#to not let the absence weigh me down because life unfortunately has to go on regardless of whether i have my shit together or not

[cosmicdreamgrl]

.

#god i loathe people #i understand that everyone is entitled to their.......can i call it grief? tbd #but i implore you please don't make me deal with it #sounds selfish but if i'm being honest who's helping me cope with my grief? #who's going to make me feel better about this situation? #more importantly it's a rhetorical question because no one can #i mean it when i say that i barely have the energy to wake up & function normally every day #to not let the absence weigh me down because life unfortunately has to go on regardless of whether i have my shit together or not #the last thing i want is to have anyone project how they feel onto me #again feelings? valid #behaving in a way that's not justified? i'm not sorry but no #you want to go talk to other fans who are in the same boat? be my guest #but i've said it once i have to say it one final time: you do NOT have to live with the reality of any of this #so stop saying you can relate because you can't and i may be too tired/sad to be annoyed #but my god enough is fucking enough #i'm not entertaining any more questions/discussions unless they come from those i know only care about my well being #and that's honest to god the end of it #ugh #steph.text

[backtothestart02]

Just Best Friends - 9/? | westallen fanfiction

A/N: “It’s been 84 years...” lolz. I hope you enjoy this! I don’t know when the next chap will come, but as soon as I can write it, I will!

...

Chapter 9 -

A week passed. During that week, Iris made herself completely unreachable – not just to Barry but to Eddie as well. She worked through lunch, so Barry couldn’t take her out, and she worked late hours, so that by the time she returned to hers and Eddie’s apartment, she was so exhausted, she could only heat up some leftovers and collapse onto their bed when she was finished with them.

That also meant no sex, no cuddling, and hardly any talking that wasn’t an incredibly brief apology before passing out or running out the door. And for Barry, it was just one excuse after another, though they always sounded very similar.

Sorry, I have so much work to do. Or… Maybe another time? I just got a new story, and I have a hot lead on it.

He always understood in words, but she could see the disappointment on his face every time. As well as her failure to respond to the fresh bouquet of flowers he set on her desk daily.

They weren’t just excuses though. They were legitimate…most of the time. Were they unnecessary? Probably. She didn’t have to go out of her way to beg her boss for more stories, or to work so far ahead of schedule that she felt she was on the verge of a burn out or collapse.

But she didn’t know how to act now that Eddie was back. She knew she needed to break up with him. She knew that. But she didn’t want to break his heart, and she wasn’t 100% sure Barry would just agree to date her after the hell she’d put him through emotionally. So avoiding both of them seemed to be the only way out.

She’d also come to the conclusion that while irritating, her dad going out of his way to forbid Barry to tell her he was the Flash had come from a place of love, and that she couldn’t stay mad at him any more than she could with Barry. The only problem was she found having that conversation with him was almost impossible because either Eddie or Barry or both seemed to be in his vicinity at all times.

Little did she know though that there was one other person who was taking a keen interest in the situation developing over the past week, and it was the one person she’d been paranoid about for a while before Eddie came back, and who she’d entirely forgotten about as the weight of the three men in her life came barreling down on her.

And that person had apparently had enough of what she was doing and had decided to seek her out for a confrontation of sorts shortly after Barry left during his lunch break for the fifth time that week.

With a slow yet determined saunter, Linda approached Iris’ desk just as soon as Mason disappeared for his daily lunch walk.

“Iris.”

The familiar voice made her freeze. She recovered quickly, but she had a feeling Linda had caught her red-handed and completely unprepared for where this particular conversation would lead. After all, the last time they’d “talked”, Linda had completely brushed her off, and the time before that Linda had told her to her face that she knew Iris had feelings for Barry, even when she’d still been in denial of that fact herself.

“Linda.” She shuffled her papers around on her desk to somehow fill the awkwardness of the moment. “What, uh…what can I do for you?”

Linda folded her arms and sat on the corner of Iris’ desk.

“Was that Barry that just left?”

“Hmm?” She decided to play dumb. “Oh, yeah, it was. He uh, wanted to go to lunch. I told him I had work to do, which I did – do. So, if you don’t mind?”

Linda’s jaw actually dropped.

“Dismissing me so quickly? If I recall correctly, the last time we talked, you were only too eager to get my attention.”

Iris bit her tongue to keep from responding with something she’d regret.

“Let me guess. You’re giving me a taste of my own medicine?” Linda raised her eyebrows.

Iris cleared her throat.

“Not at all. I just…I have work to do. A lot of it.”

“You’ve had a lot of work to do for the past five days, haven’t you?”

Iris’ eyes squinted.

“Have you been…spying on me?”

“Please.” Iris waited. “I’ve been talking to Barry. He’s needed someone to vent to, you know, since before Eddie came back you were practically climbing on top of him every day at lunch and after work and sometimes before work, according to him.”

“That’s not how it was,” Iris said under her breath.

“No? You better clear that up with your supposed best friend then, because that’s how he saw it. He’s crushed that you’re avoiding him again.” She leaned forward. “Which you are doing, right? Neither of us is buying that you suddenly have so much work to do.”

“I do!” Iris snapped. “I…I asked for it.”

Linda’s eyes widened and her mouth formed an ‘o’.

“And why would you do that?”

She started shuffling her papers again.

“That’s none of your business.”

“You made it my business when you made out with my boyfriend after sticking your finger in his mouth and sitting on his lap on our date.”

Iris sighed testily.

“I thought you two broke up.”

“We did.”

“Do you wish you hadn’t? I know it wasn’t your idea.”

“I’m not stupid, Iris. I’m not going to blindly fight for a relationship with someone who clearly wants to be with someone else.”

Iris bit her lip, avoiding eye contact.

“He does?” she asked quietly.

“He’s in love with you!” She lowered her voice when she got a few looks. “He’d take you in a heartbeat,” she paused. “If that’s what you want.”

Iris swallowed.

“But you don’t know what you want, do you?”

“Yes, I…I do.”

“Then what do you want? Please, tell me at least.”

“Why?” She met her eyes again and glared. “So you can run off and tell Barry? Or Eddie?”

Linda rolled her eyes.

“I have no reason to tell your boyfriend anything. Barry, however, I do still care about. And we’re friends now. He deserves to know the truth, even if it isn’t from you. He’s going crazy with all your…mixed signals.”

Iris nibbled on her lip again, guilt weighing her down.

“Iris, hey, there’s something I wanted to…” Mason approached, then came to an abrupt halt, sensing the tension between the two women immediately. “Am I interrupting something?” He looked between the two.

“Not at all.” Linda smiled serenely before looking down at Iris one last time. “You know where to find me, Iris.”

Iris gulped, not looking at her but nodded just before Linda retreated – finally – to her desk across the room.

“What was that about?”

Iris closed her eyes and shook her head before swiveling in her chair toward him.

“Nothing. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

His eyes were full of suspicion, but it was clear his need to discuss something with her was greater.

“I want to show you something.” He took the seat Linda had vacated, then pulled out a folder, revealing to her a familiar face she’d nearly forgotten. “Simon Stagg. Remember him?”

…

Well, there was no longer any way of avoiding it. She had to seek out Barry. Mason’s suspicions about Harrison Wells stirred her insides too deeply, and honestly, made her worried about her best friend, since she knew how much he adored who had become to be his mentor. There was Caitlin and Cisco to consider too, who had known Dr. Wells even longer, but right now all she cared about was Barry.

So, she marched over to CCPD shortly after her conversation with Mason, using the excuse of pursuing a story – which, more or less, she was – to explain her absence at her work site and sought out Barry as soon as she stepped out of the elevator.

Unfortunately, her dad’s eyes locked with hers first. She swallowed, remembering how things were between them. She considered then abandoning a much-needed talk with Barry to finally hash things out with her dad. That course of action was dashed however, when within seconds he had looked away from her and gestured instead in her direction to whoever was standing across from him.

She should’ve known then who it would be, but it didn’t occur to her until he was walking toward her, a grin on his face, no doubt thinking she was there to see him.

“Iris, hey.” He kissed her before she could even think to turn her cheek to him. “Did you have a late lunch today? I have some time now. We cou-”

“Oh, actually, I’m here to see, Barry. Is he upstairs?”

“Huh?”

“In his lab?”

Eddie blinked.

“Um, yeah, as far as I know. There are no active crime scenes where he’d be at otherwise.”

“Great. Thanks. I’ll see you tonight.”

She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and headed towards the staircase before he could so much as pull her in for an explanation or something more.

Feeling confused and honestly a little hurt, Eddie returned to his desk, Joe sitting now at his, ignoring Eddie’s state as best as he could.

“Should I be worried?” he finally asked.

Joe pretended not to have heard him.

“Joe.”

“Hmm?” he asked, not looking up from the files he was pretending to look over in front of him.

“Should I be worried?”

“About what?”

“About Iris,” he said, as if it should be obvious.

Despite how he felt about the man dating his daughter, Joe looked up to address him. He was also his partner, after all.

“Why are you worried about her?”

Eddie let out a cough of relief, eager to unload his troubles onto somebody – anybody – who would listen.

“She’s made herself busy ever since I got back.”

“She has a job. So do you.”

“More so than usual though,” he pushed on. “She leaves earlier than she used to, and she comes home really late. When she does, she eats some leftovers and crawls into bed without so much as a ‘hey, how was your day’ or ‘I love you, too, Eddie’.” He frowned. “It worries me.”

Now Joe frowned.

“She’s been avoiding Barry too.”

Eddie’s frown deepened.

“When had Barry been trying to meet up with her?”

“On her lunch breaks,” he blurted without thinking, then met his eyes, trying to play it off. “She always says she’s too busy working on a story.”

Eddie leaned back in his seat.

“I haven’t tried to meet up with her for lunch at all this week. I guess I’m so used to her coming here, and if she didn’t, that she had a good reason. I guess she did.”

“Well, there you go.”

Joe started to stand, eager to escape the awkwardness of the conversation.

“But I mean, we haven’t had sex all week.”

Joe finished straightening, then shot him a glare. Eddie’s face fell.

“You didn’t want to hear that.”

“Not particularly, no,” Joe said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He turned and headed for the bathroom. Any place was better than this.

…

About a step and a half before the entryway to Barry’s lap, Iris stalled, nibbling on her bottom lip. Barry had been as pleasant during her intended lunch break as he’d been all week, but she still wondered how accepting he’d be of her, especially when he found out this was a working meeting. She definitely needed to apologize first. How and when was the question, though. It was still beyond her how he hadn’t lashed out at her yet. She’d been treating him so unfairly, and yet time and time again, he kept crawling back to her, as if he was a glutton for punishment.

Well, no more of that. She couldn’t guarantee when she would break up with Eddie, but maybe Linda was right and she could at least explain her behavior this week and tell him she planned to break up with Eddie. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe…eventually.

“Is someone there?” Barry called out, and Iris realized she’d started tapping her shoe against the floor in time with the rapid rhythm of her mind.

She stopped abruptly, then cleared her throat and peeked her head into the doorway.

“Hey.”

She gave an awkward hand wave.

“Iris?”

His brows furrowed, but he started to smile. Lord, help her, it made her heart do a flip.

“What are you doing out there?” He got up out of his seat and headed towards her. “And why didn’t you just come in?”

“S-sorry,” she stuttered, shocked by it as much as he was, then forced herself to walk through the door.

He came to a stop as soon as she was inside and waited for her explanation.

“I guess I didn’t know if you’d want to see me.”

He gawked.

“Iris, I’ve been trying to see you all week.”

“No, I know. Of course. Right. But uh…I thought my rejecting you today might’ve been your breaking point, and that you wouldn’t want to see me now. Without an apology. Which I am totally willing to make, by the way.” Her chuckle was strained, and she couldn’t meet his eyes.

“What’s there to apologize for?” he asked. “You had work to do. That isn’t your fault. I’m sure you’ve been working hard to catch up.”

“Actually…” She took another step toward him. “I haven’t.”

His brows furrowed, and he sat back down.

“I don’t follow.”

She sighed and sat on the corner of his desk, the only spot where there wasn’t files or a conglomeration of office supplies.

“I asked for extra work.” She swallowed. “On Monday.”

He tilted his head, confused.

“I was trying to be busy. On purpose.” She licked her lips. “So I’d be too busy if you came to see me.”

He froze, his heart thudding away inside his chest. He didn’t know how to take that bit of information, and honestly, he was crushed.

“I don’t understand…you didn’t want to see me?”

The hurt in his voice was palpable. Iris hated that she was doing this to him again. He shouldn’t even want to be her friend after this, no matter how apologetic she was.

“Not just you,” she said, hoping that would soften the blow. “Eddie too. And my dad.”

He was mystified by that. He understood Joe, what with the Flash business and all that, but Eddie?

“What have you got against Eddie?”

“Nothing!” she burst, then got up and started to pace. “I just…” She licked her lips, unable to stop walking and unable to form words either, it seemed. She couldn’t stop though. Not to leave, not to make eye contact. Her hard was pounding, and her breath was coming in short bursts. She felt everything closing in around her and wondered if she was having a panic attack.

Suddenly, she stopped and forced herself to look at him.

“Do you want me to go?”

“No,” he said instantly, standing too. “I want an explanation.”

She swallowed.

“I thought you and I were good last week.”

“We were,” she said. “We are.”

“Yet you purposely didn’t want me near you this week?”

Her knees locked, and she tensed up.

“And Eddie…what in the world did he do except home to you? I would’ve thought you’d be happy about that.”

Tears welled in her eyes. Her fingers were sweaty and tingled. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

“Iris.”

Answer.

“I don’t love him anymore!”

She covered her mouth at the same moment his eyes bulged, and he nearly stumbled backward.

“What?” he finally managed.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair as she started to pace again.

“I realized it last week. Or rather, I’ve been slowly realizing it for the past several weeks. I’ve just been…in denial.”

Barry’s pulse started racing. He approached her moving form with one determined step after another.

“What have you been in denial about, Iris?”

She stopped.

“What I just said!” She licked her lips again. “I don’t love him. I’m not in love with him anymore. But I don’t…I don’t know how to tell him. I don’t want to break his heart. Especially after I went out of my way to make him feel bad about thinking there was anything between us, when really-”

“Wait, wait, wait, us? As in, you and I, us?”

She looked up at him reluctantly and nodded.

“Yeah.”

“He doesn’t know I told you how I felt, does he? At Christmas?”

“No!” Her eyes widened. “No, I didn’t tell him that. He’d probably have punched you by now if I had.”

Barry paled, then squeaked, “Really?”

“Uh-huh,” she confirmed.

“W-Why?” He wrapped his arm around the back of his head.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He gave her a blank look. “You were trying to get his girlfriend to break up with him. To be with you.”

Barry thought about it for a few seconds, then realized that yeah, he kind of had been. He shook his head after he got past that thought.

“I still don’t understand though. If you didn’t tell him about that…” He locked eyes with her. “Did you tell him you…find me attractive?”

“Oh, God, no.” She pressed her face into her hands. “That would’ve been even worse.”

“Worse than a love confession? How?”

“Because it’s coming from me! And I…”

“What?”

She power-walked to right in front of him and prepared herself for the blow of all blows.

“I don’t just find you attractive, Barry. I have…I have feelings for you.”

I’m in love with you – But she couldn’t admit to that yet. Not while she was still dating Eddie.

He swallowed, fighting with the smile that wanted to take over his face.

“What kind of feelings?”

“Barry.” Her voice softened. “You know what kind.”

“Tell me,” he said. “Just so I know for sure.”

He was holding his breath, and she couldn’t blame him. Honestly, she was on the brink of holding hers too.

“You make my heart race, Barry.”

“Iris.”

He started to lean in, and it took all of her willpower to step back out of reach.

“No, we can’t. I can’t. It’s bad enough I cheated once. This can’t go any farther until it’s over.” She met his eyes. “Until Eddie and I are over.”

Barry swallowed.

“And when will that be?”

Her shoulders slumped, and her bottom lip quivered.

“I don’t know.”

His shoulders caved in as well. He forced himself not to get mad, but he couldn’t help feeling disappointed. So, the love of his life finally felt the same way, but she wouldn’t let herself act on it? And she wouldn’t do the one thing that would allow them to be together.

“Is that the only thing you came to tell me?” he asked, unable to keep some chill out of his words.

Iris supposed she couldn’t blame him.

“No…” she admitted, deciding not to mention how she hadn’t meant to tell him as much as she had.

“What else?”

She pursed her lips, hating that she had to turn this conversation into a business one before she could give him the answer that he wanted.

“What else, Iris?” he asked, sounding exhausted when she didn’t answer for too long.

“It’s about, Dr. Wells,” she finally said.

That caught him off guard.

“Dr. Wells? What does he have to do with anything?”

“I hope nothing, but just in case…can we go somewhere else? To talk?”

He wanted to ask her what was wrong with his lab, but he supposed the fresh air would do them both good. Give them a clear head and put everything she’d already said to rest for the time being. After all, she sounded awfully serious about whatever else she wanted to talk about.

“Sure,” he said. “Just let me grab my jacket.”

“Barry,” she called after him as he walked by her.

He stopped when he reached his garment.

“I’m sorry about…everything.”

“Don’t worry about it, Iris,” he said, as he slid his arms through the sleeves. “It’s fine.”

…

Hours later, and on a whim, Eddie found himself at a jewelry store – diamonds, to be more specific. In the back of his mind, he knew his intentions probably weren’t smart. Especially not right now, not with the way things were between him and Iris, especially this week. But there was another part of him that thought this might be just the thing to jolt their relationship back into what it had once been and the potential of what it could be, the future he’d seen from almost the minute he started dating her.

He pointed out a ring nestled in velvet that caught his eye in the display case below him. An employee walked up, inspired by his curiosity and tried to catch his attention.

“Sir?”

“Can I see that one, please?”

The man smiled.

“Of course.”

He reached for the key and unlocked the case. Just as he was pulling the velvet block out with the specified ring upon it, Eddie’s phone started to vibrate.

“Oh, excuse me.”

He turned partially away and glanced at the screen on his phone. He answered immediately, a smile on his face.

���Hey, Iris, what’s up?”

“I’m home,” she said, and he could hear the frown in her voice.

“So early?”

“Yeah, I felt bad for coming home so late every night this week…I thought we could have dinner together.”

“That sounds great.”

“Yeah?” She sounded relieved.

“Definitely. I’m uh…just running a last-minute errand. I’ll be home soon.”

“Okay. See you then.”

“See you.”

He turned back to the jeweler as he slid the phone back in his pocket, and his eyes widened with enthusiasm as the ring was presented to him.

“Oh, yeah. This is the one.”

#westallen #westallen fanfiction #backtothestart02 fanfiction #just best friends #chapter 9

[wickedgamesoyaoya]

⇺ ⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂ ⇻

↣ Masterpost

↣ inspired by @haik-choo’s post

↣ wc: 1.7k 

↣ warnings: some self inflicted pain (nothing major!), cheating mentions, serious heartbreak. 

↣  song recommendation:  tolerate it - taylor swift 

↣  preamble (as written by haik-choo):  akaashi keiji doesn’t get that not everyone can understand how someone feels with one look. he puts an extra sugar in his coffee and expects you to know that he wants to go out to a bakery, he clicks his red pens a few extra times and expects you to know that he needs refills – he says he has a lot of work tonight and expects you to make him midnight snacks. to him, that stuff is easy. why can’t you understand him? he does it for you – he shouldn’t have to say it out loud. you should already know what he’s thinking. if you don’t, maybe you don’t love him as much as he thought you did.

The complexity of love has never been accurately represented in the media. Films present reality through the lens of a fractured mirror to provide viewers a sense of emotion they cannot find elsewhere. Fairy tales are perhaps the worst form of media to exist. They are created to be consumed by young impressionable children who develop unrealistic expectations that are later thrust upon the unfortunate souls that become their partners. You were one of those children who bought the falsities sold to you. Love was something magical, the intertwining of two hearts.

You were sixteen when you fell in love for the first time. Enthralled by how one emotion could paint new colours in the horizons, you allowed yourself to fall… it was perfect, until you found yourself crying on the bathroom floor, wondering why the fairy tales lied to you.

You were seventeen when you first experienced heart break. Even now, you can remember the shame that drenched your soul when you learned that the one you loved, had slept with someone else. Each inch of your skin was tainted by your “prince charming.”

That night, your mother had to drag you out of the bath. The pads of your toes and fingers had shriveled up, while your arms and legs burned a bright crimson from the incessant scrubbing. Yet the tingling of your skin was merely a scratch in comparison to the laceration inside of your heart, and there was no band aid that you could apply there.

That was December 3rd 2014 – the date you abandoned your foolish ideals.

You met Akaashi Keiji exactly six months later.

If you were ever asked to describe the mystery that is Keiji, where would you begin? Were there truly any words that could accurately capture the very essence of his kind soul? Or the depth of this mesmerizing eyes? How would you possibly begin to explain how a single caress by his calloused fingertips had melted away the imaginary grime that had coated your skin? If anyone was prince charming, it was him.

But little did you know that sometimes he doubted whether you were his Cinderella. His happily ever after…

The first indication of his veiled concerns occurred in your last year of high school. With the departure of his third-year friends, Akaashi was titled captain of the boy’s volleyball team. While he enjoyed volleyball, he was never obsessed with the sport like his best friend. Volleyball was his hobby, nothing more and nothing less. He was more concerned with maintaining his high academic record than securing a ticket to nationals. Last year balancing the various fragments of his life was simple. But the absence of his friends weighed on him, each day the anxiety increased until he could barely sit without jitters swarming his limbs. As his girlfriend, you should have known the stress he was battling… Sure, he was pushing you away, but you should have known why.

Yet, when you attempted to thwart his efforts to establish distance, you were chastised for your lack of understanding.

“Y/n. I am busy. Please do not disturb me during practice.” Not the slightest bit of respect was allocated to you, despite your status as his girlfriend. And while his pointed response was undoubtedly directed towards to you, his attention was on the practice commencing inside of the gym. “Listen, I need to go back. If you want to talk, consider picking a more appropriate time in the future.” Rolling the towel within his grasp, he refused to acknowledge you beyond sharing these words.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” To even utter an apology stole the limited resolve you had to address the situation. How much did you have to degrade yourself to fix a relationship he evidently did not want?

But the following day at lunch period, a dozen roses were delivered to you with an apology note attached to the stems. It was only natural for you to grant him the forgiveness he sought. Dismissing his actions was simple once you rationalized it as a normal reaction to an abundance of pressure. Diamonds may be created under pressure, but he was no diamond, and neither were you.

The second indication of his concealed doubts did not emerge from a set of actions, nor did it include the exchange of harsh words. Rather, it was his silence that nurtured your insecurities and provided you confirmation that while he was your happily-ever-after, you may not be his.

To celebrate Keiji’s 19th birthday, his mother had offered to host a gathering at his childhood home. When the details of the party were conveyed to you, excitement had fluttered to life inside of your stomach. It was the perfect opportunity to develop your relationship with the woman who had raised your wonderful boyfriend. Yet, not even the purest of intentions would save you from the humiliation that awaited you that night.

At one point of the evening, Keiji had vanished for a considerable amount of time. Naturally, you searched the house for your boyfriend. When you peaked inside of the kitchen, you found him engaging in a conversation with his mother. You almost called out to him instinctively, except your vocal cords denied you access when you caught the end of their conversation.  

“Has she been tending to your needs yet? Or has she remained as useless as before?” The older woman clutched the stem of her wine glass, with a scoff clawing at her throat. It seemed that the liquor coating her tongue had turned the muscular organ into a knife.

Keiji stood with his back pressed against the kitchen island, listening without a reaction. The nonchalance emanating from his demeanour indicated that this was not the first occurrence. No, this had happened before, otherwise he would have had some form of a reaction. A flinch – a twitch – anything. But he stood still, emotionless, distant. The targeting comments were equivalent to a whisper in the wind – not deserving of a response, nor a stir.

“Keiji, you are aware that you are wasting your time and yet you stay with her?” The sigh falling from her stained lips was extended to emphasize her distress, and the gentle sound was enough to weaken your knees.

No longer able to support your own weight, you leaned against the wall, allowing your eyelids to flutter shut. Your fingers tangled with the fabric of your shirt as you waited for his response.

Say something – anything. Just tell her she’s wrong.

Yet the denial never came.  

The first two indications were shoved aside, dismissed with excuses that would serve as a band-aid on your decaying relationship. But then came the third.

The third indication of his doubt occurred on an average college night when you were in the process of selecting your outfit for the night. Bokuto had arranged an unofficial Fukurodani reunion for the boy’s volleyball team. As Keiji’s girlfriend, the invite was naturally extended to you. Usually your boyfriend would be in higher spirits knowing that he would soon be in the company of his high school friends. But tonight, a frown remained etched into his features, not wavering for even a single moment.

“Which one? I don’t want to be underdressed. But on the other hand, Kou is always dressed really weird. So, I don’t know.” Two outfits were presented towards the male, a scarlet cocktail dress and a navy pantsuit with a low cut.

“Does it matter, y/n?” The sharp remark was blown out with a heavy sigh. It was as though he could not muster the energy to care for your feelings. Or perhaps, he simply chose to display his inner conflict, with no concern of the consequences of his decision.

The noise was startling enough to strip you of the excitement that once animated your movements.

“I guess not, but is it wrong that I want to look good for my boyfriend?” The counter question was voiced barely above a whisper, with each word sounding fainter than the last.

“Maybe if you knew me well enough you wouldn’t have to ask.” His eyes did not meet yours, rather they stayed fixed on the writing utensil within his grasp. “It’s not that hard, y/n. You just don’t care enough to put in the effort.”

The verbal assaults implanted daggers into your chest, but the pain would only become worse – since he was not done just yet.

“If you refuse to love me with your entire heart, what is the point? Let me go.”

“Keiji!” Pain cut along the inside of your throat from the shriek erupting from your chest. Had you ever screamed his name in quite a harsh manner? Liquid blurred your vision, and with your air-filled organs wheezing in distress, your words were stated between staggered breaths.

