges glittered dangerously with every touch of light.

Brooke House stood, as he had imagined it would, exactly where he had left it. Cracked brickwork, shattered windows and empty hallways.

Silence lay steadily at its feet.

Killian was done playing games.

He marched up the rotted steps and pushed the front door open, allowing the torch to flicker around to catch any unexpected surprises. Conceding that the hallway was clear, he entered the sitting room - there, lying untouched on the floor as if he had walked straight into the past, lay the spirit board that Regina had volunteered all those years ago. The planchette sat a few feet away, beside two discarded plastic bottles of water. An old scarlet scarf, an Apollo chocolate bar wrapper. Everything, exactly as they had left it.

Killian turned to the remainder of the room; dark and vast, he did his best to bring himself up to his full height, even as his heart began to thump a steady beat against his chest.

He brandished the dagger in front of him.

“Alright,” he announced to the empty walls, “I’m here. You’ve got my full attention.” He swallowed. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

To bring him back to Storybrooke, to drag him right back under again. There were no questions as to motive; ever since he had received that voicemail from David he had known the purpose of it all like he had known the way his soul had yearned for home. Adjusting his grip, he stayed alert for any sign of movement. He could feel his hand beginning to sweat where it grasped tightly onto the metal handle.

“So all of this nonsense can end,” he continued with vehemence, “Ruby, David, the town - you leave them out of this. D’you hear me?”

For a beat, his words turned to ghosts. Fell on the dead ears of phantom listeners, but then - something changed in the room, an almost atmospheric shift. He felt the hair at the nape of his neck begin to flutter, warm air brushing it away and he froze. Something moved along the curve of his shoulder, like a fingernail, lightly scratching against his leather jacket. The scent of wildflowers and old pines assaulted him, the forest pressing a gentle kiss to the side of his neck and after a moment he thought he heard her laugh, falling like raindrops from a great distance.

He closed his eyes, willed it into truth.

Don’t tell me - it’s hot cocoa, with cinnamon, and you’re about to hand it over.

A voice came from behind him, and it felt like the slow draw of a fingertip up his spine; velvet, intimate, but soft enough to make him want to squirm away.

“Hello, Killian.”

The otherness of it slammed into him with the force of a freight train. It was too deep, too slow, too much.

Killian - Killian, don’t -!

Gathering all the courage he could muster, he whirled around.

And the sight of her stole the breath from his lungs.

There, in a white gown that had been dirtied by the muddied forest floor, her blonde tresses crowned by a circlet of dark, withering petals, and her eyes a storm of jade and gentle fury, stood Emma Swan.

The corner of her lip curled upwards, so familiar and so alien, and she began to take slow, elegant steps towards him. A predator stalking her prey.

Killian forgot how to breathe.

“So good of you to finally come and see me.”

#jay writes #cs halloweek #cs role reversal #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan #cs au #killian jones #emma swan #a house is never still #woooo!

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