#Slightly Maudlin Plugs

[rein-ette]

Hi~

Can I have your hcs for kinks and general unsuitable behavior for our tumblr sexyman Lord Kirkland? (bonus points for any time specific nsfw hcs)

Alrighty *cracks knuckles* this'll serve nicely as my entrance ticket to hell

[clearly this is Not Appropriate do you need a warning]

Positions and Locations

1. Incidentally I also think Arthur prefers to bottom, but in engport's particular case I don't think it matters because even if Arthur ends up topping more with Port, he gets his needs met by others (mainly Francis because Francis definitely prefers to top)

1a. technically speaking arthur has no preference when it comes to physically being on top or bottom, he just prefers prostate orgasms so if he does top he'll sometimes wear a plug or wait to come

2. From the 15th-18th centuries (give or take) he liked doing it in all sorts of thrilling places: ships, crows nests, prison cells, important people's offices, libraries, battlefields, random historical buildings. But nowadays he appreciates the material comforts more and likes a nice soft bed -- though he still has sex way more than is probably moral in his office/his partner's office

3. Bonus non-nsfw hc (i'll just sprinkle these in): I love the idea that Arthur dozes off really easily when he feels comfortable, like a cat. He might not even know he's comfortable, but he'll often fall asleep curled on Port's bedspread or on Francis' couch cuz it just feels floofy and familiar and his cat brain is like, ok naptime! In terms of sleeping arrangements he also feels safest when there's someone (he trusts) between him and the door -- Port is the only one to whom he's verbally confessed this (because he thinks it's embarrassing that he needs to be "protected") and Gabi has made it a point to remember this preference for centuries.

Sexual Orientation/Preferred Types

4. He's more into men than women, and tries to avoid women entirely when it comes to casual sex. He will sleep with nations he knows well like Belgium, Hungary, or some of the German states, but if it's picking someone up at a bar (which he did way more often in the 60s and 70s than now) it's definitely a guy.

4a. he usually goes for guys broader/stronger/taller than him so he can be held down and fucked silly. Not really into twinks (Kiku is an exception but that is cuz no one can match Arthur kink for kink like Japan)

5. I've already said this to you cake but it bears repeating: Arthur almost exclusively fucks drama queens. Never mind that he bitches about France's mercurial moods or Port's spontaneous "leave me alone" rants, guys like Norway or Germany just don't do it for him. Nor do the constantly cheerful ones like Italy or the constantly annoyed ones like Romano. He loves that melancholy aura, that "I'm not sulking I'm thinking" attitude, that maudlin je ne sais quoi at 4 AM. He wants them moody and slightly salty about everything, that's what he wants.

Kinks

6. Spanking, caning, flogging. Scot (or was it wales?) once described Arthur's sexual preferences in a fic as "alarmingly public-school for someone who's only attended university" and it doesn't get clearer than that. He loves being manhandled in general and while he will keep an eye open when he's with strangers or nations he doesn't know as well, when his frequent lovers indulge him he's down for anything that doesn't draw (too much) blood.

7. He likes bondage; both giving and receiving. Gags, spreader bars, the whole lot. He has a collection, right next to his riding crops ;)

8. Collars. COLLARS. He's not into actual pet play but he LOVES collars and if he's feeling especially freaky, leashes. It turns him on so bad whether he's the one wearing it or the one holding the leash.

9. Praise and humiliation both do it for him. He's one of the best when it comes to dishing it out (he's got the spewing filth while sounding prim and proper thing down to an art).

10. He appreciates toys and makes good use of Francis' extensive collection if he does not already own something himself. He often uses vibrators or dildos when he masturbates and brings them (always shamefully) with him when he travels, just in case. Port, who otherwise meticulously collects other knickknacks, does not actually possess that many toys because Arthur always brings them with him and Port's often too lazy to use toys with other lovers anyways.

11. He also has a profound competence kink. He expects the worst from everyone while keeping his own standards high, so when someone excels at something that blows his expectations out of the fucking water? He's all over that. Notable historical examples include when Francis is especially impassioned about a particular political cause and rinses someone in a debate, when a nation absolutely wipes the floor with another nation's army in a war (this was almost the exclusive reason he had sex with Gilbert in the 18th century), when Port teaches him new languages (their "lessons" are always longer than expected).

Other Unsuitable Behaviour For a Gentleman That Don't Classify as Kinks (Speed Round)

12. He has a very high libido but won't admit it

13. He loves it when Port wears lingerie

14. He wears tight, high waisted pants when he goes out at night bc he knows it makes his legs look good (but won't admit it)

15. When he's relaxed he's quite good at making conversation -- people often find him witty and pleasantly flirtatious

16. He loves riling Port up so he can get pounded the way he wants it

17. He likes large hands

18. Hairpulling is also a kink

19. I realized i titled this section not kinks but here we are

20. he used to have sleeve tats and tattoos all over his back and my god Francis and Gabriel worshipped him. He's too lazy (and stingy) to get so many nowadays though, especially cuz they fade so fast.

21. in threesomes he likes DP and spitroasting, especially if he's the one taking it

22. that was the filthiest sentence I've ever written so I'm gonna end this by saying he likes cuddles after sex but -- guess what? -- he won't admit it.

[hermannsthumb]

Please do holiday prompt 85 (unexpected apology)!

85. we haven’t been friends for years but we both end up at a mutual friend’s holiday party and you apologize for how things went down between us (which I wasn’t expecting in a million years)

from winter writing prompts here

it’s that time of year again everyone.....ive been so busy with school and zine stuff that im taking a little break to write this today ☺️ set very late 2019, before the Events of 2020

------------------

It occurs to Hermann as he stands amongst a handful of society’s most monied and high-ranking—mulled wine in hand, stiff suit buttoned too-tight around his neck—that he is not only completely out of his element, but residing at a level of desperation that he cringes to even consider. Hermann does not schmooze; Hermann has never had the capacity to schmooze; in all of his previous attempts at schmoozing (typically at the bequest of his father, who would tote Hermann around as a conversation piece at fundraising events), Hermann would come across invariably as disingenuous, uptight, and arrogant, and certainly not someone with whom one would entrust large cheques made out to the PPDC for.

Yes; desperation. To borrow the cliché, desperate times call for desperate measures. To borrow another, war changes man. Robots wage war on monsters from another world, the UN wages war on the jaeger program’s budget, and Hermann must wage war on prospective PPDC donors if he wishes to still be employed by the New Year. He can’t decide which sounds more horrendous, really.

“Would you like more wine, Dr. Gottlieb?” a passing waiter asks Hermann, and Hermann shakes his head.

“No, thank you,” he says. Hermann has always been a maudlin drunk; he doesn’t fancy risking over-drinking tonight, and making an embarrassment of himself by confessing to perfect strangers that his parents never loved him or that he fears he’ll never make a true human connection.

“Dr. Gottlieb?” someone says, incredulously.

Oh, bugger. He’s been found out. Hermann sighs, flattens down his cowlick, and plasters on a fake smile: the time has come for him to, er, lie back and think of the PPDC, so to speak. Hopefully it’ll go fast.

But when Hermann turns, it’s not to find some acquaintance of his father, or a perfect stranger familiar with his work, or even a distant colleague; it’s to find one Newton Geiszler (who Hermann may have considered a colleague, once, but certainly not anymore), dressed in a horrendous eyesore of a gold (gold) suit, nursing a large red cocktail in each hand, and staring at Hermann like he can’t decide if he wants to say something or turn and run. Hermann mirrors his stare. A pin could drop between them, and Hermann reckons, despite the undercurrent of music and chatter, they would be able to hear it.

Hermann is the one to break it. “Newton,” he says. Then he amends, quickly, “Dr. Geiszler. I wasn’t aware…” He coughs. He suddenly wishes he took another mulled wine, and wonders if it’s too late to summon back the waiter. “You are…here.”

“Uh,” Newton says. “Yeah.”

The last time Hermann saw Newton Geiszler, they were standing under an awning outside a Starbucks while a torrential downpour of rain pounded against the sidewalk and soaked their shoes. Hermann was shouting. Newton was shouting, too, and he may have also been crying. They had been asked to leave the building on account of it. That was nearly three years ago. “Er,” Hermann says. “Business? Or pleasure?”

Newton has hardly changed in the almost-three years; his hair remains thick and unruly, his jaw in bad need of a shave, his glasses smudged and slightly crooked. The suit is a bloody eyesore, though. Hermann imagines Newton thought it was festive. “Business.” Newton snorts. “God, you think I’d come here for fun? I haven’t had the money for a new sample in months, it was either this or, I don’t know, sticking mutated fish under microscopes. Kaiju blue poisoning. Been there done that, and not what I need to be doing now, you know? And you can thank your dad for that too, not having any fucking samples to work with, I mean, and his stupid wall—but I guess that’s why you’re here too. I heard they’re talking about pulling the plug on the jaeger program.”

Newton speaks quickly, and with a bewildering tendency to leap between topics like a game of hopscotch, something Hermann had quite forgotten. (They’d only met the once, after all, and Newton disguises it better in writing.) He follows it nonetheless. “Yes, well, they’re still only just rumors,” Hermann says, though he knows (with a certainty) that one more major failing of a jaeger might spell the end of it, “and I certainly hope they stay as such. I take it you’re with the PPDC now, then?”

Newton jerks a thumb towards the waistband of his gold suit, spilling a bit of his cocktail on the floor; Hermann at last notices the PPDC badge clipped to it. Newton’s grin is identical to the one in his photograph. “Hell yeah, dude,” he says. “They finally hired me about a month after we—” The corners of his mouth twitch down, ever so slightly. “—uh, got coffee.”

It had been a long-standing complaint of Newton’s, back when they wrote each other, that the PPDC was perfectly happy to use his research but turned a blind eye whenever he submitted yet another application for their k-science research team. Personality conflicts, Hermann always presumed. He and Newton certainly had plenty. Perhaps Hermann’s not the only one who’s grown desperate—a thought he scolds himself for the unkindness of a moment later. Newton is a brilliant scientist despite his difficulties and their past. “Of course,” Hermann says. “Well, congratulations. I hadn’t heard.”