“I am not a fucking mind reader.” The fog of desperation encompassing you was comprised of poison, one that soon threaded throughout your system. The properties of the poison enflamed your lungs, burning the organs and halting the flow of air. Instinctively your hands were sent to your skin, clawing at the flesh as if you could simply rip out the emotions suffocating you. “Just because I don’t love you the way you think I should, doesn’t mean I don’t.” Whether the words spilling from your lips were responsible for the bitter taste in your mouth, or the tears now gracefully parading down your cheeks was unknown. Either way, the release of the steaming liquid eased the burning sensation in your lungs.

“I’m done, Keiji. I’m done.” Slowly claiming your insides was a thin layer of ice. By now, you had run out of excuses for his behaviour. There were no longer any band-aids you could use to tend to the wounds. The question of whether your boyfriend considered you “the one” was answered.

Despite the ache weaving into your muscles, your feet dragged you to the front door. A piece of you desired to catch one final glimpse of him – as your heart knew this would be the final time you would see him. But afraid you would lose your resolve to leave, you pressed the car keys against your palm, and remained fixed on the exit.

Behind you, the brunette voiced a weak apology – you were unable to catch the exact words, as they were muffled by the fabric of his sleeves. But not even the sweetest words could remedy the situation. Since, now you had accepted the truth.

Love was never a fairy-tale, and Akaashi Keiji was not a prince. Love would never be what you wanted it to be, and it would always hurt.

Love would always hurt.

A/N: I ended up finishing this today because I got into a bad mood and so I needed to channel it into something lol 

Taglist: @sayakaaaaaa @sanitisegermsfree @haikyuufairy @newfriendjen @lvoejimin @moonlightaangel @gyozaaaaa @byun-nies @thevillagehiddenintheinternet @amberalisa @graykageyama @yourstarvic @chaichai-the-weeb @chibishae34 @haikyuusimp91 @volleybloop  @rajablast @idiot-juice-enthusiast @melonmayhere @cuddlesslut  @athenarosaline @memes-and-money @coconut-dreamz  @mismatched-loves @elianetsantana @tsumume @tsukkismamagucci @the-golden-jhope @camcam1617 @prettyforpapiiwa @swoonhui​ @neobakas​ @azumane-kun @elephantloser​ @dreamstormings​ @anejuuuuoy​   

~ message me to be removed from the general taglist + bolded means I can’t tag ya 

#akaashi haikyuu #akaashi keiji #akaashi keji x reader #akaashi x y/n #akaashi imagine #akaashi angst #akaashi x you #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu

[allegedlyanandroid]

Pairing: Allen60 Prompt: Cold Types: Found Family, Fluff AU: Angels and Demons, Sixty as the little devil he is, and Allen just being human.

I am so late 😅 I wrote an entire thing before realising I hated every word of it and started over from scratch. Anyway... excuses aside, I hope you like it @yayen-chan <3 `(‾◡◝)´ 

“Okay, bookshelves first,” Allen mutters, following the intricate maze of arrows and concrete as he tries to navigate the local IKEA. “Or rugs. That works too,” he sighs when he glances up and finds himself in the wrong part of the store. Looking through the copious amounts of different rugs Allen rapidly finds himself overwhelmed. He tries reading a few of the ridiculously complicated names, stuttering over them when trying to read them out loud. “Ra- raskmol- mölle?”  

Giving up on the fifth time trying to pronounce it correctly Allen rolls the grey-and-black striped fabric up and tosses it on the cart, already dreading trying to find the rest of the items on his list. There’s only one really but when passing through the plant-section he stops to pick up a potted plant. The other one is beyond salvaging from lack of water. “Ilex, foreeneling? För-enlig. What are these names?”  

After another dead-end and some frustrated grumbling, he does find the bookshelf he needs. Honestly… this trip alone solidifies why he’s never getting a puppy. The one he took in to foster was a sweet thing but very demanding and unaware that he weighed quite a lot for a pup. He’d knocked Allen’s bookshelf over, thus breaking it, and also had an accident on his rug. If being petless meant never having to go here again then that’s a price he’s willing to pay. At least the shelter had found a family for him quickly and, while he did miss the little rascal, the puppy was undoubtedly in better hands.  

“Kallax, hemnes... gersby?”

Too caught up in his own head he doesn't notice the strange scent of warm brimstone and ash filtering through the air nor does he notice the young “man” standing behind him, a man who seemingly appeared out of thin air, until he hears the sound of a throat clearing. Allen jerks his head up from wrestling with the cardboard box and offers an apologetic smile over his shoulder. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

“Or, you could tell me why I’m here and spare me the mundane small talk you humans seem so obnoxiously fond of.”

“I’m sorry?”

The man squints. “You summoned me.”

Allen pauses to take a good look at the man. He’s tall with black, artistically tousled hair and endless amounts of freckles. A few moles are scattered across his skin and his brown eyes are filled with irritation. Dark jeans with a long-sleeved shirt tucked into it, a black overcoat ending at about mid-thigh and a purple scarf hanging unknotted around his neck. Allen thinks long and hard yet finds no recollection of ever seeing this man before in his life let alone speaking to him. “I have no idea who you are.”

“You-” the man pinches the bridge of his nose, inhales deeply and slowly let it out before starting again. “You read the incantation to evoke me and you what… didn’t even realise it?” he asks and receives nothing but a blank stare from Allen in return. “Ugh, humans.”

In the blink of an eye the man transforms. Horns curve with the shape of his skull, producing from close to his temples, before ending in sharp tips that blend in with his raven hair. A black tail is wrapped around his leg which ends with a jagged spear-like point. The tips of his fingers look like they’ve been dipped in charcoal, fading into dark grey about halfway up his fingers, with claw-like black nails top it all off. They tap against the metal shelf next to them as the demon slowly advances.  

Too shocked to move, Allen’s jaw is taken in a firm grip and when the demon smiles his teeth are pointed blades. “So… are you going to tell me what it is you want?”

“You can let go of my face for a start,” Allen says, adding a quick “thank you,” when the demon does as he’s told. “What’s your name?”

“You may call me Sixty.”

“Sixty,” Allen repeats. “No offence but I quite like having my soul intact. I’m sorry for dragging you from… whatever circle of hell you reside in, but I’m not interested in making any sort of deal with you.”

“Sucks to be you then because I’m not leaving until you do,” Sixty says and from his tone of voice alone Allen knows he’s a hundred percent serious.  

‘Fucking IKEA.’

-

“Really? You couldn’t have chosen to live somewhere a bit warmer?” Sixty asks with disdain, thankfully back to looking human. His feet sink into the four inches worth of snow dusting the ground and he can already feel the cold seeping in through the gaps in his clothing. “Or somewhere nicer in general.”

“No one’s forcing you to stay.”

“No one’s forcing you to live here.” A pause. “Or if they are, I am more than willing to kill them for you free of charge.”  

Allen sighs.

-

Having a demon for a housemate isn’t as bad as he thought it would be. Sixty mostly keeps to himself whenever he isn’t trying to get a rise out of him or complaining about the cold or putting things on tall shelves like the little shit he is. Until Sixty gets bored that is.

Because when Sixty gets bored trouble ensues.  

-

Emerging from his office after a long day of meetings to see his demonic housemate casually chatting with parts of his team in the breakroom is a bit out of left field and the sight of Sixty’s mischievous eyes boring into his own is enough to quicken his pace. “What are you doing here, Si- Silas?” he asks, forcing a smile on his face.

He hates how no one else can look past the innocent brown eyes and syrupy grin to see the smugness beneath. “I thought we were supposed to eat lunch together? Did you forget?”

“No, of course not,” Allen hastens to say, ignoring Willis and Clark’s knowing grins, as he wracks his brain for a response. “Though I distinctly remember asking you to wait outside.”

“It would have been rude of me to decline Julie’s offer of getting coffee,” Sixty replies and raises his mug as if to show it off.

“No need to be jealous, boss. We just wanted to get to know the guy better,” Julie says.

“Yeah, it’s not like we’ve ever seen you hang out with anyone outside of work apart from Reed,” Clark pipes up. “We got curious.”

“I’m not jealous!” Allen tries to defend himself, latching on to the word, but the agitated tone does nothing to help his case. Sixty smirking behind the rim of the coffee cup like a cat who got the cream isn’t helping to improve his mood either.

“You are the pettiest asshole I’ve ever had the unfortunate luck of meeting,” Allen says when they’re safely away from prying eyes.

Sixty snickers, knowing full well the amount of endless curiosity and ceaseless questions he’s unleashed on the human. “There’s an easy way to get rid of me.”

The fistful of snow he gets shoved in his face shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

By the time he manages to blink the melting snow out of his eyes Allen is too far away to retaliate, though that doesn’t stop Sixty from trying.  

-

Despite his best efforts Sixty’s irritation with being unceremoniously dragged into the mortal plane dissipates after the third week of staying with Allen. By the time he’s been there for a month and a half, Allen’s team have adopted him as one of their own and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t flattered. They genuinely care about his well-being and often invite him along on outings. As someone whose family is… overbearing, their light-hearted ribbing is a nice change of pace. Their easy dynamic is the very opposite of stifling. No one ever pries when he declines to answer a question. No one touches him after he made it clear he dislikes physical contact. No one quizzes him about his every movement.

It’s… nice.

The next team building exercise and subsequent photo op, proudly displayed on the communal fridge, includes him and Sixty doesn’t cry even a little bit upon seeing that.  

Not at all.

-

In the end, the shift in their relationship is near seamless ‒ from reluctant roommates to friends to something more.  

What hits him first is the metallic scent of fresh blood and Sixty is halfway across the room before he can even process rising to his feet. He gathers Allen up in his arms and leads him to sit down on one of the kitchen chairs. Part of his dark shirt is tacky with blood and Sixty feels no remorse when he shreds it to get it off as quickly as possible. Something, a bullet or knife, must have grazed his side. It’s bleeding sluggishly though it thankfully isn’t deep. Sixty takes the ruined shirt and presses it against the wound. “Keep putting pressure on it.”

Allen doesn’t answer and in the end he’s the one who has to move Allen’s hand to take over while he dashes to the bathroom for the medkit. Sixty plunks it down on the floor and fills a bowl of lukewarm water to put down beside it before fetching a clean towel. He kneels down between Allen’s legs and cleans meticulously around the area, noting the patches of skin where bruises are slowly forming. Swiping over the wound with antiseptic earns him a bitten-off hiss and Sixty puts a hand on Allen’s sternum to steady him after the first involuntary flinch.  

He keeps it there, soothed by feeling the steady thrum of Allen’s heartbeat beneath his fingertips, until he needs the use of both his hands. In its absence, Sixty’s tail comes up to wrap loosely around his thigh for comfort.  

Butterfly bandages instead of sutures, his tail instead of his hand. Allen doesn’t say a word about either choice though he is smiling down where they’re connected once Sixty chances a quick peek.

There’s nothing left for him to do after covering the wound with gauze, taping the edges down, yet Sixty finds himself lingering there regardless.  

It’s easy to trace around the gauze with the very tip of a claw and when he catches Allen’s dark eyes the urge to lean down to place a gentle kiss over it wins out. Allen sighs quietly and coaxes Sixty up to kiss him properly ‒ a chaste press of lips against lips followed by a sincere thank you.  

Sixty blushes and knocks his forehead against Allen’s, mindful of his horns, in a silent show of affection.

-

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”

“Because I literally stepped in the door a second ago?” Allen laughs and pulls Sixty in for a quick kiss.

“Excuses,” Sixty sniffs and steals another kiss, one that quickly devolves into a dozen pecks being pressed all over his face until Allen plants a last lingering one to his lips.

“I love you,” Allen says when they break apart for real.  

The shy smile spreading over Sixty’s lips is one he’ll never tire of seeing.

#slowly but surely working my way through these #sorry it's taking so long #dbh allen #captain allen #dbh sixty #rk800 sixty #allen60 #dbh #detroit: become human #detroit become human #allegedly answering asks #mini fic #my writing #that awkward moment when you're in an ikea and accidentally summon a demon

[let-it-raines]

Black Velvet (1/1)

1919. The War is over, but life is far from normal. While the imminent danger is gone for many, it is not gone for Emma Swan. Her secrets have always been dangerous and had the ability to control her, but they have never been more dangerous than now as she is forced to work undercover as a barmaid and keep her true intentions hidden from the most notorious gang leader in England. 

Her life depends on it, but unfortunately for Emma, Killian Jones can read her better than anyone ever has. 

Rating: Mature 

a/n: I was going to wait to post this next week since I’ve been catching up on posting other things this week and flooded you all with words, but I am sooooo excited for this one! Like, I haven’t written a big one-shot in awhile, and this one is a little different for me. But I love it, and hope that you do as well! For my Peaky Blinders fans, I think you’ll recognize some similarities because this is def based on it😘

Found on AO3 | here | 

-/-

There is a sudden crash of glass shattering against the battered wood floor, stains of alcohol, blood, and the scuff marks of boots covering it to make it a darker wood than it originally was. She’s scrubbed that floor until her hands were dry and cracked, but the stains are as imbedded in the wood as the Jones family is in this place, their place. The stains might well be purposeful, and really, they could have been, a sure sign that the Joneses are not scared to let anyone know they do not mind getting blood on their hands or mind leaving the evidence behind. In fact, they are likely proud of it.

Loud cursing fills the usually subdued pub, arguments over whose fault it was for the spilling of the whiskey, but Emma knows that it doesn’t matter whose fault it was when she’s the one who has got to clean it up and scrub the damn floors clean when all is said and done.

Damn drunk men and their damn petty fights over what always amounts to being about a woman who has no interest in either of them.

Sighing, she turns on her heels behind the bar where she was polishing tumblers and other glasses and walks back into the storage room to retrieve the broom and dustpan along with some cloths. She is not supposed to leave the bar and the alcohol unattended, but she has been working here long enough to know that anyone who stumbles into this particular pub is smart enough to know not to steal from the Jones family.

They’ll be dead faster than the rum can pass their lips, and the Joneses don’t give out the good stuff to just anyone so that would be one pathetic last drink.

Twisting on the lights in the closet, her eyes scan over shelves of supplies and half-empty bottles that have somehow made their way back here, until she finds the broom, unattached from the pan.

Of course. Why would the broom ever be stored away with its matching set?

“Fuck,” she mutters, adjusting her trousers. They are too large around her waist, but she hasn’t had time to buy any new clothes lately. From what she’s gleamed, trousers on women are not widely accepted in Birmingham, but some days she cannot be bothered to wear a dress that squeezes the breath out of her. Today was one of those days, but unless she wants her knickers on display for everyone to see, she is going to have to buy new clothes soon.

“That’s no language for a lady.”

Immediately, she twists around to look at the other side of the room where the deep, accented voice originated. He’s standing with his gray suit clad legs crossed over another, arms stretched over his chest so that his shirt tightens around his muscles, and there is a bloody smirk plastered on that ever-handsome face under the dark brush of his facial hair. He’s without his cap and suit jacket today, but he’s never without his vest and the shirt that stays indecently unbuttoned. It is the one thing that never changes about his appearance, and the day she sees his shirt fully buttoned, Emma knows shit will start flying in every direction.

“Well, as you know, I’m far from a lady. I work here after all.”

Blue eyes flicker up and down her body, taking in the curves of her hips and her breasts even under her loose clothing, the bastard, and if possible, the smirk intensifies, curling from one side of his lips to the next.

“Now, darling,” he croons, uncrossing his legs and taking three strides forward to stand in her space, hovering just enough above her to make her feel smaller than she already is, “you and I both know that is not true.” “Do we?” she argues, raising a brow in his direction.

He chuckles, something dark that heads straight between her thighs, and then warm hands are on her hips, rough fingertips brushing against the skin at her waist, and hot breath brushes over her ear and down her neck while whiskers prick her skin.

“Did you miss me, love?” Killian whispers before pulling back, putting space between them as quickly as he closed it off.

“Were you gone?”

His head tilts back with laughter, and she watches him roll his shirt sleeves up, revealing angry red scars and marks on his left hand. She’s heard the rumors of how he received those scars, but when it comes to Killian Jones, rumors are not reliable. He’s done things the average person could never dare dream of, and fiction and reality toe a thin line, both of them crossing until everything is blurred.

“I was in London for two weeks, love. I cannot believe you didn’t notice my absence. I would have thought it would be at the forefront of your mind.”

“Well, I know this may be hard for you to believe, but my thoughts do not revolve around you.”

His brow lifts, lines on his forehead moving with it, and he cocks his head to the side, disbelieving. “A woman as fascinating as you must have too many things to fill her mind other than me, so I can actually believe it if you must know.”

“You flatter me.”

Killian clicks his tongue. “I intend to.” He moves around her, footfalls quiet, and presses open the hidden door in the closet he must have walked through to be in here. “My brothers and I will be in our dining room today. Get the good stuff from the safe.”

Emma mockingly bows. “It would be my pleasure.”

He stares, blue eyes bright compared to the darkness of the rest of him, and then he slips out, moving through the back hallways and compartments that were installed during the War but are now used for the family to avoid their enemies and the coppers, who are usually paid off but can sometimes still question the Joneses’ business practices, especially when there’s a new hire for their more questionable ventures. It is a fascinating thing to watch how a family who supposedly manufactures automobiles and distills rum has such a varied number of enemies. Maybe that is simply how it is for all businessmen, but Emma wouldn’t know.

She is simply a barmaid after all.

When she exits the closet with both broom and pan in hand, the argument is over, but the shattered glass remains. She quickly cleans it, dumps the glass outside, and gets back to tending bar, talking to the men who wander in and out of the place. Half of them fancy her, she knows. It’s obvious in the way they speak to her, even more obvious in the way they will often attempt to touch her, but Emma does not get paid to appease the baser desires of the patrons of My Fairest Lady. If she did, she would be in an entirely different type of business where her purse would be full for once.

As the day passes, men come in and out in their tailored suits and carefully curated ties, and Emma watches all of them, seeing where they go and what they order. She watches as some walk up the stairs and only appear again hours lately, but mostly she watches the ones that walk into the pub and immediately turn right into the private room the Joneses sit in when they decide they are going to conduct business at the pub instead of in one of their offices. When the rest of the place quiets, she can often hear them, especially if she decides to rest near the small trap door through which they order their drinks.

Tonight, they are talking about needing new men, but she cannot hear well enough as to why. This has been her problem for weeks. She gleams a little information, but not enough, and if Killian Jones wasn’t so in tune to every noise in the place, she’d sneak through the back tunnels and listen from there.

That would surely get her killed.

The sun sets early, the smog from the factories outside aiding in the darkening of the world, and when her shift is over for the night, Emma grabs her things and leaves, walking through the streets of Birmingham until she is at her flat, a small, dingy little place that reminds her of the homes she grew up in. It wasn’t her first choice, but so often, things aren’t.

Emma twists the key in the lock and walks inside. For all of its faults, the place has electricity. That makes her life much easier since she does not have to go about striking matches and blowing out fire every few hours.

“Hello, dearie.”

Emma’s skin pales, and heaviness settles in her stomach, weighing her down to keep her from moving. Sitting at her kitchen chair is Robert Gold, and no matter how long she has worked with him, she will never feel comfortable when he decides to show his face without notice.

She will never feel comfortable even when he gives notice.

“Gold,” Emma nods, straightening her back. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Slowly, he stands, using his gold-encrusted cane to prop himself up, and Emma shuts the door behind her. She has a knife in a strap around her thigh, and while she technically works for him, she doesn’t trust Gold as far as she can throw that knife.

“Have you located the guns?”

“If I had, you would know.”

“That doesn’t work for me.”

Emma tilts her head back and scoffs, her rapid heartbeat calming as her skin heats, rage and fire and disbelief settling in the bumps of her skin. “Oh, my deepest apologizes. It is obviously a simple bloody task to infiltrate the most notorious gang in the city and gleam where they keep stolen guns. They don’t talk so openly about their business!”

Gold walks closer, beady eyes reflected under the lamplight, and Emma stays steady. “We hired a woman to do this because women are Killian Jones’s weakness. Get to know him, get in his bed, and then you will be in the inner circle.”

She spits. “I am not sleeping with him for your cause.”

“Is my cause not your cause? Getting rid of undesirable gangs and criminals that disrespect the Crown and steal from our arms factories?”

Emma laughs, her heartbeat racing again. “I work for you because I have no other choice. It was this or death.”

He shrugs, tapping his cane. “You shouldn’t have made a deal with me, and we wouldn’t be in this position. Alas, we are, and you must deal with the consequences of your actions, dearie. All deals have a price. I’ll be returning.”

Gold steps around her, making Emma move to the side, and then he exits her flat. His presence, however, lingers, and she feels as if grime and smog are coating her skin. That is a feeling that never goes away, but it is especially present after one of Gold’s visits. Emma curses and stomps her foot, despising her situation. She is only twenty-three years of age, but she has lived the life of an elder. Growing up in orphanages does not set a woman up for a good life, and seven years ago when she fell pregnant but couldn’t afford to take care of the baby, she went to Gold for help. He was known to be able to do anything, especially find homes for children without charging the birth mother exuberant prices, but no one told her the price of his services would be to work for him and the government in backhanded deals. It was this, death, or harm done to a child she has only held once but loves as if she was allowed to raise him.

She couldn’t be a mother, doesn’t know if she ever will be able to again, but she will not let harm fall on that child.

So, now, she is shipped across Europe, putting her life at risk every day. After all, what is the potential of death when compared to certain death?

-/-

Days pass, and Emma learns of no new information. She works long hours, taking extra shifts and standing behind the bar until her feet bleed from blisters, her heels too small with swollen feet. Every day, Killian and his brothers Liam and Lee walk inside, often with William Scarlet and Rob Locksley following behind them, but they say nothing more to her than greetings and drink orders. Killian will spend additional time leaning over the bar, his voice deep with his flirtations, but she pushes them away. She will not sleep with him to get information, and she will not sleep with him because he thinks she is easy prey.

Men like him, no matter how enticing, do not lead to good things.

Knowing he’s the head of a gang doesn’t reassure her.

Knowing one day he will have a price on her head, well, it does not give her any confidence that she could ever be anything more than a warm body in his bed. Most likely, he wouldn’t give her the curtesy of taking her there, instead taking her behind the bar.

If only she had been born into a family with means. Maybe then she could live a life where death did not linger so closely.

“Swan, darling,” Killian calls from his private room, “can you come in here?”

Emma stills, gripping on her glass, but she quickly composes herself. It’s not often she is called into the room, and while she would like an invitation to the inside, she knows it comes with risks. Slowly, she moves around the bar and heads toward the door. Liam opens it for her, nodding, and she steps inside as Liam closes the door behind her. Killian, Lee, William, and Rob are sitting in the cushioned booths, and Killian pats the seat beside him. She nods and sits next to him, keeping her posture straight and face neutral.

“Emma, love,” Killian starts, “you’re educated, are you not?”

“I am not.”

Killian twists and looks at her with wide eyes. “You speak like you’ve been educated.”

“Natural intelligence,” Emma shrugs. Gold gave her an education, but she refuses to give him any credit when most of it has been of her own doing. “I attended school as a child, but not much else. Everything has been self-taught.”

“See,” Lee sighs, “I don’t need more schooling.”

“You damn well do if you want to be a part of this business! We are educated men, and you will be no different.”

“Where did you go to school?” Emma asks, not able to help herself.

“Oxford. Though, my studies were interrupted by my needed service in the War.”

“It’s a shame.”

“I think I’m doing well for myself, regardless, love.”

“You should go to school, Lee,” Emma tells the youngest Jones brother, a bastard child of their father they brought into the family business. “You have the Jones Corporation to fall back on, but if you want to be a true asset, you should better yourself as much as you can.”

“Oi, am I bloody well supposed to take advice from a woman? A woman who is a barmaid no less? What could you possibly know?”

Killian slams his hand down on the table, glass and silverware shaking. “This woman is far more competent than you, lad, and I suggest you respect her. Everyone is your equal, no matter what dear old dad told you to make you believe otherwise.”

Lee curses under his breath, and Emma slinks back into the booth as the room stills, the air heavy with unspoken words waiting to be set free. She doesn’t know if she should stay or walk out of the room and back to her job, but Killian makes the decision for her. “Why don’t you all go? Get back to work.”

“What about what we were discussing?” Liam questions, but he still grabs his cap and his coat.

“We will discuss it later.” The men nod and then begin to shuffle out of the room. Emma moves to join them, but Killian reaches out and grabs her wrist, the warmth of his hand spreading over here. “Stay, Swan.”

She doesn’t dare deny him as she cannot give up any opportunity to learn more about him, so she turns and takes the seat opposite him, smoothing out her skirt and her hair. “Is everything alright?”

“The horse race is this weekend, as I’m sure you know, and I’d like to bring you as a guest.”

Emma blanches. “Excuse me?”

A smile creeps onto his face, and he reaches into his pocket to slide a bag of coins across the table. “I’d like to take you to the races as my companion. You should use this to buy a nice dress and hat.”

“Are you trying to buy my affections?”

“I think we both know you cannot be bought.”

If only he knew.

Emma studies him, trying to read past the smile and the friendly invitation, but she sees nothing of any use. “Why me?”

Killian leans forward, elbow pressed to the table and chin resting on his knuckle. “I fancy you from time to time when you aren’t ignoring me, as I have made no secret.”

Emma thinks to all the times where she’s forgotten herself and has allowed Killian to get close in the way she doesn’t want, all the times he has lingered close to her and pressed his lips to her neck before she pulls away. She will not sleep with him for money or for Gold’s cause, but she would be telling a lie if she said she has never considered it for her own personal reasons. Her mind is constantly contradicting her there, and Emma has never been able to settle her thoughts one way or another.

Getting into bed with dangerous men leads to getting into bed with dangerous things.

Emma has already put on the sheets and started slipping out of her shoes despite her best efforts not to.

“So, you expect me to buy a nice outfit and spend a day away with you as nothing more than an ornament on your arm because you fancy me?”

“I expect nothing of you. Every choice is up to you.”

Emma reaches her fingers across the table and takes the purse of coins. “Any color in particular you’d like for my dress?”

“Surprise me.”

