#brush broken by lack of want

[deathdxnces]

He’s probably getting too comfortable, on that him and the Darkin can agree. Still, the knowledge that Kayn’s far too relaxed with his current position with the dancer does little to deter his actions— his head placed in her lap, curious gaze focused on the soft curve of her lips, a picture-perfect display of casual indifference.

“How do you move them…?” he asks, curiosity getting the better of him as his mind wanders. “The blades, I mean. And where is it why come from?”

— @deathfxnds

The very first time he had laid his head upon her lap, exhausted and vulnerable, seemed now a distant thing. It took no extreme situation for Kayn to make himself comfortable this time, undisturbed by tension for once; Irelia inevitably appreciates it each time, rarity that it seems to be for the assassin to have any moment of peace, content to provide him that.

Absentmindedly her fingers brush the loose part of his long locks, gentle as the dancer always is toward him. The initial question draws her attention to the assassin, confusion as to what exactly he means lasting but a second before the explanation it is the blades he refers to. Not a simple question to answer, both for the lack of clear reason and for the tale that accompanied her weapons. A pattern made all too evident by each curious question seeking to know more of her: most of her tales are tragedies, in one way or another, and this is the one that started it all.

"I'm not entirely sure," A sincere confession, in reply to his first inquiry. "As to the how, I mean. It wasn't a power I always had — it only manifested when I needed it most." The shallow graves in what had once been a garden, the armored men occupying her home as if it belonged to them; a death sentence turned against those who would kill her. The memories come easy, even now. Her gaze strays from his, wanders somewhere else she pays no real attention to, and Irelia tries not to seem as grim as she feels. "There is some sort of connection to the Spirit of Ionia — I can't hear it as Karma does, but I can feel it. Somehow, that's where my power comes from. But there was never anyone who could explain what I do and how."

"My grandmother used to say our family's dances were connected to the Spirit — I didn't believe her before, but I wonder if it's somehow related. She was dead before I could ask, though," While a hand continues its task, softly playing with his hair, the other moves away, a fluid gesture enough to make the blades float. Irelia has done it enough times before it takes no effort at all to reform her family crest as it had been once. Whole, if not for the visible marks of where it had been broken. "And that is where they come from."

"It's my family's crest. Used to be on a wall in our house. I wasn't there when the noxians arrived — I had been learning from Zinneia in the Placidium, and it was the rumors of the invasion that brought me back. But they were already dead when I arrived." Killed not long before, she imagines, the earth freshly turned, the house still being pillaged by the soldiers. Another smooth gesture and the crest is undone, blades carefully returned to their former resting place. "It was recent. The soldiers were still throwing away anything they had no use for, before occupying the house."

"One of them was carrying the crest. I took it from his hands," The story spills easily, easier than it should. Easier than ever before. Had she even told anyone else the entire tale? The pause, longer than it ought to be, is accompanied by intense dread, air difficult to breathe. Restlessness almost makes her want to get up, move away, speak not one word more. How much can she give away so easily, unafraid of the damage she gives him the power to do?

Why does she choose to push against it and continue, conscious that it is once again placing the knife in his hands, pointing at her heart, and hope he will not use it?

"I don't know why that was the thing I reached for," Her voice is quieter when she speaks again, trying to breathe, trying to press on. Irelia trusts him; they wouldn't be there if she didn't. Now that she had started to tell, she would finish the story. "But I managed to take it, I think because he didn't expect an eleven-year-old to even try," It is one of the details she remembers best, the surprise on the man's face, dumbfounded by what she did. "His superior didn't appreciate my defiance. So the admiral told his men to shatter the crest, then kill me."

"I wasn't strong enough to do anything when they took it back. One of them used an iron maul to break it — and when it was in pieces, I felt it for the first time, that connection to Ionia, to the blades." Only then does the dancer realize she had stopped playing with his hair at some point, her hands colder than before, nails pressed against her palms. Irelia looks at Kayn again, then, softspoken in closing the tale. "That's how I got them. It's the only reason I survived."

It does not take explaining, she believes, to understand how. She lived — two of the noxians did not. This time Irelia allows silence to follow, the words no longer easily spilled. There is no expectation for him to break it, for any demonstration of sympathy; it had been a long time ago, now, and she had grown tired of empty words years before, commiseration and condolences alike never making any difference.

Carefully her hand returns to his hair, the contact somehow soothing despite being given instead of received. There is no expectation, but neither is there any suggestion he ought to uphold the silence, her own not the sullen sort. What sorrow the tale elicits in her manifests only as distant melancholy; tragic though the story may be, it had been willingly shared.

An odd feeling, still, to lower every wall and make herself vulnerable, to allow another to be so close in face of a mere question. At times Irelia wonders if there is anything he might ask that she would not answer, any part of her she would not give, if only Kayn made the request.

[land-of-classpects-and-analysis]

Mage of Space

Ripples within the crystal clear surface of a lake. The lake of life and time - the lake of the universe, all there is, was, and will be - has been disturbed and changed. Its water will now have to accommodate for this intrusion upon its peace, whether this intrusion is brought upon by something harmless and mundane, like that of a frog submerging itself beneath its surface, or something malicious and cruel, like a large rock being thrown atop a fish that once swam amongst the cosmos. Everything has a consequence, though. Whether it is good or bad, it often takes one small push of a domino, big or small, to set off a chain reaction that will not stop until the final domino has fallen. Every day, our lives are filled with decisions and choices to be made - a handful of rocks are given to us so that we may make our own ripples in the lake of the universe. These rocks are ones that may be used to make the most perfect throws with the most ripples, or they can be slammed directly into the face of the water with reckless abandon. Many of those who believe that it doesn’t matter if they perform the most perfect toss or if they simply throw the rock as far as they can - it still makes ripples. There are also those who believe that their ripples will affect nothing at all, especially when so many other people are all casting their rocks into the same lake. The Mage of Space is one of these people, and they are someone who will surely obtain a rather harsh awakening to the true might of their Aspect.

The Mage of Space before encountering the harsh nature of their Aspect can easily be described in many negative ways. Cocky, rude, selfish, if you can think of a word to describe someone who does what they want, when they want, with little to no care about how it affects anyone else, that is the easiest way to describe a pre-journey Mage of Space. There are many deep, personal reasons as to why the Mage of Space acts this way, but to put it a little more generalized and straight forward - the Mage of Space is rather nihilistic. They don’t believe that their existence is anything special, or that they don’t have much of an impact on the bigger picture of things. Chances are that the Mage of Space believes, full heartedly, that if they did not exist, nothing would be different. Because of this, they most likely have quite a lot of commitment issues. Ranging from struggling to maintain relationships for a long time to constantly picking up and putting down so many art projects, hobbies, TV shows, and more, the Mage of Space does whatever feels right in that exact moment without even taking a second to ponder on how it may affect the future. This rather flippant nature towards commitment is because the Mage of Space rarely sees a future where they are actively involved with it. To simply put it: the Mage of Space can never see a future for themself.

Space is one of, if not the most important of all the Aspects, as has been previously stated with the Seer of Space. Nothing can exist without Space. However, Space is a useless Aspect if it all by itself within a session, much like how the vastness and beauty of space - the universe - would be useless if there were no living organisms to bask in its fatal charm. With no one to see what has been created and shines so wonderfully, what is even the point of creating anything at all? That is one of the bigger issues the Mage of Space faces. Due to their issues with commitment, they most definitely do not have many, if any, friends or relationships to speak of. Being stuck in such a deep and cold rut of loneliness is one of the largest factors as to why the Mage of Space does not believe their actions hold any consequences, and why they struggle to find any creative vision of their own. The Mage of Space, much like its passive counterpart, does not see the beauty nor the benefits of using precious time, energy, and resources into innovating what is old into something brand new. Once something is broken, they are quite quick in disposing it. However, the true issue here is that, to the Mage of Space, something like a coffee mug having a chipped rim or a broken handle is as good as trash. They’re too quick to throw out the old and simply buy something they believe to be new - even it can be salvaged. This mentality goes for how they view their own relationships, as well.

People are a difficult thing for the Mage of Space to grasp onto, nevermind trying to socialize with them. Oftentimes, being in a relationship of any kind with a Mage of Space is one filled with jostled elbows and rather crude remarks, if only because in their eyes, they have done nothing wrong. When called out on such behavior, the Mage of Space will often be quick to jump into defending themself, unafraid to hurl insults and other horrid things at the person who called them out. For some Mages of Space, the relationships that die out because of this behavior are only the consequences of their actions, and are purely accidental. For the others, though, it is possibly quite likely that such acts of aggression are on purpose, if only as a means to push others away and return to their social isolation. No matter what, there is no doubt that the Mage of Space is like that of a lone sun within their own milky way - waiting for the true planets to form and orbit around them, rather than burning to a crisp by flowing too close to them. What the Mage of Space does not know, though, is that there have been promises of planets forming and orbiting around them, they just simply acted out too quickly and eviscerated those planets - those relationships - before anything could ever truly form. Do not fret, though, because the Mage of Space will soon enough learn that these actions do indeed have consequences.

The beginning of the Mage of Space’s journey is one not many people should envy, even if their own start is rather tragic or messy. As stated before, while not all consequences necessarily have to be negative, the Mage of Space is one who has built up quite a lot of bad karma in their life. With a small pun intended, it is to no surprise that the Mage of Space’s journey would start out with a rather big bang. Their illusion of being untouchable to justice, being so unimportant to the grand scheme of things that nothing they do matters, that they can slip by and go unnoticed by the universe around them, and, most importantly, that they can simply throw all their rocks into the lack of the universe without ever once hurting a beautiful creation within it. It depends and varies from one Mage of Space to another what exactly this big bang of consequence, of justice, and awakening is, but it is one that most definitely is meant to strike fear within the heart of the Mage. 

A few common ones may be finally losing someone they did truly care about, the outcomes ranging from said person quietly leaving them to losing the one they treasured most in a horrific accident caused by them. Another is that maybe they were finally brought to justice, professionally or otherwise - taking one too many chip bags and clothes or simply causing an unfortunate outcome for a group of people at school. Perhaps they couldn’t got fired from their job because they bad-mouthed their boss on a public, online platform, they got evicted for constantly partying and stinking up their apartment or by simply finding constant ways to avoid rent, or some other grand consequence finally came knocking at their door with such ferocity that it ended up punching the Mage directly in their face. Not only will this certainly leave the Mage bruised and afraid, but it will finally wake them up from their foolish slumber of nihilism. Their actions do matter, they do have consequences, and they do hold a great importance when it comes to the bigger picture. A picture as grand as the universe itself cannot be painted by one person, though, even if they are one bound to the Aspect of Space. This realization will be a slow one for the Mage of Space to come upon, if only due to how grand their Aspect is. However, with enough patience and practice, once their journey is over, the Mage of Space is someone who holds a great promise to be one of the most kind, caring, and passionate of their group. Their biggest struggle, though, will be having to allow those planets in their solar system to form, as well as learning how to not let the fire and plasma within themself - the sun and center of their solar system - die out.

Mistakes are a scary thing to many people for many different reasons. There are those who see mistakes as signs that they are a failure, while some may fear what comes after making such a large miscalculation. Nevertheless, though, mistakes are a fact of life, as it is only by nature for people to not always make the right decisions. Once something has been said and done, there is no way to ever fully erase it and scrub it clean or fish it out from the deep, deep depths of the lake of the universe. For the Mage of Space, they may have once had the mentality of “out of sight, out of mind”, meaning that whatever came after an action they had committed, they never stuck around long enough to discover what fruits grew and awaited their harvest - even if such fruits were rotten and poisoned. Now that the Mage of Space has finally had their face shoved into the dirt and forced to finally harvest what they have sown, the first choose they will be met with is one that may seem simple to most, but to any fellow Mage, this is oftentimes the hardest decision of their life. Should they go about and seek out the harsh knowledge that their Aspect promises, or do they instead wish to fully submerge themself within the vast lake of the universe, feeling every last fish, turtle, leech, eel, tendril, and frog brush against their body and mind? As always, both paths will be explored to an extent, though it is always best to keep in mind that, much like every milky way, each Mages journey is unique to themself, even if it is two separate Mages of Space venturing out to obtain their own pieces of knowledge.

The existential swimsuits will have to wait for a few moments, though, as the Mages who so choose to seek out knowledge of Space are the first ones to be placed beneath the microscope. It should come as no surprise to hear that either option is one that leads to a great and challenging conclusion, or at least, if the Mage of Space stays on the right track, they should happen upon this awe-inspiring, eye-opening realization of what their true purpose is in the grand scheme of things. The Mage of Space is one who must start out with the little details if they do not wish to become too overwhelmed with the grandiose Aspect they have been assigned. Now a little more aware that their actions have consequences, the Mage of Space would most likely search for more happenstances of such things. Perhaps they would hold the door open for someone carrying many things, only to find out that they inherently protected them from someone’s unwanted attention. Maybe they would begin a compost pile rather than simply throwing food scraps in the trash, and one day find a pleasant animal or few feasting away on the Mage’s leftovers. Little by little, the Mage of Space would come to realize how much their actions truly do matter and affect the world around them, big and small. Due to this, they may become far more diligent in how they approach certain situations; taking more caution and time to think of what their options are on how to handle something. Not only would they be learning more about Space, but they would be applying what they know to how they live life.

Most of their struggles and suffering will come through having to experience all the available negative consequences to some of their actions. They may think themself to be a hero after doing one action, but instead may discover that they are the reason for something going horribly wrong. Not only would this occur throughout their journey, but if the Mage of Space is not careful, they will accidentally become far too concerned with not only their own actions and the consequences that come with them but everyone else’s actions, as well. This could cause them to act rather overbearing and strict, oftentimes yelling or even tackling someone if it means preventing them from doing something that could have a horrific punishment attached to it. Some may see this as the Mage of Space being controlling and paranoid when, really, they’re only concerned about protecting those they believe are able to be saved from a path covered in broken glass and rusty tacks. What is most important for the Mage of Space to learn, as they gain more knowledge and understanding of Space, is that they simply can’t control everything or everyone. While they may be attached to such a vast and wondrous Aspect, they are not meant to become some omniscient guardian of the cosmos who is capable of preventing all disasters from happening. The Mage of Space will become frustrated at being told this, but if they do not wish to continuously burn up their own milky way, while putting themself at risk of becoming a supernova explosion, it is a truth that they must face and embrace.

It’s far too late to get those swimsuits on if they aren’t already on, as the time to discuss the Mages of Space who threw themselves within the lake of the universe has finally come. The high tide is here, and there is a cliff waiting to be leaped off from - as well as a grand ocean waiting for more souls to fall beneath its waves. These Mages are those who have truly dedicated every last piece of their mind, body and soul to their Aspect so that they may gain all the knowledge it has to offer them. All the melodious clicks, chirps, and whispers of the great depths of the universe lured these Mages close before enveloping them in tendril-like seaweed, pulling them ever deeper, deeper, and deeper. Even if the Mage wished to change their mind and try to swim away - breach the surface and swim back to the shore and their normal life - they would be horrified to find that there is no going back. Surrounding them on all sides is the cold and ever-expanding ocean of space. While it may seem like such a small lake within our minds, it is only because we will never be able to truly imagine nor grasp how truly big and infinite the universe outside of our home, our planet, even our own milky way is. Try to imagine a blue whale, right now. Now, try to imagine yourself swimming beside its massive, hulking, yet oddly majestic body. Chances are that the image within your head right now is nowhere near accurate to what it would really be like to be next to one of the largest animals on our planet. Now take this moment and think about how a blue whale is much like a person, and the universe itself is not only the blue whale, but also the ocean it inhabits. The universe’s true size is one very few may ever come to understand, but these Mages of Space are those who have welcomed and thrown themself within the depths in order to try and understand. To try and know by realizing how truly small they are in the horrific beauty that is the universe.

The journey for these Mages of Space is somewhat of a mystery, but it is only because they themselves have become mysteries of their own. People who may have loved and known these Mages now look at them as though they were a stranger - and the Mage looks at them in the same manner. Who needs friends, family, or relationships in general, when the universe has looked upon them and said “I love you” and given them a gift so priceless and special that they hold it up high for the world to see. These Mages of Space are those who suffer because they have sacrificed everything, and everyone, they have ever known so that they may become better than anyone could ever dream of becoming. It could be argued that these are the Mages of Space who wanted to cut corners and try to avoid all the suffering by simply turning around and seeking out this knowledge through Space itself. What they were met with, though, beyond the threshold of the sun’s falsely warm rays of light, and the last glimmer of hope has twinkled away, disappearing into the void of what is known and not yet understood. The Mage of Space does not know when they took their last breath, if there is even blood still within their veins or if it has now been replaced by mercury and their bones have turned to stars. Down in these depths, though, there is no need for rage and sorrow, for their doom is not here nor there. Before this moment - above the water - could it be argued that they even had a life? Or did they simply allow for time to constantly pass them by, leaving them to be a fool in their court? They know that deep within their heart that they made the right choice - even if their mind screams at them to fight and leave and swim back to the surface. The universe said “I love you” to the Mage of Space, and granted them the knowledge to anything they ever wanted.

No matter which path the Mage of Space chooses, though, it is of no doubt that as long as they stay upon the proper path then they will reach their goal a far better, intellectually stronger, calmer, and caring person. Along the way, due to how Mages naturally attract people towards them, the Mage of Space’s company will speak volumes to the progress they have made in their journey. A well-adjusted Mage of Space should have the perfect amount of people, all with their own unique personalities and personal life stories, much like how each planet within a solar system is beautiful and unique all on its own. On that same note, it will be of no surprise that there will be those closer to the Mage of Space than others, though this is often by pure coincidence rather than anything else. Some of them have simply decided not to grow too close to the sun - the center - of all things. The Mage of Space should also have a far better knowledge of how their actions will affect others, though not to the same extent as a Light or Time-bound might be able to. While they may be the center of their group, it doesn’t mean that they are exactly the leader of their friend group, which is most likely best for the integrity of everyone involved. Although the Mage of Space has learned to be more precise, calm, and collected in situations - no matter how bad they may become - that does not mean they have their entire act pulled together. The Mage of Space may still struggle to understand how to balance certain things, one of them being how not to fall into a pattern of being sloppy in their work while also avoiding becoming a fatal perfectionist.

Another one of the things they may struggle to understand at first is Frog Breeding, and how it is a very delicate and finicky process. Chances are that, at first, they wouldn’t exactly get along with the Knight in their group, especially if that Knight is one who is capable of seeing and understanding the struggles that the Mage has gone through. The Mage of Space is one who prides themself on the knowledge they have acquired, but if their ego is not maintained nor checked, then this pride may grow into a monstrous complex wherein they not only believe themself to truly be the center of the group, but the only member who matters. For those who manage to avoid such a late-game failure, though, they will learn that this simply is nowhere near true. Everyone is important, and everyone matters. As such, they would eventually learn to warm up to the Knight of their group, and allow them to aid in the creation of the Genesis Frog. Once again, though, there will always be those Mages of Space who will try to cut as many corners as they can so that things can speed up. It would be up to the Knight to be their anchor and to make sure that their feet remain planted in reality and moving at a decent pace. This could be more of a challenge if the Knight must accompany a Mage of Space who has sought out knowledge through Space, but as long as they keep a steady and strong head, even they can turn around such a stubborn and entangled person. Perhaps these Mages of Space, who so willing allowed their minds to become like that of black holes, truly only ever needed a brave and stubborn Knight to save them from the depths of the universe. The Universe may have said “I love you”, but the friends of the Mage are the ones who showed that actions speak far louder than words - and the Mage of Space knows this.

As for their bigger and more important powers, the Mage of Space would be able to know, if so they desire, what the genetic make-up of something or someone is, what all of the ingredients used to bake something were, all of the materials and resources were used to build something - even going as far as knowing what exact tools were used, and so on and so forth. They could also know the exact location of anything they wished to locate, but these powers are most often the ones to give the Mage of Space problems. While the Seer of Space has a far similar power, the Mage of Space must focus much harder on finding these things or people, and as such, they put their mind at a much bigger risk of taking some type of damage. The Mage of Space has to put far more work into everything they do when it comes to their power, and they are often met with having to decide if they truly do want to know where someone is or if they would rather remain blind and unknowing. Oftentimes this can lead to them becoming overwhelmed with choices and decisions, and may leave the Mage of Space frozen and unsure of what to do. There are some Mages of Space who may feel as though all there is left to do is turn and run away, if only because they believe it is a fight they cannot win. However, what they should learn eventually is that life is full of choices. Every day, we are given a handle of rocks. Some the most perfect stones to skip across the surface of the lake, while others will do us no good, no matter how we throw them. No matter what, though, these rocks will create ripples, and those ripples will carry out the consequences that come from those rocks. At first, the Mage of Space believed that their ripples didn’t matter - that no one’s ripples mattered. Now that they have cleared out their journey, though, and realized the truths of not only their own magnificence and importance in the universe, but they have seen everyone else’s place in the grand scheme of things. The Mage of Space now knows that their ripples do matter, and so they are sure to take extra care of where, when, and how they throw them, and are more than willing to guide everyone else’s hands to make the better choices. Most importantly, if the Mage of Space finds someone believing their rocks and ripples to be unimportant, then they will happily sit down with them and tell them something no one had told the Mage before they went on their journey: The Universe and myself love you, and everything you do truly matters. After all, it takes a million stars to make the night sky look so beautiful.

[lazys-moved]

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slice of life

cherry  duchanee  ––  teenage  runaway,  phone  sex  operator,  aspiring  camgirl     ( lisa, she/her )

nae  jiwoo  ––  fallen  baseball  prodigy,  online  presence  with  his  sports  webtoons     ( yeonjun, he/him )

nana  yang  ––  true  crime  podcaster  with  a  lack  of  empathy  due  to  a  lack  of  experience     ( soojin, she/her )

cash  chu  ––  college  dropout  and  full  time  caretaker  of  his  kid  sister     ( sungchan, he/him )

levi  hwang  ––  juvenile  delinquent  turned  frat  boy  dropout  working  two  jobs  until  he  inevitably  ruins  his  sobriety  &  probably  someone’s  night     ( chanyeol, he/him )

finn hae mingi ––  retail  worker  and  aspiring  fashion  designer     ( hanse,  she/they )

bok hajoon  –– former  farm  boy  who  left  for  the  city  with  guilt  and  dancer  dreams  in  tow     ( yeosang,  he/him )

jovi  cha  ––    high  school  luminary  left  behind  in  hometown  who  turned  to  onlyfans  as  a  spiteful  means  to  prove  his  success    ( doyoung,  he/him )

arielle  byun   ––   digital  editor  wasting  away  in  her  bedroom  due  to  difficult  maintenance  of  friendship  and  social  misinterpretations     ( lia,  she/her )

tess  han  ––   hawaiian  beach  bum  conservation  snorkel  boy  with  perpetual  broken  heart  syndrome     ( san,  he/him )

olan  sasiprapa ––   feline  pastry  chef  at  family  run  cat  cafe  with  constant  existential  worry     ( bright,  he/him )

james  ‘ jimbo ’  lee  ––    try - hard  bitch  baby  who  can’t  take  a  hint     ( yuchan,  he/him )

anna songprawati  ––  full  time  flight  attendant,  part  time  clout  chaser     (  tu tontawan,  she/her )

watchara  chao  ––  failed  med  student  with  mounds  of  loans  and  nothing  to  show  for  it  except  a  hidden  drawer  of  lipstick  stained  cash     (  pp krit,  he/him )

kane  shim ––  serial  monogamist  with  a  victim  complex     (  yunho,  he/him )

amani  davis  ––  history  professor  with  an  odd  interest  in  plagues.   velvety   timbre  as  though  permanently  between  library  walls,   genuine  adoration  for  topic,  & wanting  to  make  others  feel  that  same  way.   (  lakeith,  he/him )

cristian  kang  &  quincy  choi  ––   self - destructive  couple  by  nature,    passive  aggression  runs  through  veins  &  fuels  every  type  of  frustration.    sometimes  long  relationships  are  just  that:   long.   years  spent  together  considered  a  way  to  pass  time,   both  parties  finding  no  easy  way  out,   no  matter  the  dramatics.   trust  hung  by  a  thread  at  this  point  but  grip  of  codependency  held  tight.   (individual  blurbs tbd)  (  hyungwon  &  i.m  )

beau  youn   ––  classical  training  washed  down  the  drain  and  chased  with  bitter  pills  of  reality.   hushed  tones  and  no  traceable  path   ––   full  control  of  outside  perception.   days  planned  down  to  the  minute  as  though  puppeteered  by  curtained  authority.  (  juyeon,  he/him )

roxy  seong  ––  classic  case  of  neglected  child  syndrome,   but  catch  a  mouthful  of  silver  rings  if  caught  discussing  such  topics.   people - pleasing  arrogance  stemmed  in  the  possibility  he  could  be  worse.   virtual  friendlessness  a  result  of  distrust  of  himself  &  everyone  around  him,   but  victim  complex  stood  strong.   also  he’s  a  chef   (  wooyoung,  he/they )

simon  yu  ––   sensory  issues  misunderstood  as  rich - kid  antics  and  brushed  off  as  cavalier.   dreams  tucked  away  à  la  pandora,   knocking,  begging,  pleading  to  be  freed.    time  spent  alone  with  no  qualms  but  alienation  sat  heavy  upon  heart.   (  seungwoo,  he/him )

malakai  kyun  |  anita  cockatoo   ––   youth  hidden  away  behind  torn  hoodies  &  fingertips  stained  with  shades  of  soft  pastel ;   sense  of  self  found  in  solitude,   reflection  recognizable  for  once.   sticky  remnants  of  double - sided  tape  marked  the  blurred  line  between  expression  and  impersonation,   but  where  is  the  partition ?   (  seonghwa  &  chaeyoung,   she/her )  

in the spotlight

hwa  myung  ––  popular  online  makeup  artist  with  a  penchant  for  karma     ( taehyung, he/they )

sena  mun  ––  tiktok  influencer  whose  entire  sense  of  self  is  formed  by  her  followers     ( jennie, she/her )

jin  chani  ––  high  fashion  model  with  a  fragile  ego  &  a  habit  of  self  medicating      ( xion, he/they )

holli  tsutsumi  ––  heiress  whose  questionable  acquisition  of  fame  resulted  in  stunted  growth  and  the  know - how  to  play  an everlasting  role     ( momo, she/her )

ashwin  koomrampai  ––   recently  acknowledged  actor  of  his  generation  after  years  of   dark  horse   attitude  has  found  family  in  A - listers  notorious  for  holes  where  hearts  should  be     (  ten,  he/him  )

river  feng  ––  idol  walkout  coasting  on  name  recognition  and  pretty  privilege     (  xu  jiaqi,  she/her )

cao  zhenya  ––  actor  on  the  rise,  easily  starstruck  &  eager  to  please     (  minghao,  he/him )