“Wine?” a passing waiter asks them.

Newton shakes his head. Hermann takes one this time, gratefully.

“It’s been alright,” Newton says. He downs the entirety of the red cocktail in his right hand. “Like I said. Not many samples to work with. They had me stationed over in Vladivostok, but I got leave for the holidays. And for this I guess.”

“I’ve been in Seattle,” Hermann says. “I reckon they’ll be transferring me soon, though I haven’t an idea where.” More rumors, of course.

For a moment he allows himself the brief fantasy of being transferred somewhere with Newton, or perhaps it’s more of a fear than a fantasy—year after year of this sort of insufferable awkwardness? Being forced to work together? It’s something Hermann had longed for in the past, spending every day with his marvelous penpal at his side. It instills a sort of nausea in him now. Newton touches his arm before Hermann has the chance to excuse himself hide in the loo. “Hey, dude, listen,” Newton says. “About us getting coffee. I feel like I owe you an apology.”

Hermann can’t help it; he snorts, though he immediately regrets it. Newton, at least, does not look offended. “Do you?” Hermann says. Two and a half bloody years too late.

“I mean it,” Newton says. He blinks earnestly at Hermann, and squeezes Hermann’s arm. “I screwed it all up that day, and I could’ve—I don’t know, written, or texted, or anything to apologize, but I didn’t. And that was shitty of me. So I’m sorry, I really am. And…yeah. That’s it, I guess.”

It’s the last thing Hermann expected to hear today. It’s the last thing he expected to hear from Newton. The radio silence following that disastrous day at the coffee shop had been awful—and it’d been infuriating, too. Where had they even gone wrong that day? Hermann can’t remember anymore. Probably a fight over something inconsequential. “I see,” Hermann says. “Well. Er. Thank you, Newton. Your apology is...appreciated.”

“Cool,” Newton says.

He stares at Hermann expectantly.

“Oh,” Hermann says. “And I’m sorry, too, I suppose.”

“Cool,” Newton repeats.

He smiles at Hermann, and Hermann is momentarily suffocated by it, and the sudden reemergence of feelings he thought he’d quashed years ago. Newton is still very attractive. Very, very attractive. Hermann’s arm is warm and tingly from where Newton touched him, and he realizes the warmth is spreading up to his neck and cheeks—he’s blushing. “Hey, wanna check out the snack table with me?” Newton says. “I love the rich people food at shit like this. The last one I went to had oysters, which is totally weird. Like, it’s a gala.”

Hermann decides to accept it as the strange peace offering it obviously is meant to be. “Alright,” he says. “Though, I insist you explain your monstrosity of a suit first.”

“It’s classy,” Newton says. “Anyway, you’re one to talk, buddy.”

[welllpthisishappening]

On This Night and in This Light (3/3)

Emma Swan knows she’s pretty good at what she does.

Helping the magically afflicted and affected find jobs in this realm isn’t the most glamorous thing in the world, and, sure, there’s a lot of paperwork, but she figures she’s helping people and that’s the important thing. It’s structured. Calm, even.

Until. It’s always until.

Killian Jones shows up with his stupid smirk and his tendency to lean against the door frame in Emma’s office and his distinct lack of magic. Or knowledge of what they’re really doing at Mills Personnel. Everything kind of goes off the rails after that.

—-

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 6.5K of magic and eventual happily ever after

AN: There’s some magic here. Some kissing. Some curses. And happily ever after, of course. Thanks for reading along with this little distraction from the legitimate stress of the real world. You guys are all an absolute delight.  

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll || Or start from the top

—-

“Are you good?” Tilting her head up to meet Killian’s vaguely crinkled forehead and passably confused expression, Emma almost regrets the question she didn’t plan on asking. That’s the problem with him. And them, at least in the abstract sense. 

Words tumble out of her without much thought to their meaning or collective, if not slightly metaphorical, weight. Defenses she’s spent a lifetime cultivating feel as if they’ve crumbled at her feet, which is impressive since she’s laying down, but the metaphor still checks out and Emma keeps asking questions. 

Without being wholly afraid of the answers she’ll get. 

“Be more specific,” Killian murmurs, and her heart does something stupid. Skips a beat. Sparks her magic. Threatens to leave her glowing in the tangle of sheets she’s absolutely stolen in the middle of the night. 

“Just—I mean with everything.” Nosing at her cheek, Emma can practically hear Killian’s smile. “‘Fraid that’s not any more specific, my love. But if we’re going to speak in the abstract before coffee—” “—Oh, we should make coffee.” He kisses her cheek, that time. “Then I am exceptionally good.” “Pretty vast adverb.”

“Well, you asked a very broad question. But I stand by my answer, particularly when you’re not wearing any clothing. Why, am I giving off not-good vibes?” “Maybe lame ones if you keep using the word vibe in actual conversation. I just—I don’t know, wanted to make sure, I guess. Working for Mills isn’t exactly the height of luxury and it can be a weird place, and I...we never really looked at apartments for you, because we can do that if you want to, but—” Stumbling over the words, Emma wishes her hands were free. She’d like to wave them around. Use them as a distraction to whatever has settled on her face and in the pit of her stomach, and this wasn’t really the plan. Granted, the plan occurred while she was overly exhausted and reeling a bit from rather large emotional realizations, but telling him the truth about absolutely everything is suddenly a bit more daunting in the light of day. 

And they haven’t even had coffee yet. 

Killian’s hand moves. Faster than Emma’s entirely ready for, his fingers brush a strand of wayward hair away from her eyes and then he’s kissing the bridge of her nose and pulling her against his chest and—

“This was not my plan. In some great expectation for my life, I’m not sure I could have ever imagined this is what it’d be like. But,” Killian adds, as soon as Emma’s magic shifts into something far closer to dread, “if all of this ended with your freakishly cold feet waking me up every morning, then I can’t be very upset about it.”

Swooning pre-coffee can’t be advisable. Emma’s heart doesn’t care. It flips and flops and does that possible explosion thing again, and she’s a little concerned the force of her smile will have adverse effects on the paint in her bedroom. 

“You don’t think Mills is weird?” “Do you?” Emma shakes her head. “Nah, no questions for questions. This is—” “—An inquiry?” Her shoulders slump. Under the blankets, and she’s really got a shit ton of blankets. “I don’t know, Swan. Mills is...a place, a job. One where you work, and that’s mostly why I’m interested in continuing to work there. Should I not be thinking that?” The last few words come with a bit of understandable concern and maybe a hint of frustration, and she should have said something earlier. 

It’s very frustrating to realize how much smarter the part-time cricket is than Emma.

She hopes he’s enjoying his job, too. 

“My feet aren’t really that cold.”

Killian scoffs. “I promise, they are like little ice cubes attached to your legs.” “Lucky you’re here to provide external heat, then.” 

Burrowing her face closer to the crook of his neck, Emma gives herself a moment to relish in that warmth, like he’s some sort of personal sun or a battery or another bit of science she doesn’t understand and David always likes to say that science is just explained magic. Emma wonders if it works the other way, too. 

Magic is something that simply hasn’t been explained yet. No rational reasoning, or anything except the kind of gut feeling that can change everything. 

“I am,” Killian says, and it probably isn’t meant to sound like a promise. “Are you good?” Dots of light appear behind Emma’s eyelids every time she blinks, trying to come up with an answer that won’t send him running and she doesn’t know what she’ll do if he runs. Energy prickles at the tips of her fingers, curling around either one of her wrists and lingering in the slight bend of her left elbow because at some point her left palm has flattened itself against Killian’s stomach. “Mills can be kind of weird,” Emma mutters, trying to pick her words more carefully now. “And that’s...there’s a reason for that, and a reason I started working there and—” A phone starts vibrating. 

Loudly enough that it also immediately falls from the nightstand it was charging on, and keeps buzzing around on the floor. Killian sighs. 

“Hold that thought.”

Emma wishes she could. But her hands are already back underneath the blankets, and she’s all too aware of how bright they’ve gone in the last few seconds and the state of Killian’s shoulders make it obvious he’s not all that pleased with whatever he’s being told. “Yeah, yeah, I can—I mean, it’s like twenty blocks the wrong way, but—God, yes, Scarlet. I can come back for a few minutes.”

He doesn’t bother to plug the phone back in, and for like a solid half second Emma gets distracted by the lack of clothes before her eyes fly up and Killian’s sighing again and the weight in the pit of her stomach grows. 

“Coffee later?” Emma blinks. “Sure. Is everything ok?” “No idea, just that Scarlet said he had to talk to me and it couldn’t wait and—” Killian shrugs, fingers finding the back of his neck. “I probably won’t be that late, but if Regina asks—” “—I’ll tell her.” Something tugs at the back of her mind, a warning Emma can’t place, but she can sense a lie with almost startling accuracy and she knows Killian isn’t lying to her. She just can’t figure out why Will would lie to him. 

Halloween’s not her favorite day. 

People assume all magical and mythical creatures thrive on this one day of the year, but more often than not Emma finds that it’s just another busy day when those same magical and mythical creatures come out of the metaphorical woodwork in droves to get jobs. And sure, some of the rumors are true. There are certain times when the fabric between realms can be a bit more flimsy than usual. Both midnights, for example. Eleven-eleven’s another big one. So, teenage girls had that one right, at least. 

And yeah, ok, Halloween also means Regina bakes half a dozen apple pies for the whole office, but when the whole office is already overrun by inquiring applicants, Emma can’t find it in herself to be very excited for a dessert she only kind of likes. 

She’d never admit that to Regina. 

Self-preservation instincts, and all that. 

Plus, days like this are always cold. Fraught with that certain nip in the air, and leaves that crunch under Emma’s boots. Only to also get stuck to the bottom of Emma’s boots, and she has to twist her wrist to get rid of her leaf-based trail on her way to her paperwork-covered desk. 

The same one David’s leaning against. 

“You tell him yet?”