-/-

Her dress is red, and when she walks into My Fairest Lady on Saturday morning, she can feel the eyes of the entire place on her. It’s made of a delicate lace and flowered accents and flares out at the hips, but the corset makes her breasts push up, cleavage showing where she usually hides it. Her heels were dyed to match, her hat too, and it is the nicest thing she’s ever worn. It feels foreign on her skin, and while Emma would prefer comfort, she doesn’t mind feeling elegant for once. Anna, the woman who lives next to her, saw Emma carry her dress home, asked where she was going with it, and insisted she allow Emma to roll her hair with hot curlers and apply paint to her lips. She thinks the redness of her lips along with the cleavage may be the thing that brings down the Jones Company, and if she’d known that, maybe she would have dressed like this earlier.

“You look,” Killian begins.

“I know,” Emma finishes, taking his hand as he helps her into the carriage. “You look nice as well.”

“And much like you, I did know that.”

The drive to the races doesn’t seem long, but Emma knows they’ve traveled for at least two hours. Killian doesn’t talk for much of it, but when he does, it’s to point out something on the side of the road. He’s able to tie everything in with a story from the War or something William Scarlet has done, and Emma chuckles, seeing the lighter side of them. She knows how they spend much of their time, and it is not taking all of Killian’s suits out of his closet and replacing them with Lee’s so they’ll be several sizes too small.

When they arrive at Cheltenham, it is like nothing Emma has ever seen before. The building around the track is glamourous and obviously newly built, and everyone around is in their nicest clothes. To Emma, this is foreign, every bit of it. Her life is a life in the shadows in tattered clothes and normal things. Her life is not spent betting on horse races and wearing dresses worth more than her flat to accompany the head of a gang while she secretly attempts to discover where he’s hiding the guns Gold wants.

She does not even know why Gold wants those guns so badly when the factory can surely produce more, but her entire life is about finding them.

She should have never stepped foot in his house had she known these would be the consequences, but she needed to give that kid the good life he has.

“This is spectacular,” Emma says as the carriage stutters to a stop amongst all the others, motors slowly dying out.

Killian takes her hand and guides her out of the carriage, placing his hand on her lower back when they set foot on the gravel. “You haven’t seen anything yet, love.”

Killian is right in that she hasn’t seen anything because when they walk inside, the floor is lined with black and white tiles, and the ceiling is home to ornate paintings and chandeliers that look too heavy to stay there. Emma shouldn’t feel overwhelmed by it all, but she does. Killian knows every other person they pass, some greeting him with reverence and some greeting him with fear, but they all greet him just the same. His hand stays steady on her back as he moves her though the hallways, and he introduces her to several other women before disappearing into another room. She wants to follow him, to see what business he’s doing, but she knows she can’t.

“How do you know Killian Jones?” a woman with long brunette hair asks. Emma thinks her name is Ruby, but she cannot remember. It was too much talking at once.

“How do you?” Emma counters.

“I was his lover years ago.”

Emma arches her brow. “Well, that does not shock me.”

“Oh, you don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

Ruby steps closer to her, whispering so no one around them can hear. “He had an affair with the wife of a powerful man, and the man killed his wife in front of Killian and burned Killian’s hand. After that, he slept with anyone who so much as looked like his lover because he was often too drunk to realize the difference. So, you, you’re different. I have never seen him go with a blonde.”

“Well,” Emma steadies, trying to keep her heart from racing after what she heard, “I am not his lover, so I imagine you’ll have to keep waiting to see that.”

“Not yet,” Ruby tells her before stepping away, dress trailing behind her.

“You ready to watch the races?”

Emma jumps at Killian’s returned presence, and he chuckles, placing his hand on her back again while looking down at her, amused. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Emma lies. “Just fine.”

She flashes a smile that reaches her eyes, making it as genuine as possible, and before Killian guides her to their seats, she sees a spot of blood on his shirt. She doesn’t know if it is his or someone else’s, but she does know that whatever business he had at the races has very little to do with horses.

-/-

Emma’s feet ache when she settles into her seat in the carriage, and she immediately toes out of her shoes and tucks her feet underneath her. Killian eyes her with curiosity, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he shrugs of his jacket and lays it over her lap.

“You may not have been able to move, but you cut quite the figure in that dress.” Her cheeks heat, but she doesn’t say anything, simply smiling at him. “Did you enjoy the races, Swan?”

“I did. Though, not as much as you.”

“What makes you say that?”

Emma hums and taps her fingers over Killian’s suit jacket, moving it to cover more of her. “Well, your purse is fuller. Your horse won, and if I heard correctly, you are now in charge of all bets.”

He turns to look at her, and if she were talking to any other member of the gang, she would back away. For some reason, however, the leader doesn’t scare her tonight, not like he should. She had one too many glasses of fine wine.

“How exactly do you know that?”

Emma points to the small blood stain on his shirt. “I’m assuming that is the blood of someone from the Mills family, who all mysteriously went away before the races even started. Everyone came to Rob and Liam to make their bets. It does not take a genius to figure things out once the pieces begin to fall into place.”

“Not a genius, no, but someone with an observant eye.” He leans forward, invading her space like he so often does. “You, love, know a little too much.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Emma whispers, breathless.

He leans closer, until her air and his air are the same, and Emma closes her eyes to brace herself, not knowing what is coming next. His lips ghost over hers, but they do not firmly touch. Instead they linger, and Emma feels every move he makes. “Keep you close,” Killian finally says. “I believe you would know too much for me to let you go.”

Enough but not what she needs.

“I believe you may be right.”

Killian rests his hand on her thigh before pulling back, their air separating into their own entities once more. “Lee would have a bloody fit if he ever knew you so quickly figured things out. The boy has potential, but he is too much like our father. I believe that will be his downfall.”

“I believe underestimating women will be his downfall.”

Killian clicks his tongue and nods. “You see, that stems directly from our father, the bastard of all bastards, and you are correct. Many a man was brought down by the kiss of a woman, but few of them have the smarts to know it was her brain that truly brought them down.”

“And you know that?”

“Aye, I do.”

Emma wants to ask about the woman Ruby mentioned early, but she doesn’t dare. She’s already toeing the lines of danger tonight, and mentioning the deceased woman Killian used to love seems ill advised.

So, she stays quiet and keeps her place, knowing she is one step closer to where she needs to be. She is gaining his trust more and more each day, but she also feels herself slipping into a place from which she cannot return.

Fuck.

-/-

Weeks pass, and the weather chills, Birmingham’s winter quickly creeping upon them. Emma freezes every day on her walk to the pub, but one day a coat appears in a box with her name on it. It is long and warm, and besides her red dress, the nicest thing she owns. Killian never confirms it is from him, but she knows it was. She knows the coat, the gloves, and the scarves are all from him, and while she tells him thank you, he never accepts any of her words. Instead, he invites her more into his life. She knows about the gambling and the illegal businesses of the Jones Corporation, and her knowledge gets her foot in the door.

Everything that happens inside is up to Killian.

He brings her in from the pub to settle arguments, to help with the numbers after he discovers she’s better with them than Rob ever has been, and when Liam goes away for some time to take his wife to visit her family in France, Killian often has Emma sit in Liam’s seat with his hand on her thigh underneath the table.

Killian Jones is not a man who takes his time courting women, but Emma cannot help but feel like that is exactly what is happening with her. It is surely not proper, but there’s too much lingering between them for it to be anything else.

Though, it does always stay lingering, never crossing the line, and Emma finds herself thinking more and more about the woman he loved and the string of women who followed.

She finds her resolve to keep her heart away from him teetering over the edge of no return.

She also thinks of Neal, of how much he promised her, of how much he let her down. He was going to give her a better life, but then he disappeared into the wind, never to be heard from again when she realized she was pregnant.

Surely she must take some blame for her situation, but Emma always remembers that so much of it is because of Neal.

Tonight Killian is allowing singing in the pub. He never does, says it makes the place too cheery when that is not his style of pub, but once a week, he allows the men to sing after she leads them off in whatever song she knows. The joyous mood leads to more drinking, which is more money for them, and she imagines that is the only reason Killian allows it.

If she were a conceited woman, she would say he allows it to hear her sing.

The Joneses and their associates march into the pub, some of them disappearing into the back room, but most come to the main part of the pub, moving around the crowd and disappearing into the thick of it. Emma watches Killian, and she can feel his eyes on her no matter where he is.

He never does come to the bar for long periods of time, not while the place is full of people at least, but then when Arthur Pemberton’s hand gets a little too close to Emma, suddenly Killian is there, standing with her, hand possessively on her hip while he warns Arthur not to let his libations get to him.

“I can handle myself,” Emma hisses when Arthur has stumbled away. “I do not need you.”

“Of that I have no doubt.”

“Then what was that? You wanted to show off who had the bigger cock?”

“Darling, I know that would be me.”

Emma’s head tilts back with feigned, exasperated laughter, but Killian does not seem amused. She waits for him to laugh, for the blue of his eyes to light up, but instead his jaw clenches from beneath his whiskered chin.

“Fancy a song then, sailor?” Emma asks to change the subject and keep them from getting into a row. For all the nights they have spent talking about small little details of their lives and their wishes, so, too, have they spent nights arguing. She knows when they’re on the verge of both.

“Why would I fancy a song?”

“To make you smile.”

“Alright then.” He taps his hand on the bar top before helping Emma up to her new vantage point, arching his brow while he looks at her. “Sing me a song then, lass.”

Emma nods and inhales, knowing the entire room will be listening, but she only focuses on the one man with blue eyes as clear as the ocean on a sunny day.

“In a neat little town they call Belfast, apprentice to trade I was bound. Many an hour’s sweet happiness had I spent in that neat little town. A sad misfortune came over me, which caused me to stray from the land. Far away from my friends and relations, betrayed by the black velvet band. Her eyes, they shone like diamonds. I thought her the queen of the land. And her hair, it hung over her shoulder, tied up with a black velvet band.”

When she finishes, the room is silent, her voice echoing between the four walls, and when she looks at Killian, she can see water in his eyes, a new ocean amongst the blue.

“Another!” someone in the crowd yells, but Emma doesn’t turn away from Killian.

“Oi, the lady sings one song. If you want a new one, sing it yourself!”

Emma chuckles and allows herself to sit down on the bar top, Killian helps her to the ground, her heels clicking against the hardwood. His hand lingers, warmth spreading through her, but as soon as it warms her, it disappears as Killian walks away, disappearing upstairs.

“Are you truly not going to sing us another song?”

Emma rolls her shoulders back and turns around, Leroy standing in front of her. She smiles softly and takes his glass, pouring him another drink. “If you ask me nicely, I just might.”

The night passes quickly, My Fairest Lady filling as it does on this day every week, but eventually everyone leaves, the place emptying as the streets quiet outside, the drunks all returning to their homes or their mistresses. Emma takes her time sweeping up, toeing out of her heels to let her feet rest, and she hums all of the songs sung today, their lyrics filling her usually tired mind.

She doesn’t hear him come in, and it would startle her if he didn’t step directly to her, taking her hands in his and pulling her close, joining in the songs she was singing. She didn’t think he could sing, but he carries a tune almost better than she does.

“I don’t dance,” Emma whispers.

“That is because you have never had a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

“And this partner is you?”

“Aye.”

Emma hasn’t danced in years, and she doesn’t know any of the traditional ones. She would be out of place at a ball for many a reason. She could wear the dress, have the nice man on her arm, but her footing would give her way. One wrong step, and everything would be over.

One wrong step here, she could be dead.

Once more, she has no interest in thinking of the real reason she’s here. She wants to stay in this moment, allowing Killian to sing sweet melodies to her, and she wants to forget about Gold and her mission and everything else.

Emma wants to pretend that for now she is nothing more than a woman dancing with a man she has come to fancy despite herself, no darkness and secrets between them.

What a world that would be.

Emma tilts her head up, looking at Killian, at the softness of his lips and the length of his dark lashes. He is different in this light, softer than his usual hard edges, but Emma knows they are still there, just below the surface.

“I took a stroll down broadway,” Killian sings, continuing her song from earlier, “meaning not long for to stay. When who should I meet but this pretty fair maid come a-traipsing along the highway. She was both fair and handsome. Her neck, it was just like a swan.”

Here, he runs a finger down her neck that ricochets into a tremor down her spine.

“And her hair, it hung over her shoulder, tied up with a black velvet band.”

“I thought you didn’t like music,” Emma whispers as his fingers toy with the ends of her loose hair. She’s enchanted by him, and for once, she isn’t afraid to admit it.

“That’s because not everyone sings like you, love.”

Slowly, Emma presses up on her toes, and her lips go gently over his, feeling the softness that resides there. He lingers, not pushing her forward, but before Emma can do just that, his hand comes to cup the nape of her neck, tilting her head for him to control the kiss. She never did imagine Killian Jones wouldn’t be the one to take charge of a kiss, so no part of this surprises her. He tastes like rum, the alcohol burning her tongue as heat overwhelms her, and Emma is so consumed by him that she doesn’t notice the way he’s backed her across the room until the edge of the bar is pressing into her lower back, leaving a mark that will linger longer than the burning of this kiss.

When Emma gently bites at his bottom lip, he growls, moving his hands to pick her up until she’s resting on the top of the bar. Emma cups his cheeks, the prickle of his beard scratching her palms, but she pays no attention to that when her legs wrap around his back and she feels his hips roll into hers, the firmness of him pressing into her in ways she hasn’t felt in too long.

It feels damn good, and if Emma were a proper woman, she would have stopped this and kept it from going too far.

She is not a proper woman.

Killian, however, seems to be a proper man, because he pulls back, sweat slicked forehead leaning against hers, and then he moves away, putting more space between him than Emma wants now that they’ve finally closed the gap they’ve lingered near since her first day on the job. All she wants now is to feel him pulsing inside of her, creating a rhythm that matches with the beat of her heart and brings her the pleasure she so craves.

“I am not having you on this bar,” he grumbles, his voice deep and hoarse. His hand falls down her back, grabbing onto her hip and pulling her closer to him. “You deserve more.”

“I wouldn’t mind.” And she means it. She once thought that he wouldn’t care enough to take her to a bed, but now she finds she’s the one who doesn’t care. Her blood is running hot, and she would be fine with it right here even if the countertop digs into her arse. “This is fine.”

He kisses her again, all teeth and tongue and rough determination, and she thinks he’s given up on his sense of chivalry, especially when he encourages her to wrap her ankles around him, but then he’s stumbling with the kiss and lifting her off the bar. She gasps at the sudden movement and circles her arms around his neck to keep from falling.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Emma protests, pulling away as Killian runs his mouth down her neck.

“I said I wasn’t having you on this bar, and I meant it. I have a private room upstairs for when I can’t sleep at home.”

There’s a dark hunger in his voice, one that thrums between Emma’s thighs, and while she’d much prefer to walk herself to the room, she allows him to have this moment. Her legs are likely too shaky with desire for her steps to be steady.

This is not what she intended to do when she kissed him, but she should have known. It’s been building for months, and Emma has shown enough restraint.

She is tired of convincing herself that she wants anything other than this. s

When they get to Killian’s room, he lays her down on the bed, and Emma immediately starts unlacing her dress at her breasts as Killian undoes the buttons on his shirt, pulling it off before he leans down to assist her, his tongue and teeth tracing her exposed skin and leaving red marks with all of his kisses. The heat between her thighs is a sharp throb now, and Emma writhes underneath Killian has his mouth touches the hollow of her throat and his hand reaches behind her knee, pulling her up until he drags against her in the perfect way that has them both moaning.

“You have tempted me since the moment you walked in this damn pub asking for a job.”

His mouth is eager with its ministrations, especially when he finds her nipple, and Emma is left searching for words as her heart threatens to beat out of her chest. Snow falls outside, cold white flakes coating the ground, but Emma is nothing but warm. Parts of her feel like she is on fire, and even as things progress and clothes no longer lay on her body, she might as well be wrapped in down blankets with a fire burning next to her and a hot drink in her hand.

Instead, she’s pressing into the mattress, Killian’s hand palming her breast while his mouth goes lower and lower until her back is arching into the air and she’s dragging her nails down his back and up into the soft tresses of his dark head of hair. Sweat is beading down her chest and collecting at her hair, and Emma never thought it would be possible to sweat in December in Birmingham.

“Killian,” she moans when he does something sinful with his tongue. “Oh fuck.”

He doesn’t say anything back, simply keeps working how he’s working, and for a long while, it’s like the pleasure is never going to end. It’s a constant working up and up and up until she’s dangling off the cliff, ready to let go.

Killian barely gives her any time to recover from her fall before he’s working his way back up her body, settling over her and settling against her so she can feel him bare where she wants him. Emma licks a stripe up his neck, salt on her tongue, and he grunts in response, rolling his hips against hers until both of them are messes.

Shifting beneath him, Emma moves until Killian is face to face with her, his lips lingering over hers and his wild, sweat slicked hair in front of her. She imagines her hair is tangled as well, and it’ll likely never be the same.

“Hello, beautiful,” he whispers, cupping her cheek with his hand.

“So, this isn’t the bar anymore,” Emma jokes, looking for levity in a moment that seems heavy.

“No, no it isn’t.”

They’re both quiet as he presses into her in a slick stretch of heat, and Emma immediately spreads her legs wider for a better fit, allowing him to settle. He’s thick and heavy inside of her, and Emma digs her nails into his back, holding on tight as she moves her hips to get a more perfect fit.

She is going to leave her mark with him tonight, red scars from her nails stretching across his back.

“You are wonderful.” He kisses her again, muttering soft words while his hips start moving, creating a rhythm that might just burn Emma alive, especially when Killian’s hand slides down to her arse and helps himself slide in deeper. “So fucking wonderful.”

“You are too.”

He groans above her, and his hips become that little bit more frantic as his chest hair creates friction against her breasts. This is the best Emma has felt in months, maybe even years, and she wants to chase this high for as long as she can, even as she feels herself tumbling over with each thrust of Killian’s hip and swipe of his thumb as his lips devour hers, only stopping to mutter filthy encouragements.

This is not how she expected today to go.

She wouldn’t change it for a thing.

Her skin is boiling now, and if the curtains were closed, Emma wouldn’t know it was winter outside. Sweat is slicked everywhere, but she doesn’t care.

She doesn’t care about anything except how good it feels when Killian engraves her name into the side of her neck as he succumbs to pleasure as well, his bodyweight pressing down on her, melding them from two to one.

After, Killian is gentle when he helps her clean up, and they settle underneath the blankets. Emma presses her right leg between his and rests her cheek against his collarbone as her fingers tread through the dark hair on his chest. She moves it around from where sweat has matted it, and she traces the red scars that make up so much of him. They look almost silver in the moonlight.

They look stunning.

Emma feels lips press to her temple, and she smiles, burying her face in his neck and breathing him in.

Happy. This is what happiness feels like. It’s been so long that it surprises her.

“I have to go.”

It’s like she’s been slapped.

“Sorry?”

“I have to go,” Killian repeats, but Emma can’t quite come to terms with the words. “I have…business to attend to.”

Her walls immediately come back up, brick by brick.

“You have business to attend to? Seriously? What the fuck kind of excuse is that? What? You fuck me and then leave? Were you using me because – ”

Emma pulls back away from him, sitting up and pulling the blankets with her, and Killian stays settled against the headboard, hands behind his head. “I had this business before I slept with you. Believe me, there is nothing I would rather do than stay in bed with you until I’m bloody dragged out of it, but I have to do this tonight.”

Emma scoffs and crawls out of the bed, getting finding her undergarments. “I’m coming with you.”

“Swan.”

“If I’m jumping into bed with you, I want to know the exact details of the man I’m jumping into bed with.”

He arches his brow, mouth curling into a smirk as his head nods to how exposed he is. “It may be a little too late for that now.”

Emma should be flustered, but she’s not. She’s determined that she won’t be left behind.

Her hands fall to her hips. “That depends on if you let me come with you.”

“Grab your damn coat and a scarf. You’ll freeze without them.”

“Are you a gentleman now?”

He clicks his tongue. “I’m always a gentleman.”

They take Killian’s carriage, only with him driving this time instead of the two of them sitting in the back, and they don’t speak wherever it is they’re going. Anticipation courses through her veins, gooseflesh spreading across her skin wherever it can reach, and a lump permanently lodges itself in her throat. She doesn’t know what to think, what to feel, and when they drive to a graveyard, Emma is certainly confused. When Killian grabs a shovel out of the back and leads her to his mother’s grave, her skin crawls for a reason entirely unrelated to the cold.

“She’s not buried here.”

“Oh?”

“No. I had a stone made, but she is closer to the ocean. It’s the place she loved the most.”

“Then what is – ”

Emma doesn’t bother finishing her question when she sees the gleam of guns underneath the moonlight. Her heart drops to the pit of her stomach, and for all that Emma has pushed away her thoughts of Gold and his threats lingering over her, there is no denying them now.

She found the guns.

Rather, Killian showed her.

She knows where they are, and by sunrise, she could be out of this place and out of this damn deal.

But Emma knows better than to think she’ll truly be free from Gold. He’ll find her again and bring with him new threats, and she’d be a fool to think otherwise.

Life as a moll has not seemed too bad lately, especially now that she knows how Killian feels when he kisses her, but she’s still torn between two places.

If she tells Gold where the guns are, she’ll be under his control for the rest of her life.

If she tells Killian, he’ll surely kill her.

For a moment, she contemplates a third option, one where she both keeps her breath and is able to truly live. It would never work, however. Gold would manipulate her, and she’d spend her entire life leading a double life, betraying the man who has obviously given her his trust.

The strange thing is, she has given him the same.

It’s not enough, and Emma, surrounded by all these graves, already knows she will have no headstone. There will be no one to mourn her.

She needs time to figure things out, and she’s running out of time.

Emma floats through the rest of the night, not knowing what she’s saying or doing, and when Killian leaves her at her flat with a resounding kiss that shakes her to her core, she thinks of running away with him. It should be easy. She’s been doing it her entire life.

“It’s late,” Killian whispers, “You should go inside and get some rest, but tomorrow, I have different plans for you.”

“Oh?”

He kisses her again, warming every bit of her body that is chilled. “Goodnight, my love.”

“Goodnight, Killian.”

Emma exits his carriage and walks into her building, a smile on her face until she unlocks her door.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Fuck,” Emma mutters, her senses coming back to her as Gold stands across from her. She hasn’t seen him since the last time he broke in, but he’s here now.

It’s too late for her to run away.

She is no longer floating through tonight.

“Where have you been?” Gold asks, his voice as cold as the snow outside.

“Working.”

“I noticed that Killian Jones himself drove you home.” The floor creaks underneath him, and his cane thumps against the floor at the same beat as her heart. “Interesting that. You didn’t come from the direction of the pub either.”

“We went for a drive.” Emma takes off her coat in an attempt at nonchalance.

“To where exactly, dearie?”

“Around the town. Nowhere in particular.”

“Is that so?” He steps closer and taps his cane. Emma doesn’t have a gun on her. She can’t risk anyone finding it at work, but she knows Gold has one on him. Fuck. She doesn’t even have her knife today, and they’re both across the room where Gold is. “Would your drive happened to have gone near the cemetery?”

Emma’s skin goes colder than the outside weather could ever make it, and it is difficult to keep her breath from shallowing.

She’s been caught, and Gold is most likely going to kill her for her disloyalty to him.

“The guns are in Allison Jones’s grave.”

She had to tell him. She had no other option.

She hates herself for it.

“That is what I needed to know. Meet me in Nottingham in a week. I’ll have a new assignment for you then.”

Emma nods and backs against the wall as Gold moves around her, his hand turning the knob on her front door. “What are you going to do with the guns? Return them to Churchill?” she asks against her better judgment.

He laughs, and gooseflesh appears on her arms and down her legs, pebbling her skin as nausea settles in her throat. “Well, I’m going to return them to Churchill, of course, but not before I have a little fun with Killian Jones. Wouldn’t you know that a gang leader was mysteriously shot in his home in the middle of the night? Must have been one of his many enemies that did it.”

“Why?” Emma whispers.

Gold smiles. “Jones is known for sleeping with another man’s wife years ago, and well, I was that other man.”

And then he’s gone, limping out of the room with that slow, aching walk of his. Emma feels as if she’s been slapped across the cheek by his cane, and she immediately turns to her sink, releasing her insides and heaving, waiting for her breath to come back.

It never truly does.

Gold’s carriage sputters to life outside as Emma heaves once more, and even though her brain is functioning at half of its capacity, she knows what she needs to do.

She has to tell Killian.

Everyone in town knows what he does is illegal, but there’s no proof of his family’s crimes. They make it all as legal as possible through their legitimate businesses, and often the local coppers are on their side.

Gold, Churchill, and the Constabulary on not on their side.

Gold is going to murder him just like he murdered his wife.

Emma grabs her coat, shrugging it on as she runs out the door, and she wishes she had a carriage. She doesn’t however, so as snow falls down around her, Emma runs through the streets of Birmingham, taking the alleys she frequents so often, to get to Killian’s home. She’s only been there a few times, nearly all of it for business reasons, but she knows the way.

Her lungs are heavy, her breath short, and her feet ache from the heels of her boots. She imagines frostbite is hitting her toes, but she can’t stop. She was foolish and allowed herself to develop feelings for this man, to fall in love with him in the midst of all her protests otherwise, and she can’t let him get arrested.

She certainly cannot allow him to be murdered. Gold has an agenda against him, and Emma knows the only reason Killian isn’t dead is because he wanted the guns first to cover up his crimes.

Fuck.

When Emma comes across the house, she runs into the door, banging her fist against the wood before picking up the clapper and hitting it. It seems like hours before anyone comes to the door, but eventually someone does, Lee opening it with his gun in his hand.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he grumbles.

“Where’s your brother?”

“If you’re here to fuck him, you’ll have to get in line.”

“What?” Emma gawks, her heart still pounding. She knows he’s fucking with her, but of all the people she doesn’t fully trust, Lee Jones is near the top of the list. She’s heard Killian talk about his similarities to their father too much to think of him as trustworthy. “No, it doesn’t matter. I need to talk to Killian.”

“If it’ll get you to be quiet, fine. First door on the right upstairs.”