KIKI  |  kian  park    ––   former  star  for  the  mouse,   male  finished  contract  with  decency  and  found  the  switch  to  a  music  career  quite  easily.    bridging  the  gap  was  to  be  modeled  after  ––  he  was  made  for  this.   somehow  everything  goes  right  for  him,   though  he  attributes  it  to  being  in  sync  with  earthly  energies,   perfectly  unpretentious  and  fearless.   (  jjk,   he/him  )

                 ‧͙⁺˚*·༓  SUITS  ༓·*˚⁺‧͙

ace  |  kitt  kaewburesai  ––  luxurious  offspring  of  narcissism  and  intrusive  thoughts,   decorated  in  matte  black  ornaments  and  topped  with  glossy  lips.   guided  by  clear  mental  hierarchy  and  insatiable  desire.   quintessence  of  immodesty  and  the  act  of  getting  off  on  that  knowledge  alone.   (  gulf  kanawut,  he/him )

jack  |  jang  jaehwa  ––  virtually  unrecognizable  by  design,   anonymity  incarnate  with  a  trail  of  ash  in  his  wake.    former  vicious  nature  diluted  &  concealed,   mask  far  more  impenetrable  than  self - imposed  veil  of  years  past.   mystery  shrouded  in  icy,  yet  enviable  energy ;   arrogance  ultimately  found  in  belief  of  ex - prey  never  catching  up.   (  hyunjun,  he/they )

queen  |  aaliyah  cha  ––   vitality  leaks  from  tear  ducts,   courage  the  only  weapon  available  against  forces  disagreeable.   sunbathing  in  the  warm,   jaded  glow  of  adoration  without  a  care.   abrasive  etiquette  off - putting  as  first  impression  but  loyalty  unmatched.  (  karina,  she/her )

king  |  adrian  he   ––  unresolved  traumas  wrapped  up  tight  with  a  bow  and  crowned  in  eroticism.   someone  under  stress  meets  someone  looking  pretty.   desire  lights  candle  beneath  self - imposed  iron  boots,   a  spark  to  outrun  the  void  that  always  seemed  to  be  at  his  heels.   (  xukun,  he/him )

supernatural  &  canon

ryeo  aeja  ––  [ mumbles ]  year  old  vampire  who  prides  herself  on  restraint  and  human - like  trust,  but  has  a  ravenous  darkness  waiting  to  be  freed     ( jisoo, she/her )

berri  darmadi  ––  reluctant  witch  no  longer  able  to  push  away  powers  (  brianne  tju,  she/her )

jake long ––  mack  daddy  dragon  of  the  nyc     ( lucas, he/him )

marshall  lee  ––   not  so  bad ?  he’s  the  son  of  a  demon  and  the  vampire  king.  it’s  not  something  he  has  to  try  at.   ( san,  he/him )

bonnie  gwan   ––   runs  family - owned  candy  shoppe  like  it’s  her  entire  personality.   too  smart  for  her  own  good  &  fails  to  see  how  she  could  go  wrong.   aka  pwincess bubblegum   (  onda,   she/her )

[therainroguefanfiction]

🏐 Long Way Down; Morisuke Yaku (Sportember #007)

📑 Table of Contents | ⚾ Challenge Post

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 1,925

Pairing: Reader x Yaku

World: Haikyuu!!

Prompt: “Life is walking on a tightrope, with nothing but a blindfold. It’s a long way down.”

Sport: Volleyball

WARNING: This fic contains depression and self-harm. If this is a trigger for you, please do not read.

━━━━━━༻🎾_🏀_🏐༺━━━━━━

When people looked at you, they saw a cheerful third-year so full of life and ambition. And why wouldn’t you be? You attended a good school, your family didn’t have financial problems, you came from a loving family, blessed with parents that loved you and supported everything you decided to do. Your grades were above average, you were athletic, selfless, and willing to give the shirt off your back if someone needed it. Your classmates called you perfect, but you weren’t. Far from it.

No one knew about the demons that you battled on a daily basis. No one knew that you cried yourself to sleep nearly every night. No one knew just how much you were suffering, how much you hated yourself. In your mind, you simply weren’t good enough, not strong enough, despite people telling you that you were. With every decision, you felt regret. With every compliment, you wanted to tell them that they were wrong. But people expected you to be happy, to cheer them up when they were feeling down.

What would everyone think if they knew the truth? If they knew what a depressed mess that you were, barely holding on… You wanted nothing more than to be the person people believed you to be, but you just weren’t strong enough to meet everyone’s expectations.

When your depression finally reached its peak, you knew you had to do something, so you met up with your friend in a small coffee shop far enough away from Nekoma high to avoid any of your classmates. The two of you had been close since middle school, but she had chosen a different high school so you didn’t get to hang out with each other as often anymore. At first, she was cheerful, asking why you suddenly wanted to meet up, but when you explained your situation, her face went blank.

“Is this a joke?” Her voice was deathly calm, but rage was swirling within her dark eyes.

You frowned, wringing your hands nervously in your lap. “No. Why would I -”

“Give me a break!” She suddenly snapped, her fist making the table rattle when it made contact. “Little perfect Y/N is depressed? You have no right to be depressed, bitch. Your family doesn’t struggle to pay bills, your parents don’t hate each other’s guts. You have people kissing the ground you walk on! You don’t have to worry about being held back because you can’t make the grade, but you’re depressed?” She scoffed in disbelief, quickly standing up. “No, you’re just a greedy, self-centered little cunt that has to have everyone’s attention just to be happy!”

Tears stung at your eyes as your friend left the cafe with a huff. Guilt filled your entire being as her words rang out in your mind. ‘She’s right… I was so wrapped up in my own feelings, I didn’t stop to consider hers. She’s going through so much and I… I’m a terrible human being.’ You bit your lip hard to muffle your sobs as you held your face in your hands, tears sliding down your warm cheeks.

No one within the cafe even batted an eye in your direction.

━━━━━━༻🎾_🏀_🏐༺━━━━━━

Since that meeting with your friend, you’ve found it harder and harder to keep your emotions in check. It was like your negative emotions were demons locked behind a steel door, constantly slamming their bodies against it to try and break it open, but the padlocks were holding strong. At least until your friend broke one of them off. Now, that door is rattling more violently, the screws slowly but surely being knocked loose.

How much longer before they broke the door down? What would happen then? You felt so terrified and so very alone.

There were many options to help curb the pain. Temporary distractions to let you feel normal and happy for a short amount of time. False hope in the form of alcohol or drugs, self-harm or even violence. You decided to start cutting yourself – just one or two marks on your stomach at first, then your inner thighs and chest. Anywhere that couldn’t be seen in your uniform. It wasn’t long before it became your addiction, a fix you couldn’t make it through the day without. It made everything so much more bearable, but you were beginning to run out of free space.

You started to wear long sleeves even when it was ungodly hot, the sweat clinging to the wounds and making them burn slightly. With your attention on the physical pain, the demons behind the door started to calm. It was an incredible feeling, making the pain worth it.

If people noticed your change in attitude, they didn’t seem too bothered by it. Most assumed you were just trying to be quirky, and they started wearing long-sleeved sweaters, too, thinking it was just a fashion trend that you were starting.

There was one person that couldn’t be fooled, though, and he was starting to grow quite concerned.

━━━━━━༻🎾_🏀_🏐༺━━━━━━

When you showed up to help with the volleyball team’s afternoon practice, the boys gave you weird looks. It was the middle of summer, the heat climbing to its peak, yet you were dressed in the winter gym uniform as if it were twenty degrees. They were on the fence about bringing this up but ultimately decided against it. The problem was that Kenma lacked a filter.

“Y/N-san, why are you dressed like that? I feel hot just looking at you.”

You had gotten used to comments like these and just smiled it off. “I like it!”

Yaku scowled, his hand resting on his hip. “I don’t care if you like it. Go put on the other uniform before you die of heatstroke!” He was feeling frustrated because he had already told you that the AC in the gym was broken, but you just didn’t seem to care. He could clearly see you sweating and he knew you were feeling hot. ‘Y/N doesn’t seem to care much for anything these days…’

You tried to brush off the comment, but something about his tone really irked you and you just snapped. “You’re not my damn dad, Yaku, don’t think you can just order me around!”

Yaku and the rest of the team froze in shock, staring at you as if you had just spouted an extra head. In all of the time that they had known you, you had never raised your voice to any of them or even gotten upset with them, and especially not with Yaku, who you were easily the closest to.

The sudden silence made you realize your mistake and you quickly faked a laugh, rubbing the back of your head. “Just kidding~!”

The team visibly relaxed and Yamamoto stepped up to slap your shoulder, making you wince for multiple reasons. “Good one, Y/N! You really had us going there!”

“Thank you,” you quickly turned on your heel before heading into the storage room to catch your breath. You were so caught up in cursing yourself for your reaction that you didn’t hear the footsteps coming after you or the sound of the door being slid closed.

“Y/N.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin, whirling around with your hand over your heart and forcing a smile on your lips. “You scared me, Yaku! Guess that’s karma for the joke, huh?”

He frowned. “When are you going to stop with the fake smiles?”

Your smile faltered a bit. “I don -”

“Stop lying!” He scowled, hands balling into fists at his sides. “What’s happened to you, Y/N? You’ve become so fake lately.”

The words were like arrows piercing your skin and you lowered your head, biting hard on your bottom lip. ‘He’s right. What have I become? Why am I so damn pathetic?’

For a moment, he just watched you, his dark eyes taking in every slight movement that your body made. The subtle quiver of your chain. The light jolting of your shoulders. The way clamped so tightly onto your lip. You were in pain, that much was obvious, but… why? What was causing you so much distress?

“I can’t do this anymore…” your voice was soft, barely reaching his ears. “I’m just so tired, Yaku. I just want everything to… to stop.” Your legs gave out beneath you, body crumbling to the ground, which caused him to race forward on instinct.

“Y/N -” He reached for your hand and froze, eyes widening when he noticed the thin trail of blood rolling down from beneath your sleeve, coming from the wound that Yamamoto had reopened when he smacked your shoulder. With his heart hammering in his ears, his fingers gently wrapped around your wrist, carefully sliding the sleeve of your sweater up. What he saw made his stomach turn.

Dozens of cuts, big and small, littered your skin, some old, some new, some scabbed over and bright red. The older ones were in short, straight lines across your arm, but the newer ones were clearly done with haste, criss-crossing and varying in length. As his finger gently traced the healing wounds, he could feel your desperation increasing with each cut.

“Pathetic, right?” You chuckled bitterly. “I have everything, but it’s just not enough. It’s never enough…”

Yaku tugged on your wrist, pulling you into his warm, protective embrace. “Idiot, why didn’t you come to me?”

Tears fell from your eyes in droves as you clung to his jersey. “I-I was so sc-scared,” you sobbed into his chest. ���I don’t – I don’t want you to… to h-hate me!”

His arms tightened around your body. “I could never hate you, Y/N. Why would you think that?”

Reluctantly, you told him about your friend, feeling his body tensing up against yours. “I’m so-sorry…”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” His voice was warm and soft, his grip firm as he took you by the shoulders, pushing your body backward so he could meet your eyes. “Listen to me. It doesn’t matter what you have or don’t have, depression is an illness. It doesn’t see social status or material objects, it affects everyone equally. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Y/N, but you can’t just leave it unchecked. You have to tell your family.”

The thought sent a wave of fear and panic throughout your body and you frantically shook your head. “N-No, I can’t…!”

“You can,” he assured you. “And I’ll be right there beside you. You’re not alone, Y/N, this team cares deeply for you. I care deeply for you and I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost you.”

“Yaku…” your eyes shimmered as a fresh round of tears fell down your cheeks.

He leaned forward, lips pressing softly to your forehead. “I will always be here for you, no matter what. But you have to promise me something.”

You frowned, fingers curling around the end of his jersey. “What is it?”

His thumb brushed beneath your eye, gathering your tears. “Promise me that you won’t hurt yourself anymore. When you get the urge to do so, come to me. I’ll beat that desire into submission!”

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but smile at his declaration, nuzzling your face into his neck. Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but he knew what the words were as your lips formed them against his skin. “I promise.”

And you meant them with every fiber of your being. Suddenly, the world didn’t seem quite so dark, quite so heavy upon your shoulders.

━━━━━━༻🎾_🏀_🏐༺━━━━━━

[nightowlfandom]

Yandere! School! Jeon Jungkook- Be My Muse (Part 2)

 HELLO! HI!  I’m sorry this took so long!

READ PART ONE HERE!

Buckle Up Folks! This is a long one! There isn’t a whole lot Yandere stuff here, but I did promise smut soooo that’s coming, I promise! Just bear with me, fam.

Also PSA...Karma Akabane....that is all.

Leggo!

...

“So you’d rather be with Jeon Jungkook than me?” 

You shut your locker, yanking out the little key just as Jino stormed up. Of course, his posse was behind him. 

“Hello to you too.” you huffed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Why am I hearing that you and Jeon Jungkook a thing now?!” he sounded pissed. “I didn’t expect your standards to be so low!”

“Well, why are you listening to rumors anyways. If you had asked either one of us yourself, we would tell you no.” you said casually. “Can I go now?” 

“Hm, well what’s this I hear about you going on a date with him!” he crossed his arms.

“I’m not saying that’s the truth, but I’m also not going to tell you that you’re wrong.” you replied. 

“Y/N, he’s a damn creep! He’s always staring at you like he’s waiting to pounce or something.”

“Rich coming from you.” you walked past him. “Jungkook’s a gentlemen, unlike you.” you looked him up and down before walking off. You didn’t like how people loved to walk all over Jungkook. He was a sweet guy who just needed a friend, and idiots like Jino weren’t helping.

You walked around the corner to see someone walking out of a classroom. It was Jungkook who was in the middle of shoving a book into his backpack. 

“Hey!” you ran to catch up. 

Jungkook whipped around to find you jogging up to him. “Y/N. I was just looking for you.” he smiled shyly. “I thought you weren’t going to show up.”

“You know you’re lack of faith in me is kind of insulting.” you crossed your arms. 

“Sorry.” he mumbled. “Force of habit.”

“I can see that.” you brushed it off with an outward laugh. “So where did you have in mind!”

“Well...the art museum was having an exhibit, it’s a discount for two.”

“Awesome! Let’s go!” You grabbed his hand and began dragging him towards the school entrance. “We’re wasting daylight!”

“Woah! Okay!” Jungkook attempted to keep up with you as you two ran out the school. You couldn’t see it, but his cheeks had turned a bright shade of red as soon as you grabbed his hand. He could feel his face heat up violently.

 “Do you want to get some food afterwards? I’ll pay for it.” You asked as you two got onto the sidewalk. “I know the best place!”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that” Jungkook shook his head. “I mean-″

“Then I guess it’s a good thing you weren’t the one, asking. I offered! Therefor, you have no say!” you poked his shoulder. 

“Oh.” he stammered. “Okay.” he shyly smiled. “As long as you let me repay you sometime.”

“Is that your way of asking me on another date?” you looked up, tilting your head to the side.

“If you want...”

“Possibly.” you giggled. “Maybe...”

...

The museum was nice, you got the perfect opportunity to get close to Jungkook and actually hear him talk about the things he liked. It was like seeing a totally different person outside of school. You felt bad you hadn’t talk to Jungkook before. 

You were currently walking to that restaurant you were raving about.

“And then-” you stopped talking to laugh. “Lisa literally took her ex’s gym clothes and he had to chase her across campus!” you broke down laughing as Jungkook tried to keep his own composure. 

“And you got it all on film?!” he managed to get through his fit of giggles.

“I had to! It was too great to pass up to film.” you tried to breathe through your laughter. “Ah you should’ve seen it.” you shook your head.

“Y/N, could I ask you a question?” Jungkook asked, causing your face to soften. 

“Um yeah? Everything okay?” you looked up at the sky as you listened to him.

“I guess.” he trailed off. “I overheard you talking with Jino.” he said. “That’s why I thought you weren’t gonna show up, because I was afraid you let him get to you.”

“Jungkook.” you shook your head. “I’m pretty sure I made it clear my opinion on Jino.” you rolled your eyes. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Really?” you could see his face brighten up second by second. “Would it be too forward to say I’m glad about that?”

“No.” you smiled lightly. “Would it be too forward for me to say that I’m starting to like you more and more each passing minute?” 

“Um...no.” he returned your smile. “I like that, a lot. Does this mean I get another date?”

“...Yeah, but this time I’m gonna show you my favorite spots.” you nudged him.

“I look forward to it.” Jungkook slowly laced his hands in yours. “I like spending time with you.”

“Oh? Do you liiikkee me?” you teased. You had giggled at your own joke only to have Jungkook stop you on the sidewalk, slip his fingertips under your chin, tilt your head up and gently peck your lips with his own. 

“Yes.” he answered honestly, just as he pulled away. He saw your surprised face and instantly stiffened. “I’m sorry, am I not allowed to do th-”

“No! I mean! Yes! I mean, it’s perfectly fine.” You could feel your face grow hot. “I liked that...a lot.” you admitted sheepishly. This time it was Jungkook’s turn to blush.

“O-oh, really?”

“Um...come on! The restaurant is just up there!” You held onto Jungkook’s hand even tighter and began walking again, trying to ignore the sound of your heart preparing to jump out of your chest.

... (Fast Forward)

Over the course of the next few weeks, you had gotten closer to Jungkook. You had broken his shell and managed to get to know him. He was super sweet and super endearing. You even went as far to say you had a crush on him over the past 3 weeks. 

“Hey Jungkook?” You peeked into the art room, hoping to find your friend. You were taken aback by singing. Jungkook had his back turned to you at he sat in front of an easel. He was the only person in the art room, so you knew that singing was coming from him.

You let your jaw drop slack as you heard his angelic voice echo throughout the room. You were learning new things about him every time you saw him. He looked so deep in thought that you decided to leave him be. He seemed to be working super hard and you would feel bad just interrupting him. You quietly stepped away from the door and went on your way home.

Inside the classroom, Jungkook sat at his easel. His paint brush moved effortlessly against the canvas in sheer concentration. He almost froze when he sensed your presence from behind him. He had to pretend you weren’t there, pretend he couldn’t smell your perfume from so far. As much as he wanted to, he had to go over his plan in exact detail. A beautiful distraction would only take his mind off of his mission at hand.

“Hm.” Jungkook allowed a smirk to cross his face as he dipped his paintbrush into a small bottle of his signature red ink and signed his name on his finished piece. He stepped back, ogling at his obsession on canvas. 

“Another one done.” he sighed, running his fingers along the edge of the canvas. “Now for my biggest piece yet.”

...

“Y/N! You’re here!”

You stood at Jungkook’s door, your bag over your shoulder. “Yeah, I’m here! I got your text.”

“Thanks for coming, Come in.” Jungkook made room for you to walk in. “I hope it isn’t too cluttered.”

“Do you live alone?” you asked curiously, peeking around the room. It was exactly how you imagine a house like his would be. There were paintings all over the wall and the living room seemed to be turned into a painting station.

“Yeah. My parents travel a lot. So they’re barely home.” Jungkook sighed. “it’s nice to have my privacy.” 

“Cool.” you didn’t know how to respond, so you decided to change the subject. “So what did you call me over for?”

“I’d like you to be the subject of my next painting.” he replied. “The teacher knows someone at that art museum we went to and if I can create something with enough feeling, I can get it displayed!”

“That’s great!” you smiled, genuinely happy for him. “But me? Why not actually use a real model?”

“The art director said to use a subject that inspires me. Something that makes me feel...well anything.” he looked down at his shoes. “The first person I thought of was you.”

“Me?” you repeated. “I’m that person?”

“Yeah.” he smiled. “If I could have something I’m most proud of. A muse, if you will.”

“Say no more! I’d be happy to help.” You smiled. “What do you need me to do?”

“Okay don’t freak out, but I want to capture you in a sort of relaxed environment. Something in your most natural state, and that means...”

“Jungkook? Where you going with this? I don’t have to get naked, do I?” you chuckled.

“Um, no! But...I need you to put on a bathrobe.” He trailed off. “I promise I won’t draw anything too vulgar or intimate but I have this vision and I already bought the bathrobe and-”

“Jungkook! Calm down!” You laughed. “It’s okay. I said I’d help you.” you put a hand on his bicep. “I trust you! I’m gonna be fully covered, right.”

“Y-yeah.”

“Then don’t worry. Where is it?” You assured him. Jungkook walked over to the couch where a shopping bag had been sitting. He pulled out a white silk bathrobe. There was an intricate etching on the fabric that went down to the wide sleeves. “Aright, anywhere I can change?”

“The bathroom is through there. You don’t have to take off your um...” he tried to make it clear that you didn’t have to take off your bra and panties.

“Alright! Give me five minutes.” you smiled then off you went.

As you walked around the corner, all Jungkook could do was stare in your direction. You, his muse, was in his house getting prepared to lie across your couch for hours so he could just watch you. Study every inch of every crevice of every curve along your body. He could hardly contain himself. He’d been dreaming of this day for how long?

 He had already kept you from seeing his other five sketchbooks filled with nothing but images of you. From the day he first saw you, to the day you first bumped into him when you were heading into the Photography club, to the day you finally talked to him for the first time.

“Jungkook?” you peeked your head around the corner. “I’m ready, I guess.” 

Jungkook pretended to have just noticed you. You wrapped and tightened the robe around you. It was pretty big on you so it slipped off your shoulders a little. 

“Woah.” Jungkook breathed.

“So, how do I look?” you chuckled, doing a slightly silly pose. 

“Y-you look amazing.” Jungkook breathed. “Um, wow.” he looked like he didn’t know what to say. “Okay, you can just sit on the couch and do whatever feels right.”

“Cool.” you replied, walking over to the couch. “So I just...sit down?” You sat on the couch like he instructed, hugging your knees and leaning against the couch cushion. 

“That’s perfect!” Jungkook almost scared you with how he outbursted. “Can you keep that pose for a few hours?”

“I can try.” you watched Jungkook rushed to his easel. “So do you want me to turn my face towards you too?”

Jungkook looked up from his supplied to see your innocent face eyeing him curiously. You looked so adorable like that. “You can look where ever, but if it makes you comfortable, you can face me.”

“Okay then.” you replied, trying to get comfortable. After Jungkook had gone quiet, staring at you with focused eyes while he sketched your form onto his canvas. You noticed your robe slip down your shoulders and as you went to pull it back, Jungkook stopped you.

“Wait...that’s even better.” he smiled sideways. You would make eye contact every few minutes. You felt vulnerable in a whole new way. You were literally being studied like you were some sort of specimen under a microscope.

This was gonna take a while.

...(Hours later- Smut Warning)

“Perfect.” Jungkook whispered to himself. 

“Are we done?” you asked. “Can I stand up now?”

“Yeah, go ahead.” 

You slowly rose to your feet, stretching your arms over your head. Who knew staying completely still was so much work. “How’d it turn out?” 

“Almost done. The hard part is over though.” he smiled tiredly, standing up as well. Jungkook walked over to you. “Thanks again for helping me out today.”

“No problem. Anything for you, Jungkook.” you rocked on your heels, slowly growing nervous. “I’m glad I could help you out.” There was a silence between you two. You noticed Jungkook’s hand were covered in red paint.”Kinda looks like you we caught at a murder scene.” you joked.

“Oh really?” he laughed. “Grr you’re next!” he put his hands up in a fake-scary way. “I’m gonna get you!”

Suddenly, Jungkook wrapped both his arms around your waist, hoisting you up and beginning to spin you around.

“AH! STOP IT!” You laughed. You hd to wrap your legs around Jungkook’s body. “Put me down!” you yelled. “This thing isn’t exactly stable!” you mentioned the fact you were still wearing a robe. Jungkook must have  missed his footing, because one second, Jungkook was running around with you tight in his grip and the next you were practically thrown on the couch.

You were now looking up at Jungkook, who was hovering over you. You silently stared back up Jungkook, suddenly feeling 100% more vulnerable. He was silent, staring back down at you. 

Jungkook moved a loose hair that had fallen in front of your face.

“Is it normal to feel this way?” he suddenly whispered. “I never expected to fall so hard” he thought to himself. “Look at her, she’s beautiful. Her laugh is so innocent, so cute. Does she know just how much she runs through my mind. How people like Jino are so horrible and shitty for you to even be remotely near. I have a mind to do something to you right now....but I have to wait.” he thought.

“Jungkook?” you got his attention. His gaze met yours again.

“Yeah?” he smiled shyly. You slowly leaned up, your noses touching before you wound up kissing Jungkook on the cheek. Pure cowardice on your part, but you didn’t want to affect what you had with Jungkook

...at least not yet. 

