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wondernus · 10 months

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˗ˋˏ When We Meet Chapter 2 ˎˊ˗

synopsis: there is only so much forgiving and forgetting you can do when you end up getting stood up by your date over and over again. so when you're stuck between the best friend, the first crush, and their mysterious roommate whose existence seemed like a myth, you can only hope the decision you've been making is the right one.

pairing: kmg x reader

chapter tags: food/drink, mentions of drunk characters, set in the past, last year of university

wc: 2.2k

message from nu: feelings of nostalgia, first crushes, and the mysterious roommate you swore you never saw before. I hope you enjoy ch 2 - nu ♡

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“How come I never get to see your roommate?”

DK looks up from his stack of papers in confusion. It’s a thin stack of tri-colored leaflets and loose handouts from all of his classes that he shoved into his school folder. Some of them didn’t even make it into his folder — he simply shoved the papers into his backpack when he started experiencing senioritis halfway through the semester. Now, the papers resurfaced onto the park table, folded and crumpled with more folds than origami paper fans. He’s pretty sure he’s spent more time trying to figure out which pages contain information for his finals than actually spending time studying.

“What do you mean you never get to see my roommate?” DK answers your question with another question. “Minghao literally came to the park with us.” He places his pencil box on the stack of papers he needs to keep and passes you a sheet of paper from the stack he doesn’t need.

“No. I meant your third roommate,” you correct him while taking the paper from him. “The bottom bunk.”

You fold a corner of the A4 paper to the edge of its opposite side and press along the crease. You drag your thumb’s fingernail along the crease to ensure a sharp and straight fold. Some of the wooden park table’s old blue paint chips and gathers under your fingernail, and you pick it out using your pointer nail. Folding the remaining rectangle against the triangle, you make sure to mark the edge before tearing it off so only the triangle remains.

You don’t know if DK is ignoring you or staring blankly at his notes so you clarify your last statement, “Mingyu.” You look up at DK. “The tall scrawny kid who you said spits while he talks? Like a splash zone?” you inquire.

“There’s no way.” DK’s eyebrows scrunch against the creases of skin between his bushy and unkept brows. “I refuse to believe you’ve never met him before.”

“I dunno.” You shrug your shoulders while you concentrate on folding a giant “X” in your sheet of paper. “I don’t remember seeing him face-to-face or ever having a conversation with him.”

“Nahh. You probably saw him before, but you were just too hungover or drunk. Either one.”

Being drunk you understand. And sure, you have to admit that your head hurts like hell when you’re hungover. However, despite the sharp and agonizing pain you feel in your head after drinking, you’re pretty positive that you could remember and recognize who you interact with. Mingyu was never one of them…at least that’s what you remember.

It feels like clockwork — creasing, folding, and tearing a single sheet of paper to produce those little pocket toys you used to swear by in elementary school. After a few minutes, a small and light blue colored fortune teller sits in front of you. You haven’t made these in years, yet these look just as mesmerizing as ever. It’s as if some genius combined a game of M.A.S.H. and a magic 8-ball together to create the fortune teller. It makes you feel as giddy as a child just from the act of pushing the fortune teller flat so you could write random numbers and answers for questions you don’t already know the answer to.

There’s something very sentimental about folding origami at the local park where children chase each other around the playground and soccer balls crunch against the patchy green grass in the fields two weeks before you graduate from university. But here you are, folding fortune tellers while DK pulls a packed lunch out of his backpack. A store-bought sandwich from the small convenience store in the Student Center on campus, snacks, and a small juicy clementine — your typical Google image search lunch. He peels his tiny clementine, tiny crunches ticking his ear every time he pulls the skin away from the juicy orange flesh. He manages to peel the fruit in one go and admires the circular-shaped fruit sitting in his palm, the zesty fruity smell filling the air.

Time moves forward, yet special moments have a way of bending that linearity — pausing or even bringing you back in time while you stay in the present. Sentimentality is weird, you think. But you recognize that you long for it to stay every time it comes around.

In the distance, dressed in all black, Minghao balances his cell phone against his backpack and struts towards his phone. He trimmed his beloved manbun down to a mullet with long and blunt bangs that hang a little below his eyes, framing his v-shaped jaw. Even the black glossy shine of his fresh manicure shows clearly in the little video he is filming. Yet, his same warm smile and carefree personality stay. And your heart can’t help but melt a little every time he puts his arm around you, thumping happily as he asks about your day.

DK sections his clementine and pops them into his mouth one after the other, slowly chewing as he watches his friend document his outfit of the day from a distance.

“Honestly.” DK coughs a little mid-chew. He swallows before he continues his train of thought. “I’m so glad he’s out of his manbun phase. His whole aesthetic was bordering on cultural appropriation. Oh, I also had to talk him into using non-DIY shampoo and conditioner because I swore I kept seeing buildup on his scalp. Do you think I should receive some sort of credit or reward?”

“He’s pretty,” you muse, smiling to yourself while scribbling an answer down, purposely dotting the I’s with tiny scrawled stars — a tiny heart when the thought of Minghao falls into your mind. If DK asks about the stars and heart, you think you would reply with the fact that you were going for a Kidcore aesthetic.

“Puh-lease,” DK snorts while turning back to his stack of papers. “His bangs are so long he probably forgot what we look like. You should see how Mingyu looks now.” He winks at you.

But you don’t catch his subtle gesture as you continue to jot down your final answer. Feeling giddy inside, you quickly fold the origami back to its completed form, insert your fingers between the flaps, and hold it out to your friend.

He looks enthusiastic at first, quickly wiping his hands off to the side of the table until he stares directly at the fortune teller. He squints at your little project and leans in closer, nose scrunched in tandem.

“You realize I can barely read what you wrote because you folded it printed side up, right?” he comments on your mistake while looking up at you.

“Stop being an ass.” You roll your eyes and nudge the fortune teller closer to him, “Choose.”

“Uh…I want ‘Quantity A and Quantity B…-ormation centered.’”

“Just read what I wrote,” you push.

Eventually, the two of you end up at the last flap. Eyebrow cocked, you unfold the flap with a dramatic flair, hand thrown into the air after letting go. Fake gasping, you pause for effect. He plays along by clutching his chest even though he’s feeling terribly embarrassed.

“You will sell your soul to the devil in order to make tons of friends.”

He immediately frowns and jerks the fortune teller from your hand. “You were able to fit all that in a single answer space?” he asks you incredulously while staring at the piece of paper.

“Nah, it just says ‘idk.’”

He turns to you with an unamused look on his face and immediately hands you back your fortune teller. All of a sudden, the fortune teller you hold in your hands feels used — the bad kind of use. It’s not DK’s fault at all. It just feels like you’re holding something that once held a lot of memories, something once of use, something you’ll have to part ways with eventually. And it sucks feeling this way about a tiny craft you made and used only once one spring day.

A tiny brown bird with a white underbelly lands on DK’s stack of papers. It stays there for a few seconds, tilting its head towards you, staring at you with its circular black eyes. With two little hops, it quickly flies away. Its plight is strong enough to shift the upper three sheets on the stack of papers, but not enough to shift your new mood.

You wonder if moments are meant to be fleeting or if they should be kept for as long as you can keep them. Maybe it’s the Spring blues or whatever you want to call them. It feels weird knowing you won’t be seeing your college friends every single day after you graduate. And it feels weird that you’ve only known DK and Minghao for a few years, but it feels like you’ve spent eternity with them. You want to hold onto this moment, whatever you can manage to call it or define it as, just a little longer.

“Hey, did you want to grab dinner with us later?” DK interrupts your thoughts.

You drop the fortune teller on the table, letting it roll one, two before it stops on one of its edges.

“Mingyu’s coming back to eat with us,” DK quickly adds, realizing he never answered your previous question as to Mingyu’s whereabouts. He fidgets with the idea of telling you that Mingyu visited his family for the weekend, but he decides not to because it isn’t his place to tell — the two of you aren’t even that close. There’s no use in telling you extra information that you don’t need to know. However, he’s still in disbelief that the two of his closest friends have never officially met.

“Oh I can’t. I’m taking grad pics with my club later.” You’re slightly bummed you wouldn’t be able to meet Mingyu.

“Next time then.” He smiles and turns back to his notes.

Yeah…next time.

Late Spring weather and early Summer heat feel hot and sticky on your skin. Beads of sweat collect on your upper lip, and you can feel your t-shirt cling to your lower back. Maybe you're imagining things. Nobody around you seems to be experiencing the same thing. Your friend across from you abandons his notes, and he searches for an easy origami tutorial on his phone. Minghao is long gone, no longer under the tree. He’s probably strolling around the park by himself, hands clasped behind his back like a kind elder who smiles and nods at you whenever he passes you on the road. Yet, you’re stuck in your seat, intrusive thoughts filling your mind.

“Hey DK, do you think we’ll grow apart after graduating?” The question unexpectedly comes out of your mouth.

This reveals itself to be the answer to your worries.

“You okay?” DK looks up from his unfolded origami frog, the same one he used to play with when he was a child, the same one that would make him laugh enthusiastically at how the frog hopped forward when he tapped its back. He thinks Minghao would like it if he made him one. “Having a little existential crisis there?”

Words can’t find a way out of your mouth. You’re afraid of losing this moment, mentally preparing yourself over the course of the last few weeks. Afraid of losing those around you again.

In your world, there is no Yn — singular. There is always Yn and blank. “We come as a package deal,” “BOGO,” “three peas in a pod”: these are all phrases associated with you, phrases you always repeat to others. An introduction of sorts. Lately, you’ve been needier than ever, asking close friends to hang out more and more. You make excuses to stay out longer, telling yourself experiences are worth more than your morning class test in a few hours. You’ll double book yourself with different friend groups, even if it means driving an hour to hang with the next group in a different location. You hate being lonely, yet the only person who doesn’t see that loneliness as a burden is a guy who seems like a background character compared to his roommates. His kindness is genuine, something that you know you can’t take for granted.

“Hey, I’ve known you for like what? Three? Four years? It’s not like I can immediately drop you from my life right after graduating. You also still owe me for all the times I sneaked you into the resident dining hall for free meals.”

He knows you lost touch with your hometown friends almost immediately after you started college. “Best friends forever” written in silver permanent marker and decorated with glittery stickers and pages of personalized yearbook inserts eventually hold as much meaning as quickly scribbling “H.A.G.S.” in the yearbook of somebody you once borrowed a pencil from. And he knows how you cried after you made your first friend in college, one month into the semester.

“Just promise me that you’ll always be my friend.”

“Why are you being all sappy? It’s weird.” He tries to laugh it off, but, in all truthfulness, he’s worried about you.

“Promise me,” you whine.

“Okay dumbass. I promise you.”

#svthub #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #mingyu imagines #mingyu x reader #seventeen au #svt au #seventeen series #svt series #mingyu series #mingyu x yn #mingyu fluff #seventeen fic #mingyu angst

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zurajanaizurakoda · 14 days

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Katsura's Lasik Adventure

This post is still on my mind, where Elizabeth discovers that Katsura has always had bad eyesight but hates Amanto technology and refuses to acknowledge that there's anything wrong with him. Specifically when I suggested Elizabeth would want to perform non-consensual Lasik on him while he slept. I'd like to clarify that non-consensual activities are normally very bad but this is a scenario that would very much happen in Gintama, wouldn't be weird by their standards, and would make you laugh. So anyway,

(mild warning for comedic violence, especially if you don't like eye trauma)

Gin and Elizabeth accidentally knock Katsura out while fighting over whether they knock him out or drug him (Of course Gin is on this shit, Elizabeth showed up and indicated through signs that she intended to fuck with Katsura-san in a way that is morally indefensible and technically felony assault, but in the end would be beneficial to him and might even help keep him safe and Gin didn't even put up a pretense of asking for a payment, he was down with that.

(to be fair, I think Gin feels this way about anyone vulnerable to social degradation)

Also, yes, they were arguing about how to kidnap Katsura right in front of him, he's famous for not paying attention.

So anyway, he's already unconscious so why look a gift horse in the mouth. It takes them all of fifteen seconds to convince the Lasik people that Katsura was nervous and got drunk before the procedure (because Gintama) and (because Gintama) it's either a 5 second procedure reminiscent of scanning a barcode or it's a lengthy horror scene reminiscent of the dentist episode where Katsura is strapped into a machine in a blatant rip-off of Clockwork Orange and you don't see the procedure, just the increasingly distressed looks on Gin and Elizabeth's faces as you hear sounds of power tools that should not under any circumstances be used around eyes. You know there is no in between.

In any case Katsura is fine by the next scene and they leave him where he was knocked out. As he's waking up it occurs to them they never came up with a reason for his eyesight to change and as Katsura sees leaves on trees for the first time they run through a dozen unlikely scenarios before they settle on convincing him he must have hit his head in the exact right spot to activate superhuman vision. (Medically plausible! Didn't you hear about that one guy in that one place?) And within a minute Katsura's convinced that his eyesight was always fine but now it's omniscient.

He proceeds to lecture Gin and Elizabeth on their poor eyesight, drawing attention to things any sane person would notice normally like he's unveiling clues at a crime scene, laughs boisterously about everything and being generally insufferable until they mutually decide to kick his ass (most Katsura-centric plots involve this in some way)

To everyone's surprise, he becomes more clumsy (because he's distracted by everything) and his swordsmanship becomes significantly worse (because he's used to fighting based on sound and vague movement and all the new visual information is confusing and overwhelming) And for a week or two Elizabeth and the Yorozuya are forced to shadow him and keep him out of trouble like a Buttons and Mindy episode (90's kids, amirite?)

#gintama #katsura kotarou #sakata gintoki #elizabeth #drabble #headcanon #not really headcanon at this point

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ddarker-dreams · 3 years

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Epiphany. Yan Albedo x Reader

Warnings: General yandere themes, implied unhappy previous relationship, and spoilers for Albedo’s story. Word count: 2k.

It wasn’t fair.

A snowstorm, unlike anything you’ve ever seen rages outside, shards of lustrous ice falling from the sky with the intent to kill. The Dragonspine’s traditionally somber ambiance contorts into something far more sinister. Numerous hues of grays and dark blues blur together, obscuring your view of the mountainous region. It’s difficult to see anything outside Albedo’s workshop save for the storm.

“Your shaking won’t stop unless you sit by the fire.”

His matter-of-fact declaration startles you. Albedo hadn’t spoken in some time, his attention devoted to a specimen he had discovered prior to the storm. You would’ve shared in his enthusiasm if not for the overall situation and company. Sighing reluctantly, you stand from your spot, hugging yourself to stave off the biting cold. It’s impossible to settle on which is worse: staring at the blizzard or staring at him.

Albedo’s fair skin glows from the light of the crackling fire, sandy blonde hair tousled around his face without care. As he studies the new specimen, his lips purse, eyes focusing on nothing but the work before him, like nothing else mattered. This is how you’ve always known him to be. Even if the world was falling apart around him, Albedo would never falter from what catches his interest until he felt sated.

Sensing how you’re fixating on him, his attention flickers briefly to you, an unidentifiable emotion gleaming in his eyes. You’re the one to avert your gaze first. Sucrose is going to owe you majorly for this one, why did you even accept her request in the first place? Thinking about it now and cursing your past self does nothing yet you still occupy the time by doing just that. She had come to you panicked, pleading that you take this letter to Albedo in the Dragonspine, claiming it’s urgent. In the heat of the moment, your judgment lapsed and you caved. She spoke of needing to continue her research in Mondstadt or else she would’ve done it herself.

Look where your goodwill has gotten you now, you think. She owes me a week’s worth of dinner.

You lament giving credence to his advice, but your stubbornness concedes, the cold too miserable to withstand any longer. The fire is right by his side to add insult to injury. Did he do that on purpose to spite you? It’s unlikely, yet your mind wanders to the worst-case scenario. If any other citizen of Mondstadt were privy to your suspicious thoughts, they’d think you unreasonable, as Albedo has established his reputation well. He’s a known eccentric, sure, but a genius one. A few quirks on his behalf that anyone else could overlook.

Quirks that you used to overlook yourself.

“Would you please grab my bag,” he doesn’t look away from his prized sample but motions to the general area it’s in. “I need to write down my observations.”

You follow through with what he asks. There was a time you’d have been over the moon to participate in his process, you used to practically trip over yourself to do anything he needed. That enthusiasm has long died off and been replaced by apathy. It’s when he reaches out to take the bag from you that you snap from your trance-like reverie. Whatever remnants of obedience that lingered in your subconscious are brushed away, as you decide to finally challenge him.

Inhaling sharply, you hold the bag just out of his reach, finally earning his recognition for more than a millisecond.

“I’m not your assistant anymore.” Among other things, you think.

The words come out more childish than you intended. What you had meant to communicate was your new, critical view on him — he’s a person just the same as anyone else — who held no authority over you. You hold your breath awaiting his response. Albedo doesn’t have an intimidating presence, not in the traditional sense. It’s his mind that you’re wary of. There’s no guessing what sentiments run through his head, yet that’s never stopped you from trying to unravel the mystery that is his thought process.

He gives you a long, hard stare. “I’m aware of that.”

Where were you going with this again? Albedo doesn’t need to point out your needlessly spiteful behavior with words, his mildly irate facial expression says it just fine. His thin eyebrows threaten to furrow together and the corners of his lips curl down into a frown. You’re unsure of what bothers him more. What you pointed out, or that his work is being interrupted for even the slightest moment.

The budding confidence you had is all but crushed beneath the weight of his unblinking gaze. Clearing your throat, you decide to take a new approach, straightening your posture in an attempt to be taken more seriously.

“Then tell me, why do you still act like I am?” Your question comes from a genuine place of confusion. Ever since your arrival, you’ve begrudgingly done the odds and ends he’s asked of you, almost like clockwork. You had fallen back into the rhythm that was your life up until a month ago. There was just something about the silent authority he carries that makes it impossible to say no.