Emma nods and hurries up the stairs, her steps as loud as a heard of elements, and while she does hesitate to enter his room because of Lee’s words, she still does. He’s sitting in his bed, alone, and now is really not the time for her to be focusing on how Lee is constantly trying to fuck with her because he spent too much time with their arse of a father.

“Swan? Bloody hell. What are you doing here?”

She may get murdered for this, but she’s trusting that she won’t. Maybe he’ll understand that she’s done him wrong in the past, but she’s trying to save his life now.

“Robert Gold.”

Killian immediately sits straighter and moves the blankets off him until he’s standing in front of her, looming. “How do you know that name?”

Emma rolls her shoulders back, the adrenaline pushing her words forward.

“I got pregnant when I was sixteen, and I didn’t have a job or a family. I had nothing. I heard of this man who could help with discreet adoptions, get the baby into a good home, you know? So I went to Robert Gold, and he took care of me and my baby, and he found the kid a family who could love him. I believed I didn’t owe him any debts, but he’s threatened to hurt me and my son if I don’t do what he says. I don’t think he’d hurt the kid anymore because I now know the kid’s parents are in the government, but I know he’ll hurt me.”

Emma starts pacing. She can’t look at Killian. She cannot look at the blue she loves so much because it is surely about to turn black while looking at her.

That would break her heart.

“I’ve been working for him. This entire time. He had me gain employ at your pub to learn the location of the guns you stole from the arms factory. All this time I thought it was because Churchill wanted them so they could send them to where they were intended. But tonight Gold was in my flat after following us to the cemetery, and he told me you had slept with his wife, which means the man who shot his wife and your lover in front of you was Gold. He’s going after the guns, Killian. He’s going to get them, and then he’s coming here to either kill you for your crimes against him or arrest you for your crimes against the Crown. Either way, he’s going to kill you.”

Emma doesn’t notice the silence between them as her heart is still pounding like the loudest of drums, but the silence is surely there, being filled second by second with Killian’s rage toward her and toward Gold.

She gained his trust, and then she betrayed him.

“Why are you telling me this?” he whispers, his voice as even keeled as she’s ever heard it.

She nearly falls to the ground at the sound of it.

“Pardon?”

“Turn around and look at me.” Emma braces her shoulders and turns, having no idea what she’s about to see, but she imagines it will be a low-burning fury. She’s wrong. “If you were anyone else in the world, I would have your head for this. I don’t take betrayals lightly, and I will not take this one lightly even though I understand what it is like to be under Gold's thumb. Do not be fooled. But for fucks sake, Emma, I love you. I haven’t loved a woman since Milah was taken from me, but I love you. I also believe all sins can be forgiven when you love someone, but that does not mean I forgive you tonight.”

Emma doesn’t know what to do or think.

There are too many thoughts stampeding in her mind, and she isn’t caught up with it enough to process it all. For now, all she can think is she isn’t dead.

But Killian may be soon.

“What are you going to do about Gold?” Emma asks even when she meant to say something else entirely. She meant to say the three words that reside at the tip of her tongue, but they keep being pushed back.

More important matters are at hand.

“How long ago did he leave your flat to go after the guns?”

“I don’t know. I ran here as soon as he left.”

Killian nods and cups her cheek, kissing her soundly, before he turns around and starts pulling luggage from his drawers before quickly grabbing onto clothes. “Find a few warm things for you. Quickly.”

“Why? What the hell is happening?”

“It’s not safe for us here. We have to go until I can figure something out. There isn’t time to ask every bloody question.”

Lee comes rushing into the room at the same time that Emma grabs a thick blanket and some of Killian’s shirts and what she can only assume are clothes women left here. She doesn’t have much time to process that particular fact. “What the fuck are you two doing?”

“We have to go. Gold is coming after us. Pack a bag and start the carriage.”

“What about Liam? He’s in France. We have to warn him.”

“Liam isn’t set to come back until February. We’ll have time to get him a message. Gold is only coming after me for now. Go, go, we don’t have much time.”

“I thought we didn’t run from a challenge.”

Killian’s jaw clenches, and he turns to face his younger brother. “We’re not running. We’re allowing me to conjure a plan so we don’t get our heads blown off. Fucking go or I’ll leave you here!”

Lee nods, and then he’s out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the hallway for a quick moment before he’s heading out the door and the carriage turns on with a rumble. Emma’s collected enough clothes to last her weeks, and she watches as Killian stashes money into his suitcase before handing some to her.

“For if we get separated,” he explains.

“Where are we going?”

“I have a place in mind, but I can’t tell you yet. Now, come on, go get in the carriage. He works fast, and he shows no mercy, as I’m sure you know. Don’t worry, love. We’ll be fine. I’m a survivor.”

Killian’s hand finds Emma’s back, and as they walk down the stairs, she takes in the beauty of his home. A lot of love has been put into it, and by all accounts, it looks more like a house than a home.

Emma would have liked to have this place as a home. She’s still aching for that place she can call her own.

Now is not the time to think of that.

The cold hits her when they walk outside, and it doesn’t fade away when she climbs into the carriage next to Killian, Lee sitting behind them. Emma clutches onto her luggage, her knuckles white but her fingers pink, and Killian quickly reaches down and hands her a pair of gloves. She takes them without protest, and in the dead of night, she begins moving with the Jones brothers, leaving a white-covered Birmingham behind them.

She doesn’t know what’s going to happen to anyone, not to William or Rob or any of the other Jones Corporation associates. Gold will surely go after them to try to learn of Killian’s whereabouts, hers too, but there’s not time to drive to their homes and tell them. They’re smart and resourceful. They’ll figure things out. At least, Emma hopes so.

There’s no way for them to avoid Gold forever. Emma knows firsthand that he has connections across Europe with his ties to the government, and he’ll never stop until he gets to Killian. She has so many questions about what happened between Killian and Gold’s wife, a woman he obviously loved, but now is not the time for questions when she’s being driven to who knows where, every breath she bringing her one closer to her last.

Now is not the time for a lot of things, but since she didn’t say it earlier, Emma whispers a quiet “I love you,” not knowing if Killian or the wind catches it.

When he places his hand on her thigh, the comforting movement he’s been doing for months now, she thinks she knows.

Emma’s exhausted, but she dares not fall asleep. Instead she sits silently, Killian’s hand still on her thigh, and she watches the sun rise, bright lights reflecting against the pureness of some of the snow. In some places, it is nothing more than slush, but in others, it is beautiful. She can smell water around them, the salt of the ocean becoming clearer with each passing minute, and eventually, she can see the budding activity in a port, a large ship waiting in the water as people walk on board.

“Where are we going?” Emma asks.

Killian turns to her and flashes a tired but bright smile. “America, my love.”

-/-

-/-

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#black velvet #cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfic #captain swan

[dibleopard-writes]

A Chosen One by Any Other Name

Fandom: Star Wars Prequels Characters:  Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Sheev Palpatine, Mace Windu Rating: Gen Warnings: None Word Count: 1,983 Summary: “Whether or not the child really is the Chosen One as Qui-Gon believed is irrelevant. What matters is whether or not everybody thinks he is the Chosen One." The title of Chosen One brings with it the sort of  attention you wouldn't want on a nine-year-old. Obi-Wan Kenobi is the  obvious choice to replace him in the line of fire. Part 1 of Decoy, Prophesied Also on Ao3

“Whether or not the child really is the Chosen One as Qui-Gon believed is irrelevant. What matters is whether or not everybody thinks he is the Chosen One. To have such a legend overshadowing his every move will put him at a disadvantage and will draw attention from forces we don’t yet know.”

“The Sith?”

“If they really have returned, then it is likely, but there will also be interested parties where you least expect it, with machinations we aren’t in a position to truly understand.”

Obi-Wan nodded, stopping himself from jerking at the absence of his braid shifting with the movement. His feet hurt from standing for hours at the funeral but the alcove that Master Windu had pulled him into had no seating nearby. “How do you propose we solve this issue?”

“Whispers of the Chosen One have been circulating since Qui-Gon made his claims in the Temple last week, and after his recent achievements the Council believes that it would be difficult to erase the rumours completely. Especially since Skywalker himself knows.”

Qui-Gon hadn’t been known for his subtlety, and Anakin struck him as the sort of boy who would latch onto any sense of self-importance thrown his way after a life of slavery. Obi-Wan couldn’t quite blame him – he himself held onto as many of Qui-Gon’s compliments and words of praise as his memory allowed. Nevertheless, such grand destinies were paths to egocentricity and arrogance and Obi-Wan feared himself unequipped to temper them.

Master Windu continued, “Master Yoda and I have considered the options and we have arrived at a proposal to you: you take on the title of Chosen One. Redirect the attention. As far as everyone who has any investment is concerned, your defeat of the Sith assassin was the proof we needed to confirm that you are the Jedi of prophecy, not Anakin Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan found himself at a loss for words. Him? How would anybody be convinced that he was anywhere near good enough to be the Chosen One? “And what about Anakin?” he asked.

“Skywalker simply has an unusually high midichlorian count, much like Master Yoda. Such power could only be trained by the Chosen One. That’s if you still want to take him on as your padawan.”

“Oh, ye- yes, of course, of course I do,” he murmured, trying to wrap his mind around it all. Training Anakin was not a question, but stringing along the Order, the Senate, the Galaxy in this self-aggrandising deception was so ridiculous that he wasn’t entirely sure that this wasn’t some sort of test. “But what if he is the Chosen One?”

“Then he can get on with fulfilling the prophecy without anyone trying to sway him from his path for their own gain. Having a title does not a Chosen One make. Besides, even without the prophecy he’s still one of the most Force-sensitive people on our records; he won’t exactly be starved of reputation.”

Intricate moulding decorated the wall behind Master Windu, but Obi-Wan’s eyes were drifting beyond it as he tried and failed to solidify the nebulous thoughts orbiting within his head.

“I’m not sure I’m…” he scrambled for a word that wouldn’t make his concerns sound irrational, “... capable of living up to the expectations of the title, even as a decoy.”

If this was a test, he should have passed it with his humble concern. If it wasn't, he hadn’t declined the orders of the highest ranking Jedi on the Council, simply urged them to reconsider.

Unfortunately, Master Windu already seemed resolved on the matter. “Who else can say that they’ve successfully defeated a Sith? Even Yoda can’t claim that much; you’re the first in a thousand years. Quite the qualification.”

He dropped a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, the one that his braid had once covered, “We understand that you may need time to think about it. Preferably, we’d start our rumours at the parade tomorrow so try to get your answer to us by noon. May the Force be with you, Knight Kenobi.”

“And with you, Master,” he replied as he was left alone in the dimly lit guest halls of Theed Palace.

…

Obi-Wan woke with the sun, which fortunately rose at a civilised time of morning at this time of year at Theed. Anakin, unused to the way interplanetary travel interfered with one’s circadian rhythm, was still asleep after Obi-Wan had showered and dressed, although perhaps it was exhaustion after his taxing week.

The boy ate his breakfast in his sleeping clothes, feet swinging under his chair, blond hair in noticeable disarray. He looked up and caught Obi-Wan staring. “Aren’t you going to have anything?”

Obi-Wan blinked. “No. Maybe later.”

“You can have some of mine,” offered Anakin, nudging his plate of toast towards Obi-Wan’s empty place at the small table. One piece had several bites missing, but that was hardly an issue for people in situations like Anakin’s – or parents used to children insisting on trying food they barely ate, as Obi-Wan had learnt on several missions during his apprenticeship. He wondered if he too would have to eliminate any aversion to sharing germs. Perhaps he was already there, because his stomach objected more to the thought of food than what had been done to it.

“I’m not hungry, Anakin, you have it. I can get some later.”

Anakin shrugged, “If you say so.”

Time passed and Obi-Wan found himself staring again, although he was seeing very little. Anakin was regarding him out of the corner of his eyes as he finished his breakfast.

“I think,” Obi-Wan began, earning himself full attention, “Once you’ve finished we should sort out your hair.”

Anakin nodded slowly, confusion written on his face.

“It’s traditional for padawans to have a certain haircut. Short,” he gestured to his own hair, “And with a padawan braid,” his hand tried to grab it but met air, resulting in an awkward miming that he aborted quickly.

“Like yours?”

He nodded mutely.

“Wizard,” said Anakin before crumpling his final half-slice of toast into his mouth in a terrifying display and asking, “Can we do it now?” through a spray of crumbs.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Obi-Wan stood and took the dishes. “Yes, yes, I suppose so. I’ll need to go and find some clippers, though.”

“Can I come with you?” Anakin was bouncing on his toes, suddenly invigorated out of the morning’s sleepiness. 

“You’re hardly dressed to venture the Palace halls, are you?”

“I might be!”

“No. I’ll get them, you stay here and take a shower.”

“But I just had one yesterday!”

Obi-Wan tugged on his boots. “And you’ll have one today; you need to be presentable. If you don’t want to use the water, there’s a sonic right next to it.”

Anakin sighed, long-sufferingly, as Obi-Wan moved out of the door.

“I shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes; I want you clean by then.”

Was this what his life was to become? A negotiation for every benign task, another mouth to feed, another life to look after? He had only got himself out of bed on autopilot, his mind weighing heavy and lethargic with grief. His life had changed irrevocably in a thousand tiny ways in the space of a week – and in a few massive ways in the space of a day. The tide of it all was too strong to ignore, it would crash down on him eventually, but for now there were things to do, and he let the distractions buoy him like driftwood.

He was barely halfway down the hall when he was intercepted by the newly-elected Chancellor Palpatine.

“Ah, Master Jedi, I was just coming to see you and young Skywalker. I do hope your accommodations were satisfactory.”

Obi-Wan plastered a diplomat’s smile on his face, “Of course, your excellency, it was more than we would dream of asking.”

“Not at all, Padawan Kenobi. Rather, it was the least the Queen and myself could offer to the heroes of Naboo.” Chancellor Palpatine’s face was friendly and his eyes smiled with the rest of him, but there was an undercurrent that Obi-Wan couldn’t place. “Tell me, is there anything you were searching for out here? You aren’t expected at the parade until this afternoon.”

“I was just looking for some hair clippers, nothing quite of your station, Chancellor.” He grinned the way one did while trying to make polite jokes at a political function and Palpatine’s smile remained even as he turned to walk beside him, hand on his shoulder.

“Well, I’m sure we can find something that will be of use to you.”

“Oh, there’s no need–”

“Nonsense, my boy. I’ll admit I’ve been wanting to talk to you and young Skywalker since yesterday, but it didn’t seem to be the time.”

“Is that so?” He noticed the way his voice had already been subdued by grief at even a vague mention of Qui-Gon’s death. It was unbecoming. He cleared his throat.

“Why, of course,” replied Palpatine, steering him into an indistinguishably ornate room, “I have much to thank you for. As well as, of course–” and here he sighed sadly while investigating the various drawers– “to enquire about your thoughts on this… assassin who hunted the Queen and infiltrated the palace without so much as an alarm to alert us of his presence”

Perhaps he should have thought the topic of the Sith to be inevitable, but it hit him in the lungs to hear it spoken about as if it was little more than an abnormal security concern. Sith was a word to be whispered. It was perfectly constructed to be hissed in low voices. They had grown complacent in the Sith’s absence, used the word loudly, as curses and insults. Obi-Wan knew that once he was back in the Temple, it would be relegated back to whispers, at least for as long as it took for people to forget this time on Naboo, so distant from their lives and yet already a fulcrum of his.

Palpatine didn’t say Sith, so neither would he.

“We know very little, unfortunately. It was a Force-user trained in lightsaber combat. It was dark. Powerful.”

A contemplative nod, then, “Do you think he was targeting the Queen specifically? Is she in danger of further attacks?”

“It’s hard to say; his motives were unclear. He was easily distracted by Jedi both times he appeared, and both times the Jedi and Queen Amidala were together. Perhaps he intended for her to die, perhaps he was after us all along and she simply happened to be with us.”

“Do you think he could have been targeting the boy?”

Obi-Wan looked up sharply, but Palpatine was still searching through drawers, clattering their contents about. “What?”

“I’ve heard young Skywalker must be rather special to be accepted into the Order at such an old age, and he is obviously rather talented to destroy the Trade Federation’s command station almost single handedly.”

“He’s certainly special,” he conceded.

“There are rumours,” Palpatine continued, “That he is to fulfil an old Jedi prophecy. ‘The Chosen One’, I believe the term was.”

Frozen, Obi-Wan realised what the undercurrent beneath Palpatine’s good-naturedness was: silence. It was hard to place, hard to define, hard to be sure of, but the sinking certainty in Obi-Wan’s throat confirmed it. There was not necessarily anything wrong with silence, but there definitely wasn’t anything right either.

“Ah, here it is,” declared Palpatine, raising some clippers into the air. He handed it to Obi-Wan, who couldn’t help but meet his eyes too intensely to be polite. Already, the words were spilling off his tongue, a night of anxious insomnia behind them, slowed to an audible speed only by a decade of practice.

“I’m afraid the rumours have been rather tangled, Chancellor.”

“How so, Padawan Kenobi?”

“Knight Kenobi,” he gritted out, “And it’s because Anakin is not the Chosen One. I am.”

#star wars fanfic #star wars fanfiction #obi-wan kenobi #obi-wan fanfic #Anakin Skywalker #the chosen one #AO3 fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #decoy prophesied

[billxharry]

The Day Before You Came should have been Harry’s song, not Donna’s: A Rant

You know, I very much wish they hadn’t included The Day Before You Came on the HWGA soundtrack. Not that Meryl’s version isn’t lovely, it absolutely is, and I listen to it often, savouring the much too minimal amount of Meryl’s Donna we got for this film, but knowing they never wrote any sort of context for her singing it, and never even had a plan to do so, because it was always just going to be on the soundtrack is a let down, especially when there was a certain character who could have benefited from being given the song. 

If a song is included on the soundtrack, especially for a musical, where every song tells the story, I like to think it should fit somewhere in the film, but I just don’t think it works contextually for Donna in this film, and even more importantly, I personally don’t feel it fits Donna’s character in general. This movie is focused on young Donna particularly. Exuberant, passionate, bold and living her life with only the occasional and fleeting doubt. This song certainly doesn’t fit her at all at this stage of her life, before Sam. Her heartbreak over him, while justified, is at least somewhat eased in this movie by the arrival of Tanya and Rosie, then by Bill showing up and whisking her away, (I like to believe Harry arrived later as well, as I refuse to believe they were just that lazy as to not get the order from the journal correct, so Harry arrived at the island after Bill, they just didn’t show it, end of story. That would also help bridge where I feel HWGA! went terribly wrong in portraying young Harry and Donna’s encounter, as I have the hardest time believing the fondness shown in the first movie would exist between them based on that singular encounter alone, especially on Donna’s part. Perhaps another ramble about that at another time.) The most impactful of anything though, for Donna, was giving birth to Sophie.

Emotionally, for me, this song would have only have had a chance to fit in the first movie when we actually see the emotional hurt Donna has struggled with the years after Sam left,  not in prequel sense, when what we see is Donna moving on as best she can, and knowing in the future her and Sam later wed and were happy. (For much too short of time. I will never stop being mad at this.) Even if they had put this song in the musical/first film, it still wouldn’t have fit, character wise for me, though. The Winner Takes It All was a much more fitting choice to convey those emotions.

What Sam put her through affected her greatly, and continues to do so, we do see that in the first movie, but both movies also make it a point to make it clear Donna pushes on, somewhat because she has no choice when she finds out she’s pregnant, but also because she’s Donna. She’s strong and independent, she doesn’t conform to the things others would think to do, and even when we see how these events have weighed on her as the years progressed, we also see at heart she will always remain Donna Sheridan, life and soul of the party, and how that spirit has always remained. What fight and determination she always had, she devoted use for raising Sophie, to giving her everything she needed in absence of a father, and I would certainly not label that a listless and aimless life of routine. In fact, with raising a child on her own, while also managing the inn by herself, we see the opposite is in fact true. She’s overworked and her life is a crazy rush of every possible job and ever changing responsibilities.

(An aside, I am aware that there’s a long standing thought that in the original ABBA song, the you  the song is directed to may actually be Death, and yes Donna (unfortunately) did die (WHY.) So technically, it could be looked at that way as to why Donna would be singing it in the second film. That works even less, though, since the type of life that is sung about is especially not the type of life Donna would be telling Death she was living after  the first movie where she got her (much too short lived 😡) happy ending. If Sam wasn’t the you Donna was singing to, and it was indeed a deathly entity, that’s an absurd notion to me. She would literally be saying her life was lonely and dull and without aim before she died? And had been for a very long time? Despite the first film showing us was that was never true? We’d also have to be ignoring the prominence that was placed on Sophie and Donna’s bond, her bond with Tanya and Rosie, the fact that Sam and Donna wed and we can assume were happy  during the time before she got ill and passed away... No, be it if the the “you” is referring to Sam or Death, neither scenario works for Donna in my opinion.)

The Day Before You Came describes a life that runs on almost a precise schedule, without anything unexpected happening. Always being able to follow an exact schedule, always being able to have time to watch tv, read, get to bed for a lot of rest... It’s painful in how excruciatingly bland the existence of the life of the singer is. Unchanged, day in, day out. The singer is going through the motions of life, but not living it. They are lonely, alone. As I mentioned, Donna’s work life is anything but on an exact schedule, but even more importantly, emotionally that’s not life for Donna raising her daughter. Sophie means everything to her. While the romance with Sam coming to fruition at the end of the first movie is extremely fulfilling and what you want for Donna, the movie also makes it a point to show the true heart of the movie is the relationship between Donna and her best friends, but even more than that the most pivotal relationship Donna will ever have is the one she has with Sophie. She was not romantically fulfilled, that’s unarguably true, and she was absolutely overworked and overwhelmed, but she had Sophie and that meant everything to her, made everything worth it. The second movie, with My Love, My Life once again hammered that point home. Donna’s life was never what The Day Before You Came describes, and the biggest reason why was Sophie. I mentioned the Winner Takes It All being a much more apt choice, and it is. It’s very easy to see the romantic and emotional context to that song, and it’s definitely a song sung to a lover who you were hurt by. The Day Before You Came is... about  a lot more than just the romantic side of things.

Give Donna/Meryl material, absolutely YES, but couldn’t it have been relevant? And seeing as we had to suffer through the terribly unnecessary death story-line, I would have loved had she got some truly joyous material, as we see her at the end of the first film, the type of material she deserved...

Ol Parker talking about this song, saying it was never going to be in the film, just on the album because “It’s so specific and I couldn’t find a way to make it work.” is incredibly disappointing for me, because no, you couldn’t find a way to make it work for Donna because it didn’t fit her, her character, or the life she had lead. However, there absolutely was one character who absolutely could have sung that song and it absolutely would have worked. Hmmmm, who could it be, who could it be, this is such an impossible connection to make apparently... a rather seemingly by the book character, who is living an unfulfilling life, alone, going to dull job, going home to an empty house and repeating it every day... hmmm. HMMM.

Honestly though, go and listen to the song or read the lyrics, and tell me that song would not have absolutely have been perfect for Harry. I can’t understand having a character it fits so incredibly well, but saying “it’s too specific, can’t possibly put it in the film.” Especially when you created  two characters for the *sole* purpose of making Cher being able to sing Fernando work, but you can’t make a song work that fits a pre-existing character like a glove. Granted, Ol made it apparent he didn’t actually understand or care all that much about the “older dads” (the older cast in general was treated very poorly in this film as I have said 1000 times.) They absolutely should have had more to do acting wise, but singing wise as well. The first movie was successful because of the cast it had. Yes. Some of the singing was panned by people. A lot of people. But the success of the film was still indisputable, so I see absolutely no reason for including so little of what made it work to begin with. Colin especially could have pulled this song off vocally. They had a chance to really enhance the source material, expand on the characters we loved, and instead we got regressions of the the worst sort.

I obviously would want this song to be about Bill from Harry’s perspective, because Bill absolutely had every means to remedy all of this for Harry. Who better to give him adventures, spontaneity, love, ... and how easy it would have been. (Heck, it could have even have been sung about Sophie changing his life so thoroughly. I would of course prefer it be about Bill, because like Donna, Sophie means the world to Harry, but also like Donna, Harry deserves romantic fulfillment as well. I just want just Harry to have someone who has the ability to help him out of that life... The first film knew where the faults were in Harry’s life, and by the end of the movie they were on the path of trying to remedy that. No, I will never say Petros was the answer, but at least they tried, and more than that he unarguably had Sophie at the end. A daughter he so wanted. Harry’s life should have changed, at least in some way. By no means should we have ended up with him right back where he was, being unhappy and unfulfilled. This song, had it been given to Harry, would have felt like they were acknowledging this character, this life, and I would hope the “you” in the song would be enough to show that his life was able to move beyond that.

In all this, I don’t mean to say this is a happy song, of course not. There’s a sadness in the lyrics, a melancholia, especially with the slowed tempo and beautiful accompaniment by Benny that they gave the song for the HWGA soundtrack. That particular version really amps up that feeling, and that is why, as much as I dislike the fact that Harry is right back to being miserable, this song still could have worked with that story line. Take for example- In Bill, Harry had found someone who really made him evaluate the life he had been living, seeing it for what it really was and just how unhappy he had been, but now he has been given the potential to change that. Traveling with Bill has changed everything. For him. However, perhaps as far as he is aware, that feeling of finding someone who could change your life so thoroughly was one-sided, that this particular love was unrequited, and the things that they did together that meant everything to him, didn’t have the same impact on Bill, at least to his knowledge. Cue The Day Before You Came, a quiet but impactful reveal of the depth of Harry’s feelings, and the push Bill needs to work up his own courage to show Harry has changed his life just as much. Ideally, Bill would sing a short reprise of the song with lyrics written to convey what was missing in his life before Harry came into it, and finally they would both be in total understanding. Is this absolutely cliche and fanfic worthy? Oh, no doubt. It’s not the most deep or profound working of the song, I am aware. However, it is Mamma Mia! and I feel that’s allowed. 