(Okay people, THIS WAS LONG OVERDUE AND IM SORRY! I LOST MY FIRT DRAFT OF THIS NRGIEWHGIUHGNIUERNGIUEWHGIUE AND IM SO MAD AAAHHH November had been such a bad month for me, but I’m perfectly fine now! Soooooo)

[animeniacss]

6 Years - Hoseok x Reader - Chapter 10 - The Second Victim

Synopsis: 6 years. That’s all it can take to take another look at someone and see that they have completely changed. You were once an eager 20-year-old, with your dreams all in view, and Jung Hoseok at your side to view them with you. However, after a break up the end of your junior year of college, everything seemed different. Now, you’re a recently divorced single mother of two, and your life is nowhere near what you thought it would be. However, after reuniting with Jung Hoseok, you may just be able to capture a little bit of that exciting youth you once knew so long ago.

Feat. BTS Members, Nayeon (TWICE), and Yuna (itzy)

Genre: Romance, SingleMother!AU, Past Relationship, Drama, Some Depictions of Violence/Domestic Abuse

Length: approx. 4.5k words

Chapter 10 - The Second Victim 

Hyo Bin was sick with the flu for the next three days, causing you to have to miss work to take care of her. You were hoping she would be better before going to her father's. The last thing you wanted was to hear him complain if he got sick, though you would only consider it karma for his idiocy. So, you spent day and night with Hyo Bin, calming her down, sleeping with her, trying your best to feed her either food or medicine, whatever she would take in without a fuss. Min Ja was worried and tried to do her best to help, like giving Hyo Bin her favorite doll whenever she was crying for it, and she even told Taehyung what happened when he called to check up on your guys. She was actually doing that now, sitting in the living room while you tried soothing a fussy Hyo Bin in the kitchen.

           “Mommy is with Hyo Bin now.” Min Ja said.

           “Yeah?” Taehyung hummed. “Is she still really sick?”

           “Mommy said she’s getting a bit better. But I think she’s lying.” Taehyung chuckled a bit.

           “Well I hope she’s telling the truth. You want Hyo Bin to get better soon, right?”

           “Yeah.” She admitted. “She’s crying a lot every night and Mommy has to uhm…. Mommy has to sit with her all night.”

           “Well ask if Mommy wants me to come over.” Min Ja turned to you, seeing you rub Hyo Bin’s back as she began to finally soothe and fall asleep.

           “Mommy-.” Min Ja looked over to you.

           “Tell Uncle Tae I’m not letting him get sick!” You said, frowning. That was the fifth time you had said to him over the past few days.

           “Mommy said no.” Min Ja repeated and heard Taehyung let out a chuckle.

           “Well don’t tell Mommy, but I’ll try and come over in a few days when I have a free day.” He said. Min Ja nodded as if he could see her nonverbal response. “Alright, I need to go. Tell Mommy and Hyo Bin goodbye, okay?”

           “Okay, bye-bye Uncle Tae.” She said, before hanging up the phone. She got off the couch, heading towards you and setting the phone on the counter. She saw Hyo Bin was asleep. “Is she really better, Mommy?”

           “Almost.” You responded. “The last of the flu is coming out of her now. Her fever will be broken soon and she can come back to daycare.”

           “Miss. Yun Yun misses her.” Min Ja added.

           “I know she does, sweetie.” You said. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to play with you too much.” Min Ja offered a slight, almost sad nod at the realization that it had been a good three days since you had done much of anything other than holding your sobbing and hacking toddler. “Mommy must look like a crazy lady, huh?” Min Ja giggled a bit, nodding. Since you hadn’t slept or given yourself time to really take care of yourself, you looked like a gremlin, lurking deep in the swamp of runny noses and throw up. Your eyes were baggy from lack of sleep, your hair was up in a messy bun, strands falling out with every movement, and you had put on an old pair of clothes that you planned to burn once Hyo Bin felt better.

Hyo Bin, when she got sick, was a clingy child, and this was the worse she had ever been. That meant that once her condition got worse, she wasn’t letting go of you until the illness left her for good. That meant you couldn’t really shower, only wash your face and change your clothes as Hyo Bin’s desperate sobs rang throughout the apartment. You knew this probably was not the best solution for you or her, but you couldn’t help it. Your baby was sick. Glancing down, you saw Hyo Bin was fast asleep, finally. Letting out a sigh of relief, you glanced at Min Ja. “How about I put Hyo Bin to bed, and I and you relax a little, hm?” Min Ja nodded, a smile forming on her face as she followed you to the bedroom. Laying Hyo Bin in bed was easier than you thought it would be, she only fussed a bit, but didn’t wake up. “Okay…” you sighed, turning to Min Ja. “Let me get ready. What do you want to do?”

“I wanna do your make up!” Min Ja said happily. “Yuna showed me how!” You felt dread wash over you at the idea of letting your four-year-old touch your make up. However, you were too drained to really deny her request. Once you had put on a different pair of clothes, putting the throw-up and tear crusted old ones in the wash almost immediately, you plopped yourself on the living room floor, makeup at your side, and an eager little girl standing on front of you. “Just be careful. I’ll tell you what to use.” Min Ja nodded and immediately got to work on your face.

Those few moments with Min Ja, her talking to you about different things while she poked and prodded at your face with different brushes, and color your face with different bright colors as if you were her favorite coloring book, were extremely relaxing for the both of you. It was nice just getting time to spend with her. Unfortunately for you, your head was pounding, and you felt that your chest was tight. In fact, your entire body felt as if an elephant was sitting on top of it. Maybe it was just all of the sleepless nights finally hitting you, but you knew that in a few hours the girls would be with their father, and you could finally sleep. Trying to distract yourself from the aches and pains coursing through your body, you attempted to talk to Min Ja about something. ANYTHING.

           “You start school soon.” You pointed out.

           “Mhm. Daddy said today he was going to take me to buy new clothes!” She beamed. You smiled a bit, nodding. “I think your face is all done, Mommy.” She said. You sighed, reaching over to take out your phone to take a look at your finished face. Turning the camera on yourself, you saw you had blue eye shadow not only on your eyes but also snaking down your cheeks and trying to blend into the bright pink that found itself there. Foundation was spread all over your face, but it wasn’t blended so it was patchy in certain places. Your lips were painted using both your nude and bright orange lipstick, both of which you bought on impulse at one of your many shopping trips with Nayeon. Squiggles and spirals decorated your cheeks, and immediately you busted out into laughter. Min Ja immediately laughed with you. “You look so silly!” She squealed.

           “I know, I know.” You said. “Let’s take a picture.” Min Ja squeezed herself into the frame, and you quickly snapped a few photos of you both continuing to cackle. “That’s perfect.” Without hesitation, you had found your new wallpaper. “Alright, I need to take all of this off before I get acne.” Min Ja giggled as she watched you head into the bathroom. “Also, I really don’t want Daddy to see me like this.” That made Min Ja laugh even harder.

           “No, leave it! Leeeeeave it, Mommy!” She begged, grabbing your arm. A smile graced your lips, but you ended up washing your face anyway, much to your daughter’s dismay. “Awww…”

           There really was not much to do before Weong-Bin came to get the girls. Allowing Hyo Bin to nap was a good idea, and after taking her temperature, you were glad to see that her fever was starting to drop, and would most likely break the next night. After giving Min Ja a light snack before dinner and cleaning Hyo Bin up, you felt kind of grateful that you were about to have the house to yourself for the night. Oh, the sleep you were about to catch up on, it made you a bit anxious just thinking about it! Time passed, and you checked the clock every so often. Weong-Bin had said he was on his way right after work, and if Weong-Bin was one thing in this world, it was punctual. He arrived only five minutes after he normally did when he came straight from work, and the ring of the doorbell made your heartbeat quickly. You didn’t want him to see you so disheveled, but at the same time, there was absolutely no way you were getting dolled up for Weong-Bin. Getting yourself up, you headed to the door and allowed Weong-Bin to come inside. The first thing you saw him do was scan you over.

           “The hell happened to you?” he asked as he stepped into the apartment and slid off his shoes. You huffed a piece of hair out of your face.

           “I’ve been running on three hours of sleep for three days taking care of a sick toddler and you know that.” Weong-Bin smiled a bit, and you quickly turned from him as you headed back towards the kitchen. “I packed her medicine, and her fever is going down so it should break. If it doesn’t, call me and I’ll make her an appointment for the doctor again. But the flu seems to be almost out of her system entirely.” You saw Weong-Bin walk over and kiss Min Ja hello, before picking up his youngest daughter from her high chair.

           “Awwww my poor princess is sick, huh?” he asked, kissing her forehead. “Yeah, you’re still warm.” He sighed. “Alright, Min Ja can you get your stuff and Hyo Bin’s stuff ready to go?” He asked, rubbing Hyo Bin’s back as she tightly hugged him.

           “Kay!” Min Ja hopped up and headed inside. When she was gone, Weong-Bin turned to you.

           “You need anything before I go?” he asked as he watched you begin to remove any plates from the dishwasher. You sighed as you closed the machine, not really wanting him to stay any longer than he had to, even though a hand would help.

           “No, I’ll be okay.” You assured. “I just need to rest and I’ll be fine. I took some medicine so hopefully, that kicks anything in my body out before it really comes in.” Weong-Bin watched you start putting dishes away in their respective cabinets until Min Ja came rushing back in with both bags in hand.

           “I’m ready!” She beamed. Weong-Bin smiled as he led them to the door. You walked over as well, kneeling down to hug Min Ja tight. “Bye, Mommy.” She said.

           “Bye, honey.” You said happily. “Be good for Daddy and help take care of Hyo Bin, she’s almost all better.” Min Ja nodded, smiling as you stood up to kiss Hyo Bin’s hair and say goodbye. She whined a bit, trying to reach out to you, but you managed to soothe her enough to calm her down for Weong-Bin. “Okay, keep me updated please.” You begged. Weong-Bin scoffed.

           “Yeah, because I was already in the loop from all the texts you sent me, right?” he asked sarcastically. You frowned looking down at the floor.

           “Sorry.” You said. “I was just busy…you know, with the sick kid?” He frowned.

           “I still would’ve liked to know more than I was told.” He pointed out. When he saw that you didn’t look up from the floor, he sighed. “I’ll call you.” He said, before leading the girls out. You closed the door, letting out a deep sigh as you headed to the bedroom. You didn’t even bother changing clothes, you just collapsed on the bed that felt so foreign to you, and almost immediately felt your entire body begin to throb. You groaned, resting your head into a pillow as you tried to pray for the medicine you took to hit you and send you into a peaceful slumber. It took some time of pounding headaches and body aches, feeling as if you were going to wake up with all of your limbs missing, but eventually, you managed to fall asleep.

           The The next morning, light streamed into your room and began to stir you awake. You groaned, the medicine wearing off at some point throughout the night, because not only were the aches back, but they were amplified. You groaned, and as your senses, all began coming back to you, so did some more horribly painful feelings. Your throat felt as though you had never given it any liquid in your entire life, you could barely open your eyes because your head was pounding and the light was not helping. Your nose was clogged and combined with the dry throat; you were finding it very hard to breathe. Every attempt was meant with a cough that only worsened the pain.

           “Oh no…fuck…” you choked out, hearing the raspy tone in your voice. Shakily, you forced yourself up and out of bed, hoping that these feelings were only from exhaustion and nothing else. However, almost immediately, you saw two sets of curtains in front of you and your head felt light, dizziness sending you back onto your bed. “Noooooo…. God, please, don’t do this to me.” You begged to yourself, feeling your eyes prick with tears. As you tried to find the strength to wake up, you felt a gurgling in your stomach. “Oh…oh God…” attempting to rub it didn’t help, and suddenly you felt a burning sensation in your throat. Almost immediately, you covered your mouth as you began to cough violently into your hand, forcing yourself out of your seat. Dizziness overtook you again, but you tried to push through it as you raced into the bathroom. Flinging the toilet open, you crouched down. It felt as if any food you had eaten in your life, no matter how big or small, was coming out of your mouth right now. It was so painful, and your throat was burning. You were throwing up without moving for about 5 minutes, mixtures of coughing and sobbing coming throughout the apartment. “FUCK!” It was the first thing that left your mouth when you finally caught your breath enough to speak coherent words. “Ow….” A whimper escaped your dry lips, and you flushed the toilet before shakily getting yourself on your feet. “Okay, I think that’s it for now. I didn’t even realize I ate that much recently.”

           You had to drag yourself to your room again to grab your phone. Sinking onto the bed, you covered yourself with your blanket, wrapping yourself up as if it was a hot dog bun. Skimming through your phone, you saw Taehyung’s number show up. Dread washed over you at the idea of getting your little brother anywhere near your contaminated house, he was the only one who had a key other than your parents, and they were older and more susceptible to sicknesses. Letting out another deep cough, you called his number.

           “Hello?” he asked, his deep voice indicating he had just woken up.

           “Tae…” you choked out.

           “What’s wrong?” he asked, alertness ringing through his voice at the sound of your meek tone.    

           “I….” you coughed. “I can’t move from my bed anymore….and I need to throw up.” You gagged a bit, just barely reaching the end table garbage and pulling it to the side of your bed to catch some more bile and vomit. “Oww….”

           “I’ll be right there. Just stay in bed.” You groaned as you heard him hang up. Grabbing the blanket, you tried to get yourself as warm as you could while you waited. Coughs and sneezes left your throat multiple times more, until sleep finally overtook you once again. Thank goodness.

           Taehyung hopped on the first train to the house, his nerves growing every time he was sent to your voice mail. The first thing he did was call his agent and say he couldn’t make the shoot, to push it back because you were sick and he had to go take care of you. It took some arguing, but Taehyung had no intention of going back on his choice, hanging upon his angry agent before he could be yelled at anymore. When he arrived, he called out to you upon entering the apartment. There was no answer, so he entered your room to see that you were just starting to wake up at the sound of his arrival.

           “Hey.” He smiled, walking over to your bed. “How do you feel?”

           “Please don’t get to close…” you choked out. “I don’t want you to get sick too.” Taehyung chuckled a bit.

           “Too bad, I’m taking care of you.” He said, reaching out to feel your forehead. “Oh my God!” His eyes widened. “You’re burning up! When did this start?”

           “I’ve…been on autopilot since Hyo Bin got sick. It started hitting me a bit yesterday, but with the girls gone it must have finally hit me once I got to relax.” You groaned. “I woke up this way about 30 minutes ago.” Taehyung sighed as he watched you cover your mouth to let out a deep cough. “Ugh…”

           “Okay. I’ll get you some water and blankets. Is there anyone else I can call to come help you out?”

           “Why would you call anyone else?” you asked, forcing yourself to sit up as you saw Taehyung head to your closet. He turned to you and smiled.

           “I was thinking you would say Hoseok-Hyung.” He said, watching your face go red. He laughed a bit. “Are you blushing or are you sick? I can’t tell.” He teased.

           “You’re a menace of a little brother, you know.” You huffed, laying back in bed as Taehyung walked to you. He covered you in a few more blankets, each one making you sigh in relief. “If you want to call him you can. I might need someone to go pick up the girls and…well, I don’t really want to be home alone.” You said. Taehyung smiled a bit.

           “I can call him.” He pointed out. “I’ll get you some stuff in case you get sick again. I’ll be right back.” Watching him turn on his heel, he rushed out of the room. Groaning, you fell back on your bed.

           “I guess I need to call work again.” You mumbled, grabbing your phone and dialing Jungkook’s phone number.

           After Taehyung got everything set up for you, and you got the OK from work, Taehyung got Hoseok on the phone. You heard them talking outside for a few minutes, Taehyung letting out a few humored laughs at whatever it was Hoseok was saying. You heard Taehyung talk about how stubborn you were in asking for help, and now this was your karma. What a little brat, he and Jungkook would be such good friends. When you saw him walk back in, he offered a smile.

           “Hoseok-Hyung said he can come by today and help out once he finishes his dance lesson.”

           “Okay.” You muttered, the newly placed mask catching your newest cough. “Sorry to make you call out of work.”

           “Oh, don’t worry.” He smiled. “Honestly, I didn’t want to do this shoot anyway.” A playful grin crossed his lips and you chuckled a bit. “I’ll be inside. Is there anything you need?”

           “I just want to sleep.” You groaned. “Thanks, Tae.” The two of you shared a smile as you watched him leave the room. When he was gone, you heard the faint sound of him turning on the TV and hooking up one of the many video game consoles he kept here for his longer visits. Knowing he was occupied and at peace helped you fall back asleep for the third time.

----

           “Hello?” Hoseok hummed, knocking on the door. He had finished his early lessons and there was a gap between those and the night ones of about 3 hours. So, he made sure to drop by. It took a moment, but Taehyung answered the door and greeted him. “Hey. How is she?” He asked as he stepped in.

           “She’s been asleep for the past few hours. She said it all hit her this morning.” He walked back into the living room and Hoseok saw the TV had a paused video game on it. “I’ve just been killing time until she wakes up and the girls need to get picked up.” Hoseok sighed. “I hope this isn’t interrupting your day.”

           “Oh no, it’s fine.” He said, offering Taehyung a smile. He could tell the kid was nervous about his sister’s wellbeing. “I don’t mind helping out a bit.” Taehyung nodded, a boxy grin forming on his face. As both of them took a few minutes to catch up, they heard the sounds of you stirring in your room. “She must be up.” He said. Both boys headed towards your room, walking in to see you sitting up in bed.

           “Mmm…” you groaned, your hair messy and all in your face as you practically rose from the dead. Taehyung walked over, gently laying you back down on the bed.

           “You shouldn’t be up. You need to rest.” He said quickly as he struggled to lie you back down.

           “No, no, I’m okay.” You said quickly. Hoseok was seen as the end of your bed, a kind smile on his face. “Hey…”

           “How do you feel?”

           “About as good as I look.” You hummed. Hoseok chuckled.

           “Aww you always look wonderful.” He teased, motioning to the dead expression on your pale face. A chuckle escaped your lips as Hoseok chuckled. “Did sleeping help at all?”

           “A little bit. But I’ll probably be out of commission for a few days until this leaves my body.” Another smile formed on your lips, but this one was a sad one. “Unfortunately, that means we have to put our dinner plans on hold…Sorry.” Hoseok scoffed.

           “Don’t be sorry.” He said. “When you get better, we can make plans. The restaurant will still be there in a few days, I’m sure.” You nodded, Taehyung finally being able to lie you down. “I’ll stay with Taehyung for a little while until the girls come home, okay?”

           “Okay. I hope I’m not being a bother.”

           “Not at all.” He said. “I just want to help you get better quickly. So does your brother.” You nodded, covering your face with your hands, the mix of cold and burning mixing through every skin-on-skin contact you had with yourself. “Do you think you can eat anything? I can make your soup.”

           “Okay…” you hummed, eyes falling towards the clock. “It’s almost time to get the girls…Will one of you go get them?”

           “I will.” Taehyung said. “Because I can’t cook. It’s a fair trade.” Hoseok chuckled as Taehyung offered a kind smile. “So just rest up okay?”

           “Okay…” You said softly. You stared up at the ceiling as you heard the sound of the boys heading out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You were silent as you heard Hoseok and Taehyung chatting out in the other room, the contents of their conversation to fuzzy for you to make out. But after a few minutes, you did hear the door to the apartment close, and the sound of rustling from the kitchen echo through the apartment.

A groan escaped your lips. You were too tired to move, but at the same time, you didn’t want to sleep. You had been sleeping on and off since you woke up, and you just couldn’t sleep anymore! It took a few minutes, but you eventually peeled yourself off of the bed, groaning at how much you were sweating despite how cold you were. Grabbing one of the blankets that Taehyung had thrown over you, you wrapped it around your body and shuffled your way down the hall and into the bedroom. It was nice to be up no matter how hard it was to move. Glancing around the living room and kitchen, you saw Hoseok digging through your cabinets. When he heard the shuffling of your feet, he looked in your direction and frowned.

“What are you doing up?” he asked, walking over to you. “Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t keep laying down.” You said, gripping the blanket tightly around your shoulders. “What are you making?”

“The best remedy for a cold is soup, so I’m making some.” He smiled. You smiled as you watched him return to the stove, where there were a pot and a can of soup waiting for him to begin preparing it into something edible. As you watched him, you shuffled to your fridge and opened it. Peering in you pulled out bottled water and a can of Sprite. Turning to Hoseok, he saw the green can in your hand and his eyes lit up as you handed it to him. “I saw those! I wanted to take one but I didn’t know if they were for the girls or something.”

“Trust me, they’re for you.” You hummed softly. “So, drink as many as you want.” The man took the green can into his grasp, wasting no time popping the tab off and taking a sip. He hummed, a grin forming on his face. “I could never understand why you love Sprite so much when there are so many other drinks in the world to have.” Just as quickly as the smile formed on his face, a pout followed it.

“You’ve never understood the superiority that is Sprite, and it’s always made me question our relationship.” He teased, turning his head back to the soup as he saw a glimpse of your smile. He took another sip and set the can down as he continued to work. “Now, go lie down and I’ll bring you the soup when it’s done.” You pouted, resting against the door frame as you watched him continue to cook. When Hoseok realized you had not left the room yet, he glanced up at you. “Hm? Not going to move, I see.” He teased.

“I…” a cough escaped your lips and you covered it with your mouth, before quickly pulling your mask up from your chin and back over your mouth. “I don’t want to be inside by myself, that’s all.” You admitted. “I’ve spent the past three days with Hyo Bina attached at my hip and she hasn’t been that way now that she’s getting older. It’s a weird way to say that I kind of feel lonely in there….” Hoseok smiled a bit.

“Fine then you can stand there until I finish this but after you eat it you have to stay inside and sleep more. You need to rest.” He motioned to your water bottle. “Drink a lot of water too. You know how this goes.” A smile graced your lips as you opened your water bottle, moving your mask to allow you to take a sip. You saw Hoseok standing by the stove, stirring away as he hummed a tune to himself, in a state of bliss as he made your soup. You felt butterflies in your stomach at the thought of this occurring more frequently. After bringing your attention to that feeling in your stomach, you gagged.

…. Nope, never mind. That was vomit.

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[sselkie]

C H A R A C T E R     S T U D Y     ⇁     ( 1 / ? )

I. 

   They never knew who to blame it on. The gender. The sex. Perhaps the doctor was the best choice. He had always insisted that it would be a boy; a strong, healthy baby boy that would make his parents proud. He would play football, listen to classical music, become a lawyer. God was sending them a saint. The perfect son. Except you were not a saint, or a son for that matter. Someone had to paint the crib pink and buy some dresses. In fact, all the pants would have to go. Even the binkies and the bibs were the wrong colors. And they certainly couldn’t name a little girl Penley. Only a monster would do that.

   The first words that graced your ears were from that of the doctor, a statement twisted into a question. “It’s . . a girl?” Then your parents had clamored, began panicking. “Wrap her up in a pink blanket! Get rid of the blue — you told us it’d be a boy!” A baby girl. What a nuisance. They’d raise you as their daughter, and what would you do? You’d just take someone else’s name in the end, continue on a different person’s legacy. Bullshit. Total bullshit. But what could they do?

   Yet, they took you home. Long, sleepless nights exchanged between your parents. It should come as a surprise that they refused to hire a nanny with their deep pockets. Part of you might always wonder how they could want you and care for you as a child: screaming, helpless, annoying.

II. 

   For years, they kept telling you a baby brother was on the way. Their expected prince. But for years they couldn’t seem to make it happen. The longer they failed, the farther pregnancy seemed away. Your hopeful little smile dipped farther from returning each time the announcement was retracted. Nonetheless, your father would go out and buy a bouquet each time he’d think they’d done it. You’d sit by them for a few hours each day, memorizing the different colors and the droop of the petals, until eventually you couldn’t help but touch them. The velvety petals would roll between your clumsy fingers and if you didn’t accidentally take one off, then the next morning you’d return and they’d have retracted. 

   It tended to be those same days your parents would get into a heated discussion — the doctor informing them that no, they were not pregnant though you’d tried your best to beg him for a different answer. You would proceed to coax the flower back out, talking till your throat was raw, and your mom peppered you with kisses to inform you that bedtime had arrived. The connection was simple to reach for, but you’d always eventually give in and feel the petals between your fingers. You’d certainly love a baby brother with golden hair like yours, but he was not here and you could not solve that. You loved the flowers, and it was too trying not to strain for their embrace.

   Other days, Mama would set up a picnic out back, the woods edging against your backyard and the wildflowers calling you from a distance. Those were the times that Dad would be at work all day. You’d fill your mother’s antique tea-set with your special punch — melted popsicles, and sip away under the Indiana sunshine. She’d let you run free, go screaming victoriously into the forest. Those were different times. Sometimes you’d come back without a shirt, your skirt riding high in all your childhood glory and she’d lift you up into her arms and chastise you with a smile. Then, you’d both disappear in the forest looking for the lost articles of clothing as she talked about how children of God were supposed to wear clothes and that you were not a witch, not like the people far down the street.

III.

   The news came too soon. Father fumed for days, raving on and on about how that this wasn’t his fault. Given, you didn’t learn till years later that it truly wasn’t. There was no chance for that baby brother you and your mother dreamed about aloud on sunny, summer days. Hope lay stagnant between your parents, but hidden in your underbelly waiting for a new dream to arise. Dormant, realizing that they had hit a wall, Mama and Dad never recovered. Weekends spent watching reruns of Tom and Jerry interchangeably with them were warped into something else. A nightmare you never understood of vodka, rum, wine, beer, anything really. 

   Being perfectly honest, the difficult part was never tucking yourself in at night. It was that you still loved them when they would not give in to your childish pleas of coming home, going inside, and just falling asleep. So that your worrying may not warp your dreams into nightmares. From there, alcohol was the easiest thing to erase from your future.