That is, until now. You’re determined to clear up the problems that have plagued your mind. Albedo’s had his time to be nonchalant like nothing happened between you two, but you’re not having it anymore.

“Force of habit,” he nods his head towards your hand that holds his possessions captive. “Now, would you please…?”

Your grip tightens and you shake your head defiantly. “No. Or at least, not until you give me a better explanation. Not just about that. How you act in general… none of it makes sense to me.”

It wouldn’t take much effort from his half to wrangle his bag from you, you’ve seen him in action before after all, so it comes as a surprise when he instead gives in. You blink, gaping when he takes a seat by the roaring fire, and motions for you to do the same. An opportunity like this is hard to come by. The past few weeks, it’s been your code of conduct to avoid any interaction with Albedo, but your frustration can no longer be repressed.

You take a seat by his side but intentionally leave some distance.

There’s so much you want to say. Insults, questions, demands, anything. Anything that could give just a hint of closure that he refused to offer himself. It doesn’t help that this familiar area brings memories with it — good and bad alike — painful nostalgia eating away at your heart from the inside out. While you battle with your inner thoughts, he observes you in silence. For a time you hear nothing but the crackling of the fire and wind howling outside.

Finding the courage to speak up, your throat tightens as you force a question out. “Did I… mean so little to you?”

It’s rare that Albedo ever looks taken aback, but your inquiry managed to do just that. His eyes widen ever so slightly, confusion etching onto his face before he manages to compose himself. Lots of intimate discussions had gone this way. You’d spend hours prepping yourself, meticulously going over what it was you wanted to say, only for the words to die on your tongue when you saw him.

“I don’t understand what you mean.” He appears genuinely perplexed and you can’t help but feel silly. It may have served you better to think long about this, you realize, but now it’s too late. You rush to explain yourself in hopes of making better sense.

“When I said I wanted to, er, part ways,” you can’t help but cringe at not knowing the proper label for ending whatever was going on between you two, “You just seemed, I don’t know, indifferent…?”

In your head, this went down in such a different way.

Your cheeks are set ablaze by the humiliation his silence brings. It’s not the first time you’ve felt this exact way when bringing up your feelings to Albedo, yet it’s just as awful. Archons, does he always have to look at you like you have three heads?

When he finally gives you an answer, you wish you had never asked.

“I knew you would come back to me eventually.”

Now it’s your turn to give him an incredulous look. He says it without an ounce of hesitation, never once breaking eye contact, his resolve holding firm. Sensing a need to clarify, he attempts to do just that.

“I considered a variety of variables,” he raises his hand and brushes his knuckles over your face, the unexpected tenderness making you shiver. “I know how your mind works very well. When you told me that’s what you wanted, your physical mannerisms didn’t line up with what you were saying.”

Your heart drops but he doesn’t stop there.

“Biological responses never lie. It wasn’t anxiety that kept you from looking me in the eye then, it was reasonable doubt. You know it as well as I do. There’s something about me that you can’t place, and the natural human response to the unknown is caution.”

He stops caressing your cheek. “So, tell me [First], and maybe then you’ll reach the conclusion you’ve been searching for. Why are you afraid of me?”

Everything feels wrong. How he’s whispering such horrifying ideas into your mind, leading the conversation with expertise. Is it charisma? You don’t think that’s the proper word. No, it’s how damn certain he is, how he never once leaves room for argument.

Albedo appraises your silence coldly.

“See? You’re not sure yourself. Thus why I knew you’d return to me,” he retracts his hand and leans back, but the ghost of his touch leaves your face tingling. “When you don’t understand something, you study it. That’s who you are. It’s why I picked you to be my assistant, that quality of exhausting curiosity, much like the one I have myself.”

He’s hypnotizing you with his words, his even tone, his silent authority. You’re drawn in like a moth to a flame and trapped in a verbal standoff. Whether it was a result of your Vision flickering subconsciously resulting in the fire diminishing or some other cause, you realize what little warmth in the cave is disappearing, your breath materializing in front of you as a result.

But it’s only yours.

That’s when it clicks deep inside the recesses of your mind. Apart of what always bothered you about Albedo was this sense of uncanniness. Whenever you thought you were understanding him better, new mysteries would arise, leaving you worse off than when you started. This combined with his workload and the emotional distance you felt between the two of you is what led to your separation.

Albedo’s face is but a few inches away from yours. He’s patiently awaiting a response or anything you could muster to challenge him with, though both of you are aware that no such thing exists.

You manage to surprise him again by asking another question. “Why… why are you not breathing?”

And how could you never have noticed until now?

His long eyelashes flutter shut. “Relationships truly are troublesome. There are unspoken rules and expectations, both of which take effort to satisfy. I hadn’t mind trying to do so to keep you happy, but that approach didn’t work as intended.”

Had it not been for the hammering of your heart and how lighthearted you feel, you’d challenge him on his definition of trying. Instead, you watch without so much as moving an inch, too in awe to utter a single word.

“You always asked me to be more romantic, but I guess the phrase you take my breath away won’t suffice here,” he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll tell you, but once you know… well, I don’t think I can ever let you leave my side.”

“I hope you won’t mind keeping me company a bit longer than you intended to.”

#albedo #albedo x reader #yandere albedo x reader #genshin impact #albedo genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact imagine #yandere genshin impact #yandere #yandere x reader #my stuff

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yetanothergreyjedi · 3 years

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What We Might've Been: Part 2

Part 1 Part 1.5

Part 3

Inspired by @liminalhollow 's Spork AU

For @dargeon-lissa @dp-marvel94 @aethtalon

...

“I- Uh- I’m not you- I-“ Danny racked his brain for an explanation that wouldn’t immediately get him killed. He'd entered the ghost's haunt. How had his room become a ghosts haunt?! But the thing didn't attack, didn't possess him, or use some mind altering power. It only tipped its head and watched him flounder for words. It seemed to notice it’s disguise slipping. The light in its eyes faded, leaving behind a dead grey-blue.

It sighed, "Did Vlad do this?"

"W-what?"

"Vlad Masters. Did he do this?"

"Why would Dad's creepy friend send me to the future?" He still didn't think it was the future, ghosts could have some crazy powers but that? No.

"Because he's a fruitloop." It answered immediately, and accurately, the guy from Wisconsin wouldn't leave his mom alone. But why, how, could he have anything to do with this?! The thing stopped, its eyes flashed green again for a moment as it said, "Wait- Future?!"

Danny nodded, he'd barely been sure what was happening but he was certain that's was what the ghost had said. Surely one ghost's explanation would be more accepted than the other?

“Where’s your medallion then?”

“My what?”

“Clockwork’s medallion. I know how time travel works."

Danny opened his mouth, then closed it. Ignoring the utterly bizarre statement. This was a trap, a trick. The ghost masquerading as him either wanted the object for itself or it wanted to remove his only protection against the other one, the one that had frozen him in place without seeming to expend a drop of energy. No, no, it couldn't have it. But there weren't many other options. He should've known better than to bring up the time question! He needed to get out of here!

He threw the first thing he could reach, hoping to catch it off guard and ran towards it— Through it, even better. He sprinted down the stairs. There was a flash of bight light behind him, he dodged low, almost throwing himself down the stairs before he realized nothing had been fired.

"Whoa, hang on!" Its voice echoed in a way it hadn't before. He kept running, not wasting a moment to glance at it, and ran directly into someone.

"Whoa! Hey, Dann-o! You came outa—"

"Ghost! In my room!" His dad didn't miss a beat, the gun was up by the time he finished the word 'ghost' and he was firing by time the sentence was over.

The specter dodged the first blast, made a shield for the second and paused to speak, "So not cool, man!"

His mom heard the commotion and joined the fray, while Danny sprinted to the basement. He needed a weapon, that thing had been mimicking him. He barreled into the lab, to the weapons case. Opened it and—

Crash.

He barely jumped back in time to avoid getting crushed.

What?!

Who filled the case with all this junk?!? The case was the second most important piece of the lab (the portal took first), not even Dad wouldn't do this?!

"Danny?" Sam looked at him from the other end of the room, slightly baffled. Tucker was also staring. "Did you bring it?"

"Bring wha—"

"Dude, what's with the jumpsuit?" Tucker cut him off, "Is it really that dangerous? I thought you said you blasted it?"

"What? We talked about the jumpsuit!"

"Did we?" Tucker looked to Sam.

"No." She affirmed.

"Could you explain it again, then?"

"Its cause of all the ghosts..." Danny said slowly, they should know this, he'd been wearing them since the first ghost attacks... Suspicion crossed both his friend's features.

There was a long pause, the pair shared a look and Sam demanded, "Secret word."

"Uh, what?"

"What's the secret word." Tucker clarified, as if that clarified anything.

"What are you guys- Hey! Whoa!" Three ectoguns were now pointed at him, Sam with twin wrist blasters and Tucker with a laser-y thing that had come out of his PDA (When did he do that? It was a very good idea).

"Who are you?" Said Sam.

"Is Vlad cloning again?" Asked Tucker.

"What? No! I mean I don't know! I'm not impersonating me, the ghost upstairs is impersonating me!"

"Nice try. Now answer."

"Uh... Sam?" Tucker was focused on the PDA screen. She glanced at him, quickly, before focusing back on Danny. She'd used these before, not like Sam... His Sam, who avoided any involvement with ghost hunting, who refused to accept that they were just monsters. "His scans are weird..."

"What kind of weird?"

"He's a level 2.5." Tucker switched to a whisper.

"What?" Sam followed suit, "That's too low for a shapeshifter."

"Uh... that's normal..." Danny lied, well kind of. He normally was a level 1.3 but he'd also just been in a ghost's lair (two lairs if you counted not-future-him's bedroom) and had a ghostly artifact in his pocket. Those things were likely to temporarily raise an ectosignature's power rating. He was 76% sure.

Another pause, Sam tried to gesture something while still aiming, there were some whispers he didn't catch. Then Tucker asked, "Did Vlad... raise you?"

"No!? Why does everyone keep talking about Vlad?! The Fruitloop lives in Wisconsin, I've seen him maybe twice!" The pair shared another look. He had no idea how to read those expressions.

He sighed, "You guys won't believe me."

"Try us."

"Yesterday I was at the—"

"Guys! We have a problem!" His hair stood on end as the ghost dropped through the ceiling. Danny shuttered. It was so much worse now that he got a look at it, it was wearing a Fenton hazmat suit, his suit, no, a mockery of it. The colors were inverted and the FentonWorks logo was replaced with some other symbol. That wasn’t the only thing inverted, twisted, he was staring at his own face only not. It’s tintless white hair stuck up just like his, and it’s eyes burned deadly ectoplasm green. Danny still didn’t have a weapon. “Oh, you found him! We have slightly less of a problem.”

“He’s saying Vlad has nothing to do with this... I’m not sure if I believe him.” Sam lowered her blasters, because he was somehow more of a threat than the monster crackling with unused power.

“Yeah, no... he said something about time travel—“ both of his friends groaned, “Then! He sicced my parents on me,” It turned his attention to him, “which is rude by the way! Honestly, I was getting close to being able to ask about a truce, but now they’re gonna be chasing me around for ‘attacking their son!”

“Oof,” Tucker added, as Sam asked about something the ghost could do to get his parents back on his side. Danny stopped listening and scanned for something useful in the pile of discarded machinery. Weapon, weapon, weapon... this wasn’t promising. There were blenders and half disassembled watches and a few things that looked like they’d been pulled out of a trash fire. The thing that looked the least like junk was probably a scanner, but his parents had started putting tasers in those, so it was something.

“Hey,” too late. the ghost was in front of him, he dove for it. Grabbed it. Rolled with the momentum and brought the scanner up as he got to a kneeling position. The thing came to life with a whirring sound.

The ghost laughed, the sound lasted longer than it’s mouth had been open, “That’s the ghost Gabber.”

“That’s the Ghost Gabber. I am a ghost, fear me!”

“Look, I don’t know what’s up with you, but really it’s better for everyone if you go back to whatever time you’re from.”

“Look, I don’t know what’s up with you, but really it’s better for everyone if you go back to whatever time you’re from. Fear me.”

“Could you please turn that off.”

“Could you plea—“ The sound died as Danny flipped the switch and tossed it back on the pile. Why did his parents even make that?

“Why should I trust you, Ghost?!”

#danny phantom #spork au #my writing #grey writes #what we might've been #chapter 2

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sweet-barnes · 4 years

Text

Those Heels - b.b

Pairing: Bucky x tall!Reader (modern au)

Summary: You found your family in university and they had never left your side, and even after all these years the ‘surprise’ birthday parties are still going strong. Bucky finally decided it’s the right night to go after the girl.

A/N: i’m really bad with summaries, i apologise for whatever that is lmao thank you to @invisibleanonymousmonsters and @writingsoftheloser for helping out with ideas/concepts when writing a tall!reader, i appreciate it💕

You were grateful for your friends, there was no denying that. They were such a big part of your life since the day you had met, you knew you would be a completely different person altogether without them.

It had all started at university, in the student accommodation where you were all put on the same floor by some miracle. You met Natasha first, you had walked into your assigned room and she was already laying out paint samples ready for decorating. You knew from then on you were going to be in trouble with her. It wasn't long before she was introducing you to the rest of her group, and there was a lot of them.

The girls were in the rooms that surrounded you, so you naturally met them first. Wanda, Nakia, Peggy and Okoye were the sweetest bunch you had ever met and you instantly felt part of their little family.

Next were the boys, all which you met at the party that was thrown at Tony's house. Natasha had explained to you on the way that he was the ‘rich one’ so he refused to stay in student digs. Instead residing in his dad’s mansion near the university and one of his many expensive cars in every day.

Once you arrived at his place, you were blown away. You had only seen houses like these in passing, never did you think you would be invited to a party in one. The huge windows indented in the pristine white walls showed off the colourful lights inside and the masses of people who were already in there.

The music could be heard thrumming from outside and as you all piled out of the car, you were pulled towards the entrance by Wanda.

Inside is where you met the rest of your family, unbeknownst to them. From Steve Rogers to Peter Quill, T'Challa to Tony Stark. There were so many people, you didn't think you could keep track of them all, but now you knew them like the back of your hand.

The one person who definitely stuck in your mind was the one brooding in the corner. His fluffy dark hair and his piercing blue eyes took your breath away as soon as you were introduced to him.

Bucky Barnes had your heart from the moment you set eyes on him, but that dream was soon shattered by the small blonde that sidled up to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and placing her head against his arm.

You knew from then on you never stood a chance with him, and the countless other girls he introduced to the group just clarified that. You gave up on that dream quickly, promising yourself you wouldn't get too close to him for your heart to break.

Very soon after that, you may have let your secret crush on him slip to the girls. Of course they freaked out but you soon shot them down, not wanting them to get your own hopes up for something that wasn't going to happen. The way you said "he only likes small girls" gave away to them how you really felt and they tried their hardest to make you see it from their view, but it was no use.

They were all so petite, yet so strong and powerful in the way they held themselves. They would never understand how you felt within yourself. It wasn't that you didn't think you were strong and powerful, you knew as a woman you had your place in this world to do your bit for the better. You just weren't petite like them. You were at least a head taller and you felt like you didn't belong.

Despite the sharing your insecurities one drunken night at fresher’s, the girls never let go of you. Your friendship with them, even though it was only 5 days old at the time, was too precious for them to lose. That still stood 11 years later.

You placed the jumpsuit in front of your body, looking it up and down in the mirror before throwing it back down on the bed. "Are you excited?" Natasha asked as she walked into the room, a black body con dress hugging her body. You let out a groan, plopping back onto your bed. "Am I ever excited for one of Tony's parties?"

Tony was still rich, of course he was, he was a genius. His habit of having parties at every possible opportunity had never wavered, and birthday's were no exception to that rule. A 'surprise' birthday party was thrown every year for everyone within the group, even though all of you knew it was coming, it was like clockwork.

Everyone else loved it, you on the other hand, would rather be curled up on the sofa with a tub of Ben and Jerry's watching Netflix. You couldn't exactly avoid this one, it was your birthday and this party was especially for you.

The girls had taken you shopping earlier that day, which had already set your anxiety off. You hated clothes shopping and even though they tried their hardest to get you to buy a nice dress for the evening, you still arrived home with a jumpsuit, a classic look for you. There was no way you were going to a party that you were already uncomfortable with and making that worse with a dress.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy it once you get there," Natasha sat next to you and that's when you noticed the gift bag in her hand. "Nat, I told you I didn't want anything," you gave her a look before flitting your eyes down to the sparkly bag, curious to see what was inside.

"I know but I couldn't not get my best friend something for her birthday, and it's a bit of a risky present if I'm honest but I would really appreciate it if you maybe wore them tonight?" Your mind was all over the place trying to think of what it could possibly be. Natasha pushed the bag towards you and you didn't waste any time in pulling out the tissue paper to reveal what was inside.

You lifted the shoes out, or should you say heels, and turned them slightly to inspect them. "Do you like them?" Natasha whispered next to you, leaning in slightly. They were black, thick straps along the top and around the ankle, with a small chunky heel and a slight platform.

They were pretty, you couldn't deny it, and they were just your style. "Yes," you breathed out. Without thinking, you shooed Natasha out, telling her you would be two minutes before changing into your outfit and putting on the shoes.

You stared at your figure in the mirror, the jumpsuit hugging in at your waist and stopping just above your ankles, showing off the straps on the heels perfectly. There was a slight plunge neckline, showing off your chest just enough that you didn't feel completely ridiculous.

"Oh my god," that was when you heard the murmuring from the doorway and you turned to see all your girls stood there, mouths dropping at the sight of you.

"You look gorgeous!" Wanda squealed, making everyone laugh. Every one joined in with the compliments and you felt the heat rising to your cheeks at all the attention you were getting.