Having Harry sing this song would have been acknowledgement of a sort, that yes, this is back where this beloved character is at, and this is why, but there is something, someone, in his life that can help him out of it, and he can have his happy ending. I just feel that is a lot more meaningful than what we got, which is just... nonchalance about the whole thing. “Yep, there was supposed to be an awakening of sorts for Harry at the end of the first movie, but that doesn’t really matter, he’s miserable and unhappy, alone, still, right back in that lifestyle he was so unhappy in, five years later. It’s not actually worth the time to acknowledge any of this or try to remedy it, though, it’s not important. He’s going to end the movie in the same unhappy and lonely fashion, but hey, Fernando!” And we are stuck with a song, though absolutely beautifully sung, by a character it doesn’t fit, as a throw away soundtrack inclusion, nothing more, and a missed and extremely easy to see opportunity to give it to a character who really could have used it...

#Harry Bright #Donna Sheridan #Mamma Mia! #Mamma Mia! Here we go again! #I haven't posted a rambling rant in so long #so this feels good #I have actually been sitting on this one for a little bit though #It's so long #I would say I am sorry but i am not #I have a lot of Mamma Mia! feelings #whoops didn't tag #Bill Anderson/Harry Bright #but of course it is #typos abound I am sure #I am actually sorry about that though

[plush-rabbit]

Two Cups Of Ice Cream

89. “Oh my heart it breaks! It shall never be whole again!” “She/He/They break up with you every other month. Shouldn’t it be used to the disappointment by now?”

99. “Would it help if I stayed?”

Genre: SFW

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 3.7K

A/N: First time writing for him! I think I got some of it down, but defs could use work! Also guess who can’t fucking read because it says fellow pro-hero! Read the notes please ≦(._.)≧

You stare outside at the parlor window, feeling melancholy wrap its heavy arms you. Your chin digs into the palm of your hand as you watch groups of people pass by the window, laughing and holding onto each other. On the rare occasion you see the lonely person walk by but that only makes the feeling in your stomach heavier.

The air inside the ice cream parlor is cool and it soothes you as you feel yourself begin to heat up. You’re thankful that it’s empty today, save for you, the employees and a group of friends who sit in the corner, giggling into the palms of their hands, taking in spoonsful of ice cream into their mouths, sharing it with each other. You tear your eyes away from them, the corners of your lips pulling down into a frown, only to be covered by the palm of your hand as you return your gaze outside the window. You don’t want to be the person who sneers at other people’s enjoyment just because you’re miserable. You may not be having the time of your life, but there’s no reason to despise others and their happiness.

You spare another glance at your phone, clicking it on and scrolling through the messages that Takami has sent you. His last one taunts you- a promise that he’ll be there on time. You grip the phone in your hand and turn it over on the table; the screen clangs loudly against the metal and you feel your cheeks flush when the parlor goes silent for a quick moment only to return to hushed chatter.

You want to be angry at him. He promised to meet you here today. He isn’t one to flake so why now? Why bother telling you that he was going to be here today if he wasn’t? But the reasonable part of you knew that it was irrational to get mad at him. He’s the number two hero, of course he’s going to get caught up in stuff. It’s not like past when you two could hang out on the weekends. He’s busy now.  But you’re still hurt. You still feel bad that he didn’t at least send you a quick message. You’re angry that you had to order two ice creams because he told you that he would make it and to order his when you got there. You hated that your friend wasn’t here.

You’re broken out of your thoughts when the server places two cups of ice cream on the table, he smiles respectfully and walks away, leaving you all alone again. You didn’t even get to tell him thank you. You look at the cups in front of you, and then back to the empty chair, and back to the cups. You should have known that he wouldn’t come.

An exasperated sigh escapes your lips. Now you have to eat two ice cream cups and while that normally isn’t a problem you now have to deal with the looks of pity the group of friends is giving you. You’ve been stood up and now you’re forced to eat ice cream as you hope that with every swallow, the lump in your throat is being pushed down. Ice cream has never felt so heavy to you before. It’s a wonder how you even got it down, every spoonful being heavier than the last and you try to eat at a normal pace, hoping that the eyes you feel on you are just in your imagination. What were once sweet flavors, are now bitter and slimy; it slides down your throat at a choking pace, and it takes all of your willpower to not retch and spit out the ice cream.

You finish the cold snack and feel worse. The phone buzzes against the table creating another unfortunate sound and you scramble to pick it up, keeping your eyes down. Your eyebrows knit together at the message on screen.

<Keigo>

-Be there soon!

You feel tired. The sick feeling in your stomach isn’t as heavy, it feels much lighter now. But everything else in your body feels heavy. You can feel your shoulders being weighed down by disappointment and eyelids droop. Your fingers drag across the screen as you tell him that you already ate and you’re heading home, but maybe next time you can meet up. And to convey that you aren’t bothered by his absence, you tell him to stay safe and to try the butter pecan flavor, and then you leave. You don’t wait for his reply as you walk towards the bus stop, your hands coming to wrap the cardigan closer to your body.

You know that you’re being childish. He’s late for reasons. You whine in the back of your throat and pull out your phone, typing away a quick message that you two can hang out at your place if he’s still free and press send, walking quicker to the bus stop as if you could run away from your actions.

The sun is starting to set and a part of you hopes that he’ll message you but another, much louder part doesn’t want him to, you don’t want to deal with the possible rejection that comes with him. You’ve had enough rejection for a year. You feel another buzz and you read the message, causing you to stop in your tracks and pull off to the side, confusing etching across your features. You mouth the words, “get ready,” and you shove the phone into your purse and stand straighter. You look up to the sky, a hand coming to your brows to provide shade and before you can turn your head, you’re lifted up into the air by the back of your shirt. You kick your legs out and let out a shriek, people stop in alarm to watch as you float into the sky, people staring and looking around in an attempt to wonder if you’re losing control of your quirk or if you’re being kidnapped. You cover your face behind your hands and tuck your legs in, a scream dies in the back of your throat and suddenly people are cheering underneath you. You don’t dare to look, you keep your eyes shut behind your eyes and you tuck your legs closer to your body when you feel arms pry themselves into the back of your knees and your back. They hold you securely and firm, and keep you close to their chest, vibrations rumbling caused by a laugh.

You can hear boots click against concrete and hands slide down your back and legs, letting your feet flutter above solid ground for a moment before planting them firmly and pushing your hair back. You open your eyes and reach over to the back of your shirt, feeling the feather for a quick second only to feel the feather brush against your fingertips before zooming off to go back to its place.

You two stare at each for a moment, he stands there with a sheepish look on his face, a hand coming to scratch at the back of his neck and his mouth parts open.

“You could have just messaged me to meet you somewhere you know. You didn’t have to kidnap me.” Your words are sharp and you wave your arms into the air only to bring them down and cross them across your chest.

He brings his hand down and curls it in midair. He stares blankly at you, the sun shining against him and reflecting off his visors. “You’re mad.” It’s not a question but a statement.

Your face falls slack for a second, only to sneer at him, your eyes narrowing into slits. “Of course I’m mad! You lifted me into the air without warning! Anyone would be mad about that!” Your hands are rising and you catch them in midair, twitching the fingers before bringing them to your sides to curl into fists. “At least a warning would have been nice! What you gave me was some vague shit!” Your breathing is starting to get ragged and you turn your head to the side, your eyebrows furrowing and mouth pulled into a line. “What do you want?”

The corner of his mouth twitches and the hand that was hanging in midair is brought up to scratch at the area above his visor. “You were mad at me before and you said we could hang out now if I wanted to.” He outstretched his arms in front of him. “So here I am.”

“I wasn’t - ”

“Yes you were. Your style of texting was different, ya know. A lot more formal than usual.” His eyebrows rise slightly upward and the corner of his mouth is pulling into a lazy grin.

“It wasn’t,” you lick your lips and look at him, your shoulders rising to meet you head as you tuck it in- a mock attempt to hide yourself, “formal.” The words don’t even sound convincing to yourself. You look up to meet his steady gaze. “I wasn’t mad.”

“Then?”

You purse your lips, “Where are we?” You change the subject and walk around the rooftop, going towards the edge and peering down below. Your breath catches in your throat and you stumble backwards, looking back at him with wide eyes. “Why are we so high up?”

“Because you’re never one to actually talk about your feelings- ”

“Oh like you are,” you snap, turning on your heel to face him. “You could’ve just met me at my place or-or something.”

“You’re mad because I stood you up.”

You take in a deep breath and pinch the bridge of your nose, “Can I go home?”

“A building was on fire.” You hear his steps clipping across the concrete. “I couldn’t message you before-”

“I know.” Your voice doesn’t leave room for further explanation. You feel worse than you did before, the sinking feeling in your stomach heavier, making you feel sick. “I just,” you don’t know what to say, you can’t be selfish with him, he’s a hero. He has responsibilities other than being a shoulder to cry on, “I know.”

His hands trail up your arms, the warmth penetrating even through your clothes, and rest on your shoulders, gripping them firmly. “What happened this time?”

You suddenly feel embarrassed with your reason for asking him to meet up. Your face burns with embarrassment and when you try to meet his gaze you flinch away making a ‘tch’ sound. “I feel dirty,” your words are slightly above a whisper.

His grip on your shoulders tightens and through a tense jaw he asks, “About?”

“I feel like we only ever hang out when I have an issue.” You shrug your shoulders and with all your force you look up at his golden eyes, with shaky hands, your arms come up between his and your wrap your fingers around the legs of his visor and pull at them. His eyes flutter close and he pulls his head back, allowing the visors to be taken off.  You look down at them, your fingertips tracing the edges on the legs, careful to not touch the frames.

“I don’t mind. It’s humbling.” The hands on your shoulder fall to the side of them, holding them softly.

“Can I be dramatic for a quick sec?” You ask, a sad grin taking form.

“’Course.” His reply is simple and he’s quiet for a few moments, letting you gather your thoughts on how you want to present whatever information you’re about to- but he’s sure he already knows what it is.

“Oh my heart, it breaks!” You exaggerate your own voice, making it higher and foolish. “It shall never be whole again!” Your words are sarcastic at the end, biting at the last word, your teeth bared for a second before you dip your head down and let out an audible exhale.

“They break up with you every other month,” he states, the concern on his face not reaching his voice.  “Shouldn’t you be used to the disappointment by now?” He leans away from you, balancing on the soles of his shoes before coming down and stretching his arms above his head, his wings extending and ruffling in unison, each feather stretching outward.

“I know.” You lift your head and loll your head to the side. “I just thought this time would be different.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“This felt,” you pause, trying to gather your thoughts in order, “a lot more definite.”

“Oh.”

“I know you didn’t like them-”

“Hated them.”

“I know. But I still liked them and I,” you purse your lips and blow out a sigh, “just wasn’t ready for this to end.”

“They were the worst anyways. Had a terrible taste in movies and always acted so pretentious about everything.” He takes a small step towards you, inching closer and grabbing your biceps to pull you closer to him, your chests centimeters away from him. “Like remember when we had that movie night? And they wouldn’t stop talking about the themes in the movie. God, what a bastard.” He rolls his eyes and makes a fleeting gesture with his hand.

“Takami-kun,” you whine, throwing your head on his chest and pulling his visors to your chest, holding them gently in your hands.

“Thought I told you to call me Keigo.” You feel the rumble in chest when he talks, the vibrations running against you. “We’ve been close enough that you can call me by my first.” You hear the shameless teasing in his voice.

You pull away from him and pout. You raise a hand and give him a tap on the cheek. “Don’t be cheeky Keigo.” You turn around and step towards the ledge, waving him off when you notice in your peripherals, his crimson colored wings twitch towards you, the tips of his wings already extending towards you.

“I’m sorry that I was angry at you before.” You stretch your arms over your head, the yellow tinted visors clenched between one hand, and you stand on the tips of your toes, sighing when you feel the muscles stretch and pull against each other. “I just really wanted to eat some ice cream with you and complain for a bit.” You walk towards him, and put his visors back on him. Your fingertips drag down the sides of his face slowly, tracing along his jawline and gaze at his lips, only to pull away and return to his side.

“There’s always work to be done.” He stands next to you and outstretches one of his wings, coming to wrap around you, the feathers brushing against your shoulder, ruffling your cardigan and pulling it down slowly. “I really was on my way, you know.” He shuts his eyes and lets out a yawn, both his wings extending, only to curl in on you, the feathers pressing against you with gentle force and nudge you towards him.

You turn your gaze to him and scoff. Your lips twitch into a smile and turn around, dragging your finger through his feathers, having them twitch underneath your touch. “You owe me ice cream.” You reply comes out softer than you intended, and you continue to pet him, feeling the minuscule twitches that he gives. You grab a feather softly between your fingers and give a gentle pull, the feather falling into your grasp. With a tender graze on the barbs of his feathers, they quiver into your touch, following and staying perked to follow your graze. You bring the feather up to you lips, the feather trembling against the tip of your nose, tickling you softly. “Can you feel what I’m doing?”

“Just broke up and already flirting with me,” Keigo breathes out, letting out a soft laugh, controlling the individual feather to float back into place, leaving your grasp. “This has to be a record.”

“Last time was a moment of weakness,” you give him a side glance, lips coming into a playful grin. “On both of our parts.”

“Ouch,” he winces, pulling an arm to scratch at the top of his head. He turns towards you, the barrier his wings made, leaving you victim to the cool air.

“Oh, don’t act so hurt,” you wrap your arms around yourself and step towards him. “I’m not kidding about the ice cream by the way. I had to eat two cups by myself.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He takes a step back and extends a hand towards you. “Wanna go now?” His wings raise high into the air, lowering down slowly; they stay extended as he watches you.

“Stay at my place tonight?” You ask, already placing your palm into his gloved one.

“Would it help if I stayed?” He asks, his hand wrapping around you firmly, a gentle tug pulling you into him.

“It always helps when you stay.” You pause for a second, pulling away your hand to wrap your hair into a tight ponytail, tucking a few strands behind your ears. “You know that,” you step back into his grasp, your fingers twisting tightly into his jacket, only to turn around and press deep into his back.

He pulls away from you and slips his jacket off, wrapping it around you and zipping it up, adjusting at the collar, and pulling you closer. You stumble into his chest and glare at him, straightening your back and muttering a quick thanks. He nods in response, and you turn your back towards him, taking a small step backwards, flinching when you feel his arms wrap around your torso.

“Flavor?” You feel his strong wings flapping and lifting the both of you into the air. You can feel the gust his own wings create, and you shut your eyes, griping into his forearms and wrapping your legs behind his. You feel the deep rumble in his chest when he laughs. “Relax, I won’t let you fall, you know that.” He places a chaste kiss on the crown of your head, his hands gripping at you tighter.

You meekly nod, squinting your eyes open when you feel the wind become harsh against your skin. You let out a shaky breath and try to relax your shoulders.

You look down at the city below you. You aren’t that high into the air, just above a few of the taller buildings. Nearing the evening, the lights of the buildings are turned on and shining in the night. You let your legs fall off of his, leaving them dangling in the air. You kick your feet, feeling the wind resist against your movements. You hold tight onto his forearms, and nuzzle your nose further into his jacket, the fur of his jacket tickling your noise. You take in a deep breath and peek through white tufts, the lights looking like speckles behind fur.

“You never answered what flavor you wanted.” He says a bit loudly, pulling you tighter into him.

“Surprise me!” You yell out in response, swallowing down your nerves and outstretching your arms abruptly. You let out a nervous laugh, grasping at the air in front of you.

“I’ve taken you flying before.”

“Yeah! But I’m not used to it!” You turn your neck and look at him for a brief second. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this!” You give him a toothy grin, returning your gaze to the city below, and making grabbing motions to the lights that shine. “I’m terrified but I’m also having the time of my life!”

“Glad you got over your break up so fast.” He smiles wickedly down at you, taking a sharp turn upwards, squeezing you reassuringly when you squeak. His wings flap in midair, pulling his body straight and having you stand on the top of his boots.

You twist around him, shaking your head in an attempt to shake the hairs that have fallen onto your face back into place. “You always know how to put me into a good mood Keigo. Don’t act so cocky about it.” You smile up at him, bringing your arms back to his forearms, and placing your fingers above his naked wrists. You lean into him, looking down at the city.

“Hold on tight,” he whispers, his fingers pressing into your sides.

You don’t have time to think about what he said. You’re dipping towards the ground, his wings pulled back, and you biting into the fur, screams muffled and eyes shut tight, scared laughter mixing with the screams. And all too suddenly, his wings are expanding and flattening to level the both of you, the speed returning to a slower pace and your face stings with the cool air slapping into you.

“Keigo!” You laugh, both scared and exhilarated. “That was so mean of you!”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises.

Wooden floorboards creak underneath the both of your weights and you place a tentative foot on the wooden floor before hopping away from him. You turn your attention to the window on your side and turn to him.

“This is not the convenience store, you know.” You slip off his jacket and take out the ponytail in your hair, brushing your hand through your hair, tugging away at any knots formed. “The flight does not let you off the hook.” You point a finger at him, and break out into a smile, pulling out your apartment key.

“Yeah, I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.” He repeats and hurries you inside and kicks off his shoes inside and places his jacket on the coat stand.

“So impatient.” You click your tongue at him. “I’m the one with the broken heart and empty pocket, you know.” You turn to face him and your teasing gaze softens considerably so, you cup his face and run your fingers up to play with the tufts of his hair. “Just be patient for a sec. Take it slow Keigo.” You grab his hand place fleeting kisses across his wrist, looking up at him through the corner of his lips.

He hums closes his eyes, his leg coming up to kick the door behind him close, the free hand coming to lock the door.

#yo #so like if you want this written again #go ahead and ask for it #i can't read #im so sorry #school is out!! #I can write again! #Kiri is next #it's hard to write him being sweet #bnha imagine #hawks x you #hawks x reader #seriosuly #if you want it again #go ahead and ask #i didn't see the fellow hero part #ughh #i feel bad #anyways #lowkey tension towards the end #bnha hawks #well #expect soft kiri nxt couple of days #and then maybe some villians

[dantesinfcrno]

trigger warnings !!  suicide, suicidal thoughts, drug use / overdose, body horror, death, blood, violence, self harm, abusive relationships. most importantly, bad writing!

                                𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈  ：𝐇𝐘𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐀 .

frigidity, heartlessness ╱ the absence of love ╱ virgin mary, corrupted .

winter child with shards on its mouth –– the snow quivers before khione, goddess whose lips do not tremble. cataclysm upon birth, no life to be seen as monster opens its eyes. before words could be uttered, before a name could be given to beast, untamed, it knew of fate. worthless creature, undeserving of shedding a tear. void big enough to fill any mansion, all touch lost –– who would cradle an interrupted demon, a fallen angel?  who would wipe the anguish that never created roots inside tiny body, broken?  

                                                         ( … )

one vivid memory: it sitting down in the floor a living room ( no house is ever the same: all empty in a pantheon of different ways ). it is invisible, as Father dreams of his own tales, as Mother unravels the world. no one holds it up. –––– galatea?  –––– it calls for Her, voice too firm for a child, first words incisive ╱ poignant knife. She stares into its eyes, peering at the chaos She created –– and turns Her back.

                                                         ( … )

verses wrote themselves against its skin, fairies would whisper secrets into its heart. before it could walk, small deity devoured books –– in search of a love he did not know of, this powerful feeling it could never obtain. the titans who gave birth to lucifer ╱ lilith, anew, could spare it no sweet nothings. the tutors brought in could not hold down treacherous creature, could not embrace it, could not understand it. oh, the gentle kiss that would break the curse. oh, the sweet princess that would awake humanity inside tainted guts. the choirs sang of redemption, absolution –– but they also snarled at child born with a target on its back, holy water falling at its feet. you were never meant to receive tenderness ; you shall not know what love entails. it all echoed inside this fortitude: melancholy the only tune beast ever knew ╱ maddening: to never be touched ; to never be loved without worship, without loathing.

                                                         ( … )

poignant claws would drag themselves over a violin, and he interrogated the stars. who else, who else. can famine become savior?  can ferocious teeth learn to taste another’s core without devouring it whole?  i can try, i can try. boy, blizzard –– locking itself in the garden of eden, mortality discovered as fingers bleed, as thorns find home in the anatomy of god, interrupted. –––– you can be anything you desire, vessel. –––– serpent hisses, crawling up its core. –––– i choose to live. i choose to love all monsters, made out of darkness & concrete alike. –––– dante replies, half-smothered, half-breathing, apple tasting sanguine on his lips. ophidian smiles, knowing this end will be self-made. –––– you can’t be helped, child, you can’t be helped.

                  –––––– 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 . ––––––

                               𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐈  ：𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐀 .

resentment, anger ╱ agape ╱ your presence soothes me .

to seize the adoration one was never deserving of: a sin, an addiction. bringer of nightmares, a king crowned with madness –– and all he wants is all he can never have, prince amongst commoners, crawling through cobbled streets in search of scraps. there is relief in the tender stares he receives from older women, insisting him to turn back and find home. i don’t have one, i never had one. bones of a boy, muscles of a boy, but he –– savage, feral, bleeding life into a world that despises him.

                                                         ( … )

this is what he knows of love: he must give it, even when it hurts –– somebody must be willing to rip their own flash, gift it away, and remain lacking forever. with hate, he learns this: puncture your flesh in order to feed the mouths that bite your legs ; turn your head to receive double the punishment, as it might turn you palatable ( they all want to break you, and if you shatter prettily enough, you might find gilded dregs to store inside your ribs ) ; swallow what no one wants to hear &  drown in it.

                                                        ( … )

being made entirely of open wounds, there is no deity capable of dragging him back to the fiery pits that gifted him life ╱ gifted him curse. lucky vessel, so close to a heart of his own. he rips one off a deer ( unfortunate as all that cross his path ) ; does not recall his face as he becomes other. the horror of inevitability is the only beauty he knows of, as he undresses, carrying only skin &  blood. summer child ╱ crooked teeth, crooked smile. eris lies underneath ophelia: sweet, poisoned honey. there is an empty space, and there is laughter by its side. lord shiva, this is all i have, this is all i am. is there any other way to love, but to turn into madness?  dante’s shrines are always filled with silence –– but he still brings limbs, lungs, livers as offerings to friends, lovers, foes.

                                                         ( … )

light quivers through the cracks –– through the smile always perched on his lips, meaningless. he embraces the world: atlas, knee-deep in dirt, bound to shackles rooted in tartarus. he bears the weight with joyous laughter, bullet-wound on his throat. unconditional love to all but himself. –––– this is how my salvation will come. –––– he mumbles, wine-drunk, licking aphrodite’s mouth. oracle, foolish in his hopefulness. –––– i will love, love, love, until the point of murder. i will love the unlovable ; and i won’t ask for anything in return. –––– as he kisses madness into a stranger’s lips, as his body becomes a one night miracle for those who need it most. –––– i can give, and give, and give, and you won’t hear my voice begging for anything else. –––– as he lays in a bed that is not his own, as he wraps his tongue against quickened pulse, as he becomes one with a galaxy that had long disowned him. dante holds the unknown in his arms, and promises to adore it ( sweet, inescapable destiny ╱ ouroboros: we therefore commit this body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, beast to beast ).

            –––––– 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟                  𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐛. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟,                               𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 . ––––––

                               𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐈𝐈  ：𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐄 .

withering hope, abandonment ╱ philautia ╱ unfading love .

there is a limit to what forsaken hands can do. dante has picked stars, reached burning celestial bodies, cut his palms while tending to flowers with more thorns than petals. maybe i will encounter the lacking piece ; maybe there is half a soul to be found. a possibility is all that drives him forward, as skies turn grey and greyer. death is served, and young piece of sunshine ╱ corrupted shard of blood moon refuses to take it. i will keep on living –– i refuse to pass, i will not become more ghost than i already am. he moves around life, life runs right through him –– a sword lodged below his collarbone, forcing him to cough up blood. he is not a memory anyone can have. dante thinks about his absence in a world that already feels much like nothing: everchanging figure with a thousand names, an opaque face, a hidden mouth.

                                                        ( … )

merciless crow weighs heavily on his shoulder –– that, a haunting dante can’t run away from. he pledged the remnants of his tortured soul ; promised to bloom flowers inside of his guts ; swore he would not howl when the thorns slayed him. –––– how do i love without feeling it flow in my body, how do i love without receiving it in my bloodstream?  –––– fallen next to thanatos, locked away in a luxurious bathroom, he wonders and wonders. foolish messenger, victim of hubris ╱ icarus, aware the sun would burn his wings, but taking the leap of faith &  crashing, drowning in saltwater. –––– who am i to challenge the gods? –––– he murmured, anguish sorrow rising and falling in the rhythm of his chest. dante remembers rain falling endlessly –– but, most of all, he remembers silence. –––– oh, dear. i am alone, aren’t i?  –––– he questions a ghost, tears rupturing his flesh. what he tried to hide meets sunlight in its last breaths. miserable boy, crestfallen human –– he discovers himself once he uncovers death. soothsayer full of shame, guts filled with medicine, wrists torn by ache. what prophecy could he utter with such a defiled existence?  no one will come for him, is his last rational thought. no one will remember him. dante: nothing, no one, infinitesimal. –––– all i have tried to give is all i do not have. –––– the veil falls from his face and the earth quiets.

                                                        ( … )

he wakes up, bittersweet taste lingering in his body. my bones have finally shattered, he muses, not entirely awake, i have nothing else to give. his tutor does not spend the night by the side of his hospital bed ( white, everything pearlescent, pristine, sickening ), and dante doesn’t expect his parents to come –– and they don’t. ordinary, meaningless existence. he should have passed to another realm, but he had vowed to keep on living. –––– fate is anything but forgiving. –––– is what he mumbles to a kind nurse: the one individual worried for him, but only because it is her job. he holds her by the wrist one day, mouth opening and then closing. can you stay with me?  can you let me go?  –––– thank you. –––– and there are no other words he is able of uttering throughout his stay. alone, is all he’ll ever be, no pink hues to enlighten his days. he notices his age in a file, wrong by two years, but does not say anything about it. who cares?  who cares but you?  do you at all?  

                                                         ( … )

his scars do not turn into bird wings. what should i fear, if not death, if not desolation?  the torment of being devoured –– no, that is what he loves the most. in one of many nights ( lustful, adoring, fickle ), basile fast asleep by his side, dante’s fingertips caress exposed skin –– brutal tenderness, a blade he could never inflict upon himself. –––– i think i can only ever love whatever part of me when i find it mirrored in you, mon cher. –––– he confesses, obsidian irises shining. to hold on, to make room for fragile things, to fracture in the same crevices, even with leaden bones. –––– dragons and butterflies are one in the same, aren’t they?  –––– dante whispers, cherry lips dragging across basile’s ears as emerald cradles carnelian closer, closer.