She missed one leaf. Figures. Emma never even went trick-or-treating as a kid. Halloween’s a sham. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.” “Sure you don’t. It’s dumb that you haven’t yet.” “Voice your opinion a little louder, please.” “Nothing is going to happen,” David says, but Emma barely hears over the sound of sudden and complete disagreement that scratches its way from the depths of her soul. Maybe Halloween makes her a little maudlin, actually. She can’t believe she didn’t get to tell him. “It hasn’t yet.” “Why are you jinxing things like that?” “There is no such thing as jinx, and c’mon, if you guys can get through today with a hundred magically unemployed people, then sky’s the limit.” “Not even clever.” David shakes his head. “You’re impressed and swayed, I know it. Plus it’s not like you’re a bad witch or anything.” “I’m sorry, a bad witch?” “Yeah, you know. None of your intentions, even when lying to the guy you’re stupid into—” “—Opinions keep coming fast and furious, don’t they?” “Because he’s right,” Ruby calls, twisting around desks to involve herself in a conversation Emma doesn’t want to participate in anymore. “You really didn’t tell him yet? That’s nuts. And you’re a good person, Em. With a very good looking face. Who wouldn’t want to make out with that? Ad nauseum.” “I’m going to be honest, using a word that sounds like nauseous isn’t helping your case much,” Emma says. “And I’m going to tell him. I am, just—things got crazy this morning.” Ruby howls. With laughter. Drawing more than a few curious stares, and rather pointed glare from Regina’s direction. David pales noticeably. “Did they?” Ruby presses. “How crazy are we talking and was it also vaguely acrobatic, because I feel like Jones could move if he had to, but that’s strictly theorizing on my part, so—” Sentences without end are quickly becoming Emma’s least favorite thing. Only slightly edging out ringing phones. The one on her desk lights up, which doesn’t happen very often, but she can’t imagine the light is supposed to be green. 

David’s talking. She’s dimly aware of it — the soft hum that sounds more like Charlie Brown’s teacher than any of the human characteristics Emma is certain they both have, and that’s another quasi-Halloween reference. Rocks appear to have landed rather forcefully in her stomach, and that’s what she gets for optimism. 

“Swan,” Killian breathes, as soon as she pulls the phone to her ear. “Swan, Emma listen to me, you can’t—” Seriously, the lack of sentence structure is becoming intolerable. Killian grunts, the sound turning into a gasp almost immediately and a few shouted no, no, no leave them alone and Emma doesn’t remember standing. 

Only that she’s knocked her chair over in the process. 

“Is this Ms. Swan?” a new voice Emma almost recognizes asks. “Because it seems I’ve got something of yours, while you have something I’m particularly interested in. Let’s make a little exchange, shall we?”

It’s disappointing that her mouth goes dry. Emma assumes that’s because she’s all but panting, bent awkwardly over her desk while her eyes scan the room for something or someone and—it clicks. The voice. 

“Zelena. This is Zelena, isn't it?” Both David and Ruby make matching noises of disbelief, but the buzzing is back and Regina is moving and the line’s gone dead anyway. “She’s not supposed to be here,” Regina says with enough calm that it grates on every single one of Emma’s already-fraying nerves, “magical control sent her back to Oz.” Emma can’t cope with this. Any of it. All she wanted was to drink coffee with her decidedly human and very normal, if not ridiculously attractive boyfriend and they’ve never actually used relationship qualifiers. 

That’s disappointing. 

“Right, right, yeah, ok, of course” Emma mumbles, and she doesn’t bother to fix her chair. “Happy fucking Halloween, I guess.”

It takes her all of five minutes and one person dressed in costume to realize that running is absolutely and completely pointless. 

Emma’s a goddamn witch.

And it’s raining. 

Drops slide down her temples, drip down the back of her neck and work under her jacket because she never even got the chance to take her jacket off. Which is something of an exceptionally small miracle now, but she’s already cold and she’s always so fucking cold and—

He called her Emma. 

He called her—

“My love,” she whispers, entirely to herself and that part isn’t really true. Shadows hover just outside the edge of her vision, what Emma knows are her friends waiting for instructions or a plan, and she’s got to come up with a plan and she doesn’t know where Belle and Will live. 

She doesn’t have to. 

Reaching her hand back, Emma’s fingers lace through Regina’s, and her soft instruction of “all instinctual,” doesn’t get lost in the hum of the city or the bustle of a holiday that requires masks and chocolate-based gluttony. It takes root. In Emma’s mind, and those same pieces of her soul, finds the tiny bits of space between her stomach rocks and spreads out from there. 

Warming her from the inside out. 

She closes her eyes. 

“What the fucking fuck?” Will shouts, Emma’s feet slamming into hardwood floor that was probably highlighted in this apartment listing. Eyes bugging, he’s plastered to the wall opposite her, and Emma’s pleasantly surprised to find he’s not gagged, but she also kind of figures it’s because Belle is and there’s something inherently villainous about allowing the love interest to make noise while their partner is being tortured. 

By a woman wearing a pointed witch’s hat. “Kind of cliché, isn’t it?” Ruby muses, and Emma’s not surprised they’ve started their rescue mission with sarcasm. She also can’t respond. Her eyes are too busy trying to take in the scene. 

Stacks of books litter the floor, half the living room furniture on its side as if it’s been knocked over in a fit of inevitably-magical rage, and Belle doesn’t look as scared as annoyed that she’s been bound in one of the few upright chairs. Emma’s heart stutters. Catching her breath is impossible, head on a swivel as she tries to find—

“Killian,” she exhales, and he’s not gagged either. No visible restraints keep him a few feet away from Will, but Emma can feel the magic rippling off him and it smells strongly of bitter lemons. Or expired key lime pie. 

Neither of those things are inherently Halloween, or all that magical. But then Zelena’s turning slowly and the green splotches on her face ensure any attempts at passably funny metaphors or desperate attempts to maintain her sense of reality disappear. 

“Huh,” David says, “that’s new, actually. We ever see anyone change color before?”

Regina clicks her tongue. “She’s not changing color. She’s giving in.” “To what, exactly?” “Jealousy. Isn’t that right, Zelena? Been the crux of the problem forever, hasn’t it?”

Emma’s head is spinning. She’s not moving. “Wait, wait, what the fuck is going on?” One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up, amusement in his gaze and that can’t possibly be right. “You are stuck to the wall, idiot!’ “Oh, Swan, you do know how to flatter a man.” “What is happening?” He can’t shrug, but Emma knows he tries and that should not be as charming as it is. Mary Margaret squeezes her hand. The one that’s almost neon. “Turns out Scarlet didn’t actually want to talk to me this morning. We definitely could have had coffee.” “Is that a euphemism for—” Ruby starts, only to snap her jaw closed when Regina gapes at her. Emma’s starting to lose feeling in her fingers. 

And she sees the exact moment any sense of teasing and entirely false bravado leaves Killian. Lips going thin, his shoulders still don’t move, but Emma swears his fear reverberates through her and that’s not the emotion she was interested in sharing that morning. “You’ve got to get out of here, love. Now, it’s—” Zelena’s hand moves so quickly, it’s not much more than a passably-green blur. Nothing else comes out of Killian’s mouth. His jaw moves, working against a shield none of them can see, and Emma’s stomach is somewhere in the vicinity of her throat. 

Even with all those rocks. 

“How did you get back here?” Regina asks, stepping towards the front of their ragtag group. Fire bursts from her hands, flames that flicker up her forearms and draw another grunt out of Will. Whether it’s surprise or just the generic sound of being impressed, Emma’s not sure. 

Bits of green cling to the end of Zelena’s mouth when she smiles. “Shall I start at the beginning, then?” “God yes, please,” Emma sighs. 

Zelena doesn’t take her hat off. Really, she’s almost making it work for her. As far as costumes go, this one’s kind of basic, but there’s no cape or a broomstick and Emma’s never met a witch who was interested in flying a broom anywhere. 

“Wanted to stay conspicuous, you understand,” Zelena says, “Draw too much attention to myself and—ah, well, that’s not what’s important now.” “What?” “Why you, Emma Swan. Obviously.” “This isn’t the beginning,” David mumbles, and both Emma and Regina shift before Zelena can so much as lift her chin. One of the windows on a different wall flies open, half a dozen pigeons descending on the living room and nipping at the ends of Zelena’s hair. They pull on the sides of her dress and peck at the green spots that are growing on her cheeks. 

Whistling, Mary Margaret jerks her head and the pigeons fly away, looking a little like an avian synchronized swimming team. “Leave him alone.”

“Shit,” Ruby says, “that was impressive and aggressive. Ignore the rhyme.”

Emma tilts her head. “Slant rhyme, right? Can’t rhyme matching sounds.” Someone makes a noise — it comes from the general direction of Killian and Will, but it can’t be Killian and Emma wants it to be him anyway. Zelena doesn’t look very impressed with any of them. That’s fair, it’s probably frustrating to have your monologue interrupted so often. 

“If you don’t mind,” she sneers, Emma waving her free hand like she’s capable of giving the bad guy permission to keep talking. “It had been quite some time since I’d been in this realm, and plenty of things had changed. More magic, a certain kind of power that hung in the air. Energy that could change the course of everything, strong enough that it could probably rewrite time itself if it wanted to. And I want it to.” “To what?” “Were you not listening? Rewrite time.”

Breathing out of her mouth is not attractive. It’s loud and makes Emma’s tongue feel larger than it actually is, especially when she has to keep using it to lick her lips. “That’s—that’s insane. You’re insane. You didn’t just want to get a normal job? I mean...you were at Mills. I saw you.” “Power of the Universe at my fingertips and you think I’d be satisfied with a normal job? No wonder you have no idea what you are. Which,” Zelena glances meaningfully at Killian, “means you, Emma Swan, are the reason I’m here.” “Speak English!” Zelena huffs. “I am. What I felt when I returned to this realm? It was you, my dear. Your power, your magic, your ability. And, yes, I could have given into the hum-drum existence of this place and the structure of Mills Personnel, but where exactly is the fun in that?”

Emma hopes she’s not expected to answer. She doesn’t have one. It’s entirely possible she’s going to snap several of Mary Margaret’s fingers in half. 