"Don't we have a party to get to?" You questioned, attempting to stop the onslaught of comments. It worked in your favour and soon, you were all piling into a taxi, making your way to another of Tony's mansions.

You felt the base through the floor as you stepped in through the double doors. You looked around at the familiar faces, shooting back a thank you every time someone greeted you with a 'happy birthday.' Most of these people were just acquaintances, people your group had met along the way and had been nice enough to be invited to one of the parties.

To be honest, Tony just liked having a lot of people at his parties.

You all weaved your way through the crowds of people, picking up your drinks in the kitchen and making your into one of the large back rooms. Every one you knew and loved was in there and as soon as they saw you, a chorus of happy birthday's was shouted in your direction.

You couldn't help the giggle that erupted from you as you went in to give everyone a hug, all their grips strong on you as they pulled you into them. "You're getting old now," Sam joked, grabbing you around the waist and pulling you into his side. You gasped, "hey, that's rude," you gave him a light slap on his chest before laughing along with him.

You looked around at the small circle your friends had formed, consisting of Natasha, Nakia, Steve, Sam and Bucky. Your eyes scanned them all, taking in the joyous looks on their faces before your eyes landed on Bucky.

Your heart leapt as you locked eyes with him, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth as he looked you up and down.

A wave of self-consciousness fell over you and you felt yourself retreating slightly into Sam's side. You sent Bucky a quick smile before looking back at Steve to try and concentrate on the story he was telling.

And the night went on like that. Flitting between different groups of your friends, trying not to feel out of place.

You had noticed a few glances from people as you were taking photos, especially with the girls. It was now just natural for you to bend your knees slightly when taking selfies with them, you had been doing it since you had first met but clearly other people weren't used to it. You tried to ignore them the best you could but with the more alcohol you consumed, the more irritating it became.

You were at the bar again, ordering another drink when you felt the presence of someone beside you. Their musky vanilla smell hit you, and you recognised it instantly.

"You look really good tonight, Y/N." His voice was husky and you could tell he'd been drinking. You looked to your side, taking in his sculpted face next to you. "Do you not have some small blonde with you tonight?" You attempted to joke but you truly meant it. Bucky chuckled, "not this time, got my eye on someone else."

You rolled your eyes, taking the drink that had just been placed in front of you, not saying anything else.

"I noticed you were wearing heels, that's a-" Bucky was cut of by a sharp "hey." You both turned to see Nakia stood behind you, a stern look directed straight at Bucky. She was the wrong person to mess with and clearly Bucky had pissed her off.

"You do not say anything about her heels, do you understand Barnes?" She pointed a finger at him, nudging him slightly and the bewildered look on his face nearly made you laugh. "What? I wasn't going to say anything-" She cut him off again. "I heard you, James," you took the opportunity to sneak away, hearing their voices fading as Bucky was trying to defend himself against her.

If there was anyone that would stick up for you, Nakia was the best for it, everyone listened to her and they didn’t dare try to disagree. You slipped out onto the balcony, grateful for the cool evening air against your hot skin. You took another sip of your drink and the alcohol burned slightly as it went down.

Of course it was Bucky who would point out the heels. He just couldn't help himself. For someone who was so good with the ladies, he definitely didn't know how to talk to one. Or talk to you at least.

The door behind you slid open, letting out the loud music before muting it again as it closed. "Y/N?" Bucky's voice was soft and you turned to meet his nervous stance. "Look, I'm really sorry about what I said back there, Nakia explained it and I really didn't mean it to come across any type of way," his was wringing his hands together as he looked at you.

You let out a sigh, "it's okay, Buck, I know you didn't mean any harm." His womaniser demeanor was gone as he moved to stand next to you. A moment passed before he spoke again, "I was going to say you look really hot actually," chuckling at himself.

Your heart stopped, questioning whether he really just said that. "And I'm not just saying that to sleep with you, I know you think I'm like that sometimes but I wouldn't do that to you."

You eventually found your voice, looking into Bucky's hopeful eyes as he tried to read your thoughts. "I'm not like any other girl you've ever been with Bucky, why now?" There was a shift in the way he looked at you before he looked down.

"Since the first day I met you at Tony's party, 11 years ago, I knew I felt something for you. I was just a dick and I slept around too much and I knew you didn't like it, I could tell by the way you looked at each new girl whenever I showed up with one. Then you became more and more distant, I knew it would be harder to get to you and make you see how I felt so I thought it was better to leave it," he paused, taking a deep breath. Your mind was all over the place, not knowing what to say or do, but Bucky carried on anyway.

"But I've stopped that now, I've been single for about a year and I was hoping you'd see that and see I'm not the guy that you thought I was but I guess that was a stupid plan." You laughed a little at this and Bucky joined in. "I was going to ask if you'd like to dance with me?"

Your mouth was already agreeing to it before you could fully process what was happening. Bucky took your hand in his, leading you back inside and into the cleared area that had become the dancefloor. A slow song had started playing and couples were paired together around you.

As you walked into the centre with Bucky, you felt eyes from all over the room looking at you. Your gaze landed on Natasha's over the shoulder of Bruce, she sent you a wink before a big smile broke out onto her face. She knew your feelings for Bucky never truly faded and she couldn't help the happiness she felt at seeing you two finally together now.

Bucky turned to face you, his arms snaking around your waist, pulling you close to him while your arms went over his shoulders. "Is this alright?" He whispered, his blue eyes sparkling even in the low light, as you looked across at him. You simply hummed in response, nodding slightly.

No one said anything. Your skin was on fire from where his arms were touching you, even through your clothes and a feeling of serenity washed over you. It was like everyone else in the room melted away and it was just you and Bucky dancing alone. No more eyes prying into your business or making you feel small.

"This is nice," you said softly, Bucky placed his forehead on yours, closing the distance even further. You felt yourself becoming flustered and moved your head to rest on his shoulder instead. He moved your body so it was flush against his. "I could do this forever," he murmured into your hair. "How have I been missing out this long?"

You were sure he was talking to himself at this point but you couldn't help yourself, "well... if you hadn't screwed all those other girls-"

You were cut off by his hands moving to tickle your waist, his laugh mixing with yours as you tried to get away. "No, you're not going anywhere," he tried to grab you again but you were too quick.

"Just watch me, Barnes!" You shouted, slipping away into the crowd. Bucky shook his head at you, pausing for a second to watch your figure disappear.

“Why did I wait so long?” He whispered to himself, before running into the crowd after you.

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #tall!reader #bucky x tall!reader #bucky barnes x tall!reader #mcu #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes #modern au #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes blurb #mcu imagine #bucky fluff #james bucky barnes

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thepandamightwrite · 4 years

Text

Jessa Wedding

Word count: 1.7k (this turned out a lot longer than I expected)

Fluff or Angst

Stuff to know: A suggen is the person that escorts a shadowhunter to their fiance during the wedding. More info here (You have to scroll down to the wedding part)

Anyway, hope y’all enjoy this cause it was super fun to write! 💕

“Is this really necessary?” asked Jem. “Oh yes, absolutely,” responded Magnus. He was really taking the wedding seriously, as were all the other Shadowhunters. Alec, Jace, Simon, Julien and Emma had accompanied him to the shop where they were getting Jem’s gear specially tailored. He felt it was highly excessive of course, he didn’t really care what he wore as long as he actually got to marry Tessa this time. However, Magnus adamantly refused to listen to any protests and took it upon himself to manage Jem’s wardrobe. “Have you decided who’s gonna be your Suggen for the wedding?” asked Emma. She was incredibly excited for the celebration, and she had nominated herself as the chief wedding planner, a job she took quite seriously. “Ummm what’s a Suggen,” inquired Simon, who wasn’t quite familiar with Shadowhunter weddings yet. “The person that escorts the bride or groom down the aisle, which is a huge honor,” responded Jace, sounding like he was reciting from the Codex. “So, what are you going to do,” asked Alec. Unfortunately, Jem didn’t have an answer for him, after all, the only person he would want to escort him to Tessa had died years ago. A few months ago, he would never have even imagined that he’d be able to get married, and if it ever did happen, he would want Will to be there. Sadly, that was unlikely to happen, so Jem had to pick someone else. Unfortunately, there weren’t many people that he was close with that were still alive. There was Magnus, Emma, and perhaps Jace, although none of them seemed right. “Voila,” Magnus exclaimed. The group gathered and nodded approvingly at the outfit. Even Jem managed a grin through his increasing worry.

“Achooo,” exclaimed Isabelle as the werewolf escorting the tulips out passed her by. “Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry about this,” apologized Tessa, as she had been all afternoon. She had entrusted Ragnor to arrange for some nice flowers, and of course he’d picked the one kind Isabelle was severely allergic to. “Oh don’t worry about it Tessa,” she responded breezily, although her nose was red and her eyes watery due to the constant sneezing. “I’m just excited you’re getting married to Jem, for real this time,” Isabelle squealed before a bout of sneezes overtook her. “Yeah,” chimed Clary, who was festooning the trees with lights. Tessa still couldn’t believe that she was getting married, again, next week. It was almost like a dream, she thought people only got to be with the love of their life once, if they were lucky. She, on the other hand, was able to marry them both. Her heart suddenly ached for her first husband, Will, whom she missed dearly. She had shared everything with him, when he was alive, and she couldn’t have imagined it any other way. It felt wrong somehow, that her wedding with Jem, something she knew Will would be thrilled about, was the one thing she would never tell him. “Tessa!” called Isabelle. “You’ve picked your Suggen, right?” “No, I actually haven’t,” she responded, slightly fatigued with the whole business. “What?! The wedding is tomorrow! You have to decide soon!” exclaimed Clary from the other end of the garden. “Yes, I know, I know,” Tessa sighed. “It’s just that a Suggen has to be someone that is incredibly special to you, and the only person I can think of is no longer alive.” Both the girls looked over at Tessa with sad eyes. “I’m sure Will knows you’re getting married, wherever he is, and he’s going to be ecstatic about it, don’t worry,” consoled Clary. “Yes, you’re right,” Tessa conceded. “I’ll just have to come up with someone else, maybe Magnus….”

Clary, Isabelle, Emma, Jace, Alec and Magnus huddled behind a tree, trying to desperately shield the pentagram from passerby. “I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” sighed Alec. “Dude, face it, this isn’t even close to the craziest thing we’ve done, am I right?” retorted Jace. “That’s true,” acknowledged Clary with the soft smile she reserved just for her boyfriend. “However, we haven’t exactly tried to bring back the dead.” “We’re not bringing back the dead, just conjuring a ghost. They’re not the same thing,” clarified Magnus, looking up from the spellbook briefly. “Alright, it’s showtime,” he said with a wicked grin.”

Jem couldn’t get his jacket on for some reason. His hands were shaking like butterflies and he lost all his usual dexterity that he’d developed over years of violin playing. “Let me help you with that fy nghariad,” offered a familiar voice. Jem whirled around at the sound of the person he hadn’t heard in a hundred years. He leaned against the doorframe, his mused ink-black hair falling into those familiar piercing blue eyes. “Will,” Jem whispered in disbelief. “How are you even here?” He asked, still unable to comprehend what he saw before him. “Magnus summoned me from the afterlife, yanked me out of an argument with Gabriel too. It was a good one actually, I was definitely winning it, you see-” Will was cut off by Jem running up and swallowing him in the most consuming hug he’d ever been given. They both murmured senseless words of reassurance to each other in hopes of processing the strangeness of it all. They whispered of the day Will won the bet that bound them as parabatai. They hummed of the day they defeated Mortmain. They mumbled of James, Lucie, Charlotte, Henry, Gabriel, Gideon, Sophie and Cecily. They whispered of their friendship and the love that extended through death. And most of all, they muttered of Tessa and the all consuming feelings they both shared for her. And- “ACK!” Will shrieked followed by a string of Welsh curses that would make any sailor whistle with appreciation. He glared down at Church who looked up at Will, his eyes flashing with recognition and mischief. Jem couldn’t help but giggle as he realized the best solution to his and Tessa’s Suggon dilemma.

Tessa stared at her reflection in her mirror. It was her wedding day. She really ought to be more excited, but she couldn’t help but miss the gaze of a certain pair of blue eyes. And then, as if she had summoned him with her thoughts alone, a familiar figure appeared next to her reflection. “Tessa, fy nghariad, oh how I’ve missed you.” She gasped, unable to believe her eyes and ears at the person standing behind her. “Will, how on earth did you get here?” “Well, the door was unlocked so I turned the handle and stepped inside, I’m sure you’re aware of how the mechanism works,” he retorted with his trademark sarcastic drawl. Tessa let out a sob and flung herself into his translucent arms, which were still somehow solid and familiar against her. His hands absentmindedly stroked her back as he murmured,“Tess, my Tessa, you know I’d never miss you and Jem’s wedding for the world for not even death can keep us apart.” Tessa gasped in shock. “Oh no! The wedding! It’s starting now! But I haven’t even picked a Suggen!” Tessa exclaimed in a panic. “What are you talking about my dear, I’m right here,” said Will with a crooked grin.

“Where are they? Jem and Tessa should’ve been here 20 minutes ago,” said Simon, his voice jittery with nerves and his eyes glancing around furtively. “I’m not sure. It’s not like them to be late to anything, much less their own wedding,” mused Isabelle. Out of the group, only Magnus seemed to be at ease, laughing at something Ragnor was saying. Suddenly, Jem appeared and started walking towards the altar. Jace observed with a curious look on his face, after all, no one appeared to be escorting Jem. As he neared their seats however, they noticed the Suggen at his feet. “Church?!?!” Emma sputtered in disbelief. Jem turned and looked at them with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Why yes, he’s one of my closest companions and we’ve been through thick and thin together, so why not?” Jace, Clary, and Isabelle started giggling uncontrollably and soon everyone was joining in. However, Alec was staring incredulously at Jem and soon asked, “What about the ghost we summoned?!?!” Jem looked over his shoulder and grinned. “You’ll see.”

Tessa looked over at Will and was reassured to find his eyes as bright and supportive as they had been when he was alive. He squeezed her hand tightly and they started walking towards her fiance. It was almost poetic really, her deceased husband guiding her toward his parabatai, the only other person whom he trusted to love Tessa. As she walked towards him, Jem ran his eyes over her adoringly and she saw the look of recognition in his eyes when he took in her dress. After all, it was almost identical to the one she’d worn when they slayed Benedict Lightwood, which was her original wedding gown. It felt like time slowed down as she and Will floated towards the person that completed their love triangle (and the cat they hated) and out of the 3 of them, there wasn’t a dry eye in sight. When Tessa went to stand next to Jem, she noticed the strange markings on his gear jacket. Since neither of them were full shadowhunters, they had to adapt the wedding traditions to suit their needs. In his case, what would normally be golden runes on his jacket became motifs of the clockwork angel that had protected her so many centuries ago. “Because I too will never let any harm come to you,” murmured Jem when he noticed Tessa’s expression.

After reciting their elegant vows that they’d carefully crafted for the occasion, Jem and Tessa finally exchanged rings and kissed, sealing their marriage forever. Will stood smiling off to the side, next to his archnemesis, Church, who was scowling disapprovingly at him. He was absolutely ecstatic, after all, here were two of the most important people in his life committing to a life of joy and togetherness. Although he wasn’t a particularly sentimental person, Will’s vision was warped and swimming through a lens of joyous tears. At last, the ceremony was over and everyone was dancing slowly to the lulling piano music fondly extracted from the delicate instrument by a very handsome blond man. He must be a Herondale, Will thought. After all, that self assured attitude and the love in his eyes when he saw a particularly striking red headed lady could only come from somewhere. Suddenly, two familiar hands clasped at each of his shoulders. Will turned, looked at the loves of his life who looked as content as he’d ever seen them. Wordlessly, they all clasped hands and headed off to be alone.

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quirofiliac · 3 years

Text

yukikorogashi said: “Happy Birthday, bro!” Up pops the little girl, and goodness knows how it was that she had found out about this. With that said, one shouldn’t be surprised either that she had a little gift ready in her hand. As she beamed brightly up towards him, almost as if searching for some inkling of excitement upon that otherwise calm and proper facade. “Ah hope ya lahk ‘em! Spent da whole afternoon yesterday bakin’ em~!” And in that box contained cupcakes decorated in purple, green and yellow icing.

@yukikorogashi ／ bastard man is one day closer to death／ accepting.

Kira’s never been particularly enthused about his birthday (though, as he’s come to learn this didn’t exempt others from feeling the opposite.) even when he was younger. Throughout his life he’s been expected to express his excitement (and he does, if only to appease his parents. as a child, he almost wished birthdays didn’t exist due to each and every night he’s gone to bed with a face that ached and a heart that pounded incessantly.) on every year, through every party until, eventually, it just... stopped.

Once he reached the age of sixteen (but even then, he wasn’t spared the “formalities” of celebration.), it had gradually grinded to a halt. He doesn’t know the reason nor did he bother to ask the “why”-- he didn’t need to. All that he needed to know was that it finally stopped. Only did he attempt at a meager reenactment of the festivities he’s grown to despise when his mother (she always was a soft person, a woman that cried readily and without shame but would quickly leave the room with a face fresh with makeup the moment a tear formed.) was caught bemoaning the thought of losing her precious, baby boy to “age”. He wondered then, if all women acted like this with their children; were they all so unwilling (so clingy and so stubborn.) to let their own flesh and blood leave the nest?

Surely, that couldn’t have been the case.

“... ?”

Head raised in mild surprise (why was she so... chipper today? itsuki’s always been sickeningly peppy but today feels different. it bothers him.) upon the girl’s sudden appearance. Instantly, he’s snapped out of is slight daze the moment her “gift” was presented. It’s like clockwork in how he moves, extending out his arms as if to create a makeshift landing for her to drop it into. He swallows (tastes like bile.) with alarmed eyes, staring helplessly down at the girl’s gift.