          –––––– 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭 . ––––––

                       𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐕  ：𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 .

unfortunate attachment ╱ philia ╱ i have lost all .

grief supposedly works like this: denial ; anger ; bargain ; depression ; acceptance. dante has never fell into the latter –– there was not a day he felt his mother’s absence as an axiom. galatea died in his arms, no last breath redemption gifted to her only heir, but her number remains his emergency contact. perhaps–– this is the closest he will get to love: half-ghost, half-illusion ; one he can confess all his sins to ; one that will not reprimand him no more ; one hollow image ╱ sacrilegious saint he can pour his most selfish desires onto. once her body is laid five feet underground, dante kneels. –––– i would have done you a favour, mother, had i died before you.

                                                         ( … )

dante’s dismay is always reminiscent of a forest, petrichor, and a bonfire put out during the night. galatea by his side, barely addressing his existence. miles deep into the woods, birds were singing once he heard mother, titaness, whimper. dante reached for her, cradled her, hugged her –– for the first time, for the first time, for the last time. intact arrows were lodged on her throat, on her chest. what could he do? –––– stay with me, please. –––– dante begged and begged, but galatea’s eyes were no more. trembling hand holding cold fingers, desperate cries as he forced himself to walk, to search for an exit he knew no longer existed. his feet were cursed with blisters once he found a small village, his cheeks marred by dried tears, his arms covered in matriarchal blood. catatonic emptiness –– and each new fracture of his soul was a new explosion, sharp, dangerous, lost. he remained by her side, acute desperation as the reality crashed upon him, a rogue wave. –––– come back to me. –––– as he curled his body next to hers. always freezing, you were always this cold anyway. –––– come back. you have to come back. –––– as he clung to her limbs, as his eyes sunk in sorrow. does this pain have a name?  

                                                        ( … )

poppy’s empty room and the vacant space left by galatea were one in the same. dante lingered around her bed, head throbbing –– grief never leaves, it only evolves into smothering shadow. dante places a small bouquet atop her pillows, mumbles a prayer in a faint voice. –––– i never had much. –––– he whispers, and hopes poppy can hear him, feel him. –––– but i had you. and i will find you, baby girl. i promise i will. –––– there are no smiles to brighten up his complexion, no light shining through his ribs. this night, like many others, is spent entirely on research. who can i reach next?  what can i sell of my soul to have you back?  

                                   –––––– 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 . ––––––

                           𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕  ：𝐂𝐘𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐍 .

departure, resignation ╱ pragma ╱ all good things come to an end .

spring child, full of heartache. oh, how he wishes he could give it back: so many lives lost as he aimed for a pulse of his own, and dante now chases numbness. bodies become a blur, just in time for him to turn into a ghost. cheap whiskey and smoke mix themselves in his tongue, there are pills dissolving in his mouth, there is a stranger pressing him up against a wall. why is it not enough?  why must i crave what i can never have?  oh, to grow yourself a heart only for a friend to pull it out, for a friend to crush it beneath their feet. foolish boy. you should’ve been grateful for the void i gifted you, is the echo growing inside his brain, his mother’s voice a tortured ghost. to believe one could truly love him –– the most reckless of all behaviours, the pain that could extinguish him into dust. what is heavier than this emptiness?  what is more consuming than this void? –––– she … she told me she was going to find someone else to go home with. –––– hollis’ words can’t be erased from his mind, and dante finally crumbles beneath their weight.

                                                        ( … )

his eyes are swelled up once he reaches london. perhaps, there is a limit –– even for a demon, even for a grotesque creature. perhaps, as he crawls atop galatea’s grave, he meets his end. knife wound, love wound: it bleeds all the same. his body is freezing, even when the night is still –– there is an image replaying in an infinite cycle behind his eyelids, frozen tears clinging to reddened cheeks. –––– was saying ❝ i love you ❞ my undoing?  –––– he murmurs into the night, the claws of a demon resting upon his shoulders, smothering and lukewarm, and shivers caress his spine ( tiny spiders, nails across a chalkboard, vermins crawling through a corpse ). –––– he asked me to find him, and i did. –––– there is no humour in his laughter. such unforgivable stupidity, and he can only punish himself for it. unsheathed talons lacerate his scalp: apathy as a life-threatening poison, as he sinks rotten nails inside of his flesh and hopes to come up with a crown, reborn. there is no rage as perished daisies become his halo, as dead mother becomes dead son, on his knees, forehead to the ground. cold rain soaks up his bones: a preferable fate to succumbing to loneliness –– suffering, but religious ( i am only holy when broken, i can only adore as a morgue does with a corpse ). can rose taste him in basile, he wonders?  is he too fleeting to be felt, even by a tourmaline angel?  –– the one that loves him, loved him, somehow. melinoe whispers in his ear ( mother of madness, but he trusts her –– who else does he have? ) : that was a lie. what does one gain from worshipping you?  –– hell, fervent kisses, languid hands, consuming touch, everything, too much, nothing at all.

                                                        ( … )

jester, conquering his way through pleasing his majesty’s body, filling his bed. oh, to be aware of one’s low worth –– never good enough, even when it came down to being used. tiring illusionist, shuffling the same cards, over and over and over… could he blame anyone for forsaking him?  ares, begging to be forgotten. no more pain, no more. the heavens are deaf, however, and it continues: plague in his bones ; hunger in his chest ; torture in his skull. if he stays down for long enough, perhaps no one will bother to look for him. pitiful dead boy turns blind man, hearing his last heartbeat, moonlight on his tongue, constellations on his lips. what is there to be said at his tombstone?  unknown, unloved, unmissed. this, the only way he’d ever be able to go. you may have broken my heart, but only i hold the power of shattering my own soul. water springs from his eyes: weeping angel, at home in a cemetery. –––– not even your ghost is capable of loving me, mother. and still, you’re all i have. –––– he whispers, restless, plunging prayers down the earth. love me, you should’ve loved me, love me, please.

                 –––––– 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞: 𝐚 𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐧𝐨𝐭                                          𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 . ––––––

                            𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈  ：𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊 .

you will be my death ╱ eros ╱ poisonous calamity .

eros finds him –– no mercy, no mercy. mercutio picks him up from the ground, dirty and paralyzed, says nothing. dante wakes up in his bed, undressed, filthy, sore. –––– you always come back, don’t you?  –––– the emerald’s voice reverberates in his head, each syllable another nail on his coffin. phobos &  deimos are also children of aphrodite, is what he learns with mercutio –– standing tall, smile of a hunter, canines of a wolf. –––– i am really everything you have, huh? –––– his laughter is haunting, and the desai becomes child, forgotten –– once more, once more. 

–––– i never had you. –––– dante mumbles, looking out the window. the abyss stares back, offers no answers, vanishes. –––– never had anyone at all.

                                                        ( … )

when the morning comes, mercutio presses dante against a wall –– hand around his neck, vicious. dante does not blink as breaths become shallow, as lights seem to fade. –––– i’m not scared of you, fool. –––– melancholy in defiance, tone dripping in dark blue. –––– kill me. I’m all yours. –––– and he smiles only after his feet touch the ground, a slap across his cheek. bitter glory. thanatos is always lingering in his spine, never daring to break him. untouchable, even by death. sobriety in nothingness, in madness: mercutio looks inside his soul, and realizes he is messing with a demon with nothing to lose. –––– you have stepped over my guts and claimed the beast inside of me as yours. you have more reasons to fear me than anyone else, and you better start acting like it. –––– dante bows, and leaves. always an actor leaving a stage –– trickster, villain or tragedy?  he doesn’t know anymore.

                    –––––– 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚) 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞, 𝐛) 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫, 𝐜) 𝐬𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 ?  ––––––

                            𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈𝐈 ：𝐀𝐒𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐋 .

my regrets follow you to the grave ╱ memento mori ╱ remembered beyond the tomb .

dante comes back at midnight, after four long days. there are finger marks against his trachea, there are new quicksilver lines against his body, there is new darkness pressed underneath his eyes. quiet –– inside his heart, white noise. inside his mind, an ocean in which he’s drowning. for poppy, he muses, for poppy: he must move onward for her, if not for anyone else. he can barely hear his own heart, beating, struggling. just until i find her, and then...

#𝑿𝑰𝑰 : REFLECTIONS . #𝑽 : DEVELOPMENT . #body horror tw #suicide tw #blood tw #violence tw #abusive relationship tw #? #drug use tw #overdose tw #self harm tw #suicidal thoughts tw #i couldnt fit in ludus and storge in this #but #yeh

[miraculouscontent]

Adrien knew the feeling of being numb. After being disappointed so often by his father and the ragged schedule known as his life, Adrien began to expect things to not go his way. At the same time, getting numb got tiring after a while and he just let himself be upset instead.

But this? This was not something he expected, and the numbness had come right back. As he got lost multiple times, struggling to find his way home from where he'd been, all he could feel was the faint wind against his face and the phantom presence of something on his right hand that he dared not to investigate.

Deep down, he knew there was nothing there, so he didn't bother looking.

After what felt like an hour (maybe more), he arrived at his house and realized yet another issue he had to face: there was no way he could sneak back inside now.

If he'd been paying more attention while weighing his options, he would've noticed the camera watching him.

"Adrien!"

The voice made Adrien go stiff, briefly startled out of his numb state. He turned towards the camera, unable to see who was on the other end but unfortunately recognizing the voice.

"What do you think you're doing out there?!" Gabriel asked, his voice tense and angry. "Do you have any idea how late it is?!"

Honestly, he didn't.

There was the sound of Gabriel huffing, followed by the sound of tapping keys. "Come in immediately and see me in my office."

The gates to the mansion opened, Adrien begrudgingly trudging past them to go inside. Each step felt heavy and uneven, like he could fall over at any moment.

Nathalie opened the doors for him as soon as he arrived in front of them. She looked down at him disapprovingly, saying nothing but clearly knowing that Adrien was in for an earful.

Adrien looked up towards his room, noting Gorilla standing in front of the door. He looked tired, and Adrien could only reason that it must've been very late and he'd been keeping them up with his absence.

Silently, he walked into Gabriel's office, where Gabriel was standing quietly behind his desk, his back facing the portrait of Emilie. His monitor was clearly lit up, even though Adrien couldn't see what was on it. If Adrien had been a little more aware of himself and his own surroundings, he might've found it strange.

"Where have you been?" Gabriel asked coldly.

Adrien blinked, his usual posture traded out in exchange for being pathetically hunched over. He could only give a half-hearted shrug in response to Gabriel's question because, really, he'd been everywhere.

Gabriel's gaze sharpened at the "attitude" Adrien was giving him. He eyed Adrien up and down, then continued, "You've been sneaking out ever since you've been going to that school, and don't think I haven't heard about the things that have happened there. Will it be necessary to take you out?"

"...No," Adrien replied, though it actually took him a moment to think about it.

"No?" Gabriel echoed. "So you've finally realized that this behavior is doing nothing for you? After going behind my back multiple times to bring shame to the Agreste name, you've noticed how pointless it all is?"

Adrien had no response for him. Gabriel glared, obviously frustrated that Adrien had shut down in front of him and seemed insistent on staying quiet.

"Very well." Gabriel turned away. "Go. You're lucky you don't have any photoshoots in the near future, as I'm sure you won't get your standard amount of sleep."

Adrien stared at Gabriel for a long moment, still in a daze, then slowly turned towards the door.

"...Wait--" Gabriel turned back to him. "Adrien, stop."

Adrien did as he was told, though he eased forward as he halted, perhaps too mentally exhausted to stand still properly. He didn't face Gabriel, but vaguely heard the footsteps coming towards him.

His right hand was grabbed. As Gabriel held it up, Adrien continued staring at nothing.

"Adrien," Gabriel began impassively, "you used to wear a ring. Where is your ring?"

Suddenly, the fog in Adrien's mind cleared. He snapped his gaze up towards Gabriel, glared, and jerked his hand away, all without a single thought to his actions.

Gabriel recoiled, shocked at the shift in behavior. He paused, then squinted, staring at Adrien with an emotion that Adrien couldn't recognize.

After an uneasy moment, Gabriel regained his usual demeanor, even turning his back to Adrien. He returned to his desk, then shuffled through the drawers, seeming intent on finding something.

When he walked back to Adrien, there was something held tightly in his fist. He took Adrien's hand again, though tighter this time, likely to discourage Adrien from doing the same as before. Adrien legitimately didn't realize that he was still glaring, or even that he'd been glaring in the first place.

Silently, Gabriel took what had been in his grasp and slipped it onto Adrien's hand. Adrien's anger transitioned into shock, and he could only gape at the white ring on his finger.

It was exactly where the cat miraculous had been too.

"Here." Though his tone was firm, Gabriel's gaze was directed elsewhere and he seemed to be in deep thought. "I can't have you being inconsistent with your attire."

Adrien didn't wait for him to say anything else. With an uncharacteristic huff, he turned away from Gabriel and stormed off.