   But with fifth grade arrived a project. It hadn’t seemed significant at first, just wasteful. You didn’t want to spend the time prepping a tri-fold when you could be running rampant in the woods outside or riding your bike to the park or painting. At some point your parents had even cracked and bought you an easel once they’d tired of constant finger-painting. Of course, you’d rather be tracing dandelions than doing homework. With topics being plucked up within days of the two week assignment, you scrambled for whatever was thrown your way. That was when you knew what you wanted. The job fair had gone smoothly; the idea of being a real life police officer racing through your mind. That concept, the possibility of helping people snagged under your skin.

IV.

   Teenage years passed as a blur in your peripheral vision. They were years of confusion, certainly. You definitely weren’t interested in sex, though you assumed you’d just wait till you found the right person. Additionally, you never bothered dating; you’d rather ignore how you’d always need to strike up a conversation with Jen from physics. 

   Eventually, your parents gave up on trying to sell you the life of a florist as opposed to that of a police officer. In fact, they struggled for anything else they could get you to do. A nurse. A mother. A teacher. A waitress. A secretary.  “Please, anything, but a man’s job.” Your mom was known to beg and for a while you had made them happy as a waitress, saving money and waiting till you could move out. 

   It was no big shock to most in the church community when you were offered a job. You still do not understand your parent’s complete disdain. Many people aren’t thick-skulled. They had accepted the possibility of a woman working a man’s job. Still, the offer was huge to a girl like you. It has been what you’d wanted since forever. You’d have to attend the police academy, not too far from Wheeler, but not within the town limits. In return, you were promised a job at the Wheeler Police Department and half of your tuition paid for.

   You accepted without hesitation and with a noticeable lack of any conversation exchanged with your parents on the topic. Inevitably, the good news couldn’t be stifled for long. Believe it or not, you knew right when they knew; father insisted you were to leave. Your mom, as always, only offered a saddening smile behind his back. You took what was important: your flower pots, bed, bike, clothes, painting supplies, and toothbrush. And in a fit of frustration and rage, you dumped their wine stand onto the floor. The glass and alcohol pooled into a mosaic; one that you can still remember, a message from God no doubt hidden somewhere in it. But you were gone, sprinting out the door and swinging into your friend’s pick-up before it could speak to you. As far as you know it still sits there, waiting to be translated.

V.

   Two and a half years passed quicker than you expected and graduation occurred late April. It was the ceremony that churned by in two and a half years rather than two and a half hours. You achieved near two disembodied claps after your name rang across the stage. There was no “that’s my girl” or cowbell echoing distantly. 

   Within the week after, you had your hand on the bible and an apartment. The week after that, your first day on the job. An early birthday present, better than lamenting in the Chinese restaurant for the third year in a row. 

   Soon though, it seemed that with your hiring came an avalanche of horror. Cassie Klein’s disappearance. You’d broken down in the brush behind the Klein’s house less than an hour after arriving on the scene, praying to God that he need not do this. This karma was reserved for you, not a child. And yet, it appeared he hadn’t listened, not since you had cried till utterly raw with blood dripping from your nose.

   These mental breaks were never supposed to become ritual. But ever since her disappearance (one year exactly), you cannot catch a break. You want to do good so badly that maybe you don’t know when to quit, but you’d like to learn how to do better.

[megalony]

I do love you- Part 5

Another part of my latest series which I have gained some lovely feedback for.

Taglist: @marshmallowmae  @langdonzvoid  @mcrmarvelloki  @butlegendsneverdie  @jennyggggrrr  @reedusteinrambles

Series masterlist

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Slowly moving his arm that was resting just above (Y/n)'s head, Roger rubbed at his eyes that were beginning to burn from being awake for over twenty-four hours now. His other arm was secured around (Y/n)'s waist, his hand resting on her stomach which he couldn't seem to comprehend would be for the last night. The doctors had said that it would be best to have the C-section now and it was all prepared to happen in the morning.

It was around three in the morning and Roger had gotten half an hour of sleep at most. He couldn't sleep from knowing what was happening in the morning, their fate was yet to be decided and Roger couldn't handle not knowing how everything was going to work out. He had done and said everything his mind could think of to try and convince himself and (Y/n) that they had chances of coming out of this alright. That their baby was going to be okay and (Y/n) would be fine but he couldn't promise that and they both knew it.

(Y/n) had managed a little more sleep than Roger but not very much. It had taken a while for Roger to finally calm her down enough to try and get her to lay down and go to sleep. Neither of them had moved for over two hours now, a silence enveloping them as they weren't sure when the other was actually asleep or just deep in thought. Roger couldn't find it in himself to move his hand from her stomach as if something would happen when he did. He wanted to feel some sort of connection to their child in case the worst did happen.

"You okay?"

Roger knew it was a stupid question the moment it passed through his lips when he felt (Y/n) stirring in front of him. Of course she wasn't going to be okay, they were faced with the prospect that they were going to have to take the risk of losing their baby.

Leaning over Roger pressed his lips to her shoulder, feeling her hand resting over his own on her stomach.

"I keep thinking we're at home. That this isn't happening to us." (Y/n)'s voice was but a whisper in the darkness of the room. A silent wish that was never destined to be granted. All she wanted was for the situation to be different, in these past few hours they had laid in a comfortable yet also uncomfortable silence (Y/n) had tried to imagine their situation was different. She came up with an alternative reality where they were back at her apartment. Laying so close they were almost moulded together, thinking over how their lives were going to change in the best possible way soon.

(Y/n) imagined that Roger was cradling her stomach like this because he was so excited to meet their baby, that he was thinking of what gender it would be and thinking of everything they would do together. When in reality she knew that wasn't happening. The drummer behind her wasn't thinking what gender their child would be because he didn't care. He wasn't excited to meet their baby because he knew as well as she did and more so that their baby shouldn't be born yet. He wasn't thinking of everything they would do together because the odds were stacked against them in the way that they were more likely to lose their baby than get to watch them grow up.

Roger was cradling her stomach because right now their child was alive and up to now was stable which might not be the case when they were born in just a few hours time. He was savouring the moments he could grasp in case everything turned out differently.

"I tried that... I think it just makes it worse darling. We don't know what direction the wind will blow in a few hours from now, we just need to take it as it comes." Roger couldn't try and fool himself into thinking that they were at home or that (Y/n) and their baby were fine. He couldn't imagine that they were at 37 weeks or more and that their baby was ready to be brought into the world because when he came back to reality the crash was much worse than anyone could imagine.

They didn't know what was going to happen in the very near future, they needed to be prepared for anything but at the same time keep a certain level of optimistic thoughts to try and get them through. There was nothing else they could do.

"Do you think this is karma?" Roger didn't miss how her voice trembled as she spoke the words. She couldn't help but wonder if this was payback for the wrongs that they had done. For Roger cheating on his wife, for (Y/n) being the other woman and allowing them to sleep together when they both knew they shouldn't. For them not realising their feelings for each other before now, knowing that now was too late for no damage to be done to anyone.

"I don't believe in that, superstition or religion. It tends to fuck people up. I think that there was nothing we could have done to prevent this or see it coming. You got a rare condition and you're not well, nothing you or I did warranted this to happen, the world doesn't work in mysterious ways and things don't happen for a reason. They just happen as they do." Roger hated how karma got to people like it was getting to (Y/n) now. People did things in the heat of the moment and spent the rest of their lives just waiting for something bad to happen to them because they felt they deserved it. Some people didn't even do anything wrong and still thought something bad was going to happen or did happen because they deserved it.

They had fallen in love, that wasn't wrong. They had gone behind Roger's wife's back and they shouldn't but at the same time when his marriage was on the rocks, it wasn't hurting anyone any more than when he would have had to tell her he couldn't be with her anymore. They wanted their child, it wasn't as if they had begged for this to happen. Things didn't happen for a reason or as payback for something else in your life, it wasn't a mysterious way of the world. No one could stop this from happening or see it before it happened, this was how their lives had gone and they were having to deal with this.

A small groan suddenly left (Y/n)'s lips before she burrowed her face into the pillow. Her knees pulled up to her stomach as Roger pressed himself further into her back to try and lean over her, the pair of them lying on their right sides. His anxiety spiking at wondering what was suddenly wrong. 

Reaching out Roger turned on the light just as (Y/n) leaned over, her hands moving to grasp the cream coloured sick bucket before the contents of her stomach were unleashed. Feeling her hair gently being pulled behind her head for precaution as her eyes were almost closing. Her senses becoming drowsy from lack of sleep. When the sudden bout of sickness disappeared, (Y/n) placed the bucket back to the floor, her eyes falling closed as she tried to curl up on herself. Everything felt wrong, like all of her energy had been stolen and replaced with an unusual, unwell feeling. It wasn't exactly just feeling sick, it was as if she was running on last reserves like a car needing more fuel.

"W-what are you doing?" If this were any other time her eyes would have narrowed or even widened when she managed to crack her eyes open to see Roger pressing the emergency button. All she had done was throw up, it wasn't as if she was in crippling agony or throwing up blood. She felt herself close to falling asleep now anyway, couldn't he just let the silence wrap them up again? 

"You've got jaundice in your eyes and you've thrown up. Your liver's failing." Roger managed to catch a glimpse of her eyes before she closed them, not being able to stay awake for much longer. He had noticed the tinge of yellow to the whites of her eyes which was from the toxins in her blood that her liver hadn't broken down like it should have. That and being sick was a sign that her liver was beginning to fail which was always an option when her liver count had risen to a drastic point. Leaving her liver to become overworked and suddenly fail like this.

They couldn't wait any longer for their baby to be brought into the world, they needed to be born now before anything happened to (Y/n) that could cause Roger to lose them both.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A tightening feeling appeared in Roger's stomach when (Y/n)'s eyes began to flutter like butterfly wings. Her mind starting to come back to consciousness which was both a relief and a worry to Roger.

Their baby had been born just over an hour ago by C-section and (Y/n) hadn't been able to stay awake any longer which Roger had been expecting. The medication coursing through her system, the tiredness which her illness was causing and the trauma had sent her to sleep. Roger was relieved she was finally getting some kind of sleep but at the same time, he wanted her to be awake so he could know if she was alright. She didn't look too well from where he was sitting and it was scaring him to no end.

"Hey, sweetheart." Roger's voice was hoarse as he gingerly reached out to brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His other hand entwined with her own as he tried to stop the tears from falling. Everything was burning, his body was on fire from having little energy running through his veins and not having the nerve or the opportunity to sleep. When their baby had been born Roger had run down the corridor after the midwife who snatched their child up and tried to disappear. He followed and watched from the window to make sure their baby was alive and being cared for before drifting back to (Y/n). Then he couldn't find the ability to sleep when she wasn't well and could wake up at any moment. He needed to be awake to talk to her and calm her down.

"T-the baby..." (Y/n) mumbled, her free hand slowly moving to press to her temple where her head felt like it was splitting at the seams. She didn't remember much to anything since the medication was pushed into her bloodstream. Her mind had been numbed down, she couldn't even remember being told if they'd had a boy or a girl.

"We've got a little boy, sweetheart. He's in the ICU." Forcing her head to turn to her left, (Y/n) locked her drowsy eyes onto Roger. His lips trying to pull upwards into a smile but he couldn't seem to manage it. He knew they weren't out of the woods yet, (Y/n)'s liver wasn't back to working order yet and even though their boy was alive it didn't mean he was okay. They didn't know if any of his organs were under-developed if he had anything wrong such as breathing difficulties or anything wrong with his brain. All they knew was he was alive and right now that wasn't very much to go on.

"Is he okay?"

"I think they're running some tests... he's rather small." Roger couldn't give a straight answer to that because there wasn't one to give. He had only seen his son for a little while, the nurses had fussed over him too much for Roger to be able to watch over him. Only knowing they were getting ready to run some tests and straight away put him in an incubator trying to keep him warm as they tended to him. "How are you feeling?"

(Y/n) thought on the answer for a moment.

The sickness she had felt a few hours previous was no longer there, although she couldn't be sure whether that was because of whatever drugs they were medicating her with or because she really was getting better. Her head was woozy and starting to split open from everything that had been happening but that was nothing unusual or unexpected. (Y/n) couldn't tell if her liver was any worse, the same or maybe a little better so that was alright up to now, and her eyes were back to normal anyway so her vision was not a problem.

If she based her answer to the question on those things alone she would say she felt okay. That she was doing alright as far as it goes.

But she couldn't say that. (Y/n) couldn't say that she was fine because deep down she wasn't. There was an emptiness that felt like a void was taking over her system, starting in her abdomen. Something was clearly missing and it didn't take a genius to work out what that something was. (Y/n) was missing their little boy, she was without him now to save herself because she grew worse every day she tried to give him that little bit longer. She had evicted him to save herself and now she felt hollow without him. So how could she say that she was alright when she felt like this?

"Empty."

That one word broke the barrier that had been put up to stop Roger from shedding any more tears. Nothing came to mind for him to respond with to that broken response. He could tell (Y/n) that her liver count hadn't risen but so far hadn't lowered yet, or that her blood was no longer starting to breakdown according to the last blood test. He could tell her she should begin to feel better by the end of the day that hadn't long begun. None of that mattered when she felt like something had been stolen from her. How would knowing she wasn't getting any worse help when that didn't change the way she was feeling? Roger had no news for her that would enlighten her or alleviate her fears for their little boy because he didn't know anything.

"Can you go see him? I'm not going anywhere... please check on him." (Y/n) didn't like the thought of Roger sitting here with her when their boy was somewhere else in the hospital separated and alone. She wasn't going to go anywhere and it wasn't like she was in pain or needed consoling. She could just go to sleep or stare at the walls and wait for the medication to burn out in her system so she felt more awake than this. There was no point for Roger to stay here with her when he could be more use watching over their son and checking to know what was wrong with him.

"Alright. Try and sleep, I'll come back in a little while." Roger responded after a moment of pause. Gently unclasping his hand from her own as he pushed himself to shaking legs, leaning down to kiss her forehead before trailing out of the room.

Making his way down the corridor Roger turned left and then another left, his mind having the map of the hospital laid out and ready so he didn't have to squint to read the directions set up above doorways. His aching feet carrying him to the neonatal ICU, somewhere that before now Roger had never had the need to go to in the hospital. His head turning to the left to glance through the window of the room where his son and other newborns were being cared for. That same tightening he felt when (Y/n) was beginning to wake suddenly clenched at his stomach out of nowhere as he felt like all the air had been stolen from his lungs.

His head beginning to shake as a small, silent round of 'no' passed through his slightly parted lips when his eyes noticed there were two nurses fussing over one of the newborns. Roger wasn't forgetful, he had memorised where his son was in the room and he was right where the nurses were now meaning something was wrong.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to wait outside please." A third nurse seemed to appear from thin air just as Roger took two strides into the room. The panic clearly written over every part of his face as he looked to the nurse blocking his path. Her hand resting on his arm to try and nudge him out of the room he was no longer allowed in for the time being. His head beginning to shake in disagreement as he rubbed furiously at his eyes to try a feeble attempt at stopping the waterworks.

"That's my boy. What's wrong with him, what are you doing?" Reaching his arm out Roger pointed over to the incubator that held his son, not even being able to catch one glimpse of his newborn for the nurses blocking him from sight.

"He stopped breathing on his own, we're having to put him on a ventilator to breathe for him."

Roger put up no fight when she guided him out of the room. He didn't feel anything when his legs decided they could no longer hold him up and allowed him to crash land to the polished floor. He couldn't hear her voice asking him if he was alright and trying to check what was wrong with him all of a sudden. Leaning forward Roger rested his head on his knees, his hands becoming lost in his tangled and knotted hair as he himself could no longer breathe either. Maybe he was going to lose his boy after all.

[plaguedparadox]

Anything You Want - Chapter Five

The Nightmare

“Daemon?” My voice called out as I watched the man in front of me struggle to even function. “Daemon, what’s wrong?” My voice wavered as I made my way over and wrapped him up in a hug, his head pulled into my chest as I ran my fingers through his hair in an attempt to calm the seemingly panicking man. I could hear his muffled apologies sound out through the fabric of my overly fluffy housecoat. Begrudgingly, I pull his face away and ask him why he’s apologising, my words stopping as I notice the tears running down his face. “Why are you crying?!”

The raven-haired man in my arms flinched before rubbing away at his now smudged eyeliner. “I… I… I don’t want to hurt you…” His voice cracked as tears began to spill out of eyes again. “I could never forgive myself if I did…” I leaned my forehead against his, not caring about the sweat as I worked to try and calm him down. I mumble how he could never hurt me. An exhausted sigh leaves him, his arms curling around me and pulling me tightly into him, my head now against his chest. “Oh, if only that were the case…” His head rested on top of mine as he began to hum a tune.

I wanted to look up at him, to stare him in the eyes and flat out tell him that he wouldn’t hurt me, that it was clear that he liked me too much to genuinely hurt me. Despite all his weird behavior, it was easy to tell. I tried to follow the tune and hum it back to him, figuring it would help cheer him up. Daemon eventually mumbled that he was tired, retiring to his bedroom, unfortunately, tears still running down his face. I’m sorry I’m not enough to cheer you up, Dae. My thoughts lamented before I went into my own room, locking the door behind me as I did.

The bedroom, something that could either be a safe haven or a prison depending on who was in your home at any given point. For me, it was a place where I could calm down and think. Daemon made sure the atmosphere of it reflected that, with light and calming colour and soft fabrics being used everywhere. The soft cream coloured carpet underneath my feet was the first indicator that I was in my room, so I felt as if I could find it even with my eyes closed. I made my way over to my bed, plopping down at the edge as I began to think about the guy at the hospital.

The kiss still confused me, it was soft and the feeling of it was so weirdly familiar. My eyes scrunched shut as I fell back onto the bed. Who was that guy? And why did he kiss me? My thoughts questioned as I laid there in silence, only for me to jump up a moment later after Daemon’s voice yelled out something that seemed to be a “What?!”

Only a few seconds went by before Daemon was knocking at my bedroom door. “Letmeinletmeinletmein!” His voice was panicked as his hands pounded away at the door, urging me to rush over, unlock the door and yank the door open. “Gah!” Was all he said before he landed face first onto the floor, reminding me of the first time we had been in this situation just the other way around, I had just had a nightmare and I had run to Daemon for comfort only for him to swing the door open unexpectedly fast when I was leaning against it. “Why do I have a feeling that this is karma for letting you fall that one time…?” His question was muffled by the carpet but still made me chuckle.

“Have a nightmare or something?” I joked as I pulled him up from the floor, but all he did was shrug in reply and pull me over to my bed. “Everything alri-” A yelp slipped through my mouth, interrupting me as I landed on the bed with a bounce. Before I could complain, I bounced again as Dae landed next to me, a smile on his face as our eyes met. “Why?” Another shrug from the raven haired man. His arms stretch out and pull me close. “Hey!” My face once again meets his chest. A huff left me as I shifted about in his hold before settling down as my arms slip around his neck. “Oi, what’s up?”

Daemon’s face twisted into a mild look of pain as he looked off to the side, almost as if he was trying to figure out something to say. “I… I know I terrified you with my driving. I don’t want you to be terrified of anything I do!” He admits, pulling my body closer to his, the lack of distance was enough for a small pool of warmth to rise from my core as a gulp bobbed in my throat. “And I can’t stand even trying to sleep with the thought of you scared of me even being a possibility. But... I also didn’t want you to see me freak out about it...” His voice drifted off as he began to talk about being embarrassed by the situation, a small dusting of a blush on his cheeks.

Gently shifted my head against his chest, nuzzling into it. Another attempt at trying to cheer him up. A small, almost silent purr seemed to radiate from him, shocking me as I was quite sure that humans didn’t purr but I mostly just wanted to squeal about how cute it was. I quickly peeked up at the man to see him smiling gently down at me. “Feeling better now?” I asked softly, my hand once again reaching for his cheek, something that seemed to be becoming a habit. Daemon took the opportunity to lean into the palm of it, much like he had done at the hospital but this time his lips brushed ever so slightly against the skin almost teasing and tickling it. A scarlet hue griped my cheeks as I looked up at the man who was practically kissing my hand.

The affectionate man’s smile grew slightly as I poked at him to answer my question, a chuckle slipping through his grin as my pokes transition into small rapid movements on his side in an attempt to tickle him. “I’m feeling better, I’m feeling better!” He exclaimed through a burst of deep, full, contagious laughter that made me slip into a giggling fit as my other hand slipped down to join in the tickling, my body shifting into the best position to tickle the man which at the time was to straddle him. His wonderful laughter continued, only being broken by quick gasps for air and infrequent squeals, the sound of it made my heart flutter as I joined in on the joyful sound. A smile really did look much better on his beautiful face, and it was a smile that captured my heart at that moment.

After several laughter filled minutes, Daemon finally decided enough was enough and peeled my hands away from his sides, his fingers slipping between mine as our hands entangled themselves so it looked like he was holding me up. Both of our chests were moving quickly, trying to drink in the air that had fled us as we laughed, small laughs and giggles still escaping us. Once we had calmed down enough to hold eye contact, I noticed how warm and inviting his dark brown eyes actually were and how all the laughing seemed to lighten his eyes from what looked like pitch black orbs to something that actually resembled a colour and I could slowly feel myself getting lost in them. I think I might just be falling for you…

A deep blush found its way across his cheeks, his smile growing even more as he began to lean up to the point where he was sitting up and I was sitting on his lap. I ask him if he’s okay and he gives me a quick nod. That purring sound radiating from his chest again. An adoring smile crosses my lips as I lean my head against his chest to get a better hear of that adorable noise. Slowly my nose picked up on the smell of chocolate once again, this time it wasn’t as sickly and was much more inviting. The scent blended wonderfully with Daemon’s most likely expensive cologne. I wasn’t worried about the smell this time, both Dae and I indulged in chocolate so I probably left a bar of it somewhere in my room. Daemon’s hands slipped from my own to my hips, his fingers gently brushing against the area, moving in slow circles. The heat in my core started to grow as I felt him nuzzle between the crook of my neck, his lips brushing against the skin ever so slightly. A low groan left my lips as he brushed over a sensitive spot on my neck, I could feel him smirk against my skin before I felt his teeth lightly sink in causing me to moan out loud, my face completely flushed at my reaction. I wasn’t so quick to moan with other partners.

I pulled away and cleared my throat, trying to concentrate on anything other than the slick that started to pool out of me. Daemon shoots me a questioning look before nudging me closer to him again, a hopeful look on his face while a confident smile tried to hide it. I apologise and move off of his lap, taking place beside him instead. I couldn’t keep my gaze on him as hurt flooded his features. I mutter that I’m not ready for anything sexual, all while trying to subtly rub my thighs together, needing a little friction. As much as I wanted to do the devil’s tango with him, I wanted to make sure my feelings were true, I didn’t want to play with his feelings. “Maybe in the future, just… not now. I’m sorry.” I turn away from him, flinching as I hear him storm out and slam my door. I didn’t think it would upset him that much.

Exhaustion grabbed at me after I sat there with my thoughts, I felt my head fall forward slightly as the tiredness began to make my body heavy, with a shake of my head I was able to wake myself up enough to find something to change into even if it was a familiar old college top. A nostalgic smile crosses my face as a memory of my best friend and Arthur come to mind, the top was his after all. I could still remember his goofy smile as if he was right in front of me. I wiped the slowly rising tears away and slipped the comfy top on after allowing the housecoat to slip off of my shoulders and swapping it with the top I was already wearing. Putting on clothes and then a housecoat after a shower was something I started doing while I was young, even if it was considered strange. I always dried myself off before I put the clothes on. I wanted to change my clothes because suddenly the relatively clean clothes didn’t feel so clean. As soon as I got the new stuff on, I leaped for my bed and tried to fall asleep, dreading the work I’d have to do in the morning.

Chanting. Why was someone chanting? Annoying. So annoying. I gazed around, it appeared as if I was in a kitchen. A familiar kitchen. A gulp bobbed my throat as I felt as if something was looming behind me. I felt sick. A pressure on my shoulder made my head swing over to look at what had landed on my shoulder only to see a glob of a somewhat clear liquid that I could only guess was the creature’s saliva. I swallowed my courage and decided to make a break for it, I wasn’t going to turn back and look at its ugly face.

I had gotten quite a bit away before I heard someone cry for help. “Dove!” The sound of his voice caused me to look back, tears welling up in my eyes as my favourite writer was being pulled back by the monster. I cry out his name and try to run forward, only to be held back by thick black thorn-covered vines that seemed to be completely coated over with a weird substance which gave off that horrid nauseating smell of sickly sweet chocolate. Any time I yanked my arms away from the vines, they’d constrict and the thorns would dig into my skin, cutting away at the flesh and poisoning it with the gross viscous fluid that it secreted. I cried Arthur’s name once more as I pulled my eyes back over to the horrid scene, my eyes widening as the creature had begun to pull away at his arms, one of my old love’s beautiful eyes now missing and flowing with blood as if a river of red tears were washing down his face. I closed my eyes and yelled at the thing to come after me, I was what it initially wanted after all. Taunts and insults left my lips to try and bait it to attack. Once more I yelled at for it to come after me, my arms practically flailing amongst the vines, not caring if they ripped more tears into the skin, it gives less for the monster to do.

“Don’t be so stupid!” His deep voice made my eyes snapped open, Daemon was standing in front of me, holding the same wounds that the monster had given the other love of my life. “Look at you, you got yourself hurt!” He scolded me as his arms reached over, slowly prying away at the vines and making them release my arms but the thick fluid stayed on my skin as if it had stained it or was trying to act like a second skin. I mutter his name, attempt to warn him of the monster but he gently places a finger to my lips, hushing me but ignoring my widening eyes as the creature appears behind him. I tried to warn him but words wouldn’t leave my throat. The sweet scent of chocolate burning my senses before the burning heat that attacked my body before struck me once more. “Sorry, my love. It doesn’t have its natural effect when I’m pissed off.” His deep voice deepened and echoed as he spoke, his little explanation ending with a sinister chuckle.