“I--? ah... um,” he started in a quiet voice (he wants to decline it and tell her to give it to rohan, instead... but he doesn’t.) as he procured a steadier hold over and around the box. It felt sturdy enough and also lacked a distinct weight-- whatever it was couldn’t have been too troublesome to throw away the moment she looked away. Lips fell open in a stammer, voiceless and almost embarrassed (why? why did he have to have so much attention on him in a time like this?) to speak any further. “Th-Thank you.”

Itsuki looked at him almost as if she were expecting something (and kira wants to ask her, “what the fuck are you looking at?” but chews at the tip of his tongue, instead.) that made him wonder if he had done something wrong. Fingers clenched around the object, forcing it to buckle slightly against the pressure with little pushback. Swallowing back a gasp, he snapped his attention back down towards the box with a look that nearly came off as “apologetic”.

Mumbling a hasty “ah... sorry...” (don’t ask him to whom -- or what -- it was aimed at. he’d refuse to answer.) under his breath, he carefully prodded at the lip of the lid. Once noticing an obvious crease that clarified what was the “lid” and the “body”, Kira wordlessly raised the box’s lid off of it and allowed for it to block any changes (this wasn’t a gift that he was unhappy with by any means, but it wasn’t anything he had any particular need for, either. though, he supposed that that wasn’t the point of gifts, was it?) within his expression. He swallowed.

Twisting his face into one of muted shock with a faint smile tugging at his lips, he then began folding the lid down in order to reveal his reaction. His eyes scanned over the baked goods with mediocre scrutiny (she certainly did have an eye for baking, he’ll give her that, but he doesn’t speak it aloud. she was still female, after all. of course she’d be naturally skilled at cooking.) before raising his gaze, returning it back unto her.

His face started to hurt. Was that normal?

“I... oh, I-- Thank you, Itsuki.”

Focusing on one cupcake (the middle one. he doesn’t have any hidden nor deep reason for this and, rather, simply honed in on whichever one he looked at first.) before sliding the lid back over the box’s open cavity, he gave her a small bow of the head. Gradually allowing for his smile to droop yet persisting in his eyes remaining (he avoids the “dead in the eye” look many have remarked on in the past, specifically because he doesn’t want itsuki to ask him the awkward question of if he liked her present or not.) bright and alert, he kept his gaze downcast down towards the box once rising from his bow.

He hummed.

It... would be a waste, he thinks, to throw these away. Even if he did manage to find a reason (and he’s already thought of a few.) to do so, he doubted he’d be able to keep it as a secret from Rohan for long.

“Would you like to... come over and show Rohan? I’m sure he’d be happy to see your progress.” A smile. It’s forced. “We could all try one-- if you’re alright with that, that is.”

#yukikorogashi #:-/#this hurt a little.#itsuki i know for a fact that your cupcakes are delicious and i ALSO know for a fact that /i/ wouldn't throw them away.#:-\#me slapping kira on the back of his head: say thank you and mean it. eat one.#thank you though!! v___v this was really cute........ if only kira could do the same.#＊ 💥 持味：in character.#＊ 💥 返事：answered.

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darcypalmer · 4 years

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Rita comes to deliver some news, Darcy walks into a situation and @diegojaimechavez makes a revelation

Diego went right back into routine without any hesitation. At least, it was the routine that he'd done when was new to Sunnymead, and he and Darcy were not...more closely acquainted. Like clockwork, he came into the Grub, chose the booth that had the best view of the entire restaurant, and kept a quiet if intent eye on Darcy. He didn't go out of his way to talk to her - not to snipe and argue, and not to be friendly and chatty either. By now, he didn't even care what the townsfolk thought either of one more change in weather between Darcy Palmer and Diego Chavez. By now, Diego liked to believe that the townsfolk were just getting bored of their endless ups and downs of drama. That was fine by him.

So long as Julianna didn't pay too much attention, it should be fine. But that was up to Darcy to deflect. And since he couldn't (or perhaps wouldn't) communicate this to her, Diego hoped she'd be able to handle it without doing something extreme.

Because he knew how Darcy liked to reach her extremes. He couldn't blame her for it, even if he was still angry and upset by it. She'd forced her life into this constant endless hum of the same thing, the same day repeated over and over in Sunnymead. She was a pressure cooker, waiting for the slightest provocation to explode her lid - and make a mess all over him. At least he believed he understood that now.

And at least he didn't have to speak to her to discuss protocol or what he was doing, or why he did it. After all this time, despite their huge fight and split from each other, at least Darcy wasn't trying to be spiteful. Maybe she was hurt as well - no, there was no doubt she was hurting as well. But Diego couldn't bring himself to do anything about it. He was too wrapped up in his own shame and guilt and sense of self-defeat.

But at least this evening, he could come into the diner with some news that he was sure would help Darcy somewhat. And because he still cared for her, Diego was glad to bring the news, almost eager to tell her. When he got to the diner, he made eye contact immediately with Darcy - no emotions, all business. A matter-of-fact look that silently communicated to her that he had news. It had been almost a week since they'd fought, and in that time Diego figured she must have been going crazy waiting. Without anyone to talk to and nothing she could do for her brother but wait for someone else to solve her problem for her.

It was his fault as well, for giving her enough leeway to think she could just come and go whenever she pleased, do whatever she wanted. He'd grown lax, overly-indulgent. And she would willingly sacrifice her own safety for the sake of her brother. So to do nothing and wait for a few days, Diego figured, must have been hell for her...and although he sympathized, he also felt a petty bit of satisfaction as well. Good - she should wait. After the stunt she pulled, she needed to learn.

But despite his pettiness, even he knew what was important: her brother's safety. And so after he looked at her pointedly, he sat down at his booth, expecting that Darcy would be serving him this evening. He'd tell her a bit now - the good bit, to take the weight off her shoulders about her brother - and then he figured he'd give her all the details tonight, after the Grub was closed.

_______________________

Everything went back to the way things were before anything actually happened between Diego and Darcy, before they even became friendly with each other, and ever since Diego walked out of her apartment, things have been aggressively and forcefully normal. It didn't feel normal at all, but at least to the town it must have looked normal, or at least Darcy hoped it did cause she worked damn hard to paint that picture.

And it was hard. Over the years she's gotten used to a certain level of lying and adapting to the life of Sunnymead, but while there was a general guilt that's been present in her life since the beginning, lying and pretending that everything was okay very quickly became something she did with an ease, without most of it really even registering for her.

This, though, pretending nothing had happened, pretending that everything was okay and that things were like they before with Diego, was harder than she ever expected it would be. In the first few days she just wanted to yell at him and tell him to go away because seeing him was hard as it is, while also wanting to attack him with questions about the progress he's made about Benji and the Tyler Ellis problem, about what he plans to do specifically, about how he is in general. She sent Flo to wait on Diego instead.

Over the days the anger subsided, the feeling of both wanting him to do something that would kick them out of this state, while also wanting to do it herself remained, but she continuously decided against it. He made it clear what he wanted, she wasn't going to be the stupid woman who couldn't get the message, even if it hurt. This was probably for the best. And urge to ask him about his progress remained, though, and it was getting harder and harder to not ask all the different questions that kept popping up in her head at the most random times. She was determined not to break, though. He wanted to do things on his own, he specifically didn't want to involve her, so she wasn't going to get involved.

Even if it was excruciatingly hard.

She kept to herself, though, mostly arranged things so that it wasn't her who served on his table and when she couldn't pull that off, she kept things painfully polite and kind, her smile never actually reaching her eyes whenever she had to talk to him.

It's been a week when DIego finally came into the Grub with a pointed look on his face before he took a seat at his usual table, and Darcy wanted to rush over to the table to ask what kind of news he had for her - cause he had to have some news, he just had to.

Instead, she forced herself to collect all the dirty dishes that were out on the tables, and after taking a set of plates out, she finally headed over to Diego's table with the same, general expression she had on her face the entire week. "Hey, can I get you anything?"

_______________________

"The usual is fine," Diego replied, looking up at her with an unbreakable stare. "It's a good day today, isn't it Darcy? I believe everyone is doing well today. I have a feeling things have worked out well, especially for people who deserve it." He handed her the menu, and then added, "Actually, change of plans - give me the bacon and waffles with two sunnyside eggs instead of the usual. And keep the coffee coming."

It was the most that Diego had spoken with Darcy in what seemed like forever - and the truth was, Diego was almost brimming with joy at the fact that he could talk to Darcy again, because all that mattered was Benjamin's safety. And the only way he could speak to her was if it was about Benjamin. And now the time had finally come when he had the immense pleasure of speaking to her, because Benjamin was alright.

But once he finished speaking, he looked down immediately, feeling suddenly apprehensive. What if she didn't understand what he was trying to say? Or what if it only served to distress her even more, put her completely on edge and close to some sort of mental breakdown? What if he was only making things worse, when he thought he was trying to make things better? What if she only resented him for presenting this news in such a cloak-and-dagger fashion.

Then he reminded himself: wasn't he supposed to be angry at her? Why then, did he suddenly feel like he was the one who'd done something wrong?

Indecision flooded him, and Diego licked his lips and furtively glanced up at Darcy again. When he spoke, he was so quiet it was almost like a whisper. "Later, I'll tell you everything," he said, hoping it might help, but suddenly convinced that it could only make things worse.

_______________________

Darcy never really believed that people could just snap pens and pencils in half, but the moment Diego started talking about how everyone was doing well, her grip tightened on the pencil in her hand, her head down, her eyes never leaving the notebook in her other hand even though she wasn't writing anything anymore. She wanted to ask back, she wanted to clarify, she wanted details, but he didn't seem to want to offer them, and fuck it, no matter how hard it was, she wasn't going to press.

Well, at least she wasn't going to press in the middle of the Grub with too many ears around them. She didn't have unrealistic notions, she wouldn't be able to not ask about the details, but for now she was trying to hold back and be glad to hear that Benji was safe. Diego really pulled through - not that she ever doubted that he would. She doubted he would tell her, she wondered over the week if he already solved everything and he just refused to tell her in this new normal of theirs, but him figuring it out and making sure her brother was safe was never really a question in her mind.

She bit the inside of her lip and nodded, still not looking up. "Waffles, bacon and two sunnyside eggs, got it. I'll bring it over in a bit," she echoed and she was ready to leave when he muttered something. Darcy almost completely missed it, almost asked back what he was saying when it clicked into her brain what he was offering. She wasn't sure if it was some sort of olive branch or if it was just Diego knowing full well that she would need more details, that a simple "everything's good" wouldn't be enough for her. It was most likely the second one.

For a moment she was ready to offer him to come over after the Grub was closed and then decided against it. "I can drop by. After the Grub is closed," she muttered barely above a whisper. Going to his place for this felt like it would give her some kind of control. At least worst comes to worst, if it got too much, she could just leave.

"I'll be right back with your food and coffee," she reassured him and then left, handing in the order to the kitchen and continuing to work, trying not to focus on Diego, what he promised and how the night would go. She kept to her polite self, only talked to him the bare minimum and when Diego left, it felt like a relief, only to have her heart beating even faster when the Grub was finally cleaned and locked and all of her employees out of the door, heading home. She spent a couple of minutes doing small, pointless chores just to stall, and then finally got herself to head over to Diego's apartment after she made sure nobody saw her move across the street and into the building.

When she reached his door, she almost went in like she used to. It would have been so easy to fall back into the routine of opening the door and calling out for him, but this wasn't their normal now. She couldn't just barge in. So instead she knocked, wondering just when was the last time she did that. It had to be months and months ago.

_______________________

She wanted to come over to his apartment. That threw Diego off momentarily, if only because the majority of their time...together was spent at his apartment. Without rousing any suspicion, they could be as loud as they wanted at his place, without fear of curious people hearing them. Darcy hadn't been over in so long (it wasn't that long, it had only been a couple weeks but to Diego it felt like months). Maybe this was how they could start to make things better.

He had to remind himself that any sort of reconciliation was dependent on Darcy as well. If she was angry at him, she may never truly forgive him for taking what small amount of control she had out of her hands. That control she believed she'd had, to keep her brother safe. That control that he'd boxed her out of, rather than including her.

In a strange way, it had been necessary, though. If he and Darcy were working on muffling Tyler and seeing to Benji's safety, Diego would've never even thought to call Rita. He would've tried to go through different channels, proper ones that wouldn't lead him into his ex-fling's bed. And who knew what those different channels would have brought. No - he had to stick to his guns. Trying to involve Darcy in the situation with her brother would've only hampered the effort. Darcy couldn't have gotten the better of Tyler, she had to remain in Sunnymead, and she was forbidden to know where her brother lived. There was nothing she could have done, even if they'd worked together on this.

But trying to make Darcy see that, at this point, was fruitless. All that mattered was results and Diego was glad that he at least had that.

So he agreed with a quick nod. He ate his breakfast-for-dinner fast, and then left, quickly taking a shower and making sure he had all of Rita's results assembled to show Darcy. But first, Rita called.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Home - I mean, I'm in Sunnymead, why?"

"I got an update on Tyler. Ah - found your phone. I'm five minutes away." Click

Diego didn't even have time to protest and when he tried to call back, Rita didn't pick up. He texted instead: 'wtf do not come to Sunnymead, I can meet u in Evanstead' and he growled, caught in a moment of indecision. He checked the time, and looked out the window. Darcy would be closing soon. And if he tried to postpone their meeting with some flimsy excuse (because telling her about Rita, he suddenly realized, felt like a bad idea), it would simply be cruel to the poor woman. "Dammit Rita," he said, grabbing his jacket. He rushed down the stairs but just as he opened the building door, Rita's car pulled in.

She was smiling as she got out. "Damn, Di. Front door service and everything?" she asked, as Diego cussed even more, grabbing her arm and pulling her back inside, up to the privacy of his apartment.

"This is a fucking small goddamn town, Rita. What the fuck do you think you're doing?! If anyone sees you then I have to deal with fucking questions from my nosy neighbours for weeks. This fucking place is --"

"Shh, shh, calm down. Just tell them I'm your ex from way back or something! It's kind of the truth," she said, hardly glancing around his apartment. Instead, she focused on Diego, pressing up against him in what was their usual routine whenever they first see each other. "Since we're here..." She kissed him, rough like she knew he liked it, rumpling his hair and undoing his neatly buttoned up shirt. Diego felt like he couldn't help kissing back although he really could. He wasn't drunk, and they weren't doing it. Not when--

There was Darcy's knock.

Rita made an exclamatory noise and looked behind her. "Shit - are you expecting someone? Pizza guy?"

"For fuck's sake..." Diego said, and he had to open the door then for Darcy. When Rita saw Darcy, her eyes widened and she reached up to wipe the lipstick from Diego's face.

"Erm. Hello there," she said, trying to make it professional, despite the obvious disarray.

_______________________

Rumpled hair, unbuttoned shirt, lipstick stain on his cheek. Not how Darcy thought Diego would greet her when he opened the door. And definitely didn't think it would be with another woman right next to him, after she's clearly interrupted something. For fuck's sake, if she would have just walked in, she would have caught them in the middle of...

Fuck. She didn't want to think about that. Nope, none of that.

For one, two, three moments she just stood there, staring at the woman and Diego like she's seen a ghost, and even though it would have been petty and childish, she considered pretending to be Diego's long time girlfriend who's come home, a hookup that came to tell him she probably gave him syphilis, anything that would ruin their night. If her night was ruined - and hers was absolutely and definitively ruined the moment the door opened in front of her -, why shouldn't Diego's night get ruined as well?

But she quickly changed her mind about that cause really, who was she to have any right to do any of it? It hurt, the moment she realized what she was seeing, it felt like a sharp knife was slowly and painfully shoved into her heart, but it was all her fault. Diego and her were never serious, they never even talked about monogamy, so for all she knew, he could have been out with others and fucking other women when the two of them weren't together (granted, they spent so much time together, she doubted it would have been physically possible for him), and she knew it was just temporary from the beginning. Just because she managed to develop attachments (way too many of them, as she recently had to painfully face), didn't mean he couldn't live his best life and enjoy himself.

Granted, she wasn't sure why he agreed for her to come over if he had plans, but... wait, did he really agree? Or did she just imagine that nod cause she wanted him to agree and then didn't even give him a chance to talk to her about it? No, he would have let her know if it was a bad time. Or maybe he wanted to make sure she knew he was having the time of his life without her too...

Fuck, she needed to get out of her head. She was standing in front of this random woman and Diego, she couldn't go down into one of her spirals. She would have all the time in the world once she got back to the apartment.

"Hi. I--- Fuck, I'm so sorry," she finally said, shaking herself out of her own thoughts, her voice sweet with a hint of awkwardness, as if this wasn't anything but a random neighbor showing up at the worst possible time. "I didn't mean to interrupt... anything, I truly apologize. I just wanted to talk about that-- that order I put in at the grocery store," she said glancing at Diego for a moment, feeling like the biggest idiot cause it had to have sounded as fake for the woman as it sounded for her, but whatever, she already said it, she was going with it. "But I guess it can wait until tomorrow, I-- again, I apologize, I'm going to leave you to your evening. Good-- Enjoy. Sorry."

"No, hey, don't leave," the woman quickly stepped outside, placing a hand on Darcy's arm to stop her from turning around and basically running away from this situation. She didn't think it was possible, but she much rather would have just gone back to her apartment then have Diego take a couple of minutes out of his apparently extremely busy night to update her quietly about her brother. She could get the information later. Hell, he could text it to her, for all she cared, anything but being there in that moment.

So she didn't appreciate the woman stepping in and trying to stop her - fuck, she was gorgeous too, of course she was, and she couldn't help but note how the woman looked so well put together, so amazing, while she was in the clothes she worked all day. At least the apron wasn't on her anymore, but still -, nor did the action make sense to Darcy, but she didn't have too much of a choice.

"I assume Diego called you over to hear what I have to say, too. It might be something you want to hear as well. Come," she said and she ushered Darcy into the apartment while Darcy sent an even more confused look towards Diego, mouthing a "What the fuck?!" towards his way.