Gabriel let him go, not even reprimanding Adrien for acting out.

~~~~~

Adrien slammed the door behind him as he entered his room. He didn't care whether or not anyone heard him. He was nearly seeing red, his Chat-side clearly bleeding into his civilian personality.

Running a hand through his hair in frustration, he tried to think, finding himself unable to process everything that'd happened in, what, the past few hours? What kind of sick joke was that?

His eyes scanning the room, Adrien took note of his computer. Even though the display was black, he knew that the computer was on, as his room had obviously been untouched.

After all, his window was still opened when he'd escaped as Chat. Naturally, Adrien grabbed the remote and shut it, not wanting to see it in his peripheral vision anymore.

He drew his gaze back to the computer, feeling as though the black screen was staring back at him.

...He had to know.

Walking over, he sat down at his computer desk and navigated to LadyBugOut's website. When he saw that there was a video posted extremely recently, his heart nearly stopped.

Hesitantly, he clicked on it.

The video opened with Ladybug, of course. She was staring into the camera, looking noticeably serious.

"Hello, everyone," she said, hands clasped at her waist. "A big change in the team has happened today, and I want everyone to know before they see it so it won't be as much of a shock."

Adrien sat there, anxious. He hoped more than anything else that someone else was replaced. He didn't want to hear that Ladybug had known about anything that happened.

Ladybug took a breath, then explained, "Chat Noir is no longer on the team. His miraculous has been taken away. Really, he was..." She paused, grimacing. "Well, I shouldn't go into the details."

She tilted her head, seeming to be thinking about something. "...Before I go, there's one more thing I want to say."

Tell them, m'lady, Adrien mentally begged, tell them how much you wanted me to stay.

"I know what some of you thought of Chat Noir, and maybe what the public as a whole thought of him. The idea of a new cat might have everyone feeling a little apprehensive, but the miraculous has already been given to someone."

Adrien felt as though he was falling.

Ladybug continued, "All I ask is that you all give them a chance. I don't know how well it will go yet, but I'm more than willing to give them a shot. I hope we'll get along and that we'll be able to take on Hawk Moth together."

She bowed her head, then smiled. "Anyway, that's all I needed to say. Bug out!"

The video stopped. Adrien initially flinched, shocked that it was just... the end, just like that.

That was it? That was all she had to say about him?

And she'd known, or at least she was aware after the fact. Maybe she was even the one who convinced Fu...?

No, that couldn't be. They were partners. They...

Adrien slumped on his desk, covering his face with his hands.

They weren't partners anymore. His miraculous had been taken and given to someone else before morning had even hit. Taking into account the way Ladybug had talked, Fu must've given the cat away and not her.

So this was probably a new cat that Ladybug didn't even know; that Ladybug wasn't even used to.

How ridiculous was that? Adrien knew Ladybug. They had a bond.

Ladybug just didn't understand that. She didn't listen to him even though he'd always given her his whole heart.

The atmosphere felt thick. It was hard to breathe. It was one thing to have his miraculous revoked, but to know that someone else had it practically confirmed that he was never getting that miraculous back.

Slowly, Adrien drew his gaze to Plagg's cheese stash, the stench of which was mildly permeating the door. He went over and opened it, staring silently at the abundance of cheese inside.

The room seemed so much quieter all of a sudden. Adrien clutched the door, feeling a sharp pain in his chest and the heat of anger rush to his head.

His freedom, gone. All because of a blog that was never necessary.

His kwami, gone. Plagg didn't even support him in their final moment together.

His miraculous, gone. He'd earned that miraculous, and it'd been taken from him.

And as a purple butterfly flew into the room, hovering just above Adrien's ring before seeping into it, Adrien himself was gone too.

Hello, Catastrophe. I am Hawk Moth.

#MC's Collabs #collab: LadyBugOut AU #accredited: inspiraling madness #MC's Writing #writing: story #other: ask and answer #category: long post #word count: over 1000

[musutofu]

【 Round Trip 】 Drabble

♡ pairing | ᵞᴬᴺᴰᴱᴿᴱ Shouji x ᶠᴱᴹ Reader ✑ word count | 1.7k ✎ genre | yandere ✗ warnings | kidnapping, mentions of pregnancy prompt | 33. “Do you really think you can get away from me?”

Memories are a curious thing. Flimsy and finicky, unreliable with the finer details of things while still holding truth in the broader strokes. Trying to see into the past as it’s been recorded by your mind is like looking at an old photograph that’s been left in the sun for too long. It’s dried and cracked around the edges, brittle to the touch. The slightest prodding at the loose ends of a feeling or sound could lead to it crumbling to dust as you try to keep it in the palm of your hands. And like the dust of former memories you’re beginning to lose yourself in the passage of time. Sunlight has leached your colors into a pale rendition of your former glory, bleached out spots of detail completely until you’re not certain what had filled the space once upon a time. It feels like you’re still there–the old you–standing just at the edge of your periphery, out of focus and only slightly tangible but every time you try to look the wraith strays further from sight. Soon, if you sit idle and let yourself erode to dust, there’ll be nothing left to grasp at. You’ll be gone. And a new person that isn’t you will be left to fill the empty shell left behind. But, if there’s one thing you remember about your life from before, it’s that you were never one to take things lying down. You got up and you fought. In your currently degraded state it’s hard to imagine standing up for yourself at even the smallest grievance and such a large offense that looms behind you has made you turn tail and run. And, for better or worse, you have no choice but to keep going. The deed is done, the betrayal completed. There’s nothing but rage left in your wake and memories of past punishment ring clear in your mind. The sharp, metallic taste of blood floods your mouth at the thought and your jaw pops open to be certain you haven’t bitten a hole in your tongue. You haven’t. The only lingering pain that’s physically tangible are aged a few hours. Throbbing bruises decorate the skin of your thighs and hips, dark bruises across your neck and chest in the shape of half moons; the fruits of your laborious night. A joyous occasion that trumped any and all physical boundaries and left you battered and bruised. “Mommy,” you jump in your seat, so lost in the liberation of the journey that you’d forgotten you absconded with a passenger. “I have to use the bathroom.” In the backseat your daughter is squirming in her car seat, hands wringing her seatbelt as she rocks forward and back as if she’ll be able to fling herself out of it with enough momentum. “Sit back, Chie-chan. It says there’s a rest stop at the next exit. Can you hold it for a little longer?” She slumps back in her seat with a huff, scrunching her nose at you in the rear view mirror in a way that makes her look like an angry puppy. She’s inherited much of her father’s appearance, including his elongated face. For a moment you find yourself annoyed with her just for looking the way she does. Having the audacity to even remotely resemble him while in your presence, but you catch yourself before you can go further down that dark path of resentment. It’s never the child’s fault for being born and if not for your daughter, your life would be only darkness. All the light in recent memories are because of her and you find the heinous thoughts of hatred rescinding from where they intruded. As you wait outside the bathroom for Chie to come out you wonder if your absence has been noticed yet. Probably. Shouji’s schedule rarely changes and he’s been getting home around this time every day recently. It’ll be a few hours before he realizes you aren’t returning and, if you’re lucky, a few more until he’ll be able to find you. The plan is to be on a plane overseas by then. Just as you’re strapping Chie back into her car seat, your phone rings. You’d been certain to turn off all location services and log out of any SNS accounts you’d had open in the hopes of going incognito but without turning it off or, at the least, to do not disturb, Shouji can still try to contact you. And he has. A picture of him lights up your screen as you pull out of the parking lot going only a little over the speed limit. “Chie-chan,” she’s happier now, perking up at your sing-song tone. “Remember how I told you we’re playing hide and seek with Daddy?” She nods excitedly. “That means we can’t tell Daddy where we’re going, so when I pick up don’t mention it or we’ll lose, okay?” “Okay, Mommy!” You answer the call on the sixth ring, putting it on speaker and passing the phone back to Chie. As expected, Shouji isn’t happy with your disappearance. His voice is tight with repressed anger as he greets you. “Honey,” he’s trying his best to not sound upset, “where are you?” “Hi, Daddy!” Chie says before you can make up a lie. She starts babbling on about her day in that way all kids can. A constant stream of information that doesn’t stop for a breath and adds in the most minute details lest you not know what color her shoes are today. Shouji doesn’t interrupt her but you can hear him moving in the background, probably pacing at the thought of you slipping through his fingers after years of keeping you under lock and key. He trusted you not to run from him after all these years and it makes you wonder why you did. Beside the obvious kidnapping and forced lifestyle as a Hero’s housewife he’d been the perfect husband, but something inside you broke last night and the suffocation you’d felt in the beginning came back with full force, weighing heavier and heavier on your chest until you’d made it out the front door. The feeling of weightlessness has only gotten better as the miles fall away behind you. “Mommy!” The car jerks as you jump again, always so afraid of the slightest reproach, even from your child that’s so much like your husband. She’s looking at you in the mirror with those big, dark eyes as if you’ve missed something important. “Yes, baby?” “Daddy asked if you went to the doctors today.” Your hands tighten on the steering wheel at the memory. It was all feigned excitement and empty thanks as the doctors congratulated you on your pregnancy and healthy baby. It was the only reason Shouji had left you the car keys. When you were pregnant with Chie he took you to all the appointments himself, not wanting to give you a chance to run. Unfortunate for him that he thought you wouldn’t now. “I did!” The persona is back. The perfect wife that will surely become your permanent personality if you’re caught. She’s sweet and docile, answering everything with an innocent, coquettish tone. “It’s too early to know if it’s a boy or a girl, but they’re healthy. The doctor gave me some vitamins.” “Mommy, are you sick?” Chie is suddenly upset at the mention of medicine. “No, baby, Mommy is fine.” Shouji soothes her. “She just has to take special medicine so your new brother or sister can grow big and strong.” “I want to meet them.” She’s pacified by her father’s words and you’re glad for it as the airport comes into view. Your takeoff time isn’t for a few hours but you’d rather not start the wait with a distraught child. “Soon, baby. We’ll meet them soon.” It could be all in your head but it sounded like he put extra emphasis on “we” and you’re not sure you like that indirect promise. We means together and together means going back. You take the phone from Chie after pulling into the parking lot. Before Shouji can protest, Chie pouts her goodbyes and hangs up. You let her keep your phone to watch cartoons as you wait at the terminal. Somewhere between episodes five and six, you doze off. Wakefulness finds you much more comfortable than when you’d fallen asleep, the scratchy cushion of the plastic airport chairs doing little to cradle your body as you slept. The cushion beneath you now is decidedly more comfortable and you roll over to indulge in a few more moments of relaxation, though it drains away immediately as your nose catches on a scent that will be forever ingrained in your memory. It’s the distinctly masculine scent of Shouji and as you gain your bearings, suddenly fully awake, you realize it’s all around you. The walls of the cage you’d thought you’d escaped are looming up around you as Shouji’s arms lock you to your bed, hands trapped between your bodies now that you’ve rolled towards him. He knows you’re awake. His hand gently traces shapes up and down your spine as you try your best not to cry or scream and wake Chie from where she’s probably sleeping in her room down the hall. “I know you’re awake, honey. Can I see those pretty eyes?” You indulge him, but only because you fear what he’ll do if you don’t. He’s being kind now, but that can surely change after the stunt you’ve pulled today. “There she is.” He coos at your tearful eyes. “How did you find us?” “Do you really think I’d let you use the car with no way to track it. You running off was always a possibility. I didn’t want to take my chances no matter how good you’ve been as of late. Do you really think you can get away from me? Do you honestly think I’d let you run off with my children?” His hand caresses the skin of your stomach as he goes on. “I’m yours. You’re mine. You’re my wife and the mother of my children. I want you here,” he’s whispering now, cuddling you closer to his chest. “So don’t try to leave me again. If you do, I’ll chain you to our bed.”

#shouji #shouji mezou #mha shouji #bnha shouji #mha mezou #bnha mezou #shouji x reader #shouji drabble #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia

[lonely-bored-writer]

Casper High Ch. 10

Danny never realized that there was a place in Amity Park he had never really experienced, and this one was one he knew he was going to make sure he went to even after the Winchesters left town. It was different and it was something he never realized he missed. Amity Park wasn't known for many things now, and it wasn't the most attractive place. It had its perks, of course, and Amity park will always be Danny's home. No matter what memories it held, every place has it's good and bad. This however, this was something he didn't really realize about Amity so it was something else.

"Wow." Danny trailed off, staring in awe. In the corner of his eye he could see Sam watching him with a grin. The sky was a beautiful bluish-purple color with splashes of orange and red streaking the atmosphere. However, that wasn't what took his breath away; the night sky was clear, showing the hundreds of stars that splattered the sky like paint splatters.

Even as a small town, Amity never had many stars in the night- the light from the buildings and the street lights helped to lessen the brightness of those stars so that they were barely noticeable. When Sam started driving towards the woods, Danny had expected a picnic but he didn't expect it to be under such clear stars. This spot was just far enough that the light pollution didn't fog the view of the sky, but not too far from the town that it wasn't worth the drive (or the fly in Danny's case if he ever wanted to take a spin as a ghost).

"You like it?" Sam asked, looking slightly nervous as he glanced around the clearing. Sam had Danny wait with his eyes closed for a few minutes as he rustled around. Once given the go ahead, Danny opened his eyes to a picnic. The kicker was the fact that the spread was not on the ground as you would expect, but rather everything was settled on the hood of the Impala.

"I love it." Danny turned back, giving Sam a big grin. The smile the taller teen gave brought a flutter all through Danny's stomach and chest. It was all so beautiful, and wonderful. However Danny couldn't help the nagging feeling in the back of his head that there was more to this than he was being told. He trusted Sam, whatever it was he knew Sam would tell him, so he shouldn't be worried. Swallowing down the knot that formed, Danny spoke. "You actually surprised me, how'd you find out about this? Does Dean approve of us sitting on top of his car and possibly scuffing the paint?" He asked, looking up at the sky and glancing among the trees.

"Well, one of Dean's co-workers mentioned it." Sam blushed, running a hand through his hair. Danny couldn't help but find the flustered Sam a little cute- this has to be the most nervous Danny has seen Sam, which only really adds to his worry, regardless of how adorable the youngest Winchester can be. "He went camping here a few times. And yes, Dean suggested it. But he made me promise I lay out the blanket first just in case." Sam continued, reaching for one of the bags.

"Aw, you know me too well." Danny laughed as Sam brandished a red sugar-free monster. The teen could recount the amount of times Sam made a comment about the amount of energy drinks Danny has consumed around him. It wasn't always for the caffeine- sometimes the flavor was just craved.

"I might not approve of your caffeine addiction," Sam joked, handing Danny his drink. "But having it only sometimes isn't all that bad." Danny grinned, cracking the can open and taking a sip. Sam really did think of everything; just the realization that Sam's focused enough to remember his favorites made his heart flutter.

"You really thought of everything." Danny smiled fondly, looking among the array of food laying out on the blanket covered hood. Their favorite meals from the Nasty Burger along with the few dessert options they had.

The night flowed easily for the two of them, each moment filled with laughter and conversation. Sharing stories from their time before the two met, and even recalling events that happened during their time knowing each other. Danny hadn't laughed this much since his best friends left. Life seemed to fall darker the months that followed their absence, the Winchester brothers were a nice distraction from it all, even if it was only temporary.

However Danny wasn't completely oblivious, he knew this was out of the blue. Something had to be up, and he could feel it. Sam was a little distracted through their time under the stars, occasionally falling slightly too far into his thoughts. Tonight felt special, different in all the ways that mattered, and maybe tonight was the time to say something.

"Sam."

"Danny." The halfa chuckled as the other spoke at the same time.

"Uh- you go first." Sam laughed along, causing Danny to shake his head.

"You can go first, it's not that important." Danny brushed off, waving his hand around, feeling his nerves growing stronger with each passing second.

"Danny, you know I really enjoy being here. More than the other schools I've been to, but..." Sam paused, taking a breath and meeting Danny's gaze. "But in my family, and my dad's job, we always move." Danny noted the sad look that Sam tried to mask, offering him his own sad smile.

"I know your dad isn't a mechanic." Danny spoke, watch Sam tense before quickly continuing, not wanting to make Sam more anxious than he had to. "But I won't ask you what the real reason is, because I trust you. Everyone has their thing, and I know you know I do as well. You are doing so to protect your family and I understand and I don't blame you." Danny chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

"I'm sorry, I don't want to lie nor leave but I can't stay." Sam spoke, the sadness growing heavy. Danny turned, grabbing one of Sam's hands.

"I don't want you to, this has been the best time I've had in a long time, but life happens." Danny paused, swallowing down his emotions. As much as he'd like to demand the truth, get confirmation, and tell Sam he doesn't have to follow his father's footsteps, he knows it's not his place. "When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow." Sam answered. Danny felt his heart clinch, that why Sam did this. Tonight was the last time they were going to hang out.

"Let's not spoil tonight then?" Danny asked, watching Sam chuckled softly with a nod.

"Yea."

Danny tugged Sam down to lay down next to him with the hand he had yet to release. The two teens laid side by side, laced hands resting between them on the blanket-covered hood of the car as they watched the stars above them.

Danny couldn't shake the heavy feeling that weighed on him when Sam drove him home late that night, and as he pulled the taller teen into a hug before he left. The feeling sunk heavier and heavier with every step towards his home. The sounds of his parents tinkering in the lab rang loudly in the air as he made his way to the kitchen.

Through habit he put together a meal for his parents, mostly leftovers from the night prior. Heating it before stumbling down the stairs, Danny placed it on a table, wanting to be as unnoticed as possible. His eyes landed on the current experiment, a small ghostly bug laid huddled in the corner of a clear case, wire traveling the various different parts of the unfortunate ghost. Danny swallowed, feeling bad for the little guy, but he also knew better than to try and release it with his parents still working on it.

He placed the plate in the same place as usual, gathering the small pile of plates placed nearby. Danny stepped softly towards the stairs- he had made it this far and he didn't want to be caught now. All he really wanted to do was get to bed and let the events of the day hit him. However, life, and death, liked to hit him with a train repeatedly.

"Danny boy!" The sudden shout caused the teen to jump, turning to be met with his parents looking at him. Danny swallowed, offering a smile to his parents, but it came out shaky and queasy, but it wasn't like his parents cared enough about him to notice.

"Did you just get in?" Maddie asked, wiping ectoplasm onto a stained towel. Danny swallowed again, trying to ignore the nausea that waved over him. That was blood. Blood that took up half the volume of his own veins.

"Uh yea, I was out with Sam." Danny answered, taking a small step towards the exit. "I was just going to-"

"Do you want to see what we're working on?!" Jack exclaimed, waving towards a set of wires not connected to anything. Danny tensed, smiling nervously, alarms blared in his head and he needed out, like right now.

"I was actually thinking I'll head to bed early and catch up on sleep before school." Danny answered, hoping it was going to save him this time around.

"Nonsense." Maddie smiled, reaching towards her son and dragging him closer. "It will only take a moment."

"Yea kiddo." Jack slapped his back, cause Danny to hold back a wince.

"Uhh, sure." Danny smiled nervously, there was no way out and Sam and Dean weren't gonna be there tomorrow to help him bandage whatever his parents were going to do to him. Danny wasn't enthused that he would have to get used to throwing together care for his wounds himself until he could finally leave his parents behind.

Danny groaned softly, falling back into his bed. Eyes stared into the ceiling as various parts of him felt on fire. The plus side was that no skin was broken, but the downside was that he could feel it deep in his muscles, the grasping fingers of pain trying their best to reach past the limits of his muscles to dig its claws deep into his bones. He knew he was going to be ridiculously sore in the morning, but it really could be worse.

That's when it hit him, the news that was dropped on him today. Sam was leaving, which means so was Dean. The two people who were there for him, who cared for him in such a short time. Who he cared for. They were the only people who gave Danny the time of day since his friends moved and Jazz moved out for college, when Danny fell back to being invisible except to bullies.

Danny sighed, curling onto his side. He didn't want life to fall back into the lonely routine he had before the Winchesters. It's true he still had his two best friends, but they were miles away. It's different to have someone here for you, only a few minutes away... Sam was different, someone Danny was pretty sure he couldn't forget easily even if he wanted to.

He understood, he knows that life can be different and people have things they have to do to protect not only themselves but other loved ones. Sam has to go, his family has some type of job they have to complete. Maybe Danny doesn't know the details, doesn't know why the Winchesters have to travel around and find trouble. All he knows is that's what they do, and even if he hoped they didn't, he won't try to talk them out of anything. He gets doing anything you can for family, he's not angry or upset about them leaving.

He's just... sad.

Tears finally welled in his eyes, no longer being able to hold them back. The warm tears slide across his cheeks and Danny curled in on himself tighter. He's been able to keep his feelings generally in check over all this time, even with everything that happened. But sometimes things just got too much, and he couldn't hold it in anymore.

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #Supernatural fanfic #SUPERNATURAL AU #superphantom #superphantomau #superphantom au #fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction.net #fanficiton #danny #Danny Phantom #danny fenton #danny phantom fanfiction #phandom #phandoms #casper high

[draqcnheartstrinq]

Utterly Stunning

Peter Parker x Insecure!Reader

Requested: Anonymous asked: peter parker w insecure reader? like maybe she has an internship with Stark and she doesn’t show up so he goes to check on her. peter finds her upset because she still has acne even tho she’s 17, and she’s kinda small (like fr I weigh less than 100 lbs) and people comment on it, even family and friends? i’m having a rough week, my friends asked me how much i weigh since it came up and i told them i was 99 and they were all like ‘do you even eat?’ and blah blah blah and it just kinda hurt

Word count: 1.7k

Warning: Read request.

I hope this is what you expected sweet anon! Enjoy and feel all the love Peter has to give to you ;)

Once again, Peter made his way to The Avengers Facility. He did this twice a week to talk to Tony, go over some possible suit-improvements together and ask him about everything his mind could come up with.

Talking to Tony Stark was easy now, a routine if you could call it that and the two of them genuinely build up a bond.

Pepper was there too every now and then. She loved seeing the pair work together on a new gadget and sometimes getting into an argument but never a heated one. Tony could never be angry with Peter, and that was the most adorable thing about it.

Usually you were there too as an actual intern, learning about all the different technologies and suits, developing various amounts of improvements… But not today. You hadn’t shown up at the usual hour and both Peter and Tony were getting quite worried about your absence. You hadn’t called in sick either, adding to the guys’ suspicions.

“Has she texted you today at all, Parker?” Tony asked after making sure you hadn’t called in.

“Let me check.” Peter reached for his phone in his back pocket. As the screen lit up with Ned, MJ and him on the background, the only notification he saw was a message from May.

“No, I didn’t get anything from her. Maybe she slept in and forgot to set her alarm?”

“That’s possible, but I don’t feel good about this.” A line appeared between Tony’s eyebrows and his hand glided over his stubbled chin.  Something wasn’t right and he knew it. You were always on time, always made sure not to do anything wrong or step in anyone's way… This was totally out of character for your norms.

“Peter, when you leave for the day could you possibly pass by (Y/N)’s place? I have a feeling something isn’t adding up and unfortunately I haven’t got the time to go myself.”

“Of course, sir, I was thinking of doing the same thing!”

“Good.”

As they tinkered a while longer it grew quiet again, both of them being preoccupied by the thought of something happening to you. Sweet smart (Y/N), what could possibly be going on?

*~*~*~*~*~*

Entering the lobby of your apartment building always made Peter’s heart go a little faster. Seeing you, being near you in general made him more jittery and nervous but at the same time joyful and excited.

The ride in the elevator up to your floor was just as nerve wracking as making his final exams. Stressful because what if something went wrong, but thrilling because afterwards he would be having an amazing time.

He breathed in deeply simultaneously as the ding of the elevator went off. More nervous with the second he even tripped over the rug in the hallway, scolding himself in his head for being so clumsy, once gain.

“Please, don’t be this stupid when she’s talking to you”, he whispered to himself before knocking on your apartment door.

Even after two minutes of him standing there, balancing on the balls of his feet and his tiptoes, no one opened.

He knocked again, waiting a few more seconds but it was no better this time.

His worry grew little by little and eventually he decided to take matters into his own hands. What if you were really in trouble? What if someone hurt you and he wasn’t there to help? It would honestly break him to know something was horribly wrong and he didn’t do a thing to get you out of it.

Peter took off towards the window at the end of the hallway and opened it whilst making sure no one was there to see what he was about to do. Finally he climbed through the window, sticking his hands to the wall outside and climbing ‘spider-style’ towards your room window. Luckily for him your apartment was pretty far from the city center so nobody would notice this eighteen year old climbing against apartment walls, about five stories up.

And there, right next to your window, you sat with tears in your eyes whilst clutching your knees towards your chest.

This sight made Peter’s jaw fall open and his eyes shine with even more worry than he ought possible. How heartbreaking it felt to see you there like you just had the toughest day of your life.

When you noticed the figure peeking through your window from outside you jumped out of your spot, almost falling to the floor as you brought up your hand to your chest. But you quickly realised it was only Peter, your best friend and probably the sweetest boy you ever met, so you calmed down in an instant.

Reaching for your window you opened it for him but not before wiping the little tears from your eyes in hopes he didn’t catch onto your bewildered state. But who were you trying to fool, if he hadn’t seen your distress he sure as hell felt it because of his spider-senses.

Peter glided through your window steadying himself before looking up at you with the biggest puppy-eyes you had ever seen. He looked worried, sad and maybe even a little protective, standing there with his arms wide as if to say ‘let me give you a hug’.

Your walls were up and you weren’t planning on letting them be pulled down, not this time. Honestly you felt embarrassed about crying over something you shouldn’t even have given a second thought. So you stayed at a distance, not quite sure what Peter could be doing in your room anyway.

“Were you the one knocking at the door?” you asked him whilst trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m sorry I didn’t come say hello I’m just not really in the mood for talking.”

“I came to check on you”, Peter answered abruptly, “Tony is worried about you…”

“Oh, yeah I see.”

“And I really was too.”

You stared at the ground, most probably blushing a little as you felt your cheeks heat up and your hands go a little clammy. Peter took a few steps closer, he knew something was up and you felt his nervousness purely because of the way he moved towards you and the light stutter that escaped his lips every now and then.

“I’m still worried, you don’t look too good. Have you slept well?”

“Well thanks Peter, I didn’t know I looked that bad!”

“You know I didn’t m-mean it like that. (Y/N), you’re gorgeous but just not… you know, not as bubbly and happy as you normally are.” He wanted to slap himself across the face again. He really needed to learn to think before opening his mouth.

“What’s going on? Why didn’t you come to the facility today?”

“Didn’t really feel like it, I guess.”

“How come?”

“Peter, please just leave it. It’s nothing important, it’s ridiculous I shouldn’t even be upset about it.”

Peter was taken aback. You looked genuinely upset, like you could start tearing up at any moment again but too stubborn to tell him anything about it. Normally you would’ve told him every detail already, would’ve jumped at him for a much needed hug. He didn’t understand what was keeping you so distanced.

“If you’re getting this upset about it then it’s definitely not ‘nothing’, (Y/N).”

And there they were again, the tears.

Peter knew how to get to you without even having to try. Sometimes it made your blood boil but most of the time you couldn’t love it more. You needed to let things out, had to tell somebody you trusted without feeling judged because others did that enough already.

You needed Peter, right there, at that exact moment.

He noticed your sudden change of mood. Immediately without wasting a single second he ran up to you, holding you steady in his arms. His touch was soft as if not to break you, but at the same time strong, giving a feeling of safety. You almost felt loved being there in his arms, not saying anything for a few seconds and only letting the tears fall and eventually dry up.

After a while when he felt you had calmed down a little, Peter spoke up in the sweetest most caring way possible. It was like honey dripping from his lips, you felt the tenderness with every word and it made you feel like floating.

“Tell me, lovely, what’s going on?”

Someone cared, that person being Peter. He didn’t judge, he didn’t look at you weird, he saw you as you.

“It’s my family and even some of my friends… They comment on all my faults like… like-”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m just meant to do something about it. But I can’t, Peter, this is who I am and I can’t just change something like my weight or my acne.”

“Is that what they comment on? For real?” Peter’s voice grew a little angry, like he couldn’t believe the audacity of people daring to comment on what you looked like.

He thought you were wonderful just the way you are and hoped you would realise that some day. Even with the stains of salty tears on your cheeks and the redness of your eyes he thought you were stunning, every flaw showed your beauty a little more.

In his eyes not a single person had the right to make you doubt yourself. It wasn’t right, they weren’t right. If they didn’t see your beauty then they needed to open their eyes and take a good look at you, further than the weight, further than the acne. Because those little things didn’t outshine your cute nose, your shining hair, your sparkling eyes and stunning smile.

You were you, why wouldn’t that be enough?

Peter’s plan now was very simple, making you realise how amazing you were, inside and out, just by being you. He raised his hands to your cheeks caressing them with his thumbs and simultaneously wiping the leftover tears away. Afterwards he kept his old on your face, pulling it a little closer and pressing his lips to your forehead kissing it with absolute tenderness then playfully booping your nose. You giggled and just like everything else about you, he loved the sound.

“You’re ridiculous, Peter.”

“Only ridiculously in love with you.” He blushed, you silently gasped.

He was going to make you see yourself like he saw you, nothing less than utterly stunning.

#peter parker #spider-man #spiderman #x reader #peter parker x reader #spiderman x reader #spider-man x reader #imagine #fanfiction #peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #spider-man imagine #spider-man fanfiction #spiderman imagine #spiderman fanfiction #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #mcu #tom holland #my writing #fan writing #utterly stunning

[lynne-monstr]

strange partnership

Written for Tentacletober Day 2: Under the Sea

ao3 link

“Walk the plank, Lightwood.” The tip of Hodge’s blade prods Alec between the shoulders.

Alec squints against the sun, his rage burning hotter than the unrelenting heat of midday. He could beat Hodge with his hands tied behind his back. Unfortunately, he can’t say the same for all the rest of his traitorous crew.

“You’re all dead men,” Alec says. It’s bluster but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. When Isabelle and Jace hear what happened to him, there’s nowhere far enough this group of scoundrels will be able to hide from their wrath.

With that, he jumps.

There’s time for one last desperate drag of air before the water closes over his head.

“So long, Captain Lightwood.” The mocking words of his first mate echo in his ears. Alec hopes Hodge chokes on them.

In the shadow of his own ship, he sinks like a stone, weighed down by the heavy chains around his wrists and ankles. It isn’t the way he wants to die– in the back of his mind, he always assumed he’d be hung by the Crown, punishment for breaking from his parents’ cruel legacy to become a pirate—but there’s something appropriate about finding his final resting place in the ocean he loves so much.

Plunging deep into the sea’s embrace is surprisingly peaceful. Or it would be, except for how Alec’s chest begins to burn. Still, he clings to his last shred of comfort. At least Isabelle and Jace aren’t here to share his fate.

It’s pure chance he sent them away on a scouting mission over a week ago. Their absence may have helped Hodge stage his mutiny, but it also ensured that Alec can bear this last agony alone without regret. It’s them he thinks of as the fire in his chest blooms into an all-encompassing inferno.

At first, he thinks the prodding against his lips is a hallucination, a fever dream brought on by his own impending demise. He ignores it, too consumed with the agony spreading through his limbs, the need for relief that will never come.

The gentle prodding is back, and something soft and pliable slips past his lips and into his mouth.

Instinct takes over, and he thrashes against the intrusion. Even if Alec wins, he’s a dead man, but at least he’ll die fighting and there’s comfort in that. His hands clench into fists where they’re bound and useless at his back, his legs kicking out at whatever sea creature wants a piece of him. Black spots devour his vision even as the last of his breath escapes him in a stream of bubbles.

He gasps, bracing against the inevitable rush of water.

“Breathe, pretty boy.”

The astonishment of hearing another human voice, warm and faintly amused, is nearly as shocking as the sweet relief of breathing fresh air this far below the sea. Alec is too consumed with filling his chest to wonder. He takes a long, greedy breath from the object in his mouth, and then another.

When his heart is no longer in danger of pounding its way out of his chest, he cautiously studies his surroundings. At this depth the water is a rich blue, with enough light to see that the object in his mouth is connected to something else.

Someone else.

Alec lets out a muffled gasp. A kraken, is his first, terrible thought.