“Anyway,” Zelena continues, “locating that power wasn’t easy, but Regina Mills’ ability to make things happen is legendary. Finding a person’s niche, that’s her greatest talent. And so I did come to Mills, looking for a position that would help me get the rest of the requirements.”

Ruby keeps shaking her head. Emma can’t seem to move. Or breathe. Her eyes keep darting back towards Killian, trying to make sure he’s breathing or reacting in a way that doesn’t threaten to make her cry. Nothing. 

He’s plastered to a wall with magic, of course not. 

“You see, a time spell is one of the more complex out there. Need all sorts of things in addition to the kind of magic that can fuel it. Which is what I wanted when I got to Mills. Hoped I could get placed in a hospital or something of the sort.”

On the increasingly small scale of things that surprise Emma, that somehow makes the cut. “You need, like, an IV drip or something?” “A baby,” Zelena replies easily, and Belle whimpers against the gag. “Pure of spirit, you understand. Other things too. Courage, wisdom, maybe a heart if I could get lucky—” “—An actual heart?” Will balks. “Spend a lot of time in Wonderland, did ya?” “I mean, she could probably get the heart in the hospital too if she wasn’t picky about her choices,” Ruby reasons, and this whole thing is absurd. Maybe that’s the theme for Halloween as a whole, though. 

More of Zelena’s face is green. 

“I had hoped I’d get someone competent who could help me. Or even the source of the power. Naturally,” she jerks her head in Killian’s direction, “I ended up with this sot. Who suggested working at a clinic or agreeing to something called an orderly position. Well, I knew he wouldn’t help me, but I did get something out of it. I knew you were there, Emma. And—” Zelena’s eyes rove towards Belle, and the hands collapsed over the front of her stomach. Realization crashes over Emma in waves, the rocks disappearing only to be replaced with a bone-deep chill that douses any bit of light in her. “So I do have a few options for you all now.” “What are you trying to fix?” “Hmm?” “Fix,” Emma repeats, “or change, I guess. I mean—that’s not how life works.” Zelena hums in what can only be passing interest and something almost like an agreement. “Seems unnecessary to tell you my whole plan, but when it works it won’t make much of a difference. I want to get rid of the girl. That nasty little thing that fell in Oz and ruined everything. Robbed me of my chance to prove myself, claimed there had to be good witches and bad witches and you’re absolutely right, Ms. Swan. That’s not how life works. Nothing is quite so cut and dry as all that.”

Words hang off the tip of her disgustingly dry tongue. Want to be said and proclaimed, and for all the mistakes Emma has made — good and bad, right and wrong, trusting and the opposite, she’s happy to find she’s not particularly interested in changing them. 

Not if she ends up here. 

Well, maybe not here—with her boyfriend, they’ll get to that eventually, magically silenced and Belle doing her best to glare daggers at the half-green witch who commandeered her living room, and Ruby’s teeth are definitely getting longer. But maybe here-adjacent. With people who care about her, who followed her without question or thought and the guy who is still somehow staring at Emma like he’s got every intention of keeping her feet warm. 

Ad nauseum. 

“I’m not really interested in anything you need.”

Disappointment flashes across Zelena’s face, only to immediately morph into something much closer to fury. “Hero types, always so sanctimonious. That’s why I said several options. It’s one now, but—” Flicking her wrist, Killian slides down the wall in what Emma knows isn’t actually slow motion. Still, the amount of time it takes for his knees to crash to the ground seems to last forever and Zelena doesn’t try to stop Emma from rushing forward. 

Eventually, she’ll realize why. 

“Regina discovered what I was trying to do,” Zelena explains, “my fault. Kept coming back to Mills, demanding better placement and as much as it pains me to admit she’s smart...well, she sent me back to Oz.” “So how are you here?” Mary Margaret demands.

Emma doesn’t need that answer, either. Halloween is a bullshit, overrated holiday. Pulling Killian close to her, he’s far too limp and impossibly silent, and Emma barely spends a moment thinking about either of those things before she’s kissing anywhere she can reach, mumbling apologies and half-explanations into his skin and—

“Ah, I’d be careful if I were you,” Zelena says, a soft lilt to her voice that rattles down Emma’s spine. “See, your option is to give me your magic, Ms. Swan. If you won’t do it willingly, I’ll take it by force.” “I don’t—” 

Movement catches Emma’s attention, the soft flutter of fingers across her back and she has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. At first. All it takes is a few seconds, and that’s probably another sign. She hopes so. Tracing letters on her jacket, Killian’s eyes flutter shut like he’s exhausted and determined not to sleep and— “No,” Emma exhales, but Zelena’s smile looks victorious. It’s too late. They’re too late. And there’s nothing they can do to change that. 

Slumping against her, Killian’s eyes don’t open again. His breathing evens out, and Emma supposes that’s something of a very twisted victory because he isn’t dead, but he’s even more obviously sleeping and sleeping curses are notoriously hard to break.

“Especially when they so often require a kiss,” Zelena grins. “True Love, and all that. So let me ask, Ms. Swan. Do you think what you and the plebe have is True Love and, more importantly, will you be willing to sacrifice your magic for it? Because the only way he’s waking up is with a kiss and the next time you kiss him, you’ll lose your magic.”

To suggest that it kind of all goes to shit after that is something of an understatement. 

Light pours out of Emma, unsteady legs under her even as she juts her chin out. To her credit Zelena doesn’t back down. She stands there and she turns a bit more green, and magic is so goddamn weird. Emma’s also never been in a magic fight before. 

Spending so long hiding that part of her — certain it was going to be the reason everyone left, the opportunity never really presented itself. Fighting for the sanctity of time itself and Killian’s consciousness seems as good a reason as any to flip the script, so to speak. 

Heat races through Emma, wind swirling at her ankles as frames clatter to the ground. Shards of glass fly on the manufactured breeze, Mary Margaret darting towards Belle and David sprinting towards Will, and it’s something of a confidence boost when they’re both able to pull them away from the battle. 

Although Emma can’t really believe she thought the word battle, even in her head. 

“Not exactly the magical dominance you were bragging about, huh?” Emma quips, twirling a finger in the air. Bands of light circle Zelena’s calves, twist up her legs and turn her answering laugh into a gasp that also does dangerous things to Emma’s ego. 

“I never—” Zelena grunts, twisting against bonds that don’t even flicker. “—You were the powerful one, I thought I made that blatantly obvious.” “I mean,” David shrugs. 

Ruby nods. “She did kind of, Em. That’s true.” “Whose side are you on?” Emma snaps, but the retreat back to absurd is almost comforting in a familiar, banter-filled sort of way. 

“Please,” Regina sighs. Her hands are on fire. “That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, and I know you claimed you didn’t have to tell Killian the truth before.” “Yeah, well, cat’s pretty much out of the bag on that front, don’t you think?” “Flew out on pigeon’s wings, I think.”

Laughter has no place in a moment when Zelena’s entire face has turned green, and her own fireballs are threatening at her palms, but Emma can’t help herself and maybe the dumbest thing she’s ever done was suggest Killian shouldn’t have worked at Mills. Or that she couldn’t be head over heels in love with him. 

That helps, honestly. 

“You’re not getting my magic,” Emma announces, all too sure she sounds as ridiculous as she feels. Heroic soliloquies are also overrated, it seems. “And you’re not getting Killian or—God, were we actually talking about Dorothy that whole time?” Zelena snarls. That must be the response. 

“Well, you’re not getting her either. Sneaking back here on Halloween was dumb. Trying any of this was ridiculous and threatening Killian was the worst of all your ideas. Because—” Emma takes a step forward. Nothing shakes. If anything her knees almost lock out, the hair falling over her shoulders noticeably brighter than usual and Zelena recoils. Seriously, her confidence is through the roof. “Magical job placement might be boring, and it might have a shit ton of paperwork, but it’s also a chance to help people and that’s...that’s the point, isn’t it? Finding that sense of belonging? Giving a person a chance. Being able to—” “—Fall in love,” Mary Margaret cries, scrunching her nose when Regina and Ruby shush her. “I mean…that’s what it is, isn’t it? Love’s not a weapon. It makes Emma glow.” And that makes Emma curse. “Maybe we phrase it differently?”

“Maybe we worry about language once we actually defeat the witch, huh?” Regina challenges, and that seems like a legitimate plan. 

Balls of fire fly through the air. Ricochet off Emma’s lights, and every window flies open as Mary Margaret calls upon not only pigeons but what look like several sparrows and a few nightingales if the sounds they’re making is any indication. Leaves swirl around the room, partially from the actual wind and also from whatever Emma is apparently capable of. 

A lot more than she thought, honestly. 

Warmth rises in her spine, sets her shoulders in a straight and determined line and she gives Will an appreciative smile when he pulls Killian out of the fray. Only to immediately jump back in, ducking and twisting and there’s a lot more cardio involved than she thought, but then a flash of magic nearly singes her ear and Emma’s thankful for her own agility.

She moves. Refuses to back down, ignoring the growing ache in her muscles and the weird popping thing her hip is doing. And Zelena starts to cower. In an especially villain-type of way.

Backing into the nearest wall, she stumbles over her feet as light tightens around her. It pins her arms to her side, curls around her ankles and guarantees she can’t run away when Emma stalks forward. 

With a smile on her face. 

Oz authorities appear at eleven-eleven, which seems to suggest it is somehow still morning and Emma cannot rationalize that at all. 

They thank Emma for containing the fugitive, nod towards Regina and well—that’s that. Leaving the rest of them in a slightly singed apartment with pillows that somehow haven’t burst, and what feels like a distinct lack of oxygen. 

“So,” Will drawls, “what do we do now?” He doesn’t have to look at Killian. The still-sleeping form is the far-more-attractive-than-an-elephant elephant in the room, draped across a couch that David had to lift on his own. One of his feet is hanging over the side. “True Love’s Kiss isn’t a real thing,” Emma whispers, but the words taste like ash on her tongue and Regina makes a very obnoxious noise. 