The horridly saccharine smell grew more intense as a dark mist started to fill the hallway, the burning quickly became too much for me as I collapsed, barely able to keep myself up. An eerie, screeching repetitive sound began to hurt my ears as I used the last of my energy to reach out to Daemon before my vision went black.

Gasps left me as I woke up to the sound of my alarm screeching away, letting me know it was time to start the day and get ready for work. I let out a huff and made my way to the bathroom, work clothes in hand. Not bothering to check if Daemon was awake as I dropped my clothes on top of the hamper lid and gazed tiredly into the mirror. I looked like shit, to be brutally honest. It would be easy for my friends to tell I had a nightmare again. They initially occurred after I lost Arthur but after I had been attacked, they got worse, more graphic and I couldn’t stand it. I checked myself over, pulling gently at the bags under my eyes and so on, the check over stopping as I notice the bright red mark on my neck.

It looked almost like an indentation cast used by a dentist with how clearly you could see the mark left by each tooth. I ran my fingers over the raised flesh, brushing against the dried blood that rested against the skin. There seemed to be a fair bit of bruising already appearing but it was at the base of the neck, underneath the bite so my shirt collar would luckily cover it up enough so it wouldn’t draw any attention - hopefully. I sigh and resign myself to my fate as I go through my morning routine and make my way off to work, not a single word spared to Daemon. As harsh as it was, I didn’t want to make his childish temper tantrum over not getting laid worse.

The journey to work was uneventful as was to be expected except for that black stray dog that was now almost right at my ankles as it followed behind me. I shooed it away before heading into the gloomy building that held my job. With a sigh, I stepped in. Immediately, I noticed the odd atmosphere as people muttered amongst themselves about god-knows-what. I quickly made my way through the first floor of cubicles and into the elevator on the other side of the room. My foot impatiently tapped on the elevator’s floor as I waited for it to rise to the floor my cubicle was placed. God, I hate elevators… My thoughts whined as the doors opened, and in my eagerness to leave, I nearly sprinted out of them. I appreciated that I had to use the elevator though. The higher the floor meant the higher in the company you were, and obviously, that meant more money.

Unfortunately, it didn’t mean more respect as my feet hooked across someone else’s and sent me flying into someone’s chest. A harmony of gasps and whispers followed, their watching gazes only turning after I glared at them. I mutter a quick sorry to whoever I bumped into and rushed to where Thomas and my desk was. It took me a moment to get myself together, bag down, sat in my seat and ready to log into the computer but I stopped once I noticed the shocked look on Thomas’s face. “What?”

My friend’s eyes flickered between me and the direction I had just come from, his skin paling as he gulped and tried to think of how to tell me whatever the problem. I gestured to continue before he took a deep breath in to finally answer me. “You just ran into the new big boss and knocked his coffee into him.”

Well, shit.

[xx-thedarklord-xx]

Draco’s Emotional Uprising

As always, can be read on Ao3   

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

                “Draco!”

                Draco groaned, wishing his head wasn’t throbbing. Merlin, how much did he drink last night? The night had started out decent, but soon went to shit when he caught sight of his ex-boyfriend at the Ministry charity gala. The twat was a temporary foreign exchange transfer from France, the exchange program was supposed to unite the wizard community as a whole and welcome the idea of unity between all societies of wizards and witches no matter the country.

                Christophe had been charming in the beginning. Dinners, dates and nights out on the town had been refreshing, especially considering the lack of people wanting to date Draco. Not too many ‘respectable’ people wanted much to do with him. The six years since the war showed him how long people could hold a grudge, not that he blamed them.

               With his reputation shattered, it was nice coming across someone who didn’t seem to care. It was nice having someone be there. At least for a while.

               Draco should have known it was too good to be true. After six months of dating, he thought they were really going somewhere. Christophe had decided to leave the exchange program in favor of applying for a position in the Wizengamot Administration Services. Normally, that wouldn’t be allowed, the Wizengamot had rules against those who were not citizens of the United Kingdom holding a seat in the Wizengamot. But the Malfoy line had several unused seats, and with Draco giving up his own, it opened opportunities for Christophe.

               Only… Draco hadn’t counted on Christophe leaving him too.

               “I got what I wanted, Draco. You are only useful in what you can do for me, not the other way around.”

               Christophe had chosen him because of his tarnished name. It had never been about love, or attraction. With the seat already being given to Christophe, there wasn’t anything Draco could do. All that was left was waiting for the Wizengamot to make a decision. And why wouldn’t they choose Christophe? The man was a spineless git that sucked up to everyone. They wouldn’t see his true intentions until it was too late. Just like Draco.  

               What stung the most was that Draco knew that there was something off about Christophe. His lonely heart had ignored the warning bells and chose companionship over logic and common sense.  

               Maybe karma was meant to hit him socially and emotionally. Perhaps he was destined to spend the rest of his life making up for his actions but be alone and miserable at the same time.

               “Draco!”

               Draco groaned, shutting out the sound of whoever was disturbing his sleep. Really, how much did he drink? It was hard to piece the night together; a lot of his memories were clouded in alcohol. When he had caught sight of Christophe trying to charm his way into a discussion with members of the Wizengamot, Draco ended up summoning a bottle of Firewhiskey from his bag—propriety be damned.

               If there wasn’t love involved, or even if there had been fights, Draco would have been hurt, but he would have at least understood. But to use someone like that? Only seek them out for personal gain? It was cruel, and Draco wished he could say that he didn’t deserve it.

               “Draco Abraxas Malfoy, if I have to dismantle your wards, you are getting nothing from my will.”

               The sound of his father’s voice had Draco leaping up, only to groan miserably when his head throbbed, and his balance had him clutching the nearest thing to keep him steady. What he hoped was the wall was actually thin air—Draco crashed to the floor, wondering if this was his destiny. To be a fucking mess.  

               Draco shot out his hand, grateful that his wand came instantly. At least his wand loved him, that was something.

               With his wards lowered, he heard the door to his flat open, and braced himself for the commentary he knew would come.

               “For the love of—really Draco? Artificial leather? You have money, use it. And what’s with the color scheme? Is that—oh Merlin it is—floral print? This is worse than I thought. You need to move back home. Clearly allowing you to venture out on your own was a mistake.”

               “I’m an adult,” Draco yelled, still laying on the ground, not bothering to care enough to move. He had chosen his furniture knowing it would haunt his parents. Petty spite did wonders for the soul.

               “Are you? Because your actions prove otherwise.”

               Draco sighed, not ready for another lecture. It was too early for this—he squinted at the clock, wincing when it showed it was six in the evening. It was too late for this.

               “I was woken up this morning by six firecalls. Six. Draco do you realize how influential you are to getting the Malfoy name back into a proper standing?”

               The sound of cleaning charms had Draco huffing. It wasn’t that dirty. Sure, the dishes could be done, and perhaps the trash was a week overdue, but he didn’t need his father cleaning up after him.

               “Nothing will get the Malfoy name to be respectable,” Draco mumbled low enough that his father wouldn’t hear it. That would just make the lecture longer.

               “You caused a scene at the gala. So much so, that they called in Aurors.”

               Draco winced, trying to recall that. There were flashes of fancy robes, horrified faces and then green eyes. He groaned when he realized that Potter must have been the Auror on duty. Lovely.

               “Do you—” An incredulous noise left his father’s mouth as he stopped at the entrance to Draco’s room.

               “What the fuck did you do to your hair?”

               Draco would have been impressed with the expletive, since his father was too proper to do anything common like swearing, but he was too distracted by the question.

               “What? Is it a mess? I just need to brush it.” Not that he could remember where exactly his brush was. Did he own a brush? Goodness, much more of that and he could be Potter’s twin.

               When his father continued to stare, Draco summoned a mirror.

               A squeak left his mouth when he caught sight of his reflection. The sides of his head were shaved, and he had a choppy wild mane on the top. The hair on the top was randomly cut in places, and he wondered if someone had done the haircut blind.

               Draco bit his lip, forcing himself to think back. After leaving the gala, he flooed to Greg and Neville’s flat. Which is never a promising idea, the two were the worst friends possible—always convincing him into stupid endeavors.

               “I want it gone,” Draco remembered telling that to an equally drunk Greg.

               “I can cut it, but I’ve only got Nev’s hedge trimmers.”

               Another once-over had Draco biting his lip. “It’s not bad,” he hedged hesitantly. “I can pull it off.”

               “That’s not the point,” his father drawled, impatience heightening the harsh tone. “Why did you cut it?”

               “He loved my hair long,” Draco whispered, eyes on the ceiling as he refused to look at his father.

               “Draco, it’s just a breakup.”

               Draco scoffed. Easy for him to say. It wasn’t his father’s broken heart. He wasn’t the one left a mess, he wasn’t the one who had to come home to an empty flat every night wondering where it all went wrong, or how simple naivety had clouded all common sense.

               “You need to start acting like the respectable pureblood that you are.” Draco closed his eyes, tired of the disappointment in his father’s voice. “Appearances are everything. It doesn’t matter what fickle emotion you feel, what matters is how you look. Hide all of this behind a glamour and move on. I raised you better than this. Malfoy’s don’t fall apart.”

               “I can’t do that.” Draco sat up, fighting a wave of nausea. “I’ve spent my whole life hiding everything. Malfoy’s aren’t supposed to be kind, Malfoy’s aren’t supposed to associate with lower classes, Malfoy’s are supposed to be regal at all times, Malfoy’s don’t show emotions, Malfoy’s save face at all costs—”

     Draco took a deep breath, air coming in as a gasp. “Well, fuck being a Malfoy.” A quick glance showed his father’s mouth open a few centimeters, the closest thing to gaping as his father could get.

               “Father,” Draco ran his fingers through his hair, reveling in the difference between the sides and the top. “I’m not okay. He broke my heart, and I don’t know how to emulate it any other way than destructive. Malfoy’s aren’t supposed to be like this, but I’ve repressed so much for so long that I need to express myself. I need to be someone other than just a Malfoy.”

               They stared at each other, neither wanting to give in. “It’s just a breakup.”

               Disappointment filled Draco as he stood up, gesturing for his father to leave. “No, it’s more than that. It’s an uprising—an emotional uprising where I find myself again.”

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

               “Let’s get revenge.”

               Draco looked at Neville, surprised that he was the first one drunk, not that he wasn’t on his way there himself. “Revenge? How so?”

               He knew that no matter what Neville said, there was no way he was listening. Neville would never stop being a Gryffindor. If it wasn’t for Greg’s relationship with Neville, he would wonder how they could be friends. But only a few times around him was enough to show how loyal he could be.

               “We could set his house on fire.”

               Draco threw an alarmed look to Greg, silently demanding his friend fix this. Were all Gryffindors this crazy?

               Greg huffed in amusement. “Neville, love, that’s too adventurous. How about we tone it down?”

               “Oh,” Neville whispered, voice in awe as he blinked rapidly, alcohol dimming his normally kind aura. “We could send him a howler?”

               “Too tame,” Draco countered, shaking his head. Revenge didn’t actually sound so bad.

               “I don’t know what you want from me!” Neville cried, arms reaching out for Greg.

               Draco raised his hands placatingly when Greg glared at him, as if drunk Neville was somehow his fault.

               “Maybe we could set his house on fire,” Draco said, a shot of Firewhiskey and two large gulps of Elvish wine making the decision for him.

               “What?” Greg asked incredulously as Neville cheered loudly.

               “Maybe just his lawn?” The offer had Neville frowning, but at least he wasn’t crying.

               “I’m not drunk enough for this,” Greg whispered, exasperation bleeding through.

               Neville grabbed the Firewhiskey off the table. “I can fix that!”

               “That’s not what I mea—” Greg sighed as Neville smiled earnestly, eyes wide and hopeful. “Thank you, Neville.”

               Even in his intoxicated state, Draco knew that Greg was smitten.

               “Let’s make bad decisions.” Greg lifted his glass in a toast.

               “Already did that,” Draco jeered, joke falling flat as his mind went back to Christophe.

               “Fire, fire, fire,” Neville chanted, hands hitting the table as they all took one more round of shots.

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

               In hindsight, being caught wands out and no alibis as Aurors showed up, really wasn’t the best decision. How were they supposed to know Christophe had backup wards? Honestly, it was a miracle they managed to tear down the original in their state.

               The fire was still going, and that was Draco’s greatest accomplishment to date. He watched Weasley attempt to wrangle it in with difficulty. Revenge on Christophe and manage to annoy Weasley? It was a great end to the day.

               Well, other than being caught.

               “What were you three thinking?” Potter looked between them, brows arched when they all looked at each other.

               Neville huffed, hands coming to his hips. “Harry, Draco is worth twelve of Christophe!” An angry finger was pointed to where Christophe was being questioned by an Auror.

               Draco wasn’t sure what exactly that meant. Why 12? Oddly specific? Only 12? Why not 50? Or a 100?

               By the way Potter softened, eyes glancing towards Draco, it was clear that he understood the reference. “Is he now?”

               Neville nodded fiercely, hiccup escaping. “He hurt Draco and that’s not okay.”

               When Greg nodded along, warmth filled Draco as he stared at his friends. He could honestly cry.

               A familiar harsh scoff had Draco tensing. “This just proves how imbalanced Draco is.” The accented tone had Draco clenching his fists tightly. “Always knew you were mad, if only I could have ended the relationship sooner.”

               Draco closed his eyes, wishing that a confrontation didn’t have to happen while he wasn’t sober.

               “I almost had your Wizengamot seat a month earlier, but you were holding out, wanting to mean something to me.” When Christophe snorted, light brown hair falling into his face, Draco took a step forward.            

               “As if you could mean something to—" Draco punched Christophe in the face, hard enough to have him taking several steps back.

               Draco wrung out his hand as the sound of Neville and Greg cheering could be heard. “I am worth 12 of you. I may be tarnished, and not whole, but I didn’t deserve what you did.”

               The truth of his own words had Draco pausing, a revelation taking place. He hadn’t deserved it. “I deserve someone who wants me for me. I deserve love just as much as the next person. And I deserve to love myself.” By hell, he was going to. Draco was done caring what other people thought. If society wouldn’t forgive him, then he would forgive himself and go from there. Fuck everyone else.

               Christophe clutched his face, breath coming out in quick successions before he rounded on Potter. “Aren’t you going to do something about this? They come to my home and set fire to my lawn. I then am physically attacked, with witnesses.”

               “Witnesses?” Potter asked, eyes narrowed and voice hard. “Goyle, Neville, did you happen to see anything out of the ordinary?”

               “No,” Goyle grunted, smirking when Christophe made an indignant noise.

               “Only a Nargle,” Neville offered grin on his face and eyes tracking what Draco assumed was a Nargle, whatever that was. They may be friends, but Neville wasn’t exactly normal—a symptom of spending too much time around Lovegood.

               Potter snorted, shoulders shaking with barely concealed mirth. “Unfortunately, the fire is still going and therefore not something that can be explained away.”

               Christophe made a noise of triumph, hands folding over his chest.

               “I am afraid you three will have to pay a fine.”

               “Yeah,” Christophe nodded in agreement. “Wait, a fine? They set my lawn on fire.”

               Potter bit his lip, something Draco was keenly aware of. “As negligent as their accidental magic was, it was still just an accident. Right guys?”

               “Absolutely,” Greg spoke up, hand not so subtly covering Neville’s mouth when he started to shake his head.

               “What?” Christophe’s tone was becoming increasingly louder. “You can’t just let them get away with it!”

               “Everything alright over here?” Weasley asked as he walked over, eyes looking around closely. His robes were singed, and Draco was pretty sure part of his right eyebrow was burned off. It really was a lovely night.

               “Yes,” Potter turned to Weasley, eyes shifting slightly, probably expressing something Draco couldn’t read. “The fire was a result of accidental magic. They are being charged with property damage due to negligent magic.”

               Weasley arched his brows incredulously as he looked down to his ruined robes. “Alright. Less paperwork for me. I buy it.”

               Draco grinned when Christophe gaped. His smile grew when the arse stormed away, angrily cursing in French.

               Neville whooped loudly, pulling Draco and Greg into a group hug. “I love you guys.”

               “I love you too,” Draco whispered, holding them tightly. “Both of you.” He knew that Potter and Weasley were watching them, probably not understanding their friendship, but that was alright.

               Neville was the adventurous one, Greg was the voice of reason and Draco was along for the ride. He didn’t need romance to form bonds. Friends helped emotionally, and it was already a fact that Greg and Neville were the best friends he could have.

               Romance wasn’t something he wanted to settle on. He was going to love himself first.

               When Neville and Greg began making out, Draco hastily took several steps back. Their friendship wasn’t that close.

               As Draco caught sight of Potter staring at him, he could see interest in those beautiful eyes. A wink had his cheeks heating up. Despite this, Draco knew it wouldn’t be fair to Potter if they began anything with Draco still needing to sort himself out.

               Draco walked towards Potter, aware of the way Weasley made a hasty retreat. “Thank you.”

               Potter grinned slowly, eyes traveling Draco’s face. “It was my pleasure.”

               The urge to forget his new restraint was prominent, but Draco knew he had to remain strong. “Potter, once I gain some emotional stability and become less of a mess, do you think I could—that we could—” Draco huffed as he closed his eyes. “When I find myself again, would you want to go out with me?”

               Potter’s grin became goofy, something that clearly hadn’t changed since their school years. “I’d love to.”

               Draco’s eyes closed again as Potter leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

               “As long as you don’t start any more fires.”

               A startled laugh left Draco as he watched a sparkling shine to Potter’s eyes manifest.

               Draco continued to watch Potter, even long after he left to talk with his co-workers.

               “Looks like the fire was a great plan.” There was a smugness to Neville’s voice that hadn’t been there when he was first introduced to their duo that quickly became a trio. Draco couldn’t be prouder.  

               When Potter paused at the gate, sparing one last smile for Draco, he couldn’t help but agree with Neville.

      “It sure was.”

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

               Draco paused at Potter’s office, unsure if he could do this. It had been a few months since the night on the lawn, and he wasn’t sure if Potter was still interested. They had maintained correspondents, but that was all friendly, never straying into anything that could be considered romance.

               The door opened instantly when Draco knocked. Potter was poring over folders and parchments. When he cleared his throat, and Potter glanced up, Draco smiled at the way Potter’s eyes widened.

               “Draco,” Potter sounded breathless and that had Draco’s heart racing.

               “I wanted to say thank you,” Draco said, wishing Potter’s robes didn’t fit him so tightly. Merlin, it was a distraction.

               “For what?” Potter’s head was cocked to the side endearingly.

               “Getting my seat on the Wizengamot back.” Draco had received several howlers from Christophe blaming him for an internal investigation that ended with an expulsion from the foreign exchange program.

               “I don’t know why you are thanking me.” There was a mischievous twinkle in Potter’s eyes and it had Draco biting back a grin.

               “Word around the Ministry is that you have an in with the Wizengamot Administration Services. Granger just happens to be the next in line to become head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Interesting coincidence?”

               Potter laughed, before shrugging. “I may have talked to her. It was the least I could do.”

               “Thank you,” Draco said, conviction thick. “The least you could have done was nothing, but you didn’t, and that means a lot to me.”

               Draco wanted to squirm when Potter regarded him warmly, chin resting on his palms. “Is that all you came here for? A simple thank you could have been put into a letter.”

               Whoever said Potter wasn’t observant was a liar. Draco shifted on the soles of his feet. He took a deep breath before locking eyes with Potter.

               “I’m still kind of a mess,” Draco began, fingers twisting the sides of his robes. “My house is still in need of several cleaning charms, my furniture has grown on me, I even like the floral print—Merlin knows that will give my father a heart attack.” Potter tilted his head to the side as Draco rambled, and he knew he was rambling, but it was all coming out regardless.  

               “My emotions aren’t ever going to go back to how my father wants. I still want to cause scenes at Ministry functions. The thought of biting my lip to save face like my father wants makes my skin crawl. I want to be loud, I want to be able to express myself and I just want to be me.”

               Draco let out a soft sigh. “I’m not sure how long it will take me to be comfortable with who I am, but I’m getting there. I love myself more than I used to, and I know in a year, I will love myself more than I do now, and that’s progress—progress I can live with.”

               Potter was grinning, eyes lit with many things Draco couldn’t name.

               “I might always be a mess,” Draco continued, voice coming out quietly. “But this mess is my own doing, not a side effect of someone else’s cruelty. That’s enough for me.”

               Potter stood up, making his way towards Draco. “I’m a mess too, I think everyone is.” There were only a few inches separating them. “But I would like to be a mess with you, if you want?”

               Draco threw his arms around Potter, sighing when strong arms wrapped around him. “I want that. I do.”

               As Draco tilted his head back, eyes searching Potter’s, he knew that he would always have things to sort out, always have to be mindful of his self-worth, but that didn’t mean Draco had to go it alone. And as Potter said, everyone’s a mess.

               So why not embrace it?

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

This is for my second prize winner in the giveaway. @ironlilyflower this is for you! It was supposed to be 2k words but it ended up being 3600 words. I really do suck at limiting myself. 

In case anyone noticed, or was curious. This was actually inspired by a song. Mama’s Broken Heart, by Miranda Lambert. 

[ask-the-guardian-of-the-seas]

'I've got you!'

He always pushed himself to hard, To hard, to long. He always wanted to help people, putting aside himself for the masses and forging a smile while he was doing it no matter who the person was, Even when it came down to being unappreciated, He never stopped. He sooner wore a mask that displayed happiness then ever show he was displeased. Always known for having bountiful energy but how much of that was spared for himself?

None at all.

It was a habit he hadn’t broken, One he didn’t know was bad (He wanted to be good for something rather then nothing at all-), He’d been doing all he could. Helping with what he could, Letting Karma chase him around, Traversing places to do his duty within’ the sea’s. Sometimes even different regions, Practicing with Kharon, There was few quiet moments for the guardian, Coupled with a lack of sleep for they’d been filled with nightmares. Ones that he could barely refrain from screaming out, Only holding it back out of the courtesy of sleeping others…mainly grovyle..how could he dare even consider his own fear to awaken the one who got so little sleep as is.

It was all accumulating onto the guardian all at once, His own exhaustion well hidden as he worked outside in the Garden he’d begun and was so carefully cultivating, It was a sunny day. Nice if he wasn’t so tired already, He should have known not to get up like he did, He knew he was tired, that his body normally healthy was weak from no rest. But a tired mind didn’t puzzle it in until it was to late.

Standing was enough for him to black out, send him crumbling back down like a rag doll, (Perhaps no one had seen and he could brush it off, Continue his work-) But luck was not (is-) on his side. He didn’t hit the ground, rather arms had caught him, swift enough to stop him from dropping into the grass.

He was so tired.

That it took a moment before his eyes blinked open partial way.

“I…-.”

They’d just be excuses.

[your-art-is-gay]

A little backstory: About a year and a half ago I came across a promising book called Everland by Wendy Spinale. It was a retelling of Peter Pan, but recoloured in steampunk and a post-apocalypse, set in the aftermath of an alternate World War I. It sounded fascinating, frankly, and I was thrilled to read it. Surely, with such an interesting premise, it must have been awesome, right?

Instead, I found a poorly-told story with poor characterization, ridiculous and unnecessary retcon, poor pacing, a terrible prose, and so riddled with historical inaccuracies that I honestly don’t think she bothered to do any research at all.

In a fit of righteous fury, I decided to rewrite it. So I spent an entire afternoon researching and writing. Then I promptly forgot about it.

Anyway, this post recently reminded me of it, so I went and found it. I only have the first chapter written, and I don’t really intend on continuing it, but I just realized that I haven’t posted any of my writing yet (because I’m terrified of thieves), so, here it it.

NOTE: I wrote this back in May of 2017, and other than fixing a few spelling mistakes, I haven’t edited this. So if it’s completely terrible, please don’t think this is an accurate representation of my current writing skill. Thank you! :)

ONE:

It had been nearly a year since the bombs dropped on London, the German bombs that had betrayed the Peace Treaty and let out a deadly virus that killed thousands. The once grand city lay in smouldering ruins, a ghost of its former self. One could hardly recognize the place it had once been.

From the top of what was left of Big Ben, it was possible to see the decimated city in all its glory. It was a fantastic vantage point, and not one that the Marauders―German soldiers still lingering in the city―dared to use. The bombs had caused the stairways inside to collapse, leaving the only paths to the top through the twisted heaps of metal that used to be the gears of the clock. The Marauders were far too cowardly to risk their lives climbing up the clocktower, and they weren’t agile enough anyway. Any inexperienced climber would have a hell of a time making it up alive. Luckily for the boy sitting at the top of the tower, he wasn’t inexperienced.

He was known by many names, the boy was, many of them foul. Only a few months ago, his moniker had been Star, but he had left those who had given him that name far behind. To the Marauders, he was known mostly as “Geist,” the boy who vanished into thin air right before their eyes and existed only to taunt their very existence. Before the bombs had dropped, he had been known as Will, and though that life was far behind him, he had decided to use that name once more. Besides the broken stopwatch in the pocket of his jacket, his name was the only thing he had left of his old life.

Will’s gazed out at the smoking ruin of his birthplace, an empty feeling in his chest. In the past six months, he’d grown all too used to this view. It almost didn’t hurt to look at where his childhood home lay anymore―almost.

Childhood home. What an interesting choice of words. Will may only have been fifteen, but he was no longer a child. War forces one to grow up far faster than they should. He’d learned that much very quickly.

At this height, he could see the lines of Marauders, tiny as toys, moving through the streets. The enemy was on the prowl, and that meant the hunt was on. Something halfway between a grin and a grimace twisted his lips as he jumped to his feet. 