But it’s no mythical monster whose tentacles have both ensnared and saved him. It’s a man. Well, half a man. Half a very muscular man. Despite his dire situation, Alec can’t help but stare. He’s laid with his share of men over the years but no one as beautiful as this. His eyes rake over broad shoulders, shapely arms, and a defined abdomen. Where there should be legs, the man’s tanned skin gives way to a mass of writhing, golden tentacles.

One of which is currently in Alec’s mouth.

It feels odd on his tongue, slippery and textured. It brings to mind a different activity entirely, and Alec has to wonder if that’s what this half-man-half-creature expects from Alec in return. Or if there’s a different reason he saved his life. He hasn’t felt this wrong-footed since the day he left home after learning of the atrocities his parents committed in the name of the Crown.

He can’t speak his endless questions aloud and so he tries to convey his thanks with his eyes. It must work, because the creature’s face softens and he swims forward until he’s nearly close enough to touch. Or would be, if Alec’s arms weren’t still bound. He pulls against the chains, hoping his rescuer will get the hint and free him.

“Eager to leave already?” The creature asks, a glint in his eyes.

Alec raises his head towards the surface, a silent affirmative.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be fair to keep you here, but I can’t take you back either.” A sense of dread settles over Alec. If this man takes him captive, there’s not much he can do. Hodge had taken Alec’s cutlass and his pistol before pushing him overboard. He doesn’t even have the set of thin metal rods that have gotten him out locked rooms before.

He swallows around the tentacle in his mouth, his throat suddenly dry.

The man must sense his fear, because he rushes to explain. “No, no, not like that.” Another tentacle comes up to brush against Alec’s shoulder and Alec flinches away. He shouldn’t care about the flash of hurt that flickers across the strange creature’s face but he does. Alec's mouth is half open in apology before he remembers himself and clamps back down on the only source of air he has.

The man’s face settles into a cool mask as he asks, “If I take you back up, am I to assume that whoever tossed your down here into my home will still be there?”

Slowly, Alec nods. Idiot, he’s an idiot. It might seem as if he’s been drowning for ages but barely a few sparse minutes have passed. The moment Alec shows his face above water, Hodge will kill him, with a gun instead of a watery grave this time. And if Hodge doesn’t, the rest of Alec’s traitorous crew certainly will. Alec’s heart sinks into his feet.

He has nowhere to go.

“You can come with me, I have a home on the surface.” the man says, and Alec imagines he sees the faint stirrings of hope behind his heavily lined eyes. Perhaps he’s lonely and wants the company. “I’ll even share my collection of human tools. I’ve amassed quite a large number over the centuries, you know. We can find a way to get you free of those pesky things.”

A tentacle pokes at the manacles and leg irons Alec is still wearing, and he’s more than a little relieved at the confirmation that he’s not going to be some kind of prisoner. He takes a last glance up towards the surface. The shadow of his ship looms large, a massive cloud across the blue of the ocean and sky.

He’ll get it back, but not today.

The man must see the despair on Alec’s face because his voice is soft when he adds, “Don’t worry, no one will find you if you don’t want to be found. You have my word.”

Alec nods, and this time doesn’t pull away when a tentacle winds itself snug around his waist. The man begins to swim, the mass of tentacles around his waist propelling them quickly through the water. At first Alec is terrified that it’s going to dislodge the tentacle allowing him to breathe, but after several minutes without catastrophe, he begins to relax.

His morning began with a betrayal by a man he considered family. It should be too soon to trust another, yet that’s exactly what he’s doing. Perhaps Isabelle is right after all. His heart is too soft for his own good.

The further they travel, the more the excitement of adventure stirs in Alec’s blood. He lost his ship but he still has his life. Looking over at the impossible man holding him pressed to his side, he considers that perhaps he’s gained a new ally as well.

A new ally whose name he doesn’t know. Alec still can’t use his hands, and so be bumps his shoulder into his rescuer. Who stills immediately, halting their progress through the water. “Are you okay, pretty boy?”

There’s that name again. Alec’s grateful for the chill of the water hiding the flush that would normally rush into his cheeks. He’s been called far more lewd things in his life, but none of them with such honesty. Alec’s usual response to those kinds of words is as quick as it is brutal. He doesn’t tolerate disrespect, not to himself and not to his crew. He knows how to react to insults, but this kind of open appreciation is new. A beautiful man who saved his life is calling him pretty. Alec don’t want him to stop.

But first he has a more pressing matter to deal with. How can he convey that he wants to know—?

He bumps his shoulder into the man’s chest again, willing him to understand. He looks down at himself before flicking his eyes back towards the man. All he gets in return is a blank look. Rolling his eyes, Alec does it again, this time making sure to point his chin directly at him.

“Oh!” The man says, a grin lighting up his face that Alec can’t help but echo even with his mouth occupied. “If you’re asking for my name, it’s Magnus.”

Alec grins as much as he can around the tentacle between his lips. Magnus. It suits him.

Magnus keeps up a steady stream of conversation the entire way towards his hideaway on the surface. It helps keep Alec���s mind off the indignity of his situation.

Then again, it’s hardly the worst predicament he’s found himself in since making a name as a notorious pirate captain. He once had to sneak out a window of the governor’s son’s room at dawn when the local militia caught wind of his location. There wasn’t even time for him to dress, or he'd risk a hanging. Jace has never let him forget that particular folly.

The moment Magnus hauls them both onto land, his tentacles fade into long, muscled legs, including the one feeding Alec air while underwater. With his mouth freed, the first thing Alec does is offer his name. Tit-for-tat was his first lesson all those long years ago after leaving his parents' home. He still needs to find a way to repay this man his kindness but at the very least he can offer his name. And try not to stare at the hard, unclothed lines of Magnus’ very human-looking body.

Later, once Alec is released from his bindings, the rush of relief he expects never actually comes. It takes him a moment to understand it’s because he never doubted Magnus’ word or his intentions. He tries not to dwell on what that means and instead works the ache of out his shoulders, his mind occupied with plans of revenge.

A set of heavy footsteps comes up beside him. Magnus has changed into a set of black pants and a loose linen shirt with a deep neckline. In his hands is a sheathed sword attached to a thick belt.

He looks like a pirate captain and Alec can’t help but stare.

“I used to be one, almost a century ago,” Magnus admits, “but I tired of it and I missed the sea, so I returned to my old home.” Instead of buckling the sword around his waist, Magnus holds it out. Alec blinks, not understanding. “If you’re going to take your ship back, you’re going to need a captain’s weapon.”

“What about you?” Alec asks, and winces at his boldness. He can hardly expect Magnus to keep helping him. He’d already done far more than his share.

Magnus blinks, something like wonder in his eyes. “Me?”

“You saved my life. I could use an ally in this.” Alec pauses, remembers the fleeting glimpses of hope on his face when Alec first accepted his offer of sanctuary. He takes a chance. “I could use a friend.”

“I suppose I have nothing else to do.” Magnus’ strong shoulders sway as he closes the distance between them.

The sword hangs between them, and this time Alec takes it, his grip firm and sure.

“As long as you don’t mind…” Magnus trails off, and when Alec blinks he can see the translucent outline of tentacles around Magnus’ hips.

He reaches out with the hand not holding the sword, surprised when the tentacle feels solid in his hand. His thumb traces a line around one of the raised ridges and for a split second, Magnus’ mouth falls open, his breath hitching. He recovers so fast Alec almost thinks he imagined it.

Almost.

“I don’t mind at all,” Alec says, and means it. He doesn’t bring the tentacle to his lips but he hopes one day he’ll have that right.

Their strange partnership is just beginning and Alec doesn’t know what it will entail, but he’s looking forward to finding out.

#shadowhunters #malec fanfic #magnus bane #alec lightwood #malec #tentacletober #lynne writes fic #magnus x tentacles #here have some very indulgent pirate au for day 2 #a much shorter version of this was supposed to be my fic for the underwater prompt of ficlet instruments but i couldn't make it work

[tryagaininthemorning]

My Gastric Bypass Went Wrong

I was excited going into my surgery. I’d already lost 30lbs during the course of my pre-op program. I was very proud that I hadn’t cheated once during my liquid diet. And as a nurse working out of the same office as my hospital’s bariatric program, checking in frequently with my nutritionist and weighing myself weekly with a biometric scale was a perk of my job, I implicitly trusted my surgeon and couldn’t feel more prepared.

I remember being foggy, coming out of surgery. I remember the typical post-op pain I was expecting.

Then I remember laying on a bathroom floor, screaming in agony, with a stunned nurse aide standing above me, who was apparently trying to help me to the bathroom. I couldn’t twist or lift myself. And worse than the pain in my stomach was a mysterious pain in my shoulders and neck of all places. Nurses and aides and doctors gathered around me in confusion. I could not get up from the floor. Ultimately, they had to lift me up with a hoyer.

It was almost midnight. My surgeon rushed back to the hospital to evaluate me. He told me he suspected my stomach was leaking, and he wanted to give me a blood transfusion to stabalize me.

Then he hesitated.

He said, there was also a chance...a small chance...that my spleen had been cut or punctured during the course of my surgery, and it was possible I was bleeding internally. But unfortunately the only way to determine if that was the case was to go back to surgery and open me back up. But instead of a laparoscopic procedure, I would be opened up, from breast to pubic bone...and what did I want to do?

That was such an odd moment. Why was he asking me? I was just a nurse, and this scenario, I was the scared patient and he was the all-knowing surgeon. He performed 4 surgeries every day, I’d been told. Certainly he knew better than me what to do? Unless this was...a consent thing? A cover-your-ass thing? “Well, the patient wanted to do this, so...” Besides, the right answer was obvious.

“Doctor,” I said, “If I’m bleeding internally, what will a blood transfusion do for me? We need to go back in.”

I don’t think that was the answer he was expecting. I think he was expecting me to go to easier route, because of my pain. But he just nodded and within the hour, I was back in surgery. And, yes. My spleen had been cut. My surgeon attempted to repair the damage.

The following days were a blur. My intense pain continued, including my strange shoulder and neck pain, which I discovered was referred pain from my spleen. My hemoglobin and hematocrit levels decreased and decreased, suggesting I was still bleeding.

There was talk about going into surgery a third time, this time to remove my spleen entirely. This prospect made me sob in misery. Not only because of the fear and pain of another procedure, but because your spleen is very important in infection fighting. Without my spleen, I might not be able to return to my job as a nurse. It meant a life where my immune system was permanently damaged, living in perpetual illness after illness.

I had 2 blood transfusions, which was in contrary to my previous thinking. I just wanted to buy myself some time, just a little time for my spleen to heal. In 3 days, my labs leveled out. There was no longer any sign of internal bleeding. I was so relieved.

I stayed in the hospital another 5 days. From ICU to step down to general hospital population. I started walking and using a beside commode. Finally, I was released to go home.

Through all this...I kind of forgot about my bypass. I was robbed of all the excitement of my weight loss journey.

I was also robbed of how I was going to share my by-pass coming out. I wasn’t exactly keeping it a secret. My immediate family knew, my co-workers knew. A few close friends knew. But now...everyone on Facebook knew. And that was my own doing. I posted in very plain language on FB because it was the quickest and most efficient way to let people know that 1) I was a having an emergency 2) pls don’t visit me 3) my family would need support. And it would squash speculation and rumor. But it also meant that my neighbors knew, my extended family knew, people who only knew me casually knew, former co-workers....eh. It just wasn’t the elegant coming out I’d wanted.

I’ve been back to the hospital since for an ER visit, due to pain and dehydration. I’ve had my drainage tubes removed in a regular follow up (that was horrendous, it was like having a tape worm removed that snaked around my entire torso.) This week, I’ll have my staples removed (I’m dreading this, it will be painful).

I have so many mixed feelings. My family was/is so furious about the situation. All they wanted to do was sue the hospital. And I had to explain to them that, despite what happened, my bariatric surgeon was the best and most experienced surgeon in the region. And I NEEDED him to FIX me. I needed all the doctors and nurses and staff to be my warriors. I didn’t want any person to feel uncomfortable around me or hesitate to give me care because words like “malpractice” were being casually tossed around. Besides, there’s nothing to indicate my surgeon did anything wrong. Surgery is inherently a risky business. People have complications and even die during routine procedures, even gastric bypass. It’s a risk I accepted when I chose this path. Eventually, my family adhered to my wishes. Even my husband, who was angriest of all, I had to tell him if he couldn’t control himself, I would not allow him to visit me in the hospital. I did not want his venting (I’m gonna kill that doctor!) to be heard by ANYONE during this age of mass shootings. He could be arrested for talking that way, and then who would support me? He, too, eventually saw things my way and compartmentalized his feelings until we could decompress together in the privacy and safety of our home.

My 5 year old autistic son was glad to have me home. The impact on him has been the most...unexpected.

He is developmentally behind and limited verbally. We explained my absence to him by simply saying I was at Dr Anna’s house (From Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood) and he was totally satisfied with explanation. Although, while I video chatted with him from the hospital, he attempted to bride me home. “Mama...night-night at Dr Anna?” he asked to confirm my whereabouts. “Mama....come home..,cookies? Mama cookies?” he offered.

When I came home, it was to no fan-fare from him. The only reaction I got was when he saw me...he took off his sneakers, indicating instead of wanting to go outside, he wanted to stay home. As I settled into my bed room, he silently followed me. He brought his blankie from his bedroom into mine. I went to bed, he snuggled beside me and went to sleep.

I showed him my incision and drainage bags the next morning. He understood immediately. “Boo-boo!” He cried in disbelief, looking me right in the face, which if you’re familiar with typical autistic traits, was a rare moment for us. “Yeah, big boo-boo,” I told him. He quickly pulled down my shirt and gave my belly a light pat. I’ve been home for a week now, and he gives my tummy regular pats.

He is such a sweet, gentle, affectionate boy.

Every day I get a little better. I’m trying to shift my focus back to my weight loss journey.

There were moments I found myself regretting getting gastric bypass. But the more time that passes, the pain and fear from the trauma fade. Besides, it’s done now. I still have a tiny pouch where my stomach used to be. I’m glad it’s there. If it wasn’t, I might be eating my stress and feelings away right now. So instead of drowning in Oreos (which sounds amazing right now) I’m sipping Gatorade and Premier Protein, waiting to move on to the next phase of my diet. Can’t wait for purées/ground food. My appetite has returned in full swing and I have to focus on my goals.

#gastric bypass #bariatric surgery #gastric roux en y #weight loss #complications #wls #wlstories

[sweetlangdon]

From Eden: Chapter 8

Notes: Michael Langdon x Reader/OC. Evil Power Couple fic. It’s difficult to write a summary for this one, because I don’t want to give away the twists. (It’ll also include canon rewrite/divergence for the later half of the season.) It has plenty of angst and fluff, and a bit of character study.

Warnings: Swearing, blood, murder, graphic violence. Very brief mention of suicidal thoughts. There’s a lot of angst in this chapter. 

Chapter One     Chapter Two    Chapter Three     Chapter Four    Chapter Five   Chapter Six      Chapter Seven     Also Available on AO3

The blood ritual at the Cortez had left her physically and emotionally drained—Michael had guided her home, both of them tripping on unsteady legs, their bodies heavy like they’d been weighed down with stones, feeling an exhaustion they couldn’t quite name. She hadn’t wanted to be alone, then. She didn’t know what to feel, how something could make her both so whole and powerful and yet so empty. Michael had been hesitant to leave her side, and she hadn’t even asked him to stay. He just knew.

“Don’t you need to get back to Hawthorne?” She peered up at Michael from where she’d curled around her pillow, watching him undo the elegant silver clasp of his cape. There were shadows under his eyes; he dragged a hand down his face, shoulders drooping as he let out a sigh. He looked as tired as she felt.

Michael left his cape across the chair in the far corner of her bedroom and went around to the other side of the bed, slipping off his shoes before he settled next to her. A moment later, the warmth of his presence lapped along her spine, his arm draped over her waist, tugging her into his chest. She dragged one of her arms out from under the pillow and laced her fingers between his, her thumb wandering over his knuckles and up his wrist. She felt Michael’s fatigued exhale against her back, the slightly anxious rhythm of his pulse against her fingers. He didn’t want to talk about it, but the ritual had left him shaken, too.

This time, she was absolutely certain that he’d pressed a kiss into her hair. “The only place I’m needed is right here.”

Her eyes fluttered closed. A few stray tears spilled down her cheeks and she tasted the salt on her lips. “I don’t want to get you into trouble, not so close to the test.”

Michael burrowed his face into the back of her shoulder, lithe fingers threading through her hair. She could fall asleep under the spell of his gentle hands. She had, before, many times over the course of their relationship. He pulled her closer, the warmth of his fingertips spreading across her hip. The scent of candle smoke and iron and whatever strong drink her father had shared at the Cortez lingered in her nose. The faint trace of sandalwood and jasmine that usually hung in her bedroom wasn’t powerful enough to suppress the echoes of their blood ritual.

“That doesn’t matter.” There was another deep exhale, but his pulse had slowed somewhat.

“Michael—”

“They won’t question my absence,” his voice was low, muffled into her shoulder. “And you’re far too important to me.” 

Michael’s fingers tightened around hers, and for a moment, if she closed her eyes, it seemed like they were just two kids in his bedroom with the rain tapping against the window. But she couldn’t pretend, couldn’t hold onto that illusion if she’d wanted to. Too much had changed since then.

Her lower lip trembled and made her voice shake. “I’m scared,” she confessed. “I’ve never been afraid like this before. Of…what we’re supposed to be doing. Of—”

“Afraid of me,” Michael murmured against her shoulder. It was so quiet she almost couldn’t hear it, but when she did, it was as if that damned ritual knife had torn right through her chest and stabbed her heart. She hadn’t missed the hitch in his breath, the tremor in his words.

“No.” She squeezed his hand, her fingers cold and numb from the lingering anxiety compared to his. “Never you.”

“If I had known about the ritual…”

“It’s not your fault,” she assured, softly. “I’m glad I didn’t have to go through that alone. It’s just…this is a lot to be okay with in such a short amount of time.”

She knew that the ritual would change her irrevocably, and it had, just not the way she’d envisioned. Maybe she’d been stupid to think that her immediate future would involve a lot more fire and brimstone, that maybe those pitch black eyes staring back at her would be permanent. She hadn’t recognized her own reflection in her father’s study, and she’d only seen Michael like that for a fleeting moment the night they’d burned down her aunt’s house. She’d always known there was something dark in her soul, but the knowledge that she wasn’t fully human—and half-demon, no less—had left her reeling.

“None of this has been easy for you.”

He shifted slightly, his chin digging into the crook of her shoulder, soft curls brushing the side of her neck and ear. The low rumble of his words resonated into her back, and that made her feel warmer and more whole than anything her father could’ve told her about where she’d come from.

“But there’s no one else,” He sounded so quiet and more terrified than he’d ever admit, that confident façade left behind at the doors to the Hawthorne School. This was the boy who’d always shared the truth with her and feared it leave him abandoned yet again. “I wouldn’t choose anyone except you to stand at my side in all of this. I don’t want anyone else.”

“I’m right here,” she whispered back to him. “I told you I’m not going anywhere. I promised you that.”

A promise was a promise. She had no intention of breaking it or leaving Michael’s side when there was nowhere else she’d belong. The fact was, neither of them could do this alone, and neither of them wanted to. They had little choice but shoulder the burden of their birthright together. And carry on.

***

Michael returned to Hawthorne in anticipation of completing the test of the Seven Wonders, and she went back to her mundane life of homework and avoiding her parents, a little envious of Michael’s unconventional education. She also hated being apart from him. But separated as they were, the increase in the strength of their combined power was almost immediately perceptible.

There had always been this invisible thread between them, a tether in the darkness, but now it had become more resilient, connecting them across great distances. A current of energy that let them know where the other was, and that they were forever bound. It was a comfort to her; gentle, whereas everything else about her newfound power was unwieldy and prone to give her headaches. Her father had unleashed Hell within her and hadn’t exactly given her any guidance on how to tame it for good use.

She hadn’t seen him since the Cortez and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to.

On the eve of the test, Miriam told her they had an errand to run for Michael. She’d been sitting at their tiny kitchen table, her fist propped under her chin, paging through the Book of Revelation. As if it would answer some things beneath all of that flowery language and prophecy. It certainly didn’t do a damn thing to ease the internal panic she’d concealed after her father had declared that she was supposed to be some kind of leader. Of legions. A soldier of the apocalypse she’d help create. Her father had had millennia to earn whatever rank he currently held, she was sure, and she was just a human with some demon blood whose primary concern right now was getting into the college of her choice.

“Where are we going?” she asked as she slid into the passenger seat of Miriam’s car.

It was late, nearing midnight, and she wondered what sort of errand they could’ve possibly needed to run at this hour. It definitely wasn’t just a drive up to the corner store. Late night trips in the Mead household usually entailed rituals of whispered Latin and sacrificial blood in some unfortunate soul’s backyard.

Miriam shoved the key into the ignition. “It’s best if you don’t ask a lot of questions. The less you know, the better.”

They meandered through empty back roads under a clear night sky, following a trail that Miriam apparently had picked up. She kept the window rolled down a little to let in the chilly air tinged with the scent of fresh cut grass and damp earth. It had rained sometime during the day; the headlights reflected off the slick asphalt and puddles still gathered in the roads as they broke through the shadows of the trees.

With the radio droning on softly in the background, and her attention out the window, her mind miles away, she nearly drifted off to sleep. The car slowed, gravel crackling under the wheels, when they inched closer to a gas station. It was bright, set deep into the wilderness without another soul around. Except for the car that had just pulled in.

“Get out,” Miriam whispered.

“What? Why?”

Miriam shot her a stern look, lips curving into a frown. The blinding white light from the gas station made her jet black hair look glossy. “Didn’t I tell you not to ask questions? Now, stay close, but stick to the shadows until I call for you. If for some reason this goes sideways, take the car and meet Michael outside Hawthorne. Last thing we need is for you to get yourself killed by a damn warlock.” Miriam reached over to the glove box and emerged with a kerchief, which she wrapped around her head and tied beneath her chin.

Her eyes went wide, her hand stilled on the door handle. “Wait, warlock? But—”

“Don’t you start. Go on, get.”

“Why don’t you just let me take care of it?” Her fingers curled around the handle, but she’d yet to make any real effort to budge the door open.

“With the way your powers have been acting? You set my curtains on fire two days ago.” In the dark of the car’s interior, Miriam’s eyebrow rose. She pursed her lips, and the glint in her eyes turned into something more sincere. “No, I can handle this. I’ve gotta protect my Devil babies.”

She had seriously misjudged Ms. Miriam Mead.

Hidden by the night that had enveloped the woods, she waited near the tree line with a clear view of Miriam’s car. A man was already leaning against the side of his own car at one of the pumps, arms crossed over his chest, when Miriam pulled up. From this distance, she couldn’t really see anything but his dark hair and sharp clothes and a distinct swagger. A warlock, Miriam had said. She wasn’t sure what his problem was, but if it was enough to have them out here in the middle of the night committing murder, then she guessed it had to be pretty fucking important.

Miriam engaged the warlock in some small talk, and he obliged to help her with putting gas into her car. She couldn’t hear the echoes of their conversation from so far across the road, but she knew Miriam had a disarming way of playing the part when she needed to. She waited, holding her breath, for a sign of a struggle. It didn’t come. Distracted, the warlock never saw Miriam take a swipe at his ankles until it was too late.

“Holy shit,” she breathed.

The warlock collapsed onto the asphalt, a cry ricocheting off the trees. It would be a mess, she mused, even if she couldn’t see the way the blood had exploded from his broken flesh. Once the warlock was vulnerable, on his knees, crashing toward the ground, Miriam sliced the fragile skin of his throat. And she took that as her cue to break through the tree line, fists stuffed into the pockets of her hooded sweatshirt as she dashed across the empty road.

Miriam exhaled a long-suffering noise when she reached her side. “What’d I tell you about staying put? That damned ritual give you selective hearing or something?”

She pushed up the hood of her sweatshirt. “Who was he?”

The warlock lay at their feet in a pool of crimson, polished black like ink on the pavement. There was still a weak gurgling sound as he choked on his own blood, his clothes stained with it, his handsome face coated with the spray from his neck. He stared up at nothing, pale blue eyes unseeing and lifeless.

“A threat.” Miriam pulled a box of matches from an inside pocket of her coat. “You go get in the car and I’ll clean up the mess.”

“I’m perfectly capable of cleaning up a mess,” she said. “You don’t have to do all the heavy lifting, you know.”

She held her hand out over the warlock’s body with her palm facing downward. Miriam’s hand shot out and smacked hers away, and she tried to level Miriam with a glare, her mouth opened in annoyed silence.

“At a gas station? Are you crazy?” Miriam whispered, though her voice wanted to edge into a shout. “None of this’ll matter if you blow both of us to pieces trying to clean up.”

“Thanks for your confidence.” She lifted an eyebrow.

“We don’t have time to—”

Before Miriam could protest any further, she held her hands over the warlock’s dead body where the blood was beginning to run into the puddles left from the rain. She drew from the well that had been offered to her, from the ancient, dark power that had coursed through her veins since her birth. The rush was enough to make her sway a little on her feet, but she kept a tight hold on it, willing it to manifest where she needed it. Her control was shaky at best, but she focused, directing just the right amount that hopefully would do the job and leave her and Miriam unharmed in the process.

Flames sprung up from the pavement around the warlock’s body, licking at his clothes until they ignited. The heat of the fire drifted upward to meet her outstretched palms, the orange glow tossing deep shadows across their faces. The barest trace of sulfur cut through the scent of blood and damp earth.

She felt Miriam’s hand on the small of her back. “Let’s go.” When she tore her eyes away from the body burning at their feet, Miriam was grinning. “Michael will be expecting us.”

 ***

Days later, there was an ache deep in her chest that she couldn’t explain. The acceptance letter that her parents barely acknowledged—even though they insisted on a university education with their newfound wealth; she wasn’t stupid, it was just means to get her out of their way—sat neglected in her bedroom. The ache evolved into a sharp pain, wrapping itself around her ribcage with claws and teeth and a strong, unbearable feeling that something was horribly wrong.

As much as she didn’t want to, she stifled the impulse to show up at Hawthorne. If she got herself caught, she knew it would only make the situation worse. Michael had already conquered the Seven Wonders with little difficulty. But her gut feelings were seldom incorrect. Something had happened. Every frantic call to Miriam’s house phone went unanswered, and her cell phone brought her straight to voicemail. She left a few panicked, slightly breathless messages before she finally pulled on a jacket and materialized outside of the house she’d come to consider more of a home than anywhere else in her life.

A home that was dark and unoccupied.

Streetlights filled the empty driveway with a dim orange glow. Her eyebrows pulled together, considering the darkened windows as she rounded the corner to the side doors. She tugged on a handle and found it locked, a realization that made the pain in her chest flare like a piercing stab wound. It would be no use to venture inside. Miriam wasn’t here, and it looked as though the house had been like this for some time. 

The radio silence from Miriam made her think the worst—she would never just disappear like this, never be so out of touch. The chances of her skipping town were unlikely, but she refused to dwell on the grimmest of all the possible outcomes. She felt guilty enough for not getting here sooner, for not knowing how to translate the dread that had coiled around her insides. For doubting Miriam’s care and love for both her and Michael. All of this power at her disposal and she had no idea how to use it to help the situation or follow Miriam’s trail. What good was she, then? It didn’t make her some great leader of prophecy, it just made her goddamn useless.

Maybe she would have to sneak into Hawthorne, after all.

She stuffed her hands into her pockets, exhaling loudly, tears welling in her eyes, wondering if the dread inside her was something more profound, like grief. 

A shape caught her periphery, a familiar ripple of power and light hitting her senses. She didn’t realize it was magic until it was too late.

The darkness swallowed her whole.

***

Four days.

Michael had stayed in this pentagram for four agonizing days, watching the sunlight move across the trees. Time seemed to slow down around him. He never counted the hours, left at the mercy of the passing sun overhead and the long shadows in the dirt. Except for the occasional birdsong and the rustle of leaves, there had been silence. Frustrating, resounding silence.

There was no one left. A hollow ache settled in his bones and gnawed at him with more violence than the hunger and thirst. His father had abandoned him, presumably because he’d already failed at the one thing he’d been put on this earth to do. He’d lost sight of his path and was now stumbling around in the dark once again, grasping at nothing. What was the point, now?

The acrid scent of burning flesh still clung to his nose like a ghost, his mind plagued by the images of his Ms. Mead charred beyond recognition. The grief that Michael could barely process since he’d dropped to his knees in this circle had numbed him; it came and went like the tide, stronger when the sun dipped below the horizon and the night’s quiet seemed more crushing. Sometimes, it had been accompanied by a fiery rage that he couldn’t contain, that left him exhausted from screaming into the forest until it felt as if he’d swallowed broken glass. In the moments when his fingertips had hovered over the burnt bodies, Michael thought that he’d lost them both to the witches.

And maybe he had. But they hadn’t set fire to her.

Four days and he couldn’t feel any sign of her. It was like the tether that bound them had inexplicably snapped, snuffing out the light that had helped to guide his path. Michael knew what her power was like, knew what it did when it mingled with his even when they were apart. The loss of her power was the least of his concerns, though—it was the absence of her that made his soul feel incomplete.

She was just…gone.

When he’d asked Cordelia Goode where she was, Michael had noticed the glint in her eye of an answer that she would not give. Whatever the witches had done, it had concealed her from him.

He was alone.

Michael knelt in the dirt, the clear, earthy scent of the forest unable to scrub away the odor of scorched flesh. He hunched over, elbows resting on top of his thighs with his face buried in his hands. The once carefully parted hair underneath his dirt-streaked fingers had become a greasy, unkempt mess. Stubble along his jawline prickled at his hands as he dragged them across his face to wipe away the fatigue. Michael’s formerly pristine clothes were now ragged and caked in filth, his appearance a testament to the past four days of aimless waiting.

A low, waning sun spilled golden rays over the dirt and stung at his tired and bloodshot eyes. Four days of catching a few minutes’ worth of sleep wherever he could manage them had done terrible things to his mind. The world spun around his head, in and out of focus. Michael could no longer tell what was real and what wasn’t. Had it really been just four days? How long would it take for him to waste away in this forest?

Michael’s fingers itched to conjure his knife. It was tempting—the thought of the blade kissing his skin so he could finally be at peace.

“Michael.”

He knew that voice. He’d know it anywhere.

The sound of it filled the air like a melody to his heavy, aching head, and he lifted his face from his palms in response, those dark and violent thoughts withering away with the breeze. There was something wrong in her voice, a dissonant note that made his blood run cold. When he finally turned around, the streaks of daylight, now burning orange as if it was fire across the dirt, caught the highlights in her dark hair and beads of scarlet running down her ashen lips.

“You left me.” Tears mingled with the blood dripping from her chin. Michael saw her hand clutched against her chest, the dirt at her feet pooling with deep crimson from a wound he couldn’t find, her fingers slick with bright red. “After everything,” her breath shuddered, gasping, “why would you leave me? How could you let them kill me?”

She staggered forward, approaching the circle. How had she found him, when he hadn’t even felt her presence in days? Michael caught her once her knees gave out, cradling her in his arms, fingers raking through her hair. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, trying to find the source of all the blood.

A tear slipped down the curve of his cheek just when he thought he’d had no more left in him.

“I never wanted this to happen.” Michael desperately searched for a wound that wasn’t there, a wound that he didn’t think he would be powerful enough to heal. Not yet, anyway. He tried to temper his sorrow with anger instead, but the pain burned white-hot through his chest as if he could feel her wound as his own. “We’ll kill them all, I swear it. They won’t get away with what they’ve done to you and our Ms. Mead. They won’t survive us, I promise you that.”

She reached up and touched her fingertips to his cheek, leaving bloody fingerprints behind. She was so pale, the scent of blood all around them, the warmth retreating from her even as he held her close.

“Michael,” she whispered again.

“It’s all my fault.” A trembling hand cradled her ashen face. “I…I failed you, too.”

An apology wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough for the feeling that carved its way through his ribcage like cold steel. Was there a name for it, the pain of having part of your soul ripped from you? A word for an emotion stronger than grief?

Michael gathered her to his chest when he felt her go still, his tears falling into her hair. “Don’t leave me like this…please…you’re all I have left…” He let her go to trace the fragile skin of her throat with his unsteady fingers. Her skin was cold to the touch, and no matter how hard he tried, he could no longer feel the once steady, strong rhythm of her pulse. She lay across his bent knees, unmoving, while he leaned over her.

Michael sobbed and pressed his forehead to hers. “I can’t lose you.”

He held her, dragging his fingers through her hair and sobbing her name until the illusion finally broke—her lifeless body vanishing in the next instant. The last of Michael’s sobs faded and he lifted his tear-stained face from his now empty hands.

All of it had seemed so frighteningly real—she had felt so real.

But it was just another cruel trick.  

Where are you?

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