“Dumb, dumb, dumb.” “Do you think I’ll lose my magic?” “Do you actually care?” Shaking her head, Emma doesn’t bother saying the words. Not when she knows they’re so obviously painted on her face and sudden realization is almost as annoying as not ending sentences. She knows what he was tracing on her back. 

Maybe she is the idiot, actually. 

And for a moment, Emma’s mind falters. Remembers that other moment, standing frozen as a different set of lights threatened to blind her and metal snapped around her wrists and she’d been so certain then. Never again. Nothing else would get through the defenses. No one else would know. No more mistakes. 

This isn’t a mistake. 

Careful to avoid the glass on the floor, Emma tiptoes forward and crouches next to Killian. She brushes her fingers over that scar on his cheek, the ends of lips that are somehow still tilted up into half a smirk and—

“God, just do it already,” Belle shouts. 

That’s that, again. 

Kissing at this angle isn’t particularly easy, and Emma’s knees aren’t particularly pleased with the amount of pressure she’s putting on them, but it does allow her to basically drape herself across Killian and that also makes it easier to get her hand under the hem of his shirt. And nothing else really happens. 

No sharp inhale. No tilt of his head. Absolutely no sign of his tongue, which Emma has come to find herself almost obsessed with in the last few months. She doesn’t care. Doesn’t allow herself to stop, not when there’s a flicker of hope and all that want simmering between her ribs, mixing with her magic and how ridiculously in love she is and it’s annoying that she’s the one who gasps. 

As soon as arms circle her waist. 

Emma can’t really tumble when she’s above him, but the edge of the couch digs into her thighs and Killian’s doing an admirable job of trying to get her parallel to the rest of his body. Her fingers find his hair when he arches up, his own hand roving the expanse of her back before his arm curls tightly around her like he’s trying to make sure she’s still there. Leaning into her palm against his chin, Killian’s lips drag across the back of Emma’s wrist, sparking another round of magic and even more glowing. “Oh shit,” Emma mumbles, not able to pull herself away from Killian. Because of his arm. And...other reasons. 

“Was that a response to me, or—” “—No, no, I just—well, there’s still magic. I’ve still got magic. And, uh, I’m a witch.” He laughs. Throws his head back and lets his body shake under her, which really isn’t helping Emma’s state of mind at all, but she’s admittedly preoccupied with the overall volume of the laugh and how wide his smile is. “Swan, Emma love, did you honestly think I didn’t know?”

She—

Has absolutely no idea what to do with that. 

Ruby might fall over. Regina’s eyes bug, Mary Margaret using David to stay upright, Belle covers her mouth with her hand, Will cackling loud enough for the both of them. 

“Did you,” Emma starts, but Belle and Will shake their heads and Killian’s tongue click is awfully put-upon for a guy who was just cursed. 

He taps on her jaw until she’s able to look at him. And his stupid blue eyes. “I could feel it, love. Also you have a tendency to...glow. Which I'm assuming is a compliment, for me. Or us. There's an us, right?" She nods. Can't do much else. "And you’re not very subtle. Extra cinnamon in the cabinets, moving the remote so I don’t have to look for it. Working at a job placement agency that helps the magically afflicted. Plus there was paperwork. Was Freddie really a gold statue at one point?” “Yeah, but they un-statue’ed him with water from Lake Nostos. Not True Love’s Kiss.” “So we won, then?” “Competitive weirdo.” “Absolutely,” Killian nods. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I figured you’d get around to it at some point and then you were talking today and—” “—We’re not such shitty friends that we’d demand Killian show up back here before nine,” Will reasons. “Plus, it’s been kind of nice to have a free couch.”

Killian gags. “Did I say congratulations yet?” “We were busy.” “Wait, wait,” Emma sputters, and she’s going to go into cardiac arrest. Or magic overload. “So this whole time. You knew.” “Well, not the whole time,” Killian objects. “Most of it though, yeah.” “But you’re still here.” “Where else did you expect me to go? Aside from your apartment now that we’ve defeated the wicked witch? I’m assuming we defeated the wicked witch.” Emma nods. “Well, then I’ll apologize for drawing you into that, too. She was half the reason I started to suspect anything, honestly. Told Regina about her and the last thing I expected when I got here was to see her, or to have her demand I get you here. I tried to avoid that.” More nodding. More aching muscles and poorly performing hearts, and Emma wouldn’t mind if Killian traced several other sentiments into a variety of different areas, but they’ve got an audience and a pregnant lady and they never did get coffee. So, it makes sense to ignore that for a second. Or several. 

“I love you,” she says instead. Shouts, really. “More than I realized I could and I—” Any other words get lost in the feel of Killian’s mouth on hers and the ability of his tongue to incite butterflies in her stomach, and she hardly hears him say I love you back. It doesn’t matter. She hears it on loop for the rest of the day, once they’re ushered unceremoniously out of Belle and Will’s apartment. Neither of them think much about getting coffee. 

And she’s just on the cusp of sleep, eyelashes fluttering and blankets halfway to stolen when Emma hears something else. Pressed into that one spot below her ear. 

“I’ve got no intention of leaving,” Killian whispers, “not because of the magic or the power that comes with it, only because I love you. A ridiculous amount, honestly.”

Sleep seems kind of pointless after that. 

He decides to leave Mills, eventually. 

“I don’t have magic,” Killian rationalizes, and Emma supposes that makes sense. “But I will need some help finding a job.”

Sliding a file with his name written in swirling script across her desk, he’s got the gall to smirk at her and Emma resists the urge to magic him into her chair. “Luckily I do have other skills, including a job offer—” “—If you’ve got a job offer, you don’t really need my help.” “Yeah, but you’re very pretty and I hear you’re real good at what you do.” “Which is?” “Moving in with me,” Killian says, which isn’t the last thing she expects but it still manages to catch her off guard. Lights erupt at the end of several strands of hair. “The reaction I was going for, absolutely.” “No, no, that’s—that’s dumb.” “Is it?” “I was going to ask you to move in with me. First.” “Competitive weirdo.” “I have an apartment,” Emma argues. “With laundry on site.” “Ah, yeah, that is a marker in the pro column. Plus, you’ll be there right?” “In my apartment? Yeah, probably,”

Pushing back on the chair he’d never really been sitting in, Killian leans across Emma’s desk. To kiss her. Hard. Magic flares in the air around them, causing bulbs to flicker and more than a few cries of get a room . “What I’m trying to do,” Killian mumbles. “If you’re asking me to move in, Swan, I’m going to accept.” “Make it sound less like a warning next time.”

He chuckles against her mouth, either ignoring the desk that must be pressing into his stomach or not bothered by it at all, and Emma tries not to throw herself at him too quickly when he brings a whole box of recently-bought blankets with him.

“So you don’t get cold, love.”

[gaiatheorist]

A little knowledge...

I keep starting this, and then deleting it, that’s either an indication that I’m trying to process as fully as i can, or that I’m being avoidant, and slipping into another depressive episode, I’ll keep an eye on it.

I have an untidy heap of paperwork at the side of my desk, it’s not ‘on’ the desk yet, because I’m not quite ready to fill it in. There’s no deadline on it, so it’s ‘floating’, rather than ‘fixed’, and the formatting of it is doing my head in. It’s the end-of-course review and coping plan for the Trauma Stabilisation Group I finished last week. I told my son a few days ago that the ‘mentals’ write their own coping plans, and he was incredulous, I’m relatively good at planning, and taking all factors into consideration, but the new medication, and the appeal against the denial of my disability benefit, and, well, 2020 are taking a toll on me, I’m slipping.

‘Introduction to Trauma Stabilisation Class’, three 90-minute sessions, delivered via Microsoft ‘Teams’, on account of the Covid-19 pandemic, we’re too unwell to be left to our own devices, so the online group was the least-bad option. It’s free, I know a fair few people who have had to pay for their own therapy, because they can’t access NHS treatment, and I know I’m part of a very small, but fortunate number, to still be on NHS lists. Groups of people with mental health issues are always a bit of a gamble, there’s the waiting-room-contagion factor, where some people will exchange symptoms and ‘unhelpful coping mechanisms’, and the weird mix of characters that are inevitable. This was either my third or fourth ‘Introduction to...’ group, and the online format was differently stressful to the in-the-flesh ones. I know ‘most’ of my group-dynamic bad habits, and there’s always a little bit of my cognitive functioning occupied with telling myself *don’t* do this, or that. In a nutshell, I’m a watchful show-off, the ‘feeling small and vulnerable’ part of my C-PTSD would, historically, lead me to muck about, or attempt to dominate groups, throw in my autistic ‘organising’, my professional desire to help, and the fatigue and over-stimulus from the brain injuries, and I *could* be a nightmare in groups. 

I was honest with the triage staff right from the beginning, it’ll be in my notes that I acknowledge my tendencies to ‘take charge’, as a means of coping with so much in my life that’s been beyond my control, it’s not all deliberate, and it’s sometimes really useful. I’m a sheep-dog, which is productive when I’m rounding up stragglers, and pointing them in the right direction, less-so when I’m distracted by a squirrel outside the window. 

Being what I am, and knowing what I know from my previous career is a double-edged sword. I know the fancy words for the theories and processes, so can be mildly irritated when the language has to be dumbed-down to the lowest common denominator. It does have to be, though, on the previous course, we had a couple of participants who couldn’t read the text on the worksheets (formatting issue, too much text crammed onto each page, to save on photocopying costs, they strained my eyes a bit) I can’t do my (TM) Autistic thing of assuming that, if I ‘know’ a thing, everyone else in the room does too. I can do my helpful thing of re-explaining something the facilitator has said if the group don’t seem to ‘get’ it, or clarifying something a participant has said if the facilitators misconstrue it. (One of the staff on the previous course was an absolute horror for that, she wasn’t listening actively, just barrelling on with what she thought had been said, people stop volunteering information when that happens.) I’m not there to ‘help’, or to ‘lead’, though. One of the participants in this last group threw a bit of a tantrum, she’d dominated most of the speaking in the previous session, and flipped when I was given air-time to explain something. That was hard to deal with, because I automatically switched to Mentor-mode, and very nearly lost track of the content trying to think of a way to alert one of the facilitators to check in on her, and try to bring her down from her agitated state before she hurt herself. 

I’m dabbling with the slightly paranoid theory that some participants, or even facilitators might think I’m a Mystery Shopper sort of thing. My ‘old’ practices and processes made a lot of people ask “How do you DO that?”, the ‘Matilda’-thing, I just do, I’m exceptional at a lot of very difficult things sometimes, but I can’t use oven-gloves, and, especially recently, I’ve been forgetting a lot of words. Other participants might think I’m a smart-arse, I am, it doesn’t matter, I imagine I frustrate the facilitators because I can give theoretically correct answers, but can’t consistently apply the theories in my own life. I’m not there to make friends, we all have to sign contracts of expectations saying we won’t form relationships, I understand that, an elective empathy with other high-end mental health cases is never going to be a good thing. My curious combination of conditions makes me a bit of a distance-er anyway, I stick as firmly as I can to the procedural pathways, it’s a process-with-purpose, not a popularity contest.

I’m struggling with the ‘be kind to yourself’ angle again. It’s not in my nature, I don’t know how. That bumps heads with the ‘normalising nice things’, even at this level of mental health intervention, we’re encouraged to ‘savour the taste of your favourite food’- food is just fuel, I don’t have a favourite, and, when people start banging on about chocolate, or cake, or whatever, I don’t get it. Visit a favourite place, phone/meet up with a friend, listen to uplifting music, go for a walk, buy yourself flowers, have a haircut, all of the ‘normal’ nice-things leave me cold, I don’t really have hobbies or interests, very few things spark my oxytocin or dopamine responses, I’m not a joyful type, that’s my baseline-normal, not a press-the-panic-button indicator that I’m depressed. 

“You’re just not trying!” Luckily, nobody ‘medical’ has trotted that one out, but it’s been the backing track to my life pretty much forever. I am trying, I’m trying very hard, especially since the brain injuries. There’s been a slow realisation that I have to pick my battles wisely, though. I’ve long maintained that anyone who’s ‘always’ happy must have a flap in their back where the batteries go, I’m not advocating living in a constant state of ‘Eeyore’ gloom, but constant joy must be bloody exhausting. I’m not always moody or maudlin, I’m just sort of ‘flat’, not particularly animated or enthusiastic about much, but I can engage for short periods when I need to. “Smile, love, it might never happen!” can get right in the bin, and, as the internet pointed out the other day, telling someone to ‘just think positive’ as a cure-all is ridiculous. Well-meaning, but oblivious people will chip in with their intrusive-insensitive opinions of how a bit of yoga, or more vegetables are all we need to be all-better, and it’s a challenge to not point out that some of us are a bit beyond ‘just snapping out of it’. 

That’s not defeatist. I’m autistic, my brain runs on a non-standard Operating System, the updates don’t always load, and I have to make a hell of a lot of work-around adaptations. Sometimes life’s like walking everywhere with my shoes on the wrong feet, and sometimes it’s like my appliances have come with the wrong plug, and I have to stick a spoon-handle in the Earth socket to make them work. On top of the autism, I had a succession of adverse experiences through the course of my life, which have left me with C-PTSD. I have a telephone-directory of medical conditions, and the icing on the cake was the brain haemorrhage  five years ago, I have brain injuries, bits of metal plugging up aneurysms, and one area of ‘risky’ defects on my brain-stem. Those are facts, I have a file of medical paperwork about two inches thick, but the UK disability benefit departments have decided to latch onto the fact that I’m not on any medication for mental health issues. (I’ve tried lots, none of them worked long-term, and now we know we’re dealing with a neurodevelopmental disorder, and physical brain damage, I don’t think a bit of Prozac is going to help.)

Knowing that my brain is physically and chemically different to ‘most’ people’s is not a get-out-of-jail-free-card. These are reasons, not excuses, and I’m doing what I can to work within and around my limitations. I’m not unique, or a special unicorn, I’m disabled, and damaged, and trying to work with the fragmented NHS. One of the issues with the trauma course was the assumptions. I absolutely don’t blame the facilitators, they’re working with pre-prepared material, and a ‘difficult’ cohort. I did gently correct the course-leader, when she started listing ‘normal’ coping mechanisms, the walk-in-the-park, cup-of-tea-with-friends type ones. Some of those ‘simple’ activities are incredibly difficult for some of us, that’s why we’re at this level of intervention, if we could have ‘just’ joined a knitting circle, or taken up photography, we’d already have done it. I explained the need for pacing, the other two participants had limited impulse control, so giving the ‘shopping list’ of strategies was a bit risky, I know I have a tendency to over-reach, so need to be careful with myself. None of us had mentioned nightmares or flashbacks, but they’re on the standard list of indicators for PTSD. There was an assumption that we all had them, in the same way as one of the other triage practitioners, ages ago, told me “It’s not PTSD, because you don’t have nightmares.” I have auditory and olfactory flashbacks and hallucinations. 

The doctors that didn’t make further investigations for the mutated migraines before the aneurysm ruptured. The gyneacologist that told my HUSBAND “There’s nothing physically wrong with her.”, the Occupational Health doctor who told me “It’s not vertigo, because that’s spinning.” and “It wasn’t a stroke, because you don’t have one-sided weakness.” I know they have to have lists of diagnostic criteria to start from, but Little-Miss-Autistic here spent far too long just-trying-to-cope because I didn’t fit neatly into their matrices. (Don’t get me started on DWP/PIP ignoring reams of evidence, and just picking out that I turned up to the assessment with my trousers on the right way around...) 

I know too much about some things, and not enough about others. My ‘flat’ presentation gives the impression that I’m calm when I’m not, and coping more than I am. The review for the trauma class isn’t until September, and I genuinely don’t know what the next step will be. I’m already on the waiting list for the ‘Compassion’ course, and the very long waiting list for the Specialist Neurodevelopmental Service in the city, to see if there’s anything ‘else’ I haven’t already tried to work within and around the autism. I’ve slipped through a million holes in a million nets, because I know enough to give the answers I ‘should’, the biggest irony is that when I answer “I don’t know.”, the assumption is that I’m being defensive or difficult. A little knowledge is indeed a dangerous thing.   

[sidpah]

Olivia’s Funeral

1.

The grass still damp from last night’s showers and dawn’s fine lace of dew. At my love’s funeral the morning’s grown bright; counterpoint to the bodies forming a crescent of sorrow around her grave… All morbid, dark… cold negative sunspots sucked from the canvas into a cluster of interminable black holes…

There are tears tattooed on their cheeks and lacey veils covering veils, lest someone think them crass should one slip, allowing a glimpse of a dry naked eye. Man’s machinery lowers her casket into the ground.

The fake turf laid over the mounds of freshly disinterred dirt seems a fitting metaphor. She’s been stitched back together and airbrushed, her blood removed and flesh chemically preserved like a fetus in a jar. Her casket will never rot. She’s been rendered impervious to all organic forces; she has been torn, banished from nature, cast as another figurine of concrete or bronze, robbed of her humanity and left a dead monument to something that was once supple and filled with conscious wonder. Perfectly fouled and of no use to anyone or anything. Even the fresh earth from which we were supposedly molded, according to the black book presiding over this ceremonial sham, is too raw and vulgar to be acknowledged. No grass grows that artificial green, staggered in even rows like hair plugs.

I hate them all right now for doing this to her. I could without remorse slay every one of them, but they don’t know any better. They’re doing what they feel is right. Heaps of delusion. Futility. Angst. A silver necklace for her birthday strung around her preserved hips stretched flat… I’m a mad mad man and she’s a mad dead woman…

“Tell me it’s true!” I yell into the coffin, “Tell me you want this marrowless skeleton the way its severed head wants your body as a rack to dry out its old moldy bones… The way it still wants to be cuddled up against you in there, our bare skeletons rattling together like two deer in combat…”

 Three years we spent together under the cold rain… We held our breath so long we sank below even our own worst self-images – Even the Sun came out to watch us bury her… just long enough to bless our weary ranks with her warm soft benediction – But all the maudlin eulogies they sing! I could never do anything but rejoice in her presence, and this is how they whimper and fawn…

I’d love to draw her back to life; sweet Russian fingers in my hair – To hold her thin whittled form against my own just once, beating, pulsating, radiating for all dog-eared eternity… They say she’s here with me now like she’s with them wherever they are (body shattered to nine even souls for each of us to call upon in bidding, in lust) but I never feel her around… They’re lying… naïve… And I’m clenched too tight and cynical to hope. In every corner I see her patient hands carving life out of walls with the heart of a beautiful radiant muse. And though it’s been so many years since we’ve been touched, both the portrait walls and my face, they’re still breathing, so I think maybe I can make it a little longer too –

In her honor I shall learn to speak a purer tongue. One that only she will understand – a voiceless mind-noise so loud she could never miss it – I’ll be forever tied to her silent black and white as her inky voice spills from my hand – Drunk in her presence, I’ll stumble up each shrouded mountain pass and here within this old nightmare is where I’ll find the splinters of her sad withering face, but beside it, the essence of her bellowing soul, her fierce bellowing soul, her fierce bellowing lightning soul, her broken humble radiance hanging against the misty treetops –

She’ll wear her silence naked, forsaking every monotonous fear that once trapped us beneath the ceilings of our rain-bleached cave… No word describes the senseless bliss forgetting all the stupid chances we’ve taken… like we have taken every bleary kiss for granted…

Oh, how I wish I could dream her back to life in a dream from which no one ever wakes – It can’t be long before I’m with her again – It’s only eight steps across this fragile world, but right now it feels like I’m somewhere lost below my own drying footprints…

 I walk to the edge of the hole, standing on that plastic grass. Scrape my foot against it and hear each blade stretch and release in a rapid bbbrrrupppttt of gunfire. The silver casket, so inert, so conspicuous, so shiny before the mud. Perfect. For a second I see the veins of a map, Africa maybe, superimposed over the metal. Then it’s only lined shadows of cypress limbs crossing and retreating.

I want to be with her in there.

I bend and scoop the first handful of dirt to pitch in. I don’t give a shit if I’m acting out of sequence. Mourning is no regimented discipline. I stare down at it, the casket and then the dirt, unaware of the preacher’s dry monotonic sermon…

In a moment of true inspiration, the kind reserved for visionaries, the artistic elite, the veil pulled wide to allow brief admittance to the beguiling other world, I dig beneath a seam in the plastic grass to find a large rock unearthed by bulldozer.  I lift one, my thumb tracing its crevices and chips; we bond, the rock and I, in that moment of exploration. Then rearing my arm back for maximum leverage, I hurl it with as much energy as I can muster in this, my decrepit state, against the pristine coffin. There comes a dent and the paint chips. One gasp rises in tandem from every direction. Except from below. From within the casket’s lightless interior I hear her voice softly whispering her gratitude.

My work is done, I understand. So without further consideration, I choose to follow her in. It’s the right thing to do. The only action worth doing. Spreading my arms wide, and just missing the fists and wingtips of her incensed family and cosmetic friends coming to punish this unrepentant heathen, I tumble headfirst into my lover’s grave.

 2.

Gazing up out of the wide grinning grave mouth, the first thing to catch my attention, so telling, is a pair of black shorts creeping up smooth young thighs… tucked slightly inward so I can nearly steal a creamy glimpse… The girl’s eyes diverted on a yelping dog… Plastic is this whole world… Frozen in its panting and lust-gorged drool slavering from tongue to steel casket floor… My own canine slobber pooling on a sunflower’s rough face lying on her vault… Seeds ripped loose by wind, by bird, by hands only imagined, but the dying flower is right here between my fingers… Film dust on monochrome surface… The screen is wiped with mold spores consuming the past… I am in desperate need of help…

I fell in love when she revealed her roots of dark red hair and green eyes… Now driven underground… From down here, below the footsteps of men, I see! All my lovers, I see! I see!

I raise my eyes from their low damp vantage point, finding only sex in every body. I clinch my eyes and draw my hazy conception of life energy up to the heart center to bring light to this darkened cavern… To clear out webs and congested filth ringing locked patterns like tapeworm holes… Freeing gnarly habits of their twisted hungers stuck for centuries in this uneven muck of mind.  If there’s no cage, how’ve I been trapped in it?  Where does the greed and asinine repetition of error lie dormant when I’m so certain I’ve been cured?  

Let the eyes slide up Pingala and Ida, through glowing channels past the spine and slip silently into the center of Anahata radiating the arms of a fractured green star, so that I may finally see compassionately thoughts and spirit break free of heavy beating form.

Cyrus conquered Babylon, but what man has conquered his own wicked fires?

[lotsofthinkythoughts]

From One to Ninety-Two

Steve wants this Christmas to be perfect.

A Steggy Secret Santa gift for @steggyforeveruniverse !  Just so you know, this is set in the Family Assembled verse which I beta, but there’s only really one point that’s super important about that and it’s that human Jarvis is also in the future. He appears once, so didn’t want you to get super confused by that.  I hope you enjoy it, sorry it took until now to finish it. Hope your holidays were happy and your next year is wonderful!

“Do I actually want to ask why there’s so many Christmas lights in here?”

Steve looked up from the tray he was testing, to see Peggy holding JJ, who was watching his father enraptured. Or more accurately, who was fixated on the length of bright lights shining near Steve’s feet.

“Buh!” He reached one chubby hand down making insistent grabbing motions.

Peggy sighed and shifted him up into her arms, propping him up so his head was still supported even as she gave him a better view.

“I’m decorating. For JJ. He likes the lights”

“Steve, he’s three months old.”

“It’s his first Christmas,” he insisted, reaching over to unplug the strand.

JJ made a distressed noise as the lights went dark, but was appeased by Peggy shifting so he faced the Christmas tree in the corner over her shoulder. He giggled and kicked his feet happily before laying his head on her shoulder, making Steve raise an eyebrow and tilt his head in their direction, before plugging in the next strand of lights. Peggy slipped a finger into the small fist that curled around the neckline of her blouse. JJ didn’t move, but held on just as tightly.

“See?”

She looked at him dubiously, but sighed in resignation. “Oh alright.”

Steve grinned and Peggy couldn’t help but return the smile.

—

Snow gently fell outside the windows, the beginning layers of what would be a deep blanket by the end of the evening coating the streets. The view from the window was amazing- drifting snowflakes over a vibrant cityscape. A year ago, Steve might have sketched it.

Today, he was watching his son, and how his tiny face fixed on the television, where a snowman sang about silver and gold Christmas trees. JJ seemed to be enjoying it, though to be fair he seemed to enjoy most things. He was a fairly happy baby.

There was a firm shutting and the sound of heels on wood when the door to the apartment closed, and JJ’s head turned away from the film, recognizing the sound. He’d been fussy for five minutes after Peggy left earlier, and now he started squirming as if by flailing he’d manage to summon his mother any faster. JJ made an annoyed noise, his face scrunching down into a disapproving baby frown.

Steve threw his arm out just in time, placing a hand in front of his son’s torso as he toppled forward. Trying desperately to get down from the couch, he leaned toward the television just as an elf burst out of the snowbank where the snowman had just been. One drool covered hand landed atop Steve’s, pushing in mute protest against the force keeping him upright.

“Whoa buddy, careful. We can go say hi to your mom,” Steve said,

JJ burbled excitedly as Steve lifted him up so that his head was perched on his shoulder, the same drool covered fingers now clutching around the neckline of Steve’s shirt, leaving an unpleasant damp spot.

“Hello darlings.” The sound of Peggy’s voice floated around from the other room along with the rusting of bags and cloth.

Steve rounded the corner just as Peggy slid the bags under the table for later. He smiled to himself, as much as she had insisted that JJ wouldn’t remember any of this, she made sure to hide the gifts, though that wouldn’t be an effective hiding spot next year.

“How were the crowds?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’ve dealt with worse.We can talk more about what’s left to buy when James naps,” she said, reaching out to take the baby. He gurgled happily and immediately buried his face in the blue sweater she was wearing.

“That might not take long,” Steve observed, placing a hand on JJ’s back. He couldn’t blame him, snuggled up with Peggy was one of the best places in the world. He’d spent enough time curled up with her just feeling warm again.

Peggy shook her head slightly, in that way she did when she could tell he was being maudlin before stretching up on her toes to kiss him.

—-

The floor in front of the tree was covered in blankets, white and fuzzy, creating an illusion of snow. Peggy stood behind Steve, watching him adjust the camera for the eighth time. JJ smiled his gummy smile at his father, his fingers wrapped around his toes, pulling on the red booties with a buckle print. He was propped against a mound of pillows, his feet kicking against the blankets beneath him. A Santa hat was perched on his brow, dark little wisps of hair emerging from the fluffy brim. Steve snapped a couple of photos, examining them carefully afterward.

Over the top of his head, Peggy grinned at JJ, who let go of his toes to flail his hands in her direction. He let his head drop back sending the hat tumbling to the other side of the pillow mound. He giggled and struggled to pull his head back up.

“Having trouble there?” Steve asked, leaning over to grab the hat and help JJ back upright.

Peggy stepped around to sit behind the little photo setup, watching as Steve placed the hat back on JJ’s head.

After a moment, he sat back and reached for the camera again, and when he did, JJ immediately flopped backward, giggling, sending the hat to the floor and the top of the pillow pile slipping downward. He grinned at Peggy and she grinned back before helping him sit up again.

Before she could even get the hat back on his head, he’d flopped back on the pillows again squirming and rolling happily as he giggled.

“James doesn’t like posing for publicity photos- I wonder where he gets that.” Peggy raised an eyebrow in Steve’s direction.

“At least he doesn’t have to wear tights.”

“Just a silly hat.”

“Be nice or Santa won’t bring you any presents.” Steve said, grinning at her.

“I have it on good authority that Father Christmas has already bought my presents so I rather doubt that.”

“Shhhhh.” Steve reached out to cover JJ’s ears with a scandalized expression. “Don’t give it away yet.”

JJ giggled again, the sound a more than adequate distraction for Peggy to lean in and kiss Steve gently.

---

“Remind me why we thought this was a good idea?” Peggy asked, looking between the tray of cookies she’d just pulled from the oven and the photo on the recipe.

They were dark, far darker than the photo, though not completely burnt, like the batch that came before which were currently in the garbage. It was not an appealing prospect the thought of having to eat them later on tonight.

They’d attempted to make the cookies from scratch, because prepackaged simply wouldn’t do, even though James was only three months old and couldn’t help bake them or even put them on the plate. Still, it was about establishing Christmas traditions, Steve had said.

Peggy thought this one was off to a rather poor start.

“Didn’t you ever leave cookies for Santa when you were a little girl?” he asked, stepping up behind her, hands on her shoulders.

“Father Christmas,” she corrected absently, as she began pulling them off the baking tray. “You do realize that someone has to eat these.”

She didn’t have to see his face to know Steve was wrinkling his nose at the prospect. He would eat almost anything, but burnt cookies weren’t appetizing even to him.

“We’ll just throw them away tonight. JJ won’t notice.” Steve let go and walked away, going back to where he was stringing popcorn for the tree.

Peggy turned around with false affront. “Are you suggesting that everything doesn’t have to be perfect for his first Christmas?”

Steve had been so insistent about that. It was more than she might have done for her own tastes, but it was all in good fun and it was hard to deny him when he looked so happy. That was true for both of them, she supposed. James was currently napping, so at the very least she couldn’t be roped into any with his sad puppy eyes.

Steve looked up from the bowl and string and grinned. “Peggy. It’s Christmas. Santa will forgive you for not being able to bake.”

“He’d better,” she said, dusting cookie crumbs from her hands. “Or else he’ll be stringing this popcorn all alone until it’s time for the party.”

Steve’s face morphed into an exaggerated pout, and Peggy laughed before kissing his cheek and taking a seat to help.

----

The common areas in Stark Tower (or Avengers Tower, now) were decked out with tinsel, holly, fir garlands, and lights. It was hard to say who was the most responsible for the wealth of decorations, but no one was complaining. The room was warm and filled with people, the smell of cinnamon and gingerbread wafting from the tray of cookies in the center of the room. The low din of chatter echoed around, people standing in small groups.

Tony and Bruce were in the middle of a discussion, Tony gesturing with a hand holding a half full tumbler as Bruce shook his head. For a moment, Steve’s gaze stopped on Peggy who was chatting with Natasha and Pepper, her red sweater as festive as she was was willing to get for this particular exchange. “I refuse to have my picture taken with antlers on my head,” she had said when he showed her the felt reindeer antlers he’d found when he bought JJ’s santa hat. Not that he hadn’t snuck some anyway when she’d worn them the day before, but Steve wasn’t stupid enough to ask her to do so in front of everyone.

His gaze moved to JJ, who was in his bouncy seat  kicking his feet happily as he looked at everyone around him. The Thorson twins sat just out of range of his feet, chattering happily and showing him the Yule gifts they’d already received. JJ made tiny grabbing motions at one of the Asgardian toys that the boys showed him, and Steve made to push away to intercept them, but Jarvis, without even looking away from the conversation he was having with Clint put his hand between the toy and JJ’s hand, and JJ immediately grabbed his godfather’s finger instead.

Relaxing back against the wall once more, he scanned the room again, watching everyone interact. It was strange now to think back to his earliest experiences in this room, how alone and lost he had felt, because now- now he had everything he’d ever wanted. It wasn’t perfect, there were people missing, people he wished he could see again, but he had his friends and his family around him and that was something five years ago he never would have foreseen.

Suddenly, Peggy was at his side, her fingers sliding against his. She looked up at him and his heart swelled for a moment.

“Feeling maudlin?”

He shook his head and pulled her closer so her head was resting on his shoulder for a moment “Nah. Just thinking.”

“Share with the class then.” She looked up at him, an expression saying ‘go on’ firmly written in her expression.

“I just… sometimes it hits me that this is real. You’re real. JJ is real. And Nat and Tony and everyone. And it’s good.” He leaned down to kiss her, soft and sweet, because she was there and he could and they had everything ahead of them.

In a moment, they would all exchange gifts with their friends, and then in the morning they’d have all the time in the world with JJ, to watch him react to opening presents for the first time in his life. There would be more kisses and wonder and laughter going forward. This was just one more first, a beginning that would carry on and it was full of promise.

“Yes it is,” Peggy said when they separated as she pulled him away from the wall and back into the party once more.

[athina39]

This Way Lies Madness ch4 wip excerpt

... i’ll probably finish this in a couple of hours if i don’t get sidetracked ^^;

* * *

Chuuya wakes up from his second batch of nightmares screaming. To call those… things nightmares seem uncharitable, but the memory of his younger self falling in love has always been a sore point for him, because he hates the cloying feeling of love plugging up his bloodstream and driving him to drowning in his own heartsickness.

Fortunately, it’s rather late. Fifteen past ten; the ones who are in the adjacent rooms are out and about with their Sunday quests, while the only other person who sleeps in on weekends is a very heavy sleeper, still engaged in an ongoing quest of finding an alarm clock louder than his snores.

Chuuya’s Sundays are mostly spent half in bed and half in late-afternoon part-time jobs, so he usually doesn’t set alarms for the day. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway, for the airconditioning is very efficient in keeping the room in the perfect equilibrium between too-cold-to-leave-the-nest-of-blankets and too-warm-to-keep-one’s-eyes-open. Even without the temperature best suited to keep one suspended in the arms of sleep, the heavy black-out curtains now covering his room’s small(-but-efficiently-bright) window cleave the sunlight before it could even think of attempting to rouse him.

Even if his body’s movements upon waking up remain unchanged, there’s still a sense that he’s a stranger in this room that has somehow changed so much. Everything’s still in the same cramped dimensions, but the insides have been transmuted into something that’s both unrecognizable and awe-inspiring. It’s rather like a human body appearing the same outwardly – but Chuuya’s current room has become a cadaver after a particularly medical student has rearranged its internal organs.

With maudlin thoughts draped over his head, Chuuya rolls out of bed and searches for the best place to plug the new coffeemaker to. It doesn’t take long. He finds an airtight plastic container in the process, opens it to find a couple of food items stocked for him. There’s a sealed jar of ground coffee—and really, it’s frankly terrifying that the world contains someone like Dazai – a person who seems determined to prove that he can and he does think of everything.

There’s a certain thrill to it – that Dazai can read Chuuya so accurately that he knows what Chuuya needs, that he knows the exact steps that Chuuya takes in his morning routine, that he knows how to position everything so that Chuuya’s able to find everything that he needs quickly.

But then again, it could also mean that Chuuya’s just that predictable. Or rather – that Chuuya’s so like the masses, the commonfolk, the average everyday layman. He gets a bristling twinge low in his belly at the thought; it’s not like he can go around and interview people about their morning habits and rituals, thereby keeping his thoughts unconfirmed.

Of course, there’s also a distinct possibility that there’s surveillance on Chuuya now, the kind of detail that should be better spent on terrorists.

N-o, it’s impossible.

Chuuya’s sure that there’s no surveillance inside his room. He’s 99% certain – because even if predictable is hardly the best word to describe Dazai Osamu… Chuuya can read him, on some level. And that level tells Chuuya that this kind of personal detail… is something that Dazai would prefer to examine and confirm with his own eyes, own hands. He will not leave it in the hands of surveillance cameras.

With that thought in mind, Chuuya makes his way to the shower, thinking about how he’d spent the rest of his day.

 * * *

 Dressed (or more suitably, armed) in one of Dazai’s gifts (gray button-up, slightly-darker-version-of-gray pants, dark brown waistcoat and tie, milk-chocolate jacket), Chuuya quickly ducks out of his room and makes his way to a computer shop, rents a cubicle for two hours. He sincerely hopes that he’ll be done before then.

He leaves an hour-and-a-half later, chest downtrodden with some sort of defeat as he receives confirmation that the credit card under his name is really his. It has a limit much higher than Chuuya’s eyebrows can rise up his forehead—and. And.

There’s some sort of grudging acceptance too, because he thinks about the email he receives from Mori-sensei telling him that he’s to focus all of his energy and free-time to being at the beck-and-call of the Academy so he can lend his services as bait for Dazai.

Of course, that’s not what the email says on paper (or more accurately, onscreen) – but Chuuya’s not a student of Yokohama Police Academy out of incompetence on the academy’s part of filtering out the less… astute. Quite unfortunately, there probably isn’t enough alcohol in the world to make Chuuya forget how he’s expertly dangled in front of Dazai (and his, frankly, terrible self-control – why would he give in so quickly and easily to some idle threats?).

There isn’t enough to make him forget the fact that it will happen again and again and again. Until he’s squeezed dry as bone.

He’s anticipating a busier schedule that’d probably bulldoze through his part-time job hours.

It’s only because of that. Because he likes the places he works for, that he doesn’t want to inconvenience them once the inevitable reality of his prolonged absences hits. He makes his rounds, submits his resignations.

It’s only because of that.

 * * *

 Steinbeck ushers him inside with an unimpressed look, though Chuuya would prefer to believe it’s regarding his sartorial updates – no more wrinkled and rumpled clothes for him. The Cartier watch is in its box, a time-bomb ticking inside Chuuya’s bookbag (—cramped still with his notebook binder, two pens, new heavy-duty umbrella, new leather wallet with the credit card that should compensate for the loss of his income from his part-time jobs, still with the flip-phone with the scratch-filled screen).

“I must admit, I am pleasantly surprised.” Dazai conveys a convincing amount of astonishment with his tone, even as his facial expression doesn’t flicker from its neutral setting. “Good afternoon, Chuuya.”

It’s bullshit, but Chuuya retains enough self-preservation to not say that aloud. Instead, he goes for what he hopes is a sufficiently airy tone: “Good afternoon to you too, Dazai-san. I’m surprised that there are things that surprise you still.”

“Hmm, isn’t it surprising that you are visiting me out of your own volition on a weekend?” Dazai’s eyes are half-mast, but it’s not as though it’s enough to make Chuuya feel safer. Dazai can still see through him, he thinks. “Sundays are traditionally spent with one’s family, hobbies… not for work.”

“You’re not part of my work.”

Chuuya’s a trainee, even if everyone keeps on forgetting it.

Dazai’s eyes widen, but it still feels fake. “Am I to presume that I’m one of your… hobbies, then?”

“I’m not so depressing a man that my hobby is to chat with convicted serial killers.”

“Well… that makes me glad.”

“Does it really?” Chuuya tilts his head.

“Of course.” Dazai’s smirk crawls onto his face like a live, writhing thing. “Because that just means that I’m one of your family, doesn’t it?”

[battlestuck]

Hey guys! Been a long while, hasn’t it? It’s been many moons since Battlestuck wrapped up, but I have an exciting bit of news to share with you all. My first novel DUEL is now available for purchase as an ebook over Amazon!

I wrote Duel before, during, and after Battlestuck, and they have quite a bit in common. Both are stories about young people who are pushed into a bloody, dangerous struggle for their lives. The key difference is that in Battlestuck (and Battle Royale, of course,) the teens are made to fight under the penalty of certain death, while in Duel they’re fighting because of the society that produced them. It takes place in a valley split into two nations, both defined by their bloody conflicts with one another. Characters from either side of the valley are followed with equal attention and sympathy- there’s no mustache-twirling villain, there’s only some fundamentally decent kids making some catastrophic mistakes. 

It’s a lot funnier and a good bit more hopeful than Battlestuck, but don’t worry- I know half of you are disgusting masochists (that comes from a place of love) and these kids really do go through hell. If you’ve enjoyed my writing in the past, I really do think you’d like this book. I’m selling it for the low low price of three bucks, but if you don’t have the money you can get in touch with me and we could hash something out! 

This will be one of if not the last posts I ever make on this blog (sorry for making it a plug, I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t legitimately thinking you’d be interested,) and I just wanted to say again that it was a real pleasure writing  for and interacting with you guys. As always, thanks for reading.

-Blinkocracy