Time to toy with some Marauders, he thought, sliding his bow over his shoulder. It was karma time.

He tucked himself away in the shadows, watching the soldiers from his second story vantage point. Silently, he slid his bow of his shoulder, took an arrow from his makeshift quiver, and nock it. They’d gotten smarter, he’d noticed; bronze breastplates were now a part of their uniform. He’d have to be creative if he wanted to fell one in a single shot.

Taking a deep breath, Will drew the string back until his hand brushed his cheek. Time seemed to slow as he aimed meticulously, focusing on an exposed stretch of dark skin on the back of one of the soldier’s necks.

3―

Breath, Will.

2―

For Jamie.

And he let the arrow fly.

With a thud, it found its target. The Marauder went down like a sack of coal, his gun clattering to the street. The impact caused his helmet to go spinning off into the gutter.. He was dead before he hit the ground.

“It’s him!” shrilled one of the soldiers, and a twisted smile turned the corners of Will’s lips. It was the reaction he expected, the one he desired. In his own sick kind of way, he loved to watch them panic and flail around, terrified of the next attack. Those rotten Marauders deserved to know how the kids they toted away to Everland felt. They deserved to feel the fear that they caused. They deserved it all.

Two more went down before the Marauders finally had the brains to flee, leaving the bodies of their fallen comrades to rot. The moment they were gone, Will emerged from his hiding spot. He dropped down from the balcony of the once lovely townhouse to the dirty street below with the stealth of a cat stalking its prey. Splashing through the malodorous and possibly poisonous water that had puddled in the cracks of the street, he approached the bodies.

Will knelt down by the corpse nearest to him and swallowed. This was the one who had lost his helmet, revealing his face. Dark hair, dark skin―likely a native German soldier and not a British-born traitor like that Smeeth fellow Will had encountered in the past. The soldier had been so young, Will couldn’t help but notice, younger than Will himself, most likely. 

When one is face to face with a Marauder, it’s exceedingly easy to forget that they are just children. Will had long since learned to ignore the sick that pooled in his stomach whenever he watched one drop dead, an arrow from his quiver pierced through their heart. Most of them were hardly older than he was, and he was murdering them in cold blood.

No one had told him that humanity was a casualty of war, too. He’d learned that the hard way.

But Will didn’t need to remove the boy’s thick leather gloves and see the sores on his hands to know that he’d been very close to dying anyway. The skull-like hollows of his cheeks and his cracked, bloody lips were evidence enough.

When the bombs had dropped on London, one of them had targeted a research facility located a few miles from the city. Unbeknownst to the common folk (and quite possibly the Germans, as well), the facility had been hosting a sample of a deadly virus known as the Horologia virus. It had spread like wildfire, engulfing Great Britain and likely the rest of the world. The adults and the infants died within days. The only ones who had survived were children, for reasons unknown, leaving countless orphans to the mercy of the Marauders.

Unfortunately for the Marauders, they weren’t immune to the disease, either. That’s why they still strolled the streets of what was left of London; on orders of their Captain, they captured all and any children they came across in hopes of finding a cure in their blood. If it weren’t obvious, they hadn’t found one yet.

Will swallowed his disgust as memories flashed through his brain, images of his friends being dragged away, kicking and screaming, by the Marauders. None of them had ever been seen again. He pushed himself to his feet before his brain lead him down that inevitable path again, to the memories of Jamie.

No, he told himself firmly. Don’t even think that name.

To distract himself, Will swiped one of the dead Marauder’s guns and began to inspect it. ‘79 Reichsrevolver, if he wasn’t mistaken. German military issue―nothing too special. Every Marauder had one.

With a hesitant sigh, he pocketed it―after removing the rounds first, of course. He wasn’t ignorant. While he personally didn’t use guns―he found them loud and inconvenient and incredibly lacking in combat compared to his bow (he’d been classically trained)―he knew some people that might like the extra firepower.

Moderately satisfied, he darted back into the shadows, quickly leaving behind the proof of the blood that stained his hands.

Wendy Darling gazed out the window of her hideout, her eyes fixed dismally on the polluted night sky. The city that she as well as many others had once called home had been destroyed, leaving this smoking ruin in its place. She longed to leave this dusty, dingy warehouse and return to the home of her childhood, but she knew that there was nothing left of it. The Marauders made certain of that.

Time to get moving, she thought, swinging her legs over the window ledge.

“Where are you going?” came the harsh whisper, startling her.

It was Joanna, Wendy’s younger sister. Joanna furrowed her brow, crossing her arms over her chest. Tapping her foot, she looked every bit like their mother did when waiting for an explanation upon catching them doing something wrong.

Pressing a hand to her chest and willing her pulse to return to normal, Wendy let out a sigh. “We’re down to a few liters of water so I’m going out to scavenge for supplies,” she said, adjusting the straps of her rucksack absently. “I won’t be gone long.”

Joanna shook her head. “It’s too dangerous,” she protested. “The Marauders―”

“I know how to deal with them, Joanna,” Wendy interrupted. “Just stay here and keep an eye on Mikey until I come back, alright? He’s been having terrors again. It won’t do to leave him by himself,” she added quickly, already knowing that Joanna would insist on coming with her.

The younger girl bit her tongue, knowing that Wendy was right. They needed to stock up, but they couldn’t leave Mikey by himself; he was only six years old. It was better for Wendy to go by herself, as she didn’t have to worry about Joanna and Mikey as well as herself, which made being stealthy a lot easier.

The soft padding of bare feet drew their attention. Mikey had crawled out of bed and had made his way over to them, roused by the sound of their voices. He was the only one to inherit their mother’s lovely blonde hair, but dirt made it as brown as his sisters’, reminding Wendy of how long it had been since any of them bathed. Hygiene wasn’t exactly their top priority anymore.

“What’s going on?” he mumbled tiredly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Nothing, Mikey,” Wendy said softly. “Go back to sleep, alright?”

He shook his head. “Bad dreams.” Mikey reached for one of Joanna’s hands, not seeming to notice how she winced when he gripped it.

There was a reason her hands had been bandaged. The sores on her fingertips had only gotten worse since they’d first appeared, and no treatment that Wendy had tried seemed to work. Joanna, brave Joanna, had never complained, even as her sores worsened, causing her what could only be excruciating pain. Despite all odds, Wendy had managed, somehow, to convince herself that Joanna would be fine. Her wounds will heal in time, Wendy told herself. She blatantly refused to believe that it was the Horologia virus. It couldn’t be. But deep in her heart she knew the truth.

“Come on, I’ll lie down with you. Have I told you the stories about the mermaids in the Thames?” Joanna led Mikey back to the tattered, sorry excuse for a mattress they used as a bed.

“Are they real mermaids?” Mikey asked her, his eyes wide with that childlike innocence he had yet to lose. Wendy never wanted him to lose that innocence, but she feared that she wouldn’t be able to protect him from growing up for much longer.

“Joanna,” Wendy said, touching her sister’s shoulder. Joanna turned. “Try not to keep him up too late, alright? No pirates; you know he’ll be awake all night. We’re leaving when I return.” She hesitated. “Stay safe.”

“We will,” came the response.

Wendy ducked out the window and clambered down the brick wall of the building, easily finding a path in the cracks and holes that laced through the stone. Crevice climbing, while dangerous, came in handy when hiding in these older buildings. Dropping to the ground, she quickly ducked into the shadows.

A zeppelin flew by overhead, the hum of its engines sending a chill down her spine. One of Queen Katherina’s fleet, no doubt.

Queen Katherina of Germany had taken the throne years ago, before Wendy had been born, after the sudden and extremely suspicious death of her husband. The King had been a kind and generous ruler, and many had expected her to be the same. They were wrong.

It soon became clear that Queen Katherina was unsatisfied ruling a single country, and had plans to change that. England, with the help of a few other European countries, had attempted to stop her by creating the International Peace Accords. Every country in the world had signed the accords, for no one wished to allow Queen Katherina to go on a rampage. It was the only thing that every country had ever agreed unanimously on. Unfortunately, the accords meant nothing to the German queen. It wasn’t long before she blatantly defied it and drenched the surrounding countries in death and blood. This had earned her the very appropriate moniker “the Bloodred Queen.”

England was not her first invasion, and if Queen Katherina had her way, it would most certainly not be her last.

With this reassuring thought, Wendy made her way down the street, looking for a place to scavenge.

An hour later, Wendy found herself in an abandoned townhouse, searching through the cabinets for any remaining food. As she’d expected, most of it had been devoured by the rats that scurried around her feet (disgusting), but there were a stack of canned vegetables left behind that she snatched up as if someone were going to appear and take them from her.

The rest of the house was pretty bare, hardly anything useful to be found. Whatever family had left it behind in their attempt to flee London had taken whatever they could. Shame, really. She couldn’t help but wonder what happened to them. Were the children she’d seen pictures in so many forgotten photographs, smiling and completely, blissfully unaware of the tragedy awaited them, still alive? Or had they been taken by the virus, or killed in the bombings, or captured by the Marauders? Wendy would never know, of course. She knew it was pointless, even counterproductive to wonder about such things, but she couldn’t stop her mind from wandering to these places whenever she found evidence of the families left behind in the houses she searched.

While her haul wasn’t the best, it would have to suffice. The cans, a dull knife she found in the kitchen, and a torn frock that would probably fit Joanna occupied her stash. In the last room of the house―a child’s room, judging by the broken toys littered across the floor and the childish decor―she found one last thing: a dingy cloth doll in the shape of a bear. Mikey might like it, Wendy thought, shoving it into her bag. If he didn’t, well, if nothing else, it would make good kindling for a fire.

She headed back out into the drawing room, intending to sneak out the back where she’d gotten in, but the sound of a shout from outside startled her. Nearly dropping her kerosene lantern, Wendy blew out the flame and ducked out of sight of the window.

The loud thumping of heavy footfalls on the street outside meant only one thing: Marauders. They seemed to be running after someone, and at least one of them was shouting in German. Wendy dared a peek out the window. Uniform-clad Marauders were dashing down the street, rifles raised, after a blonde girl. She couldn’t have been any older than Joanna, but despite being chased by a group of armed blokes who were older than her, she was definitely holding her own.

Never stopping, the girl pulled a lever on her peculiar-looking metal-and-leather pack. A cog like something from a clock whirred on the outside, and then two beautiful copper wings sprang out. Just as it seemed as she was going to be stuck in the dead end at the end of the street, she pressed something else on her pack and flew―actually flew―over the high wooden fence and disappeared.

Wendy couldn’t help but feel a little relieved. The girl was one of the first children she’d seen in months besides her own siblings, and knowing that there were still people out there besides the Marauders was reassuring. It was nice to know that some of her own had survived for this long, regardless of how much longer they were going to last.

The Marauders stopped and stared at where the girl disappeared. One, possibly the same one from before, yelled orders and pointed down the street. The helmets they wore made his voice sound mechanical, making them appear more machine than human. Most of the group―about five of them―break off and go down a side street, leaving only the leader and two others behind. They seemed to be conferring with each other, deciding what to do.

Wendy watched them cautiously, wondering if she’d be able to get past them, when she realized that there were eyes looking back at her through the glass. She let out a yelp and fell back, drawing her knife instinctively. On the other side of the window was a boy, his pale face streaked black with dirt and his dirty hair falling into his vibrant green eyes. He looked at her pleadingly. “Let me in,” the boy mouthed, tapping on the glass.

Silently, she shook her head, guilt twisting her stomach. Turning people away for the sake of her family had become second nature to her, but that didn’t mean she felt good about sacrificing them to the Marauders.

He scowled, clenching his jaw. Without another word he pushed away from the window and darts down the street. Wendy tensed. There was no way he could make it past the soldiers without being noticed. Sure enough, one of them looked up, spotted the boy, and―

Fell to the ground, dead.

The other two Marauders jumped back. “GEIST!” one of them shrieked, and they both bolted after the others, not even bothering to remain calm. Whatever killed their comrade seemed to really spook them.

‘Geist?’ Wendy thought curiously. She didn’t know German, but she did know that a lot of German words were similar to English one. Geist sounded very much like...ghost? What on earth were they talking about? 

Mad, the whole lot of them.

From a house down the street, a dark shadow clambered out one of the windows and onto the roof. The moonlight broke through at that exact moment, creating a halo around them. In the light, Wendy realized that it was a boy dressed completely in black. A mask covered the lower half of his face, and there were goggles over his eyes, but she could see quite clearly that he had a mass of black, curly hair. What appeared to be a bow was slung across his body.

The boy on the ground, the one with the green eyes, nodded to the figure on the roof, but the boy with the bow just turned and disappeared without acknowledging whether or not he had seen the green-eyed boy. Wendy got the feeling that they weren’t exactly best of chums.

She watched the boy vault himself over the fence after the girl before she ever dared to move. Wendy bolted out of the house as fast as she dared. She’d never seen Marauders this far from London proper (no, not London, she reminded herself; they called it Everland now), which meant that they were getting smarter―or more desperate. She needed to get back to Joanna and Mikey as soon as she possibly could.

Wendy only hoped that she wasn’t too late.

The brick wall tore and bloodied her fingers as she scrambled up the wall, but that was the least of her concerns. Wendy couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched as she positively threw herself through the warehouse window and into the presumed safety of their current hideout, but when she’d peered into the dark she’d seen nothing. It had taken her longer than she’d wanted to get back here; the sky had begun to lighten with the impending sunrise. That’s what she got for taking an unfamiliar path in hopes to avoid the Marauders. 

She stood slowly, brushing the front of her blouse in a futile attempt to remove some of the dust. Then she smelled it; the sickeningly sweet smell of rum and pine oil. Something was wrong.

And that was when she noticed the tall figure standing in the middle of the room.

Marauder.

Wendy unsheathed her knife and raised it. The Marauder hadn’t noticed her yet, and so she had the advantage. She snuck up behind him, poised to sink her dagger into his back. She brought the knife down―

Faster than she could blink, the boy spun and knocked the knife from her hands, sending it flying across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor, too far out of reach for her to go for it. On instinct, Wendy raised her fist, fully prepared to punch him directly in the face. If anything, it would hopefully slow him down―

Wait, face?

She faltered, and the boy caught her fist. “Blimey, calm down!” said a lilting voice. The boy pushed her fist down carefully, as if he didn’t want to hurt her. Wendy got her first good look at him. Dark hair curled around an olive-toned face, the lower half of which was hidden behind a mask, which was really just a piece of dark cloth tied over his mouth and his nose. A pair of mechanical-looking goggles sat atop his head, revealing that he had steely grey eyes.

Wendy recognized him instantly as the boy with the bow.

She opened her mouth to demand what he was doing there, but before she could, Mikey vaulted around the boy and hugged her tightly around the waist, looking frightened. “Mikey! What’s wrong?”

“The pirates came!” he sniffled, pressing his face into her dirty shirt.

“Not the Marauders,” Wendy said weakly.

“Joanna said they were pirates,” the child said. “She told me to hide, so I did. I hid in the bin until he came.” Mikey’s gaze went to the boy. For the first time, Wendy noticed the frock coat slung over Mikey’s shoulders. It could only belong to the boy, who looked odd without it in his white shirt and black trousers. He’d pulled the mask down around his neck, showing off the rest of his face. He looked fairly normal, to be honest. Nothing particularly interesting about him at all physically. Wendy felt very foolish for believing that this boy could be a Marauder; he lacked the uniform and general stature of a German soldier. Nor was he wearing one of those ridiculous helmets.

Wendy turned back to her younger brother. “Where is Joanna?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

This time, the boy answered. “The Marauders took her. Your sister’s likely in Everland by now.”

[izaswritings]

Title: Dreaming of Flowers

Fandom: D.Gray-man

Summary: In which Alma Karma is recovered not by Central, but by a young Bak Chang determined to save the boy whose life his parents destroyed.

AO3 version is here.

Chapter One is here.

Chapter Two is here.

Chapter Three is here.

Chapter Four is here.

-

Notes: Woo, an update!! I’m really excited to share this chapter with you all—these next few chapters, starting here, mark a big turning point for Alma. I’m so excited to finally start writing it, and I hope you all enjoy!! Thank you as always for your views, kudos, and lovely comments. They never fail to make my day.

Warnings for a detailed description of scars/trauma, traumatic flashbacks/panic attacks, and Alma’s usual brand of murderous intent. 

-

Chapter Five: After the Storm

-

In the aftermath of Central’s investigation and Lvellier’s departure, things finally begin to settle. As if, after that first week of strife, Central’s leave-taking marks the start of a new period— finally healing now that the worst of the damage has been contained. It does not make their wounds ache any less, or the grief any better, but it does mean they can breathe a bit easier, now that Lvellier’s presence at the base is gone, like a sigh of relief echoing in his wake.

Time, no longer a danger, seems to flow normally again. No longer does Bak count the days and hours like a man gone mad, tracking Alma’s wavering hold on life or the time between CROW’s shifts and Fo’s speed. No longer does he count the days until he can rest. The restful days are here, and Bak can finally breathe easy—for now, at least.

Lvellier will be back. Bak is certain of it. The man’s parting words had not been a goodbye, after all—they had been a warning.

Still, the rest, limited though it is bound to be, is sorely needed. Bak finds his days settling into a pattern. His mornings and middays are spent slowly but surely rebuilding the morale and stability of the Branch, restarting projects and continuing tasks that had been stalled by the tragedy. He hires new help to replace the missing, fills the power vacuums in the research and science divisions and sends those too distraught to focus home for some much-needed vacation. Some leave for good. Some don’t.

In the afternoons and evenings, Bak visits Alma. Wong sees to the boy the most, being the primary caretaker for Alma’s injuries, but though it hurts to see Alma, Bak cannot ignore him. People say the pull of grief lessened with time, but Bak isn’t convinced. Nearly a month has passed, but the pain has not, sinking in and settling instead of fading, like a blood stain. Grief is a constant needle-prick, an eternal pull, and just because he’s learned to live with it doesn’t make it any easier. But Bak’s grief is not Alma’s fault, and neither is his guilt—and so even though it aches every time he looks the boy in the face, Bak keeps going, day after day, like clockwork.

Alma, for his part, remains mostly confined to the ruins. His wounds, numerous and deep, take twice as long to heal any other humans' would—but they heal, mending slowly but surely. Alma, on the other hand, goes from quiet and still to almost sullen, resentment and exhaustion always weighing on his shoulders. He talks more, but his voice is either emotionless or bitter or furious, with no in-between. It has been three weeks since the incident, but he has asked for nothing from them.

Bak worries about that, but there isn’t much he can do about it at this moment. He is still doing damage control for Alma’s existence, waiting for the memories of the strange boy who’d appeared during the massacre, injured and screaming, to fade from the minds of his doctors and surgeons, with a little help from time and old magic. And, he suspects, the Order’s memory drug, though he is not brave enough to ask Fo directly.

Underhanded it may be, but Bak will take no chances. Lvellier is cunning, for all his pride. He had not questioned the doctors and nurses then, because they were little more important than finders, and as such expendable and invisible to his eyes. But once the man realizes that Alma’s body is not among the dead, that will soon change. Bak does not intend to be blindsided.

Until then, Alma will have to stay to the ruins. He is hidden from prying eyes, and the remote area is reachable only to those Fo gives access to. It is the safest place to be, right now, and at this point in time that is all Bak can hope for.

Of course, most of Bak’s visits with Alma end in awkward silence. How could they not? But Bak hopes—hopes with every fiber of his being—that maybe the visits are doing some good. That maybe Alma understands Bak’s promise wasn’t a lie, or looks forward to his company.

At times visiting Alma is harder than all of his Branch Chief duties combined. But as Bak walks down the halls towards the ruins where Alma lies hidden, he can’t help but think that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

For all of the difficulties, it is worth it. At least with Alma, Bak can rest assured that is he doing something good.

When he reaches the heavy stone door hiding Alma from view, Bak stops and takes a fortifying breath. The first few times he’d come here, hives had broken all out over his skin. Now it is only nerves that twist his stomach, his skin clear, hands steady. Every day it becomes a little easier to look Alma in the eye.

He knocks on the stone door, the rough material scratching at his bare knuckles, because it is polite and he wants to give Alma some warning before he enters. Then he takes another deep breath and pushes open the door, striding inside.

He doesn’t look at Alma, instead busying himself with pushing the door back in place. Only when the door is shut, and Bak’s clothes brushed free of any dust he could have picked up on the way over, does Bak turn to meet Alma’s eye.

“Hello, Alma,” he says, remarkably calm. Movement on the other side of the room draws his eye; Wong is sorting supplies into a cabinet. Bak had been wondering where he was. “Wong. How are you today?”

Alma remains silent, as usual. He almost never responds to Bak’s questions. Wong merely shakes his head.

“His wounds are healing well, if slowly,” he says simply. “I believe we will be able to remove young Alma’s bandages for good tomorrow, in fact,” Wong adds, smiling down at Alma. The boy looks studiously at the sheets, one hand tightening in the fabric. “After that, I think we can begin rehab.”

“Really?” Bak says, startled but delighted at the news, and this time the smile he gives Alma is small but genuine. Alma’s slow healing has worried at him for some time, and the progress is heartening. “That’s great!”

Alma’s shoulders rise up to his ears, and he turns away, saying nothing.

This time Bak doesn’t let Alma’s lack of enthusiasm bother him, even if the lackluster reaction is… less heartening to see. He pulls up a chair and settles down slowly, hands braced on his knees. “Once we remove the bandages,” he tells Alma calmly, hoping this news will comfort him, “you’ll be able to move around again very soon.”

The longer Alma doesn’t react, the more worried Bak becomes. “I… I think, after that, you won’t have to stay here anymore. The ruins, I mean. That is, if you want…?”

For a moment he thinks Alma will ignore this, too, just as he has all other attempts at conversation, but at this the boy pauses, sucking in a tiny breath and finally turning his head to look at Bak.

“I,” he says finally, haltingly. “I… I can leave soon?”

Bak exchanges a look with Wong. “Yes,” he hedges. “It’s taken awhile, because your injuries were so severe, but your recovery has been… steadily improving.”

“Improving,” Alma repeats, and his bandaged hand lifts to gently touch at his stump.

“Yes,” says Bak, but he’s looking at Alma’s missing arm too, brow furrowed in thought, mind whirling. He hadn’t really dared to think about it, too caught up in Branch politics and making sure Alma was safely hidden from the Order, but now that things are calm…

He bites his lip, unsure, but before he can give voice to his suggestion Alma looks up and meets his eyes head on.

“So you mean, since I’m improving,” he says, voice suddenly so much stronger and yet strangely stripped of emotion, “that means I can leave soon?”

Bak straightens. “The room? Yes. I… I don’t see why not. You might have to stay in the medical ward for a bit, but after that—yes, of course.”

Alma nods over his blankets. “Okay,” he says. He sighs, tension bleeding from his small body, shoulders slumping. He looks relieved. It makes something in Bak twist with guilt, to see that heartbreaking relief in the boy’s drawn face. “Okay.”

“Soon,” Bak promises, stronger now, surer now. The look on Alma’s face, the quiet plea in his voice, has soothed over his worries. He’ll get the boy out of the room as soon as his bandages are removed, and not a week later. “You’ll be able to leave very soon. I promise.”

Alma smiles at his bandaged hands, head bowed and his remaining hair hanging in his face. Bak cannot see his eyes.

“Okay,” says Alma.

-

He is running.

Alma is running, bare feet slapping tile and a winter coat flapping at his heels. The hallway is long, endless, cold as ice. Yuu is front of him, his jacket billowing around him like a cape, inky hair fluttering in a breeze of his own making as he sprints down the halls.

“Yuu!”

Yuu laughs, short and mean, small face turned briefly in Alma’s direction. His eyes are clear and curved in laughter. His smile is all teeth, childish joy clashing with mischievous malice. The halls stretch on before them, endless, dark with uncertainty.

“Yuu, wait!”

“Idiot, it’s not my fault you’re slow!” Yet Yuu is already stopping, feet slipping on the tile, hands pinwheeling to keep him steady. He looks back at Alma, watching him, his shorn dark hair fluttering around his face.

Alma just laughs, breaths panting, trying to catch up. He is almost to Yuu’s side when Yuu suddenly turns away.

“Yuu?”

Yuu isn’t looking at him. He is staring off down the endless hall, peering into the darkness with clear blue eyes. His brow furrows, and his mouth draws down into a frown. Some nameless emotion flickers across his face, and then Yuu is running again, faster than before, flying down the hall like there are hounds at his heels.

“Yuu!” Alma cries, and reaches for him, but all of a sudden, his steps are slow and Yuu is so far away, and his fingers close on empty air. He tries to run after him but cannot keep up, cannot gain ground—the floor like ice beneath his feet, slippery and cold, and no matter how hard he tries Yuu is just so far away.

“Yuu, come back!” Alma calls, but this time Yuu doesn’t hear him, and he runs and runs until the darkness of the hall swallows him whole, devours him in an instant, not even the reassuring thuds of his footsteps left behind.

“Yuu, wait!” Alma pleads, terrified at his absence. “Yuu, I can’t keep up! Where are you?”

There is no response. “Yuu, I think I’m lost. Where are you? Are you here? …Yuu?”

There is no answer. There is no sound. Only silence, and Alma, alone. He is walking an empty hallway. The walls are taller now, taller than anything he’s ever known, the blank and unfeeling stone rising ceaselessly, endlessly. There is no ceiling but there is no sky, either; just the dark. Still, he knows, somehow—that same unfeeling stone sits above his head. There is no fabled blue here, no clouds or wind or sky. Just stone, and ice, and Alma.

“…Yuu, this isn’t funny. Please come back. Please come back. I don’t want to be here alone! Please, Yuu…”

His voice is dying, withering his throat, too quiet for anyone to hear. But there is no one to hear. There is no one else.

Alma walks, and walks, and walks. No one comes. No one is there. Not the scientists or Doctor Edgar or Yuu. He tries to call out again but his voice is silenced. He tries to speak but no sound comes. Even his footsteps have been hushed, his bare heels slamming without sound on the brittle ice.

Yuu, he tries to call. Yuu, where are you?

He walks. The walls have no end. There are no doors. There is no sky. No Yuu. No scientists.

No one.

Just Alma.

He walks on forever into the gloom, but no matter how long he searches, no one ever comes.

-

There are one hundred and forty-seven cracks in the ceiling.

Alma knows this the way he knows that there are thirty-six bricks that make up the wall his bed is pushed against, forty-nine bricks on the opposing walls, and another twenty-one bricks building up the last wall, excluding the door. He knows because in the past three weeks he’s been awake and aware, he’s had almost nothing to do but count them.

Granted, most of his time is spent asleep—Alma sleeps all the time now, for hours and hours on end. In the beginning, he could barely stay awake for longer than two hours at a time; by now he can stay awake for almost six, but those six hours are so boring he prefers to sleep instead, no matter how disturbing his dreams are.

Recovery, Alma is quickly discovering, is awfully slow.

Today, alas, is no different.

Alma is roused from slumber by Wong, who is normally the one who wakes him these days, to change his bandages. As usual, Wong greets his awakening with a warm smile.

Alma fights against the instinctual urge to smile back, irritated by the reflex, and turns his head away. This does not deter Wong. It has never deterred Wong. Another annoyance.

Well-used to this routine, Alma pushes himself up upright with his one remaining arm. It takes him a bit to regain his bearings, his body wavering in the air from the imbalance, but Alma rights himself quickly. The bandages across his chest pull at the motion, but there is no pain—there hasn’t been pain for quite a few times now, if Alma remembers right.

As if aware of Alma’s thoughts, Wong turns to smile at him from where he is fussing with the medicine tray. “Things will be a bit different today,” he informs Alma brightly, and Alma cannot quite help the brief strike of fear at those words before he hears what Wong says next.

“Your bandages are coming off!”

Alma blinks at him, so startled he forgets to be unfriendly. “Off?” he repeats, voice squeaking high in his surprise. He’s forgotten that was to be today; in truth he’s been trying hard not to think about it. In all the time he’s been aware, he has yet to have his bandages removed fully, nor been able to see what’s beneath without wanting to cry.

Wong looks delighted at the simple response, and Alma’s cheeks flush. He ducks his head, biting his lip between his teeth to starve of further outbursts. He can physically feel his cheeks burn red.

“Yes,” Wong confirms warmly, and lifts up a new item from the tray, a handheld mirror with a clean surface and carved wood handle. “I couldn’t fit a large one through the ruins, but I hope this will suffice. Master Bak brought it my attention that we have yet to give you a mirror—I apologize for the oversight.” He hesitates, then offers the mirror to Alma, his face suddenly stoic and uncertain. “Ah… would you like to see?”

Alma stares at the mirror, fear coiling in his gut. His throat is tight. All this time, it hasn’t occurred to him that… well, he looks different now. Another side-effect of the no healing thing.

Hesitant, his remaining hand shaking from either strain or nerves, Alma reaches for the mirror and slowly brings it up to his face. He turns the handle in his hand awkwardly, still not used to having only one arm, until the reflective face is within sight.

For a moment, he cannot even recognize himself.

When the image finally clicks, Alma’s first thought is, bizarrely, Good thing it wasn’t Yuu who got cut up,if only because Yuu has always been a little vain, and he’d have hated looking like this. But all that does is remind him that—that these scars, it was Yuu who put them there, and then any humor in the thought is lost.

At second glance, he doesn’t look that different, just… off. His hair has been cut short, near shaved, probably to avoid getting stuck in his wounds. Most of his face is okay, at least half of it, but the other half of his face—the side with the bandaged eye—is less so. Even with all the bandages, he can see the ends of long, straight, slashing scars cutting down his skin, tapering off at his chin and reaching up into his hairline. There’s even one particularly nasty cut right across his lips, the wound raw and red but sealed shut. The line he’s always had across his nose is still there, and remarkably unaffected, but even that, he suspects, is now bisected by a few trailing cuts, judging from how the left half is hidden beneath the white bandages.

The sight makes his toes curl. If his face is this badly off—even if it’s only half—just what about the rest of him?

Yuu had cut at him over and over and over. That sharp sword had fallen on Alma’s head for what felt like ages, the tip scouring Alma’s face and digging ruthlessly into his body. Alma has the sudden notion that question is not, what parts of me are scarred, but rather, is there any part of me that isn’t.

Silent, he watches without reaction as Wong carefully takes away the bandages, peeling them back layer by layer. His eye is gone, as he suspected, a mess of ruined and torn flesh that will never probably heal. His shoulders and chest are similarly scarred—his right side, with his missing arm, is colored pale and wrinkled, with those veiny scars running across the right side of his chest and crawling up his neck like tree roots, from the Innocence. His left side is no better—it is a mess of straight, clean cuts, vertical scars running all the way down his torso. Even his remaining arm has not escaped unscathed—the same slit marks dot up and down the arm, fewer but no less deep than any of the others. His back, and only his back, is the only part of him left mostly untouched.

His remaining right leg is the most intact of his limbs, with only one long cut running diagonally across his leg. His left leg, on the other hand… that bears no mention. It is gone above the knee, the worst-off of his limbs beside his arm. He missing an eye, an arm, and a leg in full—and missing pieces everywhere else.

The whole time his bandages are being removed, Alma stays still and silent but for the slight tilting of his mirror to get a better glimpse of the damage. He sees every scar in full, every red-inflamed still healing slash in its entirety. Only the ends of his missing arm and leg are left bandaged, the amputated limbs still healing. The rest of him is bared free for him to see.

All those scars. All that damage.

Alma looks them full in the face, unflinching, and only when the last bandage—the very last, the final, revealing one last cutting mark—only then does Alma place the mirror down.

He sits still and tall on the bed, swathed in the starch white blankets, back stiff and tall as if someone has attached a string to his spine and pulled him straight, pulled him upright, refusing even a second of weakness.

He stays that way for only a moment before he buckles, shoulders falling, back bowing, his scarred visage crumbling like a broken doll’s.

Alma leans over the bed and vomits bile on the cold stone floors, but no matter how much he tries, no matter how much he expels, until he left crying and dry-heaving over the dirty floors, he cannot rid himself of the awful sickness swirling in his gut.

-

Bak is slowly starting to like his new office; this is regrettable for many reasons, mainly that despite this, he is still unable to enter without wanting to flinch or cry, respectively, some days worse than others. But he does like it, even with all the bad memories.

It’s the screens, Bak decides, arms resting on the oak table as he scans the numerous feeds above him. Being able to see the whole of the Branch in one room does wonders for his nerves, and it helps to know where everyone is. It’s also rather nice and comforting in what he can’t see. Alma is no-where in the feed, which means no golem has found him or even bothered to float down into the ruins, ergo no slimy Central spy (Lvellier, first and foremost, though from his mother’s complaints Bak suspects there are numerous slimy spy types in Central) can possibly find him.

A strange comfort, to be sure. But still a comfort nonetheless, and Bak will take whatever comfort he can get, thank-you-very-much.

The office is also nice for another reason—the seclusion. It is dark, and safe, and very secretive, which makes it much easier to have compromising conversations in it. Like this one, for example.

“We need to talk about Alma.”

Fo doesn’t look impressed with this statement, but whether it’s the subject or because of the way Bak presents it—feet on the desk, fingers steepled together, swirling to face her in his chair like a theater villain—Bak isn’t quite sure. Might be both, really.

“Stupid Bak,” is all she says. The three weeks of no Central have done wonders for Fo, which includes but is not limited to the return of her normal humor. “What else is there to discuss? Haven’t we already talked about everything?”

Bak raises one finger. It must be suitably dramatic, because Fo’s face pinches with irritation at the sight. “Not,” he says delicately, “about this. Not yet, anyway, which is why we’re having this conversation here, right now.”

Fo clicks her tongue, but she settles in the chair regardless. She does put her feet up on his desk, though, with a slam that makes Bak draw away on instinct and lose the nice ‘leader-pose’ he had going. He scowls at her. She smiles back, all teeth.

“Well, stupid Bak? Spit it out.”

He sighs at her, but lets it go. “Alma,” he says again, and when Fo nods at him, all attitude, yes, I know already let’s hurry it up here, adds, “We need to talk about how to move him into the base.”

The legs of Fo’s chair hit the ground with a thump. Her hands fall away from where she’d hooked them behind her head, and even her feet slide away from the table. She is wide-eyed with surprise, unease rising and then fading from her face almost faster than Bak can blink. “Come again?”

“We need to talk about how Alma will join the base,” Bak repeats, patiently, trying to hide his own unease at her reaction. He knew she’d have some arguments against it, but he hadn’t been expecting… well, that.

He pushes on, regardless. “Cover story, role, background…” Her continued silence makes him falter—this is Fo, and he knows Fo, but Bak is still new to leadership and it makes his voice taper off, waver with uncertainty. “Its… I thought about him going to one of the outside villages, but it’s not safe there. And he’s my responsibility, and the Asia Branch is the most protected place in China from akuma… So…”

“So, you think he should stay,” Fo says, voice blank.

Bak sighs. “I know he probably doesn’t want to,” he admits, voice falling quiet, his own humor fading. “But I don’t…” he scowls down at his desk, furious and uncertain and frustrated in equal measure. “Fo, where else could he go?”

Fo opens her mouth, pauses, and then presses her lips together tightly, looking irritated again. She sinks down in her chair like a limp doll, boneless and sagging in place. “I hate it when you’re right, stupid Bak.”

Bak gives her a thin smile in return. “I know. But, well. Ideas?”

Fo leans forward, chin pillowed in her unnatural hands, eyes distant in thought. “Hmm… researcher?”

Bak bites his lip, grimacing at the thought. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

Fo’s brows furrow, and then her eyes close with a heavy sigh. “No,” she agrees sadly. She draws back and rubs a hand over her face. “Ugh, this is hard.”

“Yep.”

“Hmph. Assistant?”

Bak blinks, surprised. “To who?”

“To you, stupid Bak.”

“Wong is already the Branch Chief Assistant, and I don’t think—”

Fo waves a hand, scoffing. “No, not like that! Alma’s like, mentally ten; that wouldn’t work at all. I mean like… an actual assistant. Let the kid file paperwork, pass along messages, stuff like that.”

Bak considers it. It’s not a bad idea, all things considered—it’d keep Alma as a part of the base, while simultaneously keeping him mostly off-record and away from anything that might upset him, namely experiments and scientists. Plus, if Central ever comes again, later down the road, Bak would have a perfectly good handful of excuses and meaningless tasks to keep Alma busy and far away from them.

It’s a great idea, except for one glaring flaw.

“He’s not well enough yet,” Bak says finally. “His wounds are still healing, and he’s lost… his arm, leg, left eye… Those kinds of wounds take time to get used to. Especially if we want him to go running around the base on a daily basis.” He rubs a hand over his face. “He needs prosthetics.”

“If he wants them,” Fo points out. “A wheelchair is also an option.”

“With just one arm? He’ll need a prosthetic anyway, or have someone push him around every moment of the day.” And Bak may not know Alma very well, but he knows enough to suspect that Alma would despise that. “We’ll still ask, of course, it’s his choice, but…”

Fo must agree, judging by her grimace. “Okay, prosthetics. So what’s the problem, stupid Bak? We’re in the most developed research branch of the Order. There’s more scientists and researchers here than anywhere else.”

The question makes Bak smile, for some reason; it’s not often that Fo shows her lack of understanding about humans. “Prosthetics need to be fitted,” he tells her, trying to hide his amusement. “It’s not a one-size-fits-all deal.”

Fo wrinkles her nose, looking irritated. “Oh.” Her eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Shit, stupid Bak, what the hell are you going to tell them?”

He winces, rubbing a hand over his face. “I… was hoping you had some ideas.”

“Oh, hell,” says Fo. “What about Wong? He’s way better at this stuff—”

“Well, he said to ask you.”

“What the fuck!” Fo shouts, and jumps to her feet to pace around the room. “Ahhh, that asshole, pushing this on me…”

Bak watches her, trying not to smile. “Well, you have been in the Branch the longest. You know what is and isn’t, well… normal. For lack of a better word.”

“Tsk, you think I actually pay attention to what shit you humans get up to here? Unless it’s something big—” She stops, breath hitching. The pause that settles over them is heavy, the massacre and the project hanging over them like a shroud. Fo swallows, her smile gone, her fire dying.

“A test,” she says finally, voice dull. “Or— a project? I don’t know all that science lingo. But you have a lot of new members, right? Lots of new people and new promotions. Tell them Alma is… a test, of sorts. Designing his prosthetics, or a wheelchair for him, tell them it’s, its…. Team-Building Exercise, I don’t know. Exorcists lose limbs all the time, after all… some even survive it. Say it’s the first step to a project like that.”

Bak considers it, trying gamely to ignore her slip. “That… could work,” he starts, slowly. “But how do we explain his presence? Or, his background? And his wounds…”

“How else?” Fo snaps, sounding annoyed. “Stupid Bak! You’re overthinking this. They aren’t going to assume the worst about him, just the obvious.”

He blinks at her, mind whirling. “You mean… Akuma attack?”

Fo waves a hand at him, as if to say, see?

“But why is he here? And why now? And—”

“We don’t have to tell them that,” Fo says blandly. “At least, not right now, and… I don’t think we can decide that without Alma, either, since he’ll have to remember it all. Tell ‘em he’s been traumatized, leave him be, and figure it out later.”

“You don’t think they’ll ask anyway?”

“In this place?” Fo asks, quietly. “Would you?”

He presses his lips together in thought, then sighs and dips his head in a nod, her point made. If there is one thing members of the Order understand, its loss. “…Okay. Okay, this could work. But—”

“Seriously, stupid Bak, if you’re overthinking this again—”

“What are we going to call him?”

Fo stops.

“Alma… he can’t use his name anymore. He just can’t. It’s too much of an indicator. So, if we bring this team in to design his prosthetics, assuming Alma even wants them… and, even if he doesn’t… what are we going to call him?”

Fo looks at him. Her foot taps restlessly on the ground, eyes distant. “Something similar,” she says, finally. “They’ll only need a first name for now; that’s all we’ll give ‘em. Privacy rights or something like that. But for his fake name… something similar.”

Bak bites his lip. He wants to argue, say this is too risky, but he doesn’t have the heart to change Alma’s name completely, make it unrecognizable. Besides, it’ll be easier for him to remember, most likely.

“Alan, Aldo, uh… Alistair? Allen?” Bak is so bad with English names. “Al…ly?”

Fo snorts at the look on his face. “Ask him,” she advises. “Even if he’s forced to pick, at least it’ll be one he chose.”

It’s good advice. Bak relaxes, relieved; making a mental note to ask Wong later for help with picking other Al- names. Maybe there’s a Chinese one, though none comes to mind at the moment.

For the first time, Bak finally feels like things are coming together. That he has a plan, now, and one that might actually work. The past few weeks of peace has been kind, yes, but it’s been a bit like living in stasis—suspended in time, immobile, neither moving back nor moving forward. Just… stuck. This—this plan, this idea, this new name—it feels like Bak is finally moving forward with his promise, and he hopes that Alma will view it the same way.

Things still aren’t better, not really. Bak thinks they won’t be better for a long time. But this feels like the first step, perhaps, in a better direction. Towards a brighter future. One where Alma can live in peace, protected and maybe even happy, hidden from Central and allowed to live as he pleases.

Maybe it’s too optimistic, too soon. But hope, Bak thinks, can never be a bad thing.

“That works,” he says, an honest and real smile on his face. He feels relieved. For all that Fo had argued against Wong suggesting her for advice, she really does have some good ideas. She’s not just a fighter, after all—she’s a watcher. She knows more than even Bak can guess.

“Thank you, Fo,” he says, pathetically grateful. “This helps so much.”

Red blooms across Fo’s cheeks, and her head ducks down as she scuffs her foot across the ground. “Whatever,” she says, but her voice is higher-pitched than normal. “Just… do me a favor?”

Bak blinks. “Yes, of course. What is it?”

Fo looks uncomfortable. “Well, see… there’s this one guy, this one scientist—if you can, can you add him to the team to design Alma’s prosthetics? He’s crazy smart, but mostly… don’t ask me why I’m sure, but he’s kind. I think… it would do him good to meet Alma. And Alma, to meet him. He’s dumb, but he makes people laugh.”

Bak muses on this, but nods. “Sure,” he says easily, trying to push back against the prick of discomfort at the idea of others knowing about Alma. After weeks of spending every waking moment panicked about possible discovery, the idea is something he still needs to adjust to. “Who is it?”

“You just promoted him, I think,” Fo says. “Maybe you know him? His name is Komui Lee.”

-

Change is coming.

Alma is not sure how he knows this, only knows that it is. It’s something in the air, and itch in his skin, that tells him that something is coming. It’s the same feeling that drove him to spy on the doctors the day Yuu collapsed, the same feeling that led him to the Innocence.

It’s only a week after Wong has removed most of the bandages, and while nothing is all that different, Alma suspects it will not last. There is… something. Anticipation, maybe? That makes his heart race and his palms sweat, makes his skin itch and stomach roll. Bak and Wong and even Fo, they’re preparing for something, distracted when they enter his room, when they speak. Even though nothing really changes, and Alma doesn’t really speak, they look nervous, uncertain, more distracted than usual. Of all of them, Bak is the worst—his chatter trails off and his visits run shorter. One day, he doesn’t come at all.

It’s terrifying.

Alma doesn’t know these people, not truly, and even if he did it wouldn’t really help. They wear the same white coats, the same gentle smiles, the same faces, even, when it comes to Bak Chang. The only difference is in action, but Alma held little hope for that lasting, considering what happened last time. This change in the air—this mystery— their silence, and distraction… the very idea of it terrifies him. He can barely sleep. All he can think is that Fo lied, Bak lied, they all lied, and hell never really went away after all.

They can say whatever they like, but Alma knows better now. He knows better than to believe them, no matter how kind their words, or how carefully they smile. Alma is mending, his wounds scarring shut and his mind pulling itself back together. He can sit up without help now, can stay awake for nearly a full day where once he could barely keep his eyes open for an hour. He is mending, and so their kindness will fall away like the mask it always was, and Alma will once more be cast into hell. The experiments, the torture, and the pain.

He’s not surprised, not exactly; he’s expected this to happen from the moment he woke up here instead of dying. Mostly he’s just angry. Hateful.

…Terrified.

Each day Bak walks in, Alma waits with bated breath, heart pounding. Each day he leaves, and nothing happens, Alma finally relaxes. The fear never fades but it varies, still, is strongest when Bak is there, because Alma knows that whatever Bak decides will change Alma’s remaining life forever.

He knows when Bak is due to visit him, and just like every time before, when Bak arrives, Alma freezes. He’s not sure what about Bak irritates him so much, angers him so greatly. Maybe it is the look on Bak’s face, the gleam of his eye. Maybe it is the smile on his face.

He looks so much like Doctor Edgar that for a moment Alma is blinded by his hatred, so angry he doesn’t even hear what Bak is saying, his hearing a mess of white noise and a steady pounding, right up until Bak says, “Is that okay?”

Alma stares at him, uncomprehending and a little thrown; he does not think he has ever heard those words before, at least not directed at him. No one has ever asked Alma if he was okay with something, or least never asked the question about anything important.

“What?”

Bak doesn’t look irritated at his confusion, merely gives a patient sort of smile and repeats, “Is that okay?”

Alma feels stupid and suddenly ashamed for not listening, and then angry all over again, because he hates feeling stupid. “What did you say?”

“Ah,” says Bak, realization on his face, and before Alma can muster the energy to be upset about that too, continues, “I was saying that we—ah, that is, Fo, Wong, and I—we were thinking of moving you out of the room soon. Out into the… Main Branch. Sometime later this week, if all goes well, but to do that we need to give you an alias.”

Alma blinks. “Alias?”

Bak frowns in thought. “A… fake name, if you will.” His gaze settles on Alma, calm and almost pitying. “I wish we didn’t have to, but your name is… known by Central, even if your face isn’t. So. A new name.”

Alma stares. “A… new name.”

“You don’t have to pick a full one now!” Bak assures, hands half-rising from his knees in assurance. “Just a first name. I… we thought it would help if the first two letter remained the same, Al-, to make it easier, but you can take any name you choose.”

Alma ducks his head. “Al- names are fine,” he mutters. “Pick whichever you want.”

“It’s your choice,” Bak pushes. “I—I made a list, if you’d like to look and pick, but there is no need to—”

“What names are on the list?”

Bak pauses, startled into silence. “Ah, um. Alistair, Algor, Allen, Aly—”

“Aly’s fine.”

Bak hesitates again. “Are you sure? There are—there are many other names, if you’d like to...”

“Aly’s fine,” Alma repeats, trying to sound sharp, but he just sounds tired, instead. He brings up his one good arm to lay across his face, hiding his expression from view. The fact it hides him from Bak too is merely circumstantial.

Bak is silent for a long while. “Aly it is then,” he says at last, gentle. “That’s all we need for now. The rest of your story… we have time for that. People here… they know not to ask about the past. You’ll be fine for a while, as they get to know you.” He hesitates again. “Alma…”

Bak trials off, goes quiet. When the silence stretches on too long for his liking, Alma takes a fortifying breath and says, voice only a little strangled, “What is it?”

Bak doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then he sighs, slow and careful. “Alma,” he repeats. “Would you… would you like some prosthetics?”

He doesn’t want to ask. He doesn’t want to ask, except—

“Prosthetics?”

“They are—they are artificial uh, devices? They’re built to replace lost body parts, like your… arm and leg. Or eye, even! We could—we could build you an arm. A leg. It wouldn’t be the same as the real thing, of course, but it would give you more mobility if—”

“Okay,” Alma says, and Bak falls abruptly silent, sucking in a breath and whatever else he meant to say, fingers tightening on his coat.

“Right,” he says. “I’ll get on that, then.” His hands tighten again, then relax, and Bak stands from the chair, the legs scraping back against the stone with a soft screech. He’s messing with a nearby side table, and after a moment he pulls out a silver pen, triumphantly holding to above his head, reaching for some paper with the other. “I’ll need some time to—”

But Alma isn’t listening anymore. The moment Bak stands, hand held high above his head, aboveAlma’s head, the little silver pen gleaming in the light, in the corner of Alma’s eye, Alma’s thoughts stutter and halt, the planet stilling. It’s as if the world has gone blank and hazy, reality warping before his eyes. Like standing in a room and spinning until you can’t stand, limbs weak and head aching, and no matter how hard you try everything is still changing around you, distorting before your dizzy eyes. The lights are dimmed, the walls far away and too close in equal measure, and for a moment the cloth bedsheets against his back almost feel like stone—

His mind is filled with white noise, his vision blurring and ears ringing. Alma cannot breathe. He is drowning, drowning all over again, the world dark and cold and lonely, his back against stone and blood in his lungs, limbs burning, and the only thing he can hear is Yuu crying and the wet thuds as Yuu’s pretty silver sword, now turned ugly red, digs again and again into his chest, and then nothing, nothing, because Yuu is gone, Yuu left him there—

“Alma? Alma!”

There’s a hand on his shoulder, a familiar voice ringing in his ears— “You’re so young,” this voice whispers, a hand brushing his cheek, “Oh God, look at you, you’re so young,”—and Alma curls in on himself to escape that hand, to escape that lying voice, crying; near screaming, wanting nothing more than to get away.

I can’t breathe.

“Alma, please—”

“Stupid Bak, what did you do—”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, he just—”

And then a new voice, soft and gentle, low and rhythmic, closer than the others and calm where they are frantic, says, “Young man, can you hear me? I am here with you. Can you hear me? Alma? Alma, listen to what I say.”

In Alma’s ears he can hear the ringing of white noise, the pounding of his heartbeat and footsteps, the dull thud of a sharp sword hitting flesh, the scrape of his Innocence along the floor, the crack in Yuu’s voice as he says—

But this voice, calm and controlled, mingles with the others, breaks through the noise. “Breathe in,” this voice is saying. “Breathe out. Breathe in.”

But I can’t breathe.

“Yes, you can. Deep breaths, Alma.” Something cold presses against his hand, wet and dewy against his clammy palm. “Alma, you are holding a cup of water. You are in the Asia Branch with me, Master Bak, and Miss Fo. You are here, safe, in this room.”

The voice is wrong, he must be, Alma is in— he is in— he is in a dark room—but there is light in his eyes, and the glass is cold against his hand, icy on his skin, solid and real, and why is there? It wasn’t there before, he knows this, it was—

“Alma. With me. Breathe in. Slow inhale, and exhale.”

It’s so hard to breathe.

“I know. It always is. But you can do it. Breathe in.”

Yuu—

“Breathe out.”

Alma is drowning. Alma’s lungs are filled with blood and bone and ash, and Yuu is gone, the shining silver sword gone with him, and there is stone under his back—

Except no, that’s wrong. Stiff cotton sheets, and lit stone walls instead of empty corridors. No screaming, no crying, no flash of that shining sword—just white coats, a cold-water glass, and a calm voice, Wong’s voice, saying “Breathe in, young man, breathe in.”

Alma opens his mouth and breathes.

He sucks in air as though he is starving, as if he hasn’t breathed in years. It’s too quick, too uncontrolled, and he gasps as if he truly was drowning, chokes and coughs and tries to keep from sobbing. He pulls his hand around himself, a makeshift hug, his fingers clenched white-knuckled on the glass of water, and turns his eyes to the sheets so he doesn’t have to look at them.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since the world, since everything went—back—and it terrifies him, because Wong and Fo are here when they weren’t before and for a moment Alma thought—Alma truly thought—

“What,” Alma whispers, because he has felt that before, he knows he has, back when remembering a life that is no longer his, but those were memories of long ago and so it made sense to remember them, but this—but this—

“Flashbacks,” Wong says. His voice is as calm and controlled as ever, but there is a sheen of sweat on his brow and a nervous tremble in his fingers. “They are—a usual symptom, after… traumatic experience.” A pause.

“Human,” Bak says suddenly. Alma looks at him. Bak is standing stiff and still near the door, looking the most rattled that Alma has ever seen him. His hands are twisting around again and again, and there are strange splotchy patches on his face, white and red and sickly-looking. Bak looks dizzy, leaning against the doorway like his knees are weak, and the sudden loss of control startles Alma more than he can name. In this moment Bak doesn’t look like Chief Twi or Doctor Edgar. He looks unsure, weary, and guilty—things that they never were.

It makes Alma uncomfortable to see Bak like this. He doesn’t know this man. He doesn’t even like him. But he looks into Bak’s face and has a sudden sense of—of understanding, maybe, and the thought makes his skin crawl.

Alma looks away.

“Human,” Bak says again, undeterred by Alma’s avoidance. “It’s a very human reaction to… trauma. I—That is— The Order has… much experience with it.”

Alma stares at his sheets. He isn’t sure what to think. “Oh,” he says, and leaves it at that.

There’s a rigid silence that falls after that, tense and uncertain—Wong, quiet but worried; Bak, who Alma won’t look at, who still seems so frightfully different from what Alma expects; Fo, whose knowing eyes are boring into Alma’s back.

“A-Alma,” Bak says, and then takes a deep breath. “Alma, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I did or said to, to trigger that, but….” He hesitates. “I, I’m sorry. Was it…” He falls quiet. “No. No, never mind.”

Alma curls his fingers into the cloth sheet. He has some idea of what Bak is wondering, and the reminder makes his stomach churn. He doesn’t know what, exactly brought it on, but he doesn’t think it was the talk of scars. But even if it wasn’t his scars that brought on—that—that doesn’t mean they aren’t…

He can’t look at himself in the mirror. It’s not—it’s not as bad as the flashback, not really, nothing so sudden or awful as that. But he still can’t do it. He feels sick whenever he tries, dizzy and nauseous and light-headed. His missing arm is mind-boggling, but it is the only part of him he can look at without feeling like he’s seeing a stranger, like his body is not his own.

It’s not so much his new appearance, though that is part of it. It is deeper than that. It is the fact that Alma is scarred now, and that alone he could live with, but every scar—every single one, except for the root-like remnants from the Innocence—they are from Yuu. Yuu’s sword. Yuu’s attacks. Proof, in a way, of just how thoroughly Yuu tried to kill him.

Yuu has cut Alma to shreds.

Yuu… You hurt me so badly. Did you hate me, for trying to kill you? I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But does that mean… do you still…

…Do you hate me, Yuu?

These questions swirl and tumble around his mind like a whirlwind. He doesn’t know the answer to them, doesn’t even want to acknowledge them, not really. It’s a fear he ignores, but no matter how hard he tries it remains in other ways, like the sick churning of his stomach every time he sees his face and remembers what happened, the tightness in his throat when he becomes aware of his missing leg. But worst of all is the strangling hold of his chest, painfully tight, that creeps in whenever he thinks about Yuu.

Yuu, Yuu, Yuu. All of it, Yuu.

How easy it would be, to tell them this. But they don’t deserve his answer. They don’t deserve to know Alma’s memories or his regrets or his fears, even they’re eating him up inside.

They can ask and wonder all they like. Alma will say nothing.

“It doesn’t matter,” Alma says. He breathes in, breathes out. His hand is trembling. “Get out.”

“Alma—”

“Please,” Alma says, and hates how his voice cracks, how his hand is still shaking, how afraid he is. He is so angry. He is so scared. He is all of these things, and he hates most of all how he just sounds weary instead, like he’s about to cry. “Get out, get out, get out!”

Bak stares at him, then sighs, slow and careful. “All right, Alma,” he says, soft. “Just know I am… truly sorry for… that.” He waits. When Alma doesn’t reply, his shoulders slump, and he waves Wong and Fo from the room. They go quietly, solemnly, eyes darting back as if Alma in his grief is too fascinating to look away from. He hates it.

Bak lingers by the door.

“We’ll start the prosthetics soon,” he says. “By the end of the week if all goes well. Let me know if you would like more time.”

He waits, but when Alma does not reply, reaches again for the door. Before he exits, he pauses.

“Alma,” Bak says. He opens his mouth, closes it, then grimaces and tries again. “I hope you—I wish…” He sighs. “Good night,” he says finally, “and… I hope you have sweet dreams, Alma.”

He is gone before Alma can think of a reply.

-

A week later, Alma opens his eyes to a new room.

Bak, Wong, and Fo had moved him here only a day before, in the dead of night, or what passes for night when the whole population is living inside a mountain. The journey had been nerve-wracking for more than one reason— even with Fo subtly shifting the halls and corridors of the Branch to keep any wandering feet far from their path, the rattling noise of Alma’s bed as they dragged him through the rubble of the ruins, the click of the squeaky wheels on the stone: all threatened to give them away. Worse yet, for Alma, was the pain—with every time the wheel would catch on stone, or the bed jump, his newly-scabbed wounds would ache, his severed limbs throbbing and his eye and head going dizzy. He’d spent the whole journey gritting his teeth, and Bak had spent the whole thing murmuring apologies until Alma was just about sick of hearing of them. An exhausting night, to be sure.

For Alma, though, the discomfort has not ended. Where in the beginning he could not seem to stay awake, now he cannot seem to sleep. The new room does not help—just through the walls he can hear the soft breaths of other people, patients and nurses bustling down the halls. The stone walls and carved columns do not hide the fact this is still a hospital, and the presence of the equipment, along with all those strangers, so close…

The fear clogs up his throat. The paranoia keeps him awake.

(Or maybe it’s the nightmares).

Either way, the result is that Alma is not nearly as happy with this change as Bak and the rest seem to be. It’s necessary— for all that Alma has no wish to stay here, to live here, he needs some mobility in order to achieve his goals—and the prosthetics will help with that. Besides. After almost a month stuck in bed, Alma is starting to get restless. He needs out. Which is very hard to do when Central is still looking for him, and when one is missing an arm and leg.

Bak had explained it clearly and carefully to Alma when he’d asked. The scientists can help create an alibi. They’ll assert Alma’s presence at the Branch, and the month since the massacre will help solidify Alma’s new identity. In a way, his slow healing has given them time. What would take others weeks to heal takes Alma months; they’ll assume his wounds are from something fairly recent, not from the massacre.

It’s necessary, but that doesn’t mean Alma has to like it.

Today especially is a bad day. He’s been dreading it since the moment they moved him here. Today is when he first meets the… scientists.

Alma does not have high hopes. Bak has assured him he’ll only meet with one person, for now—he’s about as worried about this as Alma is, though Alma has no idea why. But one person is still one person too many. Bak, Wong, Fo… Alma has gotten used to them, but even they make his skin crawl. They are all guilty, all liars, and just because he’s used to them doesn’t mean he likes them. Or trusts them. And the more people that learn about Alma, the more people that know him…

He’ll kill them all, if it comes to it. If that’s what he needs to do to be free, to die without complications. Alma has done this all before, and Fo may have the Innocence, but Alma doesn’t need the Innocence. Damn the Innocence, anyway. He’ll teach humanity a lesson if it’s the last thing he does, be it with God’s Crystal or a normal knife. All Alma needs is time.

But the longer the list of names grows, the harder it will be.

As the morning creeps on, Alma grows more and more nervous. His fingers pick at the sheets. He tangles the stray threads around his hand and tries his best to keep from throwing up, or God forbid, crying again.

He hears them coming before he can see them. Hurried and heavy footsteps, and far-off laughter, and then before Alma can react the door to his new room flies open.

Bak storms in, face flushed and pale in equal measure, ears burning red and teeth grit. Alma flinches back, but Bak isn’t looking at him, just stomps to one of the chairs shoved in the corner and sits down with a huff.

The laughing voice draws ever closer, and a new man bursts through the door, Fo following close behind him, her smirk wide and fierce with a mean amusement.

“Bak~” sings the newcomer, arms thrown wide and a beaming smile on his face. He says Bak’s name in a cutesy sort of drawl, drawing it out childishly. The innocent sing-song does not match the downright manic grin on his face. “I meant no offense!”

Bak turns bright red, stutters a little, then shouts “Shut up!” in a voice so high pitched it’s practically unrecognizable.

Alma looks at Bak, a man he has thus far seen as a male and more nervous version of Chief Twi, then looks back at the newcomer. His stare is shameless.

The man stares right back, not even pretending to hide his interest. His hair is dark and slicked away from his forehead, hidden under a white hat. His lab coat is more gray than white, stained with strange colors. On his nose, thin spectacles rest, and above them his dark eyes shine like new coins. He’s far older than Alma, maybe Bak’s age, but something about him makes him seem much younger.

He is dizzying in his intensity. Alma has never known a man like this. Even the most eccentric scientist in the project was subdued, quieted by the secrecy of the whole thing, but there isn’t a single thing about this man that seems in-check at all.

“Hello there!” the newcomer says brightly—too brightly, too loud, and his booming enthusiasm is so different from what Alma is used to, he can’t help but cringe away when the man’s hand is shoved in front of his face.

For a single second, the man pauses, something strange passing over his face—and then his hand pulls away, waves in the air, as if brushing something away.

“Hello,” he says again, but there is something calmer about him now, more settled, more controlled, something softer and kinder. Behind him, Fo is smiling, soft and pleased. “I am Komui! Ah, well, Komui Lee. Has Bak~” here he abruptly switches back into sing-song, drawing out Bak’s name in a teasing way that makes the man snarl from his chair, “—told you about me?”

Alma watches him warily, uncertain how to respond. “You—you’re… making the—the—” He can’t remember the name. He’s trying, but he can’t remember the name. He feels the heat climb up his cheeks.

“Prosthetics!” Komui supplies brightly. “Yes, exactly! I mean, not alone, of course—apparently I am not allowed without supervision.” He sighs, heavily, as if this is a great loss. “But! I promise you I will do my best to keep their boring close-minded hands off what will be the greatest prosthetics ever created. By me, of course.” He beams. “Now, Bak~ over here hasn’t told me anything—very rude, but, well, he’s my boss for now—”

“Act like it!” Bak mutters from the wall. Then his voice rises. “Wait, for now?!”

“—So, I will simply have to ask you myself!” Komui continues, as if Bak has not spoken. Alma watches, fascinated, eyes darting back and forth between them.

Komui merely smiles. “What’s your name?”

“Al—” At the last second, he remembers, Bak’s suddenly serious expression jolting him from the dream-like daze Komui’s entrance had wrought. “—ly.”

“Aly?” Komui repeats, and smiles again. His eyes are softer. “That’s a good name. Well, Aly—I promise to do my best for you. Let me know if you have any requests, yeah?”

Alma searches his face. Komui’s smile never falters. “…All right.”

“Me specifically,” Komui presses, leaning in as if to share a secret, on hand rising to hide his mouth from Bak. In a loud whisper that isn’t really a whisper at all, he says, “Don’t tell dear Bak, yes? He’s so boring, he might veto all of it!”

“I’m WHAT,” says Bak. Fo starts laughing.

Alma stares at him, bemused, but he can’t hold back the quick-silver smile that flashes over his face, tugging at his lips and creasing at his single eye. Komui beams, wider. He is— he is ridiculous. He is so over the top it’s dizzying, so free with his words and emotions that it doesn’t even occur to Alma to wonder if they are fake. He is just so much.

“I will,” Alma says, biting down the smile before it can grow, but unable to keep the laughter from his voice. Bak’s furious muttering suddenly hushes. Fo’s eyes are wide.

Komui Lee just smiles.

“Great!” Komui stands, spins on his heel, points at Bak. “You! I need measuring tape, pencils, a ruler—”

“Why are you pointing at me!?” Bak yells, broken from his surprised silence, and in the doorway Fo laughs and laughs, and outside a nurse is yelling out at them about the noise, and Alma— Alma can’t take it anymore. It’s been building since Komui burst in, with every time he said Bak’s name, with every instance of bright red on Bak’s face.

Alma laughs.

For the first time in months, it is not hate or pain that brings the pinprick of tears to Alma’s eyes. It is joy, joy that bursts like a firework in his chest, bright and glowing. His eye curved shut in perfect happiness, his back bent double with the force of it, Alma laughs. He laughs like he never has before, fierce and childlike, hiccupping on his laughter and shaking from head to toe. He bends so far, his forehead brushes the sheets, and he’s wheezing from the lack of air, ribs aching from the strain. His laugh is loud and bright and stuttering, and it rings out clear in the sudden silence.

And for a single shining moment, Alma is happy.

[thecatfreaks]

-all- of the questions!!

You really are a curious one...

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents?

No i do not

02: Who did you last say “I love you” to?

Magnus

03: Do you regret anything?

Many things in the past. Some too private to talk about.

04: Are you insecure?

Extremely.

05: What is your relationship status?

Taken

06: How do you want to die?

Fast and painless. Preferably in my sleep.

07: What did you last eat?

... i can't remember. I think i forgot to eat today but the last thing i remember was strawberries.

08: Played any sports?

No

09: Do you bite your nails?

Not really

10: When was your last physical fight?

Does pouring wine over people count? Then i think... last week?

11: Do you like someone?

Yes

12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours?

More than that.

13: Do you hate anyone at the moment?

Instead of hating i choose not to care about people because in my opinion that is worse.

14: Do you miss someone?

No

15: Have any pets?

Not right now but i used to have a cat. Does teddybears count?

16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment?

It's complicated. I am whiny.

17: Ever made out in the bathroom?

Yes

18: Are you scared of spiders?

No

19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance?

No because the past made me who i am today and got me where i am.

20: Where was the last place you snogged someone?

On the couch

21: What are your plans for this weekend?

Probably... buying more flowers.

22: Do you want to have kids? How many?

I am not good with kids. I haven't thought about it.

23: Do you have piercings? How many?

Three. My ears and my lip.

24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)?

Things where i could be creative

25: Do you miss anyone from your past?

No

26: What are you craving right now?

Cuddles

27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart?

Probably unintentionally.

28: Have you ever been cheated on?

Yes

29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry?

No

30: What’s irritating you right now?

The lack of cuddles

31: Does somebody love you?

I hope so

32: What is your favourite color?

Purple

33: Do you have trust issues?

Yes

34: Who/what was your last dream about?

I dreamed about cats...

35: Who was the last person you cried in front of?

Magnus

36: Do you give out second chances too easily?

Most likely yeah

37: Is it easier to forgive or forget?

Forgive. I never forget

38: Is this year the best year of your life?

Yes

39: How old were you when you had your first kiss?

23

40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked?

When i was a child yes

51: Favourite food?

Japanese food. Anything really. I don't have any preferences.

52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason?

Yes. That's also why i chose the name karma. You get what you deserve.

53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night?

Brushed my teeth

54: Is cheating ever okay?

Never

55: Are you mean?

Yes. I definitely am. The meanest person on this planet.

56: How many people have you fist fought?

Uh i... well... one?

57: Do you believe in true love?

I want to say yes but i am scared.

58: Favourite weather?

Rain

59: Do you like the snow?

No

60: Do you wanna get married?

Yes one day

61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby?

Makes me shiver so yeah

62: What makes you happy?

Flowers, cats, magnus, music, art, cuddles.

63: Would you change your name?

Already did

64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed?

No

65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do?

Tell them i'm gay

66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around?

I don't have a female friend

67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to?

My... grandma

68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with?

Magnus

69: Do you believe in soulmates?

Yes

70: Is there anyone you would die for?

Yes

[spider-bih]

Ugh P.5.5 [Peter Parker] [Soulmate AU]

Pairing: Peter Parker x Female!Reader

Warnings: Cursing, more angst, mentions of pain etc

A/N: Sorry this took so long! Also- I’m an evil asshole I know. This bit is a little short and is mostly in Peter’s P.O.V c; Also- I’ve hit 300 followers! What should I do?

Part 5, Start from the beginning, Masterlist

Imagine growing up in a world where everyone has a soulmate- everyone is meant to be with someone. Imagine getting to watch everyone around you figure out what their tie is to their soulmate. Tattoos, timers, and red strings were the most popular, but they weren’t the only ones. There were others like, seeing in black and white until you meet your soulmate or seeing only their favorite color- these ones that made it harder to find your soulmate. Imagine having none of these for all of your life. No string, no tattoo, nothing. Then someone mentions the pain tie- the rarest of all the soulmate ties. Imagine hoping to whoever might be up there that you had this tie- that you had something- someone. Imagine trying so hard to look for signs- doing subtle things like hitting your toe somewhere or being risky in hopes the injury you get might cause your soulmate to strike back.

Imagine nothing happening- being told that the only way to know if this tie was yours is if you felt some immense pain you know you didn’t cause. It doesn’t matter how old or young you are- just imagine it. Imagine feeling this alone- imagine seeing the sad numb faces of people around you with no tie to anyone. Now, imagine you thinking that that would be your life. That you’d never have a love like you saw in some couples on the streets or on TV.

For a moment, imagine being Peter.

For fifteen- damn near sixteen years- his entire life- he thought he was going to be alone. Then one day- out of the blue, he feels something. An intense burning on his tongue and throat- it shocks him so bad he damn near falls. Was that it- was that the sign? He hoped it was- but he has no time to dwell on it. He’s swinging around and someone throws something his way. His web snaps and he’s falling, chest scraping on the floor- something else is thrown at him- it’s heavy and hard and it damn near crushes his leg- but he can’t think about that. He hears a shrill cry from afar and despite the ache in his leg, he has to get up to help. So he does- he does and you’re there, huddled up in a ball. He feels something- but he doesn’t know what yet. He asks if you’re alright.

“Uh- yeah. I just- my soulmates uh- he’s stupid and uhm- I don’t need help. I’m- I’m good.“, you tell him and his heart stops. His whole world stops- no- you couldn’t be-

“Oh- you have that kinda tie too? I mean- you sure you’re not hurt?“, he asks. He wants you to answer the first question- but that would be crazy. His luck couldn’t be that great, right?

You ask him if he’s okay then, and he just brushes it off, letting it slip that his soulmate hurt him as well. Something flashes in your eyes and hope flutters in his heart. He doesn’t even know you- not yet- but he just wants a soulmate so badly. He wants to know that he’ll have a love like his Aunt and Uncle had- he wants to be that happy- wants to grow old with somebody. He wants to be loved. 

You punch the wall- he’s shocked. He’s shocked because why would you do that? Because oh god he feels the pain. He feels it- he feels you.

“You..”, you murmured. He repeats your word and then you’re throwing something at him- then you’re yelling and at last you’re running. You’re running from him- and there goes his luck. Of course his soulmate would be like this- of course you’d run from him.

Of course you didn’t want him.

Yes- he’d heard you. You shattered his heart into tiny little pieces- you didn’t want him- and you said so, but he acted like he couldn’t hear. It wouldn’t count if he hadn’t heard, right? Maybe you’d change your mind- maybe you wouldn’t break him like this. Maybe he wouldn’t go the rest of his life thinking he was a mistake. He’d already thought so before he met you- and now he would think it even more after you left him. He’d been picked on for his lack of a soulmate- for his scrawny body and nerdy type ways. Society poked and prodded at him- breaking his self-esteem with each and every push and shove. As they happened- as the mean words were slung his way, he didn’t think much of them. They didn’t hurt as bad- but now that he thought of it, now that he felt all of them piled up all at once- it hurt. Your words- they hurt. Why didn’t you want him? There had to be more to it than just his alter-ego. He was scared of putting those he loved in danger too- but he had to do it. He was given these powers for a reason. They gave him abilities he could only dream of- but he never dreamed they’d make his soulmate not want him.

Was that the price of this life? The loss of you?

How cruel of the universe. Hadn’t he paid his price already? Was his beloved Uncles life not enough?

He guessed not- maybe he deserved this. Maybe this was his karma for letting his Uncle die- for letting his Aunt lose her world. Maybe just maybe.

He deserved this- he deserved that hard hit to his chest. He deserved to have the wind knocked out of him- to have that blade slash through his side and make him bleed out. He deserved to fall and crash into an empty alleyway- but did you? No- you didn’t, and that was probably why you didn’t want him. You didn’t deserve to feel his pain, did you? No. You didn’t deserve this ache- and yet he was reaching for you anyway. Just his luck- he crashed right next to you, a copper taste filling his mouth as his fingers reached for you, tugging the fabric of your shirt. You started screaming again and he found himself smiling bitterly beneath his mask. Was that all he was good for? Hurting you?

Then it hit him. You were right.

You weren’t meant for this life- you were just unfortunately thrown into it. You were part of his karma. He didn’t deserve you- but he deserved to lose you. That’s what you were meant for, right? He was meant to think you didn’t exist for sometime, and then just suddenly meet you. He was meant to feel such immense hope- and then have it be broken by you. You weren’t meant to be with him or love him.

You were meant to break him- and so you did.

“God- you idiot.”, you whispered, pulling him further into the alley, and that was all he heard before darkness consumed him.

Part 6

Ugh Tags: @leilei-draws, @i-larb-spooderman, @sarcasticvodka, @jinxstarfire, @hollandroos, @cubedtriangle, @hufflebuffpitch, @reigna-a, @spideythewebsitter, @lionfart, @iamaliceinwonderland, @sneakered-salamanders, @cerealwaterandfishsticks , @johnsonxstilinski, @incoherent-smiles, @profmmcgonagall, @thatcrazywhovian09 , @the-redthread, @nicunt

Permanent Tags: @o-brienwrites, @spidergirlwanab, @thumper-darling, @mydearestsammy , @bagginsofbagend, @hofsten , @cosmetologynerd [Hope I didn’t forget anyone :/]

[anitabrain]

using my words

I think i’m going to start describing my outfits with words rather than pictures because i feel like intimate descriptions always make certain things feel more precious and special. also my department head wants us to write in preparation for our thesis, and i’m going to start that as well but its some bullshit like write as soon as u wake up in the morning before u even get out of bed but i launched out of bed into a panic attack because henry dropped the ball on the maid service and sent me into a full spiral about how everyone hates me because im messy and disgusting. So i wasn’t in the mood today. Anyways,

I got a black coffee from some random place and spent a reckless amount of money at the overpriced co-op flea market near my sublet because i have a cry-headache-hangover and being inside the space comforted me. I needed to hold precious junk in my hands to feel sane again. I got more cigar boxes and this time I got some vintage magazines because I’m gonna do some test ones for this idea i had about cigar boxes+my thesis. So that means I’m headed to blick. I felt a tinge of regret for not bringing my sewing machine back from providence, as i had debated it in my mind heavily before leaving. But my thinking was that lack of sewing machine accessibility would force me to get creative. Here are the things i picked up at the flea market:

-2 cigar boxes (Romeo Y Julieta brand because I am a romantic after all)

-2 rusted heart charms 

-flower crown of fabric flowers because it was also adorned with a large fake wasps nest 

-1 white pearlescent seashell flower necklace

-1 oval shaped-broken half-locket necklace for Saint Ann that reads “Saint Ann ... Pray for us”

The last item I purchased, for Saint Ann. Anne was my paternal grandmother’s name. From what I’m told she was cold and wicked and cranky most of the time, and my parents used to say when I was little i was a reincarnation of her because I would say creepy old woman things when i was still toddling. She died before I was born, very shortly before actually. My mom was still pregnant with me and just about to give birth. I’ve often thought about if i am in fact her reincarnation, here to resolve the karmic debt she left in the last life. She retreated entirely from emotion (I’ll tell you she never said “i love you” to her kids as a sort of blanket indicator to what kind of mother she was and what kind of childhood she gave my father) and maybe her karma is being me, this emotionally seasick, oozing wound of need. What she didn’t release in her last life, she now profusely bleeds at all times in this one. I remember I used to talk to her ghost. I’d go into the backyard (instinctively knowing, with the uncanny intuition into the spirit realm only a child can possess, that being outdoors=increased closeness to the divine) and stare up into the trees and whisper to her that people said we were alike. That i was sad I didn’t get to meet her, and that even though people said she was mean I still felt like we could get along. We might be one, after all. 

Now with materials in hand for box making, it’s off to blick. Here’s what I need:

-Mod Podge

-Xacto knife

-scissors

-brushes

I was already wearing my white cotton “J’aime Rodarte” tshirt I bought at beacons in brooklyn when I came to visit the last time before moving here temporarily, and the light blue denim miniskirt from Savers. I realized when I got home that my skirt had swiveled around to the side while i was walking, i considered leaving it there because maybe its fashion, you know? But i didn’t have the wherewithall today. I slipped out of the rubbery blue-gray Vivienne Westwood flats with pink Westwood seal on the very short toe (that made my feet look long and nubby at the end in a sort of pleasing, rather feminine way). I anticipated sweating in the heat, so at my little makeup mirror I weaved two braids intertwined with shiny ribbons that tied into lopsided bows at the end. I chose spring green, because I’m not feeling very well today. While struggling with the right side bow, I pinched one eye shut and in the blur of my tensed fingers and the brushlike end of the braid coiled in the ribbon, I noticed the spring green of it, and the pale seafoamy green of my acrylic nails, and realized I’m thinking about the color green now. I put on my two new necklaces. Miniskirt back on. Flats back on. Beige canvas totebag with lavender "Glossier” printed on it back over my shoulder. And im gone.