_______________________

A numbness spread over Diego's system as he registered all the subtly shifting expressions on Darcy's face. He felt like he could read her well - not because she was so easy to read, he doubted Rita could tell what was happening. It was because he knew Darcy. He'd studied her as a person and a case file sure, but there was no doubt now that along the way things got deeper and far more intense in the way he observed her. The numbness spread right to his extremities like he felt pins and needles in his fingers and toes as he watched Rita coax Darcy into the apartment. Rita's voice sounded distant and far away like an echo. All Diego could do was stare at Darcy, like he wanted to drown in her right this very moment.

And it finally hit him, suddenly and unexpectedly, at absolutely the worst time possible. He was in love with this woman.

"Fuck," he sputtered, under his breath. Speaking out loud at least brought him back to the situation, and when Darcy gave him a shared look only for him, mouthing her confusion, he felt a weird relief. Even with all this happening, Darcy still wanted to share moments with him, and only him. It was so sad to be so happy about such a minor thing, but Diego grabbed onto it.

He returned an imploring, incredibly soft look at Darcy - only for her - before he finally spoke up. "Don't worry Darce. This is Rita Grazzi. Ex-FBI, now a consultant for them."

"And the CIA, and with most policing authorities in the South," Rita said, wiping at the corner of her lipsticked mouth with her thumb before she flashed a smile at Darcy as if nothing had happened right before Darcy showed up. "But I'm not one to brag."

Diego grunted. "She's an old friend, I've worked with her many times over in Texas. I trust her."

"And I'm sure you know, honey, he doesn't trust anyone," Rita added, still trying to lighten the mood.

But Diego shot her a glare, because this wasn't how he wanted it to go. Childishly perhaps, he was desperate for Darcy to understand that this situation wasn't him and his old work friend teamed up while Darcy was the odd man out. He wanted it to be him and Darcy together and united again, and Rita was merely passing through their orbit. But Rita was going out of her way to establish that they were chums. Diego knew it was necessary to allow Darcy to see she wasn't potentially dangerous, but at the same time he didn't want Darcy to think they were too chummy.

Rita picked up, taking a step forward towards Darcy. "Diego, fix the woman a drink, will you? It looks like she needs it," she said, then went and sat down on one of Diego's chairs at the little eating table. Diego obeyed reluctantly, as Rita continued. "I'm the one who located your brother, Darcy. That photo that Ellis gave you - " she pointed at the table, where Diego had assembled the things to show Darcy. " - is about as much proof that Ellis knows where Benjamin is, as a Nebraska farmer's photo of lights in the sky proves aliens are real. What I'm saying is--" she took the drink that Diego gave her, but her gaze never left Darcy's, "- your brother is safe. I found the original photo that Ellis' version was taken from - it's in his FBI file. Now someone on your case did sell that blurry photo to Ellis, but they weren't stupid enough to blow the whole thing just for a few bucks. But rest assured, honey, it's now being investigated by Internal Affairs. If there's one thing the FBI doesn't like, it's sabotage from within."

Rita looked at Diego and kept talking. "Still, I do recommend moving Benjamin once more. I know he's been moved already but it shouldn't be too hard. He's young and he can blend in most places. What I came over to, um, talk to you about, Diego," Rita actually looked a little sheepish then, looking between Darcy and Diego as she stood up. "Is about Tyler Ellis. He's been a thorn in the US Marshals' collected foot for way too long. And this could be the last straw with his connections with the FBI too. If he's implicated in trying to mess with this case - with a witness in protection - then he can be blackballed. I can make it happen, I just wanted to know if you'd agree to it."

Diego looked at Rita for a long time, as he contemplated her words. The Benji information he already knew about. The chance to take Tyler down once and for all without needing to be at the forefront of the effort - well, it was highly tempting. But instead of giving Rita an answer, Diego gave Darcy her drink, and sipped his own. He looked at Darcy, and only Darcy.

"What do you think, Darce?"

_______________________

Several things became extremely clear to Darcy in barely 30 seconds. Rita was extremely comfortable around Diego, enough to boss him around and feel comfortable in his apartment. Rita probably worked with Diego in the past and they worked together well, even trusted each other - as both Diego and Rita so kindly pointed it out. Hell, it felt like Rita was showing off about just how much Diego trusted her. The woman loved calling people honey and it immediately drove Darcy up the wall.And even before Rita jumped into the serious things, Darcy already felt like this was too much.

In any other situation she probably would have been fascinated by Rita and would have wanted to talk to her, get to know her better. Now all she could think about how everything that came out of her mouth was further proof that Diego has moved on and that thought would never be like they were before.

At least the woman had good news, which left her feeling relieved at somewhat better about herself, but even the good news of Benji being safe somehow couldn't neutralize the pain in her chest.

Diego offered her a glass and she numbly accepted it without a glance at him, but she didn't drink anything, she was just trying to process everything she heard, everything that was happening in that moment. It was too much, too damn fucking much.

"I think you should stop calling me that," she couldn't help the quiet, sharp words that came out of her mouth at Diego's question. It was petty and childish to be focusing on him calling her Darce instead of answering his actual question, but the way he said her name... She used to love it when he called her Darce. It always came out so gentle, and in her mind it represented how they slowly got closer together. He only ever called her Darce when they were on good terms, when things were okay between them - before it turned into Gen -, and now it just felt like he was trying to put out the fire with the name.

She closed her eyes for a moment, rubbing her forehead for a moment before she turned to Rita, cluthing the glass that Diego gave her in her other hand. She would definitely need alcohol tonight, but for now she wanted her mind to be clear. At least for the length of this conversation. She couldn't look at Diego right now, though, not when he was trying to soften the blow of Rita somehow. "You can really get rid of him for good?" she asked the woman. "Make sure he stays out of ou-- Diego's life?"

Rita nodded. "Yes. He's already on thin ice, this will be the cherry on top."

"Then do it. He's never gonna-- he fucked up all on his own and still managed to find a way to blame it all on Diego. If he didn't stop after that, he's never gonna stop with his shit, and Diego doesn't deserve to have to worry about Tyler showing up at any moment." She said all of it without a single glance at Diego. It was strange, she wanted to hurt him, wanted to somehow get back at him, but at the same time, she didn't want anything bad happening to him. Well, maybe she just wanted him to be just as big of a mess as she felt in that moment, but that doesn't seem to be possible in that moment. Or ever, apparently.

Rita nodded again. "Happily."

"You said you located Benji. Can I--" she took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to word what she wanted to ask. How to not seem like she was just trying to get information she wasn't supposed to have out of the woman. "I know you can't tell me anything and I'm not trying to ask for a location or anything like that. I know better now. I just-- did you see him? Did he seem okay, at least?" There might have been a little pleading in her voice at the last words, but she really hoped Rita didn't notice.

The woman looked at her for a moment, her expression softening before she said, "Yes, Darcy, your brother seemed okay." She couldn't tell if Rita was telling the truth or just knew that this is the moment when she needed to lie to calm her nerves, but whichever it was, Darcy decided to believe it was the truth. Her brother was fine, he was okay, and he would be okay. She needed to believe that.

"Thank you. For the help. It's nice of you to help a-- a friend out, like this."

Okay, maybe RIta wasn't that bad. It wasn't her fault that Darcy was stupid and developped more attachments than she should have to Diego. She was just doing her thing, which included sleeping with Diego. Probably repeatedly. Fuck. And it wasn't even Diego's fault, either, but it was easier to snap at him, to avoid his eyes on her, to shut herself up from him than anything else. It was easier to be angry at him. At least like that she could manage the pain somewhat.

She hardened herself before she turned to look at Diego, not showing any kind of emotion on her face. "Is there anything else I need to know? I don't want to hold you guys up longer than absolutely necessary." Fuck, she needed to get out of here and fast.

_______________________

Diego's nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply, when Darcy quietly snapped at him. It made his heart suddenly pound so hard he was glad no one could hear it. He flushed darkly and looked away, throwing back his drink and going back to pour himself another. He stayed quiet, barely looking at the two women as they discussed the situation with Benji. If Rita had noticed any of that little exchange between Diego and Darcy, he was grateful that she didn't acknowledge it at all. She handled Darcy with her usual professionalism, which Diego was grateful for. He was more than content to let Rita handle the Ellis situation - if Rita wasn't absolutely confident in her ability to do it, she would have never offered. Diego trusted her.

But he was a little surprised when Darcy stuttered, almost saying 'our life' before she corrected herself. Or was Diego just hearing something he wanted (but also didn't want) to hear? Accidentally, he caught Rita's eye just as she glanced at him, and suddenly he understood what she'd been talking about back at the hotel in Evanstead. She knew - she knew before Diego did. Rita knew he was in love with Darcy Palmer, with Genevieve Soto. Goddammit, these women and their intuition.

"She's telling the truth," Diego finally piped up, when Rita said that Benji was okay. "Rita doesn't pad the truth for anyone, do you Rita? If there was anything wrong with Benji's situation, she would say so. Wouldn't you Rita? You're never one to mince words." IF Diego sounded grouchy and bitter right now, it was simply because there was so fucking much going on in his mind right now; but most of all, he was just bracing himself for more anger from Darcy, directed at him. In a desultory way, he did up the loose button on his shirt then.

"Of course," Rita said, staring at him like he was an idiot. And really, she did consider Diego a poor lovelorn fool, doomed to fail. To break his own heart, and possibly Darcy Palmer's as well.

When it sounded like Darcy was trying to wrap things up, Diego's heart started to pound again, a sense of urgency and alarm filling him. But Rita was quicker than him, and she cut him off before he blurted anything stupid.

"That's all I came to say," Rita said, making a motion of dusting her hands. "Now that I've gotten the green light from - from the both of you," she gave Darcy a careful smile. "I'm going to knock Tyler down a couple pegs. Believe me, it'll be my pleasure. Di's not the only person he's fucked over." Rita picked up her purse where she'd dropped it on the floor, trying to be as unobtrusive about it as possible.

"Since I know that bastard gave you a deadline to get back to him, I'd better head off now," Rita said, heading towards the door. Her high heels clicked on the hardwood floor. She flashed them both a smile. "I got some work to do, huh? I'll keep you updated when it's done, Diego - although likely you'll just hear it from Al. And Darcy - it was, um, nice meeting you. I hope things get better for you soon. The both of you...take care. I'll see myself out."

Diego knew maybe he should've at least walked Rita back down to her car, had some final words with her about Tyler Ellis. But this was why they were so much better when they worked remotely, talked strictly over text or phone. So he just gave Rita a curt nod and muttered something about calling her later.

And when she was gone, Diego was faced with Darcy, alone in his apartment. He motioned to the glass in her hand. "Drink." Please "You need it, Darcy."

_______________________

Diego's piping in about how Rita wouldn't lie about something like Benji being okay felt... well, it was both infuriating and relieving at the same time. On one hand it felt like Diego was trying to further make it obvious that the two of them knew each other, they had such good trust between them and they just knew each other, yada yada yada. On the other hand, however, it was as if Diego just knew Darcy would need a little bit of reassurance cause her mind would wonder if it was a lie or not. And even though it was the last thing she needed, even though she basically walked in on Diego ready to sleep with somebody already, clearly moved on and not even sparing a moment to think about her, her heart still beat a little faster to the possibility of him wanting to make sure she didn't spend the next five hours wondering if it was a white lie or the truth.

Even though she was pretty sure most of her thoughts would be centered around Diego and Rita for the night.

Rita saying goodbye and leaving felt strange - weren't they in the middle of something? -, but Darcy figured she was just giving the two of them time to discussing the official stuff if there was any, and the woman would come back once she wasn't around to finish what the two of them started. Her throat clenched at the thought of that, but she pushed it away and forced herself to give Rita a genuine smile and thank her again for her help before she left.

And then Diego and Darcy was all alone in his apartment and the silence hasn't felt this loud in a really long time.

Darcy looked down at the alcohol in her hands and shook her head. She went over to the table Rita dropped Benji's picture onto, and while she sat down the glass, she quietly snapped at him, "Don't tell me what to do, Diego. Especially not when you have no idea what I do and do not need." Technically, he was right, she did need a drink. Or maybe five. And a couple of cigarettes, for sure. But not here, not from him.

Now she just wanted to get out as fast as possible. And hide as much of the emotional turmoil that was inside of her that she could. She didn't want Diego seeing just how much this night was already on her, even though she was sure if anyone, it was him who could see it on her.

Still, instead of simply walking out, she couldn't help but pick up the picture of Benji and just looked at it for a few moments, trying to take it in. She knew once she walked out of here, it would be gone, she couldn't see it anymore, and she tried to memorize it as best she could. She wondered if this would get destroyed, or if Diego would put it with the other two pictures that he already had of hers somewhere in this apartment. Weirdly the urge to try to find it rose up inside of her, something she hasn't contemplated in all the time she could have had the chance. The amount of time she spent in this apartment...

But no, she wasn't going to think about that.

"Thank you. For handling all of this. Making sure that asshole can't get to him," she said without a glance at him. It would have just hurt too much, to look at him and see the pity, the sorry in his eyes. The look that would have showed that this was all just a job for him. That was the last thing she wanted or needed.

She took a deep breath and after one last look at her brother, she dropped the picture back down onto the table and running her fingers through her hair she moved towards the door. "I'm going to get out of your hair now. If you're fast, you can still catch her. I'm sure whatever she is planning to do will wait until the morning. Or a few more hours at least."

_______________________

Diego did fall silent when Darcy chastised him, but he nevertheless finished his own drink, pouring a third one as she went over to her brother, to study the blurry photo. He couldn't show her the original that it came from, because he didn't possess it. Rita didn't either, it would be too much of a liability for either of them to have a hard copy on their person. But he knew that Darcy was just looking at it because it was an actual, real glimpse of her brother. A brother she would and could never actually see again.

Humbled once again by the enormity of burden that Genevieve had to live with, every day of her life for the rest of her life, Diego looked down at his drink. He wished badly he could hold her now, but he refrained. Everything had gone sideways in the space of a few moments (or perhaps the very moment that Darcy jumped in Big Frank's car and took off to LA without so much as a word to Diego. Or perhaps the day Tyler Ellis showed up in Sunnymead. Or perhaps that day many years ago when Diego shamelessly snitched on Ellis's corrupted ways. Or perhaps --) and it was so difficult for him to know where to go from here.

Should he apologize? For what? Would Darcy even accept it, or would she mock him for it? Her brother was safe - Diego had done what he'd promised he'd do, but he hadn't had a chance to think about what came afterwards. He was glad Rita was able to do everything so efficiently - she always did things efficiently from her worklife to her sex life. But now that the pressing issue of keeping Benjamin safe and getting Ellis out of his - their - life was accomplished...what now?

Do they go back to the way things were? And if they did, what 'way' would they choose to go back to?

Darcy was angry at him, and he wasn't even really sure why, other than her own sense of stress and distress. All that grief and terror inside her and she had no where to let it out, so she hurled it towards him. Realizing he was in love with her - Darcy, Genevieve, this woman before him - it made no actual difference. He loved her. It didn't matter. She couldn't love him back, even if she wanted to, because she wasn't and wouldn't ever be a complete person again.

And besides, falling in love with the job herself, meant this love was doomed from the moment Diego felt it.

Hopelessness surged through him, but another shot of whiskey helped press that sadness down, as Diego sternly told himself to suck it up and be a man. There was no point in wallowing in pointless sadness. He still had a job to do, and that job was important. More important than anything else in his life. Darcy Palmer - she was all that had mattered to him for the past ten months, and that wasn't going to change.

He was so lost in his thoughts about Darcy, that when she spoke again, Diego looked confused and blinked at her. "What? Who?" he asked, then suddenly remembered Rita. She'd only left minutes ago, but do Diego, who'd fallen so deeply into his own internal thoughts, it felt like it had been hours. He shook his head. "Rita's done what I asked her to do." The only thing left to do was pay her; he knew that even despite their professional friendship, she'd still be sending him that invoice. No discounts between friends, not for something like this.

"You're leaving?" he asked, wishing the question didn't sound so desperate. Diego cleared his throat and turned away to look out the window, slowly sipping his drink, nodding belatedly at her thanks. "Yes. I'll be glad to never see or hear from Ellis again. Well, anyway. Erm. See you tomorrow at breakfast, then."

_______________________

It felt a bit insulting, the way Diego pretended Rita was done and nothing else was going to happen between the two of them, but despite the initial surge to call him out on it and probably pick an argument about it, Darcy decided to not say a thing. There was no point to it and really, she had no right either. It was his life, his choices, and even if they were choices that she didn't like or feel good about, she wasn't in any kind of position to voice them. She wasn't going to be the clingy person, she wasn't going to be the one who can't handle the end of a completely casual thing.

And really, she was terrified of Diego realizing just how deep she's gotten herself into.

So she kept quiet and nodded in acknowledgment.

And then he asked if she was leaving and for a moment she thought she heard something in his voice. Something that suggested he might have not wanted her to go just yet. But by the time she looked at him, however, he was looking away, casually drinking, talking about never seeing Tyler Ellis again and saying goodnight and her heart clenched again.

It was so stupid, but for a moment her hopes jumped back up and she thought she might have... well, se might have read things wrong. Like it was one big misunderstanding and they could talk things through. But that wasn't the reality. And anyway, it was probably for the best. This way she would have time to distance herself from him properly so when he left for good, it wouldn't hurt so hard.

And then she could make sure not to make the same mistake of letting somebody this close into her heart again.

"Yeah, see you tomorrow," she said quietly. She stood there for one more moment, just watching him, and then she walked out of the apartment and headed back to her place.

#——diego chavez (021)#——three is company

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dreamofcentipedes · 5 years

Text

Red Lotus Blooms: 8 - Burning Bright

Summary: A monster is forged in flame. As light burns out, red leaves unfurl. Crossing paths once more, Tatara and Houji hurtle towards the end of the beginning, and the ashes of the past again burn bright.

Characters: Tatara, Houji, Eto, Noro, Arima, Donato

Rating: Teen Words: 8, 766 Link to AO3

Link to Table of Contents

A/N: FINAL CHAPTER! Thank you so much to all you readers, whether you've been here from the start, you hopped on partway through, or you're reading this in the future from start to finish - every comment and kudos I've received from you gave me the willpower to see this through to the end.

A note on ages: here, Tatara is 17, Eto is 16, and Houji is 27. It's a little under 9 years before Kaneki goes on that fateful date.

Cochlea was a uniform place for diverse peoples. Prisoners sane but for their cannibalism, guards mad but for their wives and two children, it was a melting pot of the most absurd congregation of ghouls and humans alike. Its architecture, with its circling rows of identical doorways, looked bizarre in contrast by its very unremarkability. Perhaps the effect was intentional: to differentiate the prisoner from the prison, chaos from order. The guards would not play into that fantasy, however. Houji often found himself wondering who really needed protecting here: who should be outside the cells, and who should be within.

So it came as a strange relief to meet so disgusting a ghoul as the child-murdering Donato Porpora. For a brief moment, Houji could regain some sense of moral certainty.

“And you are Special Class Kousuke Houji, is that right?”

Houji inwardly flinched at the title that still felt so ill-fitting to him. This ghoul, with his elderly but dignified aspect and his calm smile that seemed to hold secret knowledge, made the honour feel especially rancid. Like he was comparing him with Special Class Wu, a comparison he knew in his heart of hearts to be true.

“Oh, did that have some kind of impact on you? I really can’t tell, your face is solid as a rock.” The ghoul seemed disappointed behind his mockery. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

“Priest.” Houji addressed him, smoothly cutting through his nonsense, firm, clear, impassive. “You know why I am here, and why you are being kept alive.”

“Nosiness as usual then, is it?” He threw back his head with a rasping cackle that echoed behind the glass screen that separated them in the interrogation room.

The balding Warden Koumura sat beside Houji, bored. Houji was sure he had better uses of his time, but it was advised that interrogations took place in groups of two, especially with this ghoul. Arima was unavailable as he was on patrol and, though he was not fond of Koumura, he was preferable to a guard like that savage Tokage. Ultimately, Koumura could not turn down a rule he was meant to impose.

“Have you heard about any ghoul plans to breach Cochlea? Or if anyone who would be stupid enough to try it?” Koumura spat. He was obviously sceptical about these rumours, but they were the reason Houji had been assigned there as extra security.

“Breach Cochlea?” The ghoul seemed interested, for very obvious reasons. “Where did you hear that?”

“First Class Arima overheard a group of ghouls discussing the plans before intercepting them. However, they were not wearing anything indicative of allegiance to any group we know of.” Houji clarified.

“How would I know, when you’ve been keeping me in here so long…” He grumbled.

“Rest assured, an attack will not succeed. This is a maximum security prison now being guarded by myself and one of our finest upcoming investigators. So, if a breach does occur and we discover that you hid something from us, you will have outlived your usefulness. Do you understand?”

That was the view of the brass, anyway. Sceptical about the likelihood of such a bold venture, they had only assigned Arima, since he had raised the concern, and one investigator of his choosing. He had chosen Houji, for reasons he could not decipher. But that was always the way with Arima.

“Come now, you can’t blame me for hating being trapped up in here. I know you do too.”

Houji could not deny it. Caging ghouls up like animals, the pointless torture that went on behind closed doors that everyone could hear regardless – why prolong their suffering so cruelly, so meaninglessly? He may have resigned himself to the reality of the CCG’s role as humanity’s brutish cudgel, but the ghouls could at least be given the decency of a quick death.

Koumura gave him a sceptical side-eye. Houji’s demeanour did not falter.

“Indeed. If I had it my way, you would no longer be with us, Priest. But that is not my decision to make. So we most both perform our given roles.”

He had only the right to observe, to observe and do his duty. He was part of this greater, twisted whole, and so he must accept responsibility for their sins if he wanted to continue serving the CCG regardless.

Donato hinted at a sickly smile. “If I’m not mistaken, you performed that duty spectacularly in China. Is that where you developed this selfless, or should I call it spineless, ideology?”

Houji narrowed his eyes. How did he know about China?

“I’ve never been, myself. Are things much different there?” The old man went on.

Exactly the same. The same as the Japan he had come back to, if not the one he had left.

As soon as he had stepped out of the aeroplane after landing at Narita, he was hit by the same hostile air. He had thought – wished, rather – that when he returned to Japan he would return to how he was before he left. It was now woefully apparent that the Japan he had known was lost forever. Or rather, the self he had known. He was forced to look at the world through this new set of tainted eyes.

“Priest, if you have nothing of worth to say then I will terminate this interrogation.” Houji was getting tired of talking to Donato. The more the Priest talked, the more unpleasant thoughts haunted Houji’s mind. But he would cede no such reaction for that man’s enjoyment. Those days of vulnerability were far behind him.

“You’re getting more and more useless to us every day. Keep that in mind.” Koumura growled in his bullying fashion.

Donato drooped his brows like a child being deprived of his toy. “How rude. I was just making conversation, Special Class. It was no small thing, taking out Chi She Lian. An organisation of that size…that’s a lot of death.”

Blood dripping through the floorboards. A severed head. A ring on a lifeless finger.

“Although – and this is just pure hearsay, mind – I hear that you couldn’t quite finish the job. The one that got away, hmm?”

Houji’s teeth clenched like a vice. How could he know? Before he had left Beijing, he had spent two weeks fruitlessly searching for Tatara Huo. Not a trace. That was the true ghost of China – the one that had not died. It could not end while he was still out there, somewhere, in the shadows, grieving, hating, mourning…

Donato’s lips turned fully upwards now. “Maybe there’s your culprit. That ghoul must want your head more than his own life. Maybe he’s risking everything breaching Cochlea just to kill you. Tie up those loose ends.” The ghoul looked Houji dead in the eye with an expression now serious. “Would you like that, Special Class?”

Houji sat wide-eyed, staring and speechless. These had to be mind games, surely: there was no way the ghoul could know this. But Houji could not help but wonder if it was possible. Whether Tatara could truly be in Tokyo. If it was to kill him, then, perhaps…

Before he could respond, a siren started blaring.

Koumura’s jaw dropped in horror and fearfully turned towards him for an answer. Houji’s body tensed as he understood what it meant. The Priest, at first surprised, burst out into raucous laughter.

“Well, I suppose you’re about to find out! Don’t hold it against me, gentlemen, there really is nothing more I could’ve done for you.”

Houji shot him an icy look with a face of otherworldly calm. “Please relinquish that smug expression, Priest. You’ve no need of it. You will not be escaping this facility today.”

Houji rose briskly out of his chair, grabbed his attaché case, and marched out of the room with Koumura scrambling after him. The door closed behind them with a slam as they exited onto the ground floor, and Houji looked up to the great gates at the top of the prison. Slowly but steadily, they were opening.

Like clockwork, the heavy gates on Cochlea’s roof opened exactly on time. Tatara could hardly believe it. Eto had promised she could do it with her ‘connections’, but she had refused to specify what they were no matter how hard Tatara grilled her. In the end he decided to allow her this modicum of trust and return on a different day if it failed - after he beheaded the girl for her deception. Yet it seemed that trust was well founded. He wondered if she might have orchestrated a riot among the prisoners or something of that nature, but it looked peaceful enough down the great fall encircled by rows and rows of jail cells. That is, until the guards noticed the doorway receding.

There was no time for standing around. Tatara beckoned for his cohort, the remaining rabble of Aogiri, to follow him down the sinkhole. He jumped, and two hundred red cloaks followed him.

The ghouls unleashed hell on the guards below. Storms of ukaku shards thundered down upon them, and quinque bullets shot upwards in return. There were casualties on both sides already, but Tatara had the element of surprise. He landed on the first elevated platform in the centre of Cochlea, and immediately began sprinting, his eyes darting around on all sides for Houji. Seeing the afterimage of a white coat disappear behind an opaque screen on a floor above, he quickly rammed his kagune through the five guards charging at him simultaneously, smoothly slid it out, and launched himself into the air to an astonishing height to follow him.

He landed with a crash onto the railing, and, raising his head, stared at the now visible face of the white-coated figure with surprise and anger.

“You’re-”

“Not Houji.” The bespectacled man finished, and cut Tatara open.

Houji pelted through the rain of shards as ghouls descended from above. He could not understand how it happened. Were there ghouls strong enough to open the gates from the outside? After Loong, he could not doubt it. Guards rushed out into the fray, only for several to be impaled immediately. Arima was nowhere to be seen – his patrol had probably led him to the other end of the facility. More and more of the ghouls were landing on the ground floor, white-masked and red-cloaked.

If these ghouls spring some of the inmates…

There were immensely powerful ghouls being kept here. The S-Rate Tail Brothers. Tokage’s plaything, that S-Rate Jason. Not to mention the SS-Rate Priest. Iff even some of them were to escape, it could spell dire news for Tokyo. Houji could not let that happen.

He clicked open his attaché case, and drew out Douhi.

Special Class Zhao, who had miraculously survived Loong’s onslaught thanks to the quick feet of the other survivors in getting him medical attention, had presented Houji with three quinques before he left China. Seeing Zhao’s armless stump and remembering how he had failed to fulfil Zhao’s wish of putting a final end to Chi She Lian, Houji hardly felt like he deserved them, but Zhao had insisted on rewarding Loong’s slayer. Two of the quinques were unique as the results of new studies in quinque research which combined the kakuhou of one ghoul with the cell matter of another, allowing, for instance, an ukaku quinque to be augmented with the strength of a powerful bikaku ghoul.

Such was the case with Douhi, named for the lead researcher of the project. It was a long cannon in pale yellow with curved horns protruding from either side, and it was made from the ukaku kakuhou of a Chi She Lian ghoul and the cell matter of Fei Huo.

For this reason, too, China never left him.

He pummelled out shards from Douhi that rained and slashed through the ghouls charging towards him. Even so, they were quickly swarming the place. Guards unleashed quinques and fought all around him, some pushing forward, some giving ground. Koumura was barking orders but noticeably not fighting himself, his electric baton-style quinque hanging uselessly at his side. Kagune came darting towards Houji but he blew them apart with the force of his cannon, followed by the heads of their owners.

He swung around to obliterate another kagune spiralling towards him, but lost his momentum when he saw the monstrosity. It was huge, grotesque, with jagged teeth like razor blades. The moment of hesitation allowed it to smash Douhi out of his hands and send it clattering to the floor.

The kagune’s owner appeared briefly behind it, but there was nothing brief about the tall, pony-tailed figure with his eyeless, grinning mask. He looked like trouble. Houji glanced concernedly to the far edge of their arena where Douhi had fallen metres ahead of him, but the distance was too long and the fighting too thick to retrieve it, not to mention that his opponent blocked the way. There was no chance of fighting that thing without a weapon.

He saw Koumura shrinking against the wall on the periphery of the battle. If he’s not doing anything anyway…Houji caught his eye and shouted over the fray: “Quinques!” Koumura blinked and nodded frantically, and, hesitantly raising his baton, began fighting his way to the armoury on the same floor.

As Houji watched the eyeless figure stand stock still and swing his kagune around for another attack, Houji knew that until Koumura could retrieve the weapons he needed, he would have to be exceedingly careful. He turned and dashed behind him as the kagune hurtled in his direction. Pushing his way through the calamity of ghouls and guards, the kagune found itself lost, as if confused, unable to locate Houji in the fray. Houji punched away the ghouls surrounding him with his fists, constantly keeping up his pace, knowing that if he slowed down he was dead. Yet despite his efforts, the grinning ghoul’s kagune found him again and charged at him through the crowd – eating up guard, ghoul, and anything that stood in its way.

Thankfully, Houji had calculated everything just right. Or, almost just right. He still needed to leap to the floor before the kagune bit the air in front of him and could go no further. His python of a kagune had finally ran out length. This would have not been a handicap for any other ghoul, but this was one insisted on standing still, eery and overconfident. It cocked its head to the side, confused. But the victory did not last long. Houji scrambled up and began dashing into the crowd again as slowly, it began to walk forward.

Winding and weaving through the hordes of people, ducking kagune and quinque alike in the mad fury of combat, running at the greatest pace he could muster, Houji was quickly becoming exhausted and wondered how much longer he could keep up. Finally, he heard the shout of a familiar voice over the cacophony, calling his name.

Houji leapt up and made himself as visible as he could. Before the fat kagune could devour him, Koumura hurled him two attaché cases, one of which he caught in the air. When he hit the ground, he clicked the release and sliced the toothy maw leering over his head in half. No matter how strong his opponent was, it was no match for Chi She.

The second of the hybrid quinques Zhao had given him was a koukaku-type quinque with a broad blade outlined in red and a segmented silver guard attached to a lengthy pole. Houji had recognised the quinque at first sight, save for the red. It was the poleaxe he had used to kill Loong. The already extant quinque was, in an act of grotesque irony, infused with the cell matter of its victim to create Chi She, named for the organisation that it both led and destroyed.

There was little that Loong’s claws could not cut through. Houji blitzed his way through the obstructing ghouls and darted towards the grinning ghoul, whose attention was still fixed on his mutilated kagune. With a single heavy slash, he separated the ghoul’s torso from his pelvis.

When it fell to the floor with a thud, Houji allowed himself a moment to breathe. But almost immediately, he could tell something was not right. The ghoul’s legs were still standing.

The thin strand of flesh that still stood between the two halves began retracting at an incredible speed, swinging up the ghoul’s top half with it. Squelching, the torso reattached itself, and the bloody gash regenerated as if nothing had happened. The ghoul cracked its neck.

Houji looked on in horror. What on earth was this ghoul? Such regenerative abilities were far beyond the purview of typical ghoul biology. He readied Chi She in a defensive stance as he saw his kagune regenerate instantaneously as well. He was preparing for the worst, when he heard a girl’s voice call out:

“It’s okay, Noro, I’ll deal with this one.”

The ghoul jumped backwards, and a colossal mass crashed down in front of Houji. Instinctively, he shielded himself from the blast force, but when he turned his eyes upward again he saw a thin, grinning face whose slobbering tongue alone was almost the size of his head. Houji fell back to create some distance and examined the monster in full view.

The great white behemoth was draped in a burgundy cloak, with four enormous kagune like spider legs ripping out from its sides and a set of shorter ones bursting from the top like flower petals. Its face was made up of an elongated chin, a set of four horns, and a single mad red eye. Thin arms like bird legs served as the creature’s arms while its legs were obscured by the cloak. Suffice it to say, he was dealing with a kakuja – and no ordinary one at that.

“Hooouuujiii-kun!” The creature sung in a distorted sing-song voice. Houji flinched at the recognition. How can it know me?

But then, he was thinking he was starting to recognise it as well. He had never seen it before, but he had heard the reports of the creature that had killed the wife of his mentor Mado in Houji’s absence. Could this thing be that One-Eyed Owl?

“I can’t kill you or Tatara will be pissed, so don’t worry! I’m just going to rough you up for a bit, okay?”

Tatara?

Had this thing – just said…

“Is Tatara Huo in this building?” Houji questioned desperately.

“Oh, oopsy, I said too much. Well, can’t have you interfering. Lights out for now, Houji-kun!”

The monster swung one of its chicken legs towards him and Houji lifted Chi She’s great weight just in time to block it. The force still sent him skidding across the floor, and before he knew it, one of its arachnid kagune descended on him from above. There was no time to block this one, and Houji felt his ribcage reverberate as he was knocked across the floor.

He barely had time to recover before the creature was on him again, laughing in crazed delight. Its size did not seem to impact its speed at all, and it was all Houji could do to dodge while its sledgehammer kagune came crashing down like lightning. Still, if he could avenge Associate Special Class Kasuka…

And yet, while Houji knew that was where his mind should be, it was not. He could only think of the name she had mentioned. The unfinished business which kept the memories of China swinging over his head like the sword of Damocles. Tatara. He was here. That damnable priest had been right. He was here, just for the sake of killing him; and here Houji was, fighting some other ghoul entirely.

He could make out openings in his foe’s defence, but he could not take advantage of them: because for every brief moment of rest his eyes were on the railings of Cochlea above him, searching for a white-cloaked figure amongst those endless rows of grey.

When at last, he saw him.

White cloak. White hair. Red mask. And the awed hatred burning in his eyes when they briefly met with his. Without a doubt, it was Tatara Huo. The heir of Chi She Lian was in Tokyo.

And he was fighting Arima.

This was bad. Arima was too strong, even for a Huo. Houji had seen his skill firsthand in the Clown Operation, and he had been promoted two ranks since then after forcing this very same Owl to retreat in their last encounter. Sure enough, he could already see Arima’s strikes ripping Tatara apart; at this rate, if Houji did not get up there in time, Tatara would die at the hands of a complete stranger. He could not allow that. It had to be him. For Tatara’s sake, and his own.

The Owl was quick to exploit his distraction. A clawed hand smashed him down into the Cochlea floor, and he coughed up blood as pain quivered through him. Then it hoisted him into the air, lifting him by his collar above its ecstatic face, its overgrown tongue licking the bone where its lips should be.

“Ah, but you know…I am hungry…”

There was no time for this. Houji had to leave. So with one sudden swing, he cleaved its tongue in two.

“AaaaaaAaAAAAAAAAAAAAAeEEEEEEEEEEiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIIIIIII”

The ghoul gave a cartoonish scream as it shook the blood off its broken tongue to splatter onto the floor, and in that gory mass followed Houji. His coat and suit thoroughly bloodsoaked, as the ghoul raged he pulled himself out of the red water and called for Koumura. The Warden, holding his own against the ghouls surrounding him and the remaining guards, perked his head up.

“I’ve spotted a highly dangerous ghoul. Please hold off the ghouls here before I get back!”

For all his personal failings, the Warden was an Associate Special Class Investigator. Backed up by his guards, he should be able to handle the heat for a time, at least. That was what Houji told himself. The Warden’s face went completely pale.

“But this is a highly dangerous ghoul!”

Houji paused in his dash for the stairs, and tossed Koumura his Chi She, which he caught between fumbling hands.

“You won’t lose with this.” Houji assured him, and ran for the other attaché case which Koumura had thrown to him before. It felt right, that this should be the one to end it.

He clicked the release, and Hollow swirled up his arm.

This was the third of the quinques Zhao had bestowed upon him. Wu had written a proper testament after all, albeit just a list of curt demands utterly devoid of sentiment. One of those sundry requests was that Houji inherit her quinque. No reason given. Whether it was out of any fondness for him, or if it was meant to teach him some kind of lesson, or if it was just some incomprehensible prank, Houji could not tell. To the end, he could not understand that woman. But if Hollow would put her killer to rest, that would ease the memory of yet another lost soul.

Leaving Koumura hacking away at his enemies with Chi She, Houji ran through the door to the stairway. He only prayed that he would make it in time.

Houji. He had seen Houji. Through the rage of blood and searing pain, Tatara was sure he had caught his eye. He was fighting some enormous ghoul, probably one of the escapees. Tatara had followed the smell to where he was: the smell that had filled his soul with such a confused anguish. He was sure that, somehow, after this long, long, year, he had smelled his brother and sister again.

For a brief, fantastical moment, Tatara imagined that they had somehow been returned to life. That they had come here to save him. When that beautiful dream was deflated and Tatara realised the gruesome truth, he went through the pain of losing his family all over again. There was only one thing it could really mean.

Kousuke Houji had perverted the bodies of his family into his personal ghoul-killing weapons.

Knowing this, he could not abide Houji’s breath a second longer. He could no longer waste time on this immovable enemy. But every time he tried he tried to turn his back on the dove, the dove would burn his back to smithereens.

His quinque was a peculiar model made from four metal planks that came together to form a lance and split apart to fire balls of electricity. The combination of short-distance and long distance fighting techniques, as utilised by the tremendous skill of its wielder, rendered any of Tatara’s attempts to either attack or escape completely useless.

Some of his hits Tatara managed to dodge within a hair’s breadth; but most connected. He could barely stand from all the wounds littered across his body. Great stretches of flesh were torn off and blackened from the force of the thunderstorm bursting from his quinque. There were huge gashes across crucial tendons in his arms and legs, and more than he could count across his chest. His face, too, had a disfiguring scar slashed straight across it that set his eyeballs stinging like they had in front of the burning house at Yangshuo. That was the last time he had ever felt so helpless. It was as if all the strength he had tireless worked to gain had evaporated in an instant.

I still can’t accomplish a single thing.

The dove, on the other hand, was completely unharmed.

Tatara collapsed to the floor with another shock from the lightning quinque. His loathing for the dove for holding him back from Houji yet again had been overwhelmed by an almost religious sense of fear. No single person could be this powerful. As he struggled to raise his head from the ground, the man stepped over him, all in white, with the light shining off his glasses and his lance still buzzing with power. The image was godlike.

He felt, then, that more than Houji, more than himself, this was the true face of Death. This man not much older than himself, with his long blue hair and cold mien, was assuredly the reaper. And to think they had crossed paths out of such random chance…

“You’re sturdy, aren’t you…” The reaper murmured as he raised his quinque over Tatara’s head.

He could not die this way. He could not die at the hands of some stranger dove, not after coming all this way. Not with Houji still breathing. He would not let even the reaper deny him that right.

Tatara’s kagune blasted from his back and slammed into the quinque, scattering it to the floor. The dove looked to where the weapon clattered away in mild surprise and dashed to retrieve it. This was Tatara’s window of opportunity. He pulled himself up, and, with a draconic roar, activated his kakuja.

The flesh was not half-formed around him before the dove sliced off all of his limbs. Tatara’s roar vanished into the air. The reaper had already retrieved his quinque and closed the distance.

It was over.

As something shattered within Tatara’s soul, his waking mind plunged into oblivion.

By the time Houji finally reached the railing where he had seen Tatara fighting, it was empty. Blood coated the cold metal, but there was neither ghoul nor investigator to be seen, dead or alive. He looked into the distance left and right, clutched the edge of the barrier and searched up and down for any sign of the two. There was nothing.

Houji yelled a cry of frustration that was lost beyond his throat, soundless and impotent. He hung his head in remorse that he had come too late again. And when he did, he bore witness to the bloodbath below.

Koumura, and all the guards who had fought with him, lay dead, their bodies bloody and savaged. The carcass of that mutant kakuja lay splayed out amidst the carnage. A little girl wrapped in bandages skipped over the abundance of death with the ghoul in the grinning mask in tow. Some of the ghouls had joined their victims, but not nearly so many.

As soon as he saw it, he was snapped back to his senses, and he knew he should have never gone after Tatara. That Priest had scrambled his brains. If he had simply stayed where the battle needed him most, this tragedy could have been avoided.

Raising his head, he saw ghouls spread out all across the facility, running towards cells and smashing open their windows. Houji realised with horror that it had only been a portion of their forces he had fought on the ground floor, and that first and foremost, it had served as a distraction. He had been so concerned with keeping the Priest and his fellow SS Rates behind bars, the ghouls had exercised free rein over the rest of the prison, releasing C Rates and B Rates and A Rates and S Rates alike.

There were more guards than those who had fought with Koumura, but they were evidently ill-equipped to deal with the threat, and there was no sign of Arima. That left it to him. He readied Hollow.

This was the last time, he swore. The last time he ever let his conscience get the better of him.

Pulling the trigger, he unleashed hell from above.

When Tatara awoke, it was dark, and it was raining.

He lifted himself off the ground with the stubs of his half-regenerated arms as the water assaulted his face like tears. He could not see anything in the blackness. Wherever he was, it was not Cochlea.

He had failed to kill Houji.

He tried to stand, but his legs were only stumps, too. Pathetically, he fell head first into the watery concrete with a clang of his mask, grazing his already swollen face. How did he end up like this? He tried to lift himself again.

“Kishou really did a number on you, huh, Tatara?”

Tatara started at the voice, and almost fell over again. He recognised it. That crooning, mocking tone was the last thing he needed right now. He ignored her and drew out his kagune. He smashed it into the paving stones, dragging his incomplete body behind it.

“Woah woah woah, where are you going?” She asked. Tatara could just see her through the darkness by the single glow of her red eye.

“Cochlea. To kill Houji. Where else.” He growled. His throat was coarse, his voice pained and too quiet to sound as firm as he intended.

“Ugh, seriously? And here I thought we taught you a lesson. You’re a stubborn bastard, I’ll give you that. Stubborn and foolish.”

Tatara twisted his form around in bewildered anger. His eyes adjusting to the dark, he could see the outline of her mummified form. In the shadowlight, those rabbit ears on her hood made her look like some kind of devil.

“What – are you saying…?”

“I’m saying my buddy just fucked you up, on my orders.”

Tatara’s eyes dilated. That couldn’t be. There was no way that could be.

“How do you think we got into Cochlea in the first place, numbskull? He let us in. Kishou Arima is my partner in crime. Oh, but don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.”

A dove? Working with a ghoul? It was impossible. Unheard of. She was lying. She had to be lying, messing with his head.

“I started the fight.” He argued back, between coughs of blood he caught in his mask. “I came to him.”

“And you saw him because he was on his way to fight you. Oh, and for the record, that’s why I positioned him there in the first place. Told him to spread some rumours about an impending ghoul attack on Cochlea, and to bring Houji along, of course.”

Tatara was becoming furious. What was she saying? She had been orchestrating the situation, the whole time?

“Ah,” she continued rambling, “he was a bit of a wildcard, though. We weren’t able to rescue as many ghouls as we wanted because of him. He killed one of our guys for every prisoner we sprung, which was kind of a pain. But this,” her eye shone down at him through the darkness, “this makes it all worth it.”

Tatara lost it. He ripped his kagune from the concrete and sent it swirling around Eto, trapping her in the same constrictor hold as before. She stood motionless in its folds as the dirge of heavy rain resounded around them.

“What are you talking about?” He screamed. “You only went to Cochlea because I made you!”

“No,” Eto responded unperturbed, and in a flash she suddenly expanded. A gigantic kagune emerged from her back and swung up her arm, knotted and swollen, the size of a car, with hundreds of branches like withered trees and human hands. Tatara’s kagune hold was broken in an instant, and the hand at the head of Eto’s abomination now caught Tatara’s throat and hoisted him into the air.

“You went to Cochlea because I tricked you.”

Tatara thrashed uselessly, wheezing for air. He could not breathe. Everything burned. The monster beneath him grinned with a daemoniacal aspect. It was dark. It was cold. He could not move his arms. He could not move his legs. Why was this happening?

“We’d planned to infiltrate Cochlea for ages. How else would we have been able to do it in two days’ time? When you wouldn’t join us the first time, I asked Kishou to plant himself and Houji in Cochlea so you would come along on this little mission of ours. He heard all about your past from Houji, and I heard all about it from him. I wanted nothing better than to snatch the object of your desire right from under you, exactly when you were so close to dying just the way you want. Then, I wanted to really teach you about death. That was Kishou’s specialty. So he sliced you up good and proper and gave you back to me before I made my getaway, which brings us up to now.”

Tatara hated the woman below him more than even Houji at that moment. He hated her for going to such lengths just to make him suffer, and when he thought about how he had fallen for every trap she had set, he began to fear her too.

“Then you – you let me win?!”

“Duh, and the drones you killed were far from my best people, either. After you tried so hard turning them into charcoal and taking down Noro, I decided I didn’t want to deny you your victory. Nothing better than a shot of overconfidence to show you how unprepared you really are. You were always joining me in Cochlea, whether you agreed to come along, I made you come along, or I tricked you into coming along and let you think it was your own idea. I figured the last option would be the best one. I wanted to break you in the right way.” Under her bandages, she seemed to lick her lips. “I am an author, after all.”

The world distorted below Tatara. Amidst the shadows he thought he could see an army of demons, and the sky began undulating like a sea of fire. Between the hell in the sky and its spawn on the ground, Eto’s small form seemed to flare up like a rising flame, synchronising with the twisted form of her gargantuan arm.

“Ah, but Tatara,” her voice seemed to carry on the red ocean, rising, “I didn’t do this because I hate you or anything. Actually, I really like you. I really want you to join Aogiri Tree. That’s why I did it.”

It was all sound to Tatara. Senseless sound. The primal religious terror that Tatara had felt with Arima, he now felt with Eto. They had the power to mean nothing at all.

Eto released her grip, and with panic Tatara came crashing to the ground, smacking his head against the concrete. It made him dizzy, but he retained enough consciousness to see the form of the blurred demon in front of him approach with the scores of laughing night behind her. She lifted his chin, and brought her faceless face close to his, boring her red eye into his own.

“Your brother and sister sacrificed themselves for you, but how are you using that life? You’re running around like a mad dog, living in pits and on roadsides, biting strangers just for the sake of biting them. You justify it to yourself, if it’s all for the sake of killing Houji, Houji, Houji, Houji. But this has nothing to do with Houji. It’s not for the sake of your family either. I think, Tatara, deep down, you really just want to kill yourself. Am I wrong?”

“Y-You are-”

“Not.” Eto cut him off. “I can see it. In these.” She brought out two fingers, and pressed them hard into Tatara’s eyes. He screamed.

“Don’t you think your brother would have wanted you to continue the legacy of Chi She Lian? Don’t you think that’s why he protected you? You can’t do that alone, but that’s exactly what you’re doing. Chi She Lian wanted to build a better world for ghouls, but you couldn’t care less about that. You don’t even care about avenging their deaths. If you kill Houji along the way, well, that’s a plus, but when push comes to shove, you want to fight Houji so you can die against Houji and join your family in the pit.”

“N-no, that’s not-“ He shouted out desperately in his blindness.

“True.” Eto cut him off. “It’s true. I can taste it. In these.”

Tatara felt fingers tugging at his mask, and he heard its metallic clatter on the pavement. Then he felt something warm descend on his lips. It sucked on them like seawater, and something wormish slipped in, sliding against Tatara’s tongue, tugging it forwards. He felt compelled to reciprocate. He just wanted something warm to cling onto. Everything hurt. His body. Her words. Everything.

It was lasting too long, and he was struggling to breathe again. But when the warmth left him and he heaved for air, he missed it with a paranoid intensity. He moved his lips motionlessly.

“Want more?” He heard Eto’s voice coo down to him.

He nodded frantically, dignity long gone, desperate only for the warm bosom of something like love.

“I’ll give you more.” Came her voice, maternal and soothing.

He felt something touch his bottom lip, but it was not warm. It was cold, and sharp, and it stabbed right through it. Tatara screamed.

“Sh, sh, sh, sh.” Eto whispered softly in his ear. “No more noise. I’ll do your speaking for you.”

Then she began to sing.

“Tyger, tyger, burning bright,”

He could feel string being pulled through the hole behind the needle, and then the same pain on his top lip.

“In the forest of the night,”

He felt too terrified to scream any more, and after each stab came the string, closing up his mouth, one by one.

“What immortal hand or eye,”

He did not know if he would ever be able to scream again.

“Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”

Her movements stopped, and Tatara knew that the stitching must be complete. He was too horrified to risk speaking, so she spoke for him, whispering the words he needed to hear.

“You can still atone, Tatara, you can still honour your family’s legacy. I mean to change the world through Aogiri. There are forces at work that only Kishou and I know about, who want to keep everything exactly the way it is. Aogiri is the only organisation that can stop them. The only force that can truly save our species. We will create the world Yan wanted to see.”

Her voice calmed Tatara even through the residual agony burning on his lips. Here, it sounded soft, honest, itself pained, unlike the ruthless mockery and interrogation of before.

“You’re lost, confused, lashing out after everything was taken from you. I understand, I used to be the same. But it’s okay now. I’ll make everything better. After all, I promised you, didn’t I?”

The pressure lifted from Tatara’s eyeballs, and he opened them with a flutter of fear. He could see Eto lit up beneath the fire-sky, her bandages unravelling to reveal her bare skin and her beautiful face, looking at him gently through one green eye and one red. Tatara breathed faintly through his stitched mouth in awe.

“I will become your God.”

At that moment, he thought he fell in love with her.

Three days after the assault on Cochlea, Special Class Houji stared out from his office window at an afternoon sky awash with the first splashes of sunset. The redness of its waves sank his mind even deeper in its ruminations. He had only one thought that came with fire.

His office was otherwise empty, save for the entry, to his surprise, of First Class Arima. They hailed each other in greeting as Arima walked over to Houji’s desk.

“I’ve just come from a meeting with Special Class Washuu.”

“Oh?”

Arima pre-empted his question. “The guarding of Cochlea was my operation, so it was only me that they questioned. They didn’t blame you for its failure at all.”

They should, Houji thought to himself guiltily. It felt as though he was constantly being lifted up by others and protected for his misdeeds. A demotion or two would have been more than warranted.

Arima seemed to notice his fallen face. “Our conduct was not subjected to scrutiny. The other Special Classes are unanimous that we mediated the damage as best we could. It was Koumura and his lax administration that was lacking. He should have taken the threat more seriously, and, so Special Class Washuu said, so should have his father the Chairman. But with the number of ghouls you killed in particular, they are certain many more would have been released were it not for your presence.”

Arima spoke with nothing like consolation or pity, but in the same controlled, professional voice he always had. It made Houji feel more confident in his judgement. Although ghouls as dangerous as Jason and the Tail Brothers had made it out, he had at least kept his promise to the Priest, who was still rotting away in his cell curmudgeonly.

Despite that, he knew his inner sin. And despite that, he still could not stop himself from asking, one last time:

“First Class Arima, thank you for your words. But I still have one question, if I may.”

Arima looked down at him expressionlessly. “Go on.”

“What happened to the ghoul I saw you fighting with? It had a white cloak with a flame pattern, and a red iron mask.”

There was a hint – just a hint - of surprise in his reaction. “Ah, that one. It got away. It was surprisingly strong.”

“Even for you?”

Arima gave a polite, artificial smile. “Even for me.”

Houji gave such a smile of his own as he turned his attention back to the reddening sky.

“Thank you, First Class Arima.”

“Special Class.” Came Arima’s voice in acknowledgement, followed by his receding footsteps.

Too strong for Arima…

If that was true, Tatara would already be his brother’s equal. Houji turned his gaze to the cases containing the quinques he had retrieved from Cochlea, and remembered all the blood that had been spilt to make them. When the day came to finally end this struggle, he knew much more would follow.

When the day comes.

For now though, Houji knew better than to try and rush things to a conclusion. For now, he would pursue his duties in the CCG to the utmost of his ability, just as he always had, and put his personal desires aside. One day, he knew, he would finally meet Tatara in battle; but he would come to that day the long way round.

Forgive me, Tatara. I cannot give you peace yet.

The lotuses were in bloom.

Full red colour burst brilliantly on the flowers floating in the pond. Their leaves were stained as if from blood, but they had become something beautiful. Tatara pondered how far they had come since the shrivelled shrubs of the Yangshuo retreat. The flowers may be different, but his eyes were the same.

“Ah, he’s here.”

Eto’s voice called to him from the side. She was not wearing her bandages today, but appeared to him as he first saw her – or not quite. She too had bloomed. In what he had once seen as a childish nuisance he now saw the very spirit of power.

There was only one who could rival her. At the top of the slope from the forested alcove, where the pond lay hidden in the empty cemetery, stood the white-coated form of the reaper. Standing there, Kishou Arima appeared as a concentrated sunbeam, radiant in burning majesty. Tatara could truly believe he was the One-Eyed King.

There was much to this world Tatara had not known which Eto had shown him. V. The Washuu clan. Half-ghouls and half-humans. She told him about her past and Arima’s both, and about their plan, to raise a successor to achieve their dream of uprooting that warped root and creating a peaceful world for ghouls. He was reminded of how Yan had groomed him for that very similar role, and had saved him, in the end, for that purpose.

He and Eto ascended the slope to meet Arima. The King could not come down to his subjects. When they reached the top of the hill, Tatara fell on one knee before him.

“Welcome, Tatara.”

“King.” He responded with deference, his voice muffled behind his mask and stitched mouth. Now that he had fully regenerated, he was presentable for the ceremony. Eto had even ordered a new robe to be spun for him for the occasion; but not an Aogiri one. It was a Chi She Lian robe, decorated with the same licking flames at the bottom, but free from all the dirt, filth and blood of his old one.

“You seek to join Aogiri Tree?”

“If I may have that honour.”

“The honour would be ours.” Arima’s face was pensive. “I have heard you are a ghoul of ambition. Certainly, besides Eto you are the strongest ghoul I have fought in my career. Few have lasted so long against me. But, you are not the heir we are looking for. Do you still wish to join us?”

Tatara knew as much from Eto. That was another reason she had him fight Arima: they had decided that the messiah they needed was a ghoul strong enough to kill him. Again like Yan, their commitment to their mission extended beyond the parameters of their own lives. But Tatara had not managed to lay a dent in Arima. Despite Yan’s hopes, he was not the saviour the ghoul world needed.

“I do, King.”

His insufficiency for that role had been hammered into him excruciatingly in his one-sided ‘fights’ with Arima and Eto both, but he had found peace with it now. There was another way to honour Yan’s legacy.

He would take on the role Yan did. He would advance the cause of Aogiri Tree to raise up the true messiah, who would finally save the ghouls from their damnation to torment and tragedy that Tatara knew so well. Yan had thrown him into the fire to make him strong enough to survive, and that was what Tatara meant to do this world. How had Eto put it? To take this fucked up, piece of shit world, fuck it up even more and then give it a factory reset.

“Your humility does you credit. It is a small organisation yet, but I have full confidence that you can take it to greater heights.”

Arima released his attaché case, and brought out his lance-like quinque. Tatara did not flinch.

“In honour of your strength, your heritage, and the role you played in the honourable cause of our martyred comrades in Chi She Lian, I hereby dub you a leader of Aogiri Tree.”

Arima tapped his quinque lightly on each of Tatara’s shoulders. The honour surprised him. He felt greatly humbled. Eto was smiling widely at him, and he was glad his mask obscured the blood he felt rushing to his cheeks.

“Looks like we’ll be working together closely, Tatara.”

Arima nodded. “The two of you and Noro will bring the organisation forward while I maintain my cover in the CCG.”

“King, I will not squander this honour you have given me.” Speaking so ceremonially, Tatara felt like he was performing once more in the disciplined rites of Chi She Lian. It gave his life an order he desperately needed.

Arima gave another nod and looked towards the sunset. “With that settled, I should be leaving. Oh, one last thing.” He fixed Tatara with a steady gaze. “Houji asked after you.”

Tatara lowered his head.

“Is that so?”

“Do you still want to kill him?

There was no doubt about that. He could never forgive the lives he took from him, especially not after he made them into his quinques. But he had already seen where haste had taken him. He turned his eyes upwards again.

“The work of Aogiri Tree comes first and foremost.”

Now he had a real reason to live, there was no need to rush things. He would continue the work of Chi She Lian first and foremost, and take his revenge the long way round. His God was different now. Arima gave a small smile, and Eto did too.

“I see.” Arima responded. “Then, fare well, Tatara. I wish you luck.”

“King.” Tatara lowered his head again in respect. When he looked up again, he could see Arima’s snow-white back descending down the cemetery path. They waited by the pond fo r a little while longer to put distance between them.

Tatara rose and felt his shoulders. A leader of Aogiri Tree. Arima had given him quite the gift. He had been blessed, many times over, and not just by Arima. His very ability to stand there that day, watching the lotuses float by and the sky fall into deeper depths of red – his life itself – was a agift to him from Fei. The purpose symbolised by his robes and the mask he felt on his face were given to him by Yan. And the stitches he stroked beneath it were bestowed upon him by Eto.

They carried her unique scent. They smelled of human and ghoul, of blood and of lotus petals.

Looking back, it was scents like this one that Tatara had followed from the start. The smell of the flowers had taken him to the catfish pond, and the odour of blood had taken him to that ghoul in the alleyway. The stink of power and vengeance had summoned him to the Longxia’s den, whereas Fei had merely followed Tatara’s scent, and Yan a scent greater than either of them could detect. The doves followed that bloody miasma to Xuhangli, the same reek that brought Eto to him; and the whiff of Houji’s blood, blended with that of his family, had brought Tatara to Cochlea. Everywhere, anywhere, the strength of their noses had led them to destruction.

But even so, he wanted to see where Eto’s scent would lead him. That predatory instinct to follow the smell of something more was common to ghouls and humans alike, and he could no more defy it than he could shut out the roaring of the flames that burned in his brain since that fateful day in Yangshuo. No matter where it took him, he knew that the smell she was following came from something real, if just out of sight. So he would follow the smell of her. With these stitches, she had given him the promise of a new world.

She turned to him as the burning sky cast her in a light as terrible and beautiful as herself.

“Let’s go, Tatara.”

“Mm.”

Together, they walked down the graveyard path beneath the setting sun, towards the great ghoul dawn.

#tokyo ghoul #tg fanfic #tatara #eto yoshimura #tatara x eto #rlb #red lotus blooms

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gabrieldesilva · 5 years

Text

@anaisveilleux

Despite declining Anthony Holst’s offer to write a biased review for the businessman’s establishments, Gabriel would not decline meetings set in the places that Anthony owned-- that would be impossible to do so. Like his luncheon meeting at La Gavroche, known for its lavish interior and plating that resembled art, the place was effective in warding off those who could not afford the restaurant, which suited the elite just fine.

The Critic arrived, brown eyes immediately scanning the spacious room as politicians, and socialities sat in elegant chairs and tables. Staff moved like clockwork and Gabriel was ushered to an empty table by a corner, just as he requested but a familiar voice cut through the soft clinks of silverware and soothing classical music.

Madame Girardot.

Gabriel stood up and walked over to the next table to greet the older woman, and upon kissing her cheek, his gaze landed on the person she was dining with. Blanche Veilleux sported the same look of scrutiny she had when they first met, and as The Critic moved in to greet her, the woman offered a hand.

‘Oh Gabriel dear, were you dining alone? Why don’t you join us? You’ve already met Madame Veilleux after all.’

“Actually I’m here to meet someone--”

‘Not my daughter I hope?’ interrupted Blanche and both Gabriel and Emmanuelle turned to look at her. She offered a cold smile, before continuing. ‘I already asked her to meet us here.’

“No,” he clarified, “not Mademoiselle Veilleux.”

‘Well, in any case, do join us, Monsieur de Silva, so you won’t look so lonely over there in the corner.’ Blanche motioned to the empty chair beside Emmannuelle just as Lucien Picoult arrived.

‘Apologies for taking so long, I was in conversation with the minister of finance, that man refuses to take a day off and--’ Lucien was unable to hide the look of surprise on his face, though he was quick to compose himself and offer a hand to The Critic. ‘So you’ll be joining us too, then? Splendid.’

“I suppose I am,” Gabriel answered in resignation.

#afstarter #/this...got long im sorry #( the diva )#the diva: 006

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whipplefilter · 7 years

Note

Gale's taking Jackson on a road trip for w/e reason, but her tires puncture near Radiator Springs.What happens next?

Gale and Storm run into some tire trouble on the way to Storm’s very first Piston Cup race. Radiator Springs has no reason to know who he is yet. But oh, they will.

The Hard Way

It’s Otis who finds them. He sputters to a stop at the top of a hill and coasts his way down it until his face slams against the edge of Storm’s trailer.

“Ouch!” he exclaims. Then he takes stock of what he’s run into–the trailer, askance; Gale, with one set of tires just a limp collection of jagged rubber streamers; Storm, parked beside her.

“Boy are you lucky you ran into me!” says Otis, amicably.

“You can’t be serious,” replies Storm.

But Otis is serious, because he’s always serious about these kinds of things. Otis breaks down like clockwork, and Mater should be along any time now to come pick him up. Mater’ll know what to do about these out-of-towners, too.

These out of towners, it turns out, had been sitting in the desert for a while. A few miles back, Gale had intuited something strange–what, she couldn’t tell, but the premonition was strong enough that she’d left the Interstate and slowed way down. But the premonition turned rapidly into a problem and there, straddling the distance between I-40 and whatever stretch of 66 this was, her tire rolled its last wobbly, oblong track. And then it was gone.

Storm should have gone for help. Gale told him as much. But he refused.

It wasn’t cruelty, or laziness. He played it off as loyalty–not wanting to leave her behind to the unknown–but Gale knows that Storm doesn’t quite have it in him to believe in that. Maybe one day, but not now. He’s too new, too drawn in the lines to have that kind of spirited conviction. After all, he’d only just mastered the one–the desire to win–and even that’s still got that new car smell to it.

She tells him that if he doesn’t go find help, he’s going to miss his race. His first race. But even that can’t move him.

Gale looks off at the horizon, squinting for the outline of a town she hopes is out there somewhere. But the wind is up, and so is the dust, and all she can see is haze. Again, Storm says, “No.”

His body betrays nothing, and his expression never wavers, but it’s terror that holds him there–even if he doesn’t know that’s what it is, isn’t familiar enough with the feeling to identify it. He’s scared of the desert, because he doesn’t know deserts; he’s scared of things not going according to plan. He’s scared of being alone.

“Ray told me I needed to stick with you,” Storm reasons aloud. “I’m not going to leave you, Gale.”

Storm sounds like loyalty but isn’t; he is fear, but doesn’t look it.

“You’re going to miss your race. Do you understand that?” Gale asks, for the last time.

“I don’t care.”

And because Gale is Gale, she resolves to let him ride this out. She believes that if you’re young enough to crash and burn and get right back up and learn from it, then far be it from her to stunt that growth. If this ends Storm’s career as a racer before it’s properly begun, he’s young enough to find something else to do. Maybe he’ll need to learn the hard way.

But along comes Otis, and soon enough, the tow truck he promised. In the span of one introduction from Mater-like-tuhmater-but-without-the-tuh, Storm shifts from quiet terror to deep mistrust to obvious displeasure.

“Yep, my friend Luigi can get you fixed up, no problem! He’s got all kinds a’ tires, he’s got–” Mater explains at length, hiking Otis up into the air every time he swings his tow cable around for emphasis.

Storm fixes Mater with an absolutely withering glare, but the tow truck’s enthusiasm is impervious.

“Tell you what, I gotta get Otis over to Ramone’s back in town, and I can’t exactly tow your friend here. But if you just wanna sit tight I got a good guess about what you need and I can just come back and–”

“I’ll go with you,” Storm interrupts tersely. “I know what kind of tires she needs. I can pay.”

Storm doesn’t trust Mater within an inch of him. He doesn’t trust Mater’s memory, he doesn’t trust his guesses, and he certainly isn’t ready to stake his and Gale’s lives on the reliability of some deranged, backwater tow truck. Whatever his other terrors, the terror of placing trust in this guy is far stronger. “I’ll go,” he says.

Mater beams. “Always happy to get to know a Route 66-er,” he says. “But shoot, we can talk more on the road!”

They can talk a lot more. The road is rough, far rougher than anything Storm’s ever felt beneath him. He takes it at a crawl.

It’s mortifying.

He’s not used to roads like this.

“Well, here’s the road,” says Mater, playing tour guide. Ten miles and almost an hour later, Mater says, “And here’s more of the same road.”

Mater has been obligingly matching Storm’s pace. It’s a constant modification, his mind leaping forward and his whole body set to bound across the desert like he usually does–before he remembers to reign it in.

Suffice to say, treading bottleneck-slow into town is not one of Mater’s favorite things in the world. But he perseveres.

“You know, I could probably listen to your whole life story before we even hit the outskirts,” he says, which is for Mater a silver lining and to Storm sounds like a death threat.

“Probably,” says Storm. “It’s short.” He gives Gale’s receding silhouette one last glance as he takes a particularly jagged piece of road sideways. The road into town is old, and desperately needs to be re-paved.

“I’m all ears,” says Mater. “Well, windows, mostly. But–”

“Once upon a time, the end,” says Storm.

That’s the most they ever get out of Storm. He doesn’t speak to anyone. Not to Flo, who offers him a cool drink that he does not accept.

“It’s not poisoned, honey,” she jibes, riffing off the suspicion vivid on Storm’s face.

Not to Ramone and Red, who offer a complimentary wash and wax to their dusty newcomer.

Not to Lizzie, who freely offers her own hypothesis as to his identity–Arab sheikh. For all Radiator Springs knows, Storm is Middle Eastern royalty. He has the build, and he’s definitely busy acting like this whole life is a government secret.

“What’s your business here?” Sarge asks. It’s not an interrogation, but it is.

“Leaving, ideally,” says Storm, all acid. The tire guys were taking their time sifting through their inventory in the back. Apparently it’s not often rigs like Gale drop in off the Interstate, and the truck tires are in deep storage.

“Mack always brings his own, for some reason,” muses Sally. “Something about rubber sensitivities. I don’t know.” She’s talking more to the town at large than to Storm. She’s the only one who hasn’t tried to push anything on him.

She seems distracted.

“They were supposed to leave an hour ago,” Storm overhears her whisper to the Sheriff. “If they can’t find the tires easily, just make this guy wait! Lightning’s expecting them. He needs–”

“Lightning?” Storm asks.

“McQueen,” Sally clarifies. She flushes; she hadn’t meant for this stranger to hear all that. “There’s a Piston Cup race at Copper Canyon today. Uh, down in Phoenix.”

Storm’s aware.

“Lightning… McQueen lives here?” he says slowly.

Mater is only too happy to confirm. “He sure does! Well, when he’s not Piston Cup racing and all. He’s my best bud! Didn’t you see the billboard?”

Storm hadn’t. He’d been too busy staring at the ground, daring its horrible, uneven surface to sabotage him. But when he looks around at all these cars, he could choke on their sentimentality.

They’re all so proud of him. They’re all so proud Lightning McQueen.

The whole dumb town.

Storm’s jaw tenses.

Eventually, Guido and Luigi locate the tires Gale needs, and the Sheriff gamely police-escorts their party back to Gale’s resting spot.

“Never did catch your name, stranger,” says the Sheriff.

They pass the billboard again. Radiator Springs–racing headquarters of one Lightning McQueen, seven-time Piston Cup Champion. Every part of the sign has been freshly repainted, except for the seven. As though the artist expects that that number might change.

“Oh, you will,” Storm assures him, and leaves it at that.

“How was your field trip?” asks Gale, once they’re back on the road. The two Italians Storm brought back with him evidently had someplace to be, because they’d zipped off towards the Interstate well ahead of her.

“I hate that town,” says Storm.

“They seemed friendly,” Gale counters, his Devil’s advocate.

“That’s their problem,” says Storm.

Gale wishes she could get Storm face to face right then. Look him in the eyes. Not that it would change much, she supposes; Storm has a wicked gift for appearing illegible.

But being and appearing are not the same thing. “It’ll come,” she assures him. “You’ll find your place.”

“First,” says Storm. His place is first place. That’s all that matters.

Gale thinks it’s a stupid answer, but Storm is not the first racecar she’s hauled. They all say that.

Because he’s her favorite, Gale assures him again. “It’ll come if you let it. Trust me.”

Maybe one day, he will. And perhaps the next, he will listen.

For now, they head to Copper Canyon.

#cars fandom #pixar cars #jackson storm #gale beaufort #mater #otis from cars 2 #radiator springs #cars 3 #whipple words #asks #cars fanfiction

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slow-smiles · 7 years

Text

An alternative avenue to the Underworld arc and far more angsty end to 5A. Killian is gone and Emma is trying to pick up the pieces of her life when she starts getting strange signs that something is wrong.

Trigger warning for mental health issues and unintentional gaslighting.

~7000 words

red sky at morning.

Before coming to Storybrooke, Emma Swan had attended two funerals in her lifetime.

One was for work--she had a lead that her skip was going to be in attendance, and lo and behold, he’d shown up, predictable as clockwork. She’d tried to grab him as surreptitiously as possible, but had ended up knocking over the funeral tribute and giving the minister a concussion. (She’d ended up paid and the family didn’t press charges against her, so, in all, a win.)

The other had been for Maryanne Gilbert’s mom’s when she was in third grade. She’d been shuffled out of another home and into another school district when the second quarter of the school year had started. She’d only been there for about two or so weeks when Maryanne’s mother was killed in a car accident, and the whole third grade had been shuttled to the funeral in lieu of social studies that morning. It was weird, and Emma felt awkward and out of place because no one in class had really liked her and she had to sit through a funeral service for this woman she didn’t even know. But the one thing--the one thing that stands out to her in that memory is the crying. She’d never seen people just… cry. It’d always been something hidden, something heard through thin walls and muffled into pillows. Grief was strange, communal grief even stranger.

But now… she feels she can understand. It was difficult to bury Neal, but not… it was different.

Killian is another story.

There’s… more administration around death than she’d ever known. It was one thing for the EMTs to take his body away, covered in a blanket and strapped down, and then there’s--

Then there’s claiming the body, signing for it as though he were a package and claiming his personal affects and there’s--

Her mother had suggested going to get them. You must want his things, she’d said.

At first, Emma had refused. They’re just the things he wore every day. I don’t… I don’t need them.

Snow had given her this look that said ‘I can see straight through you.’ What about his jacket? And his rings? What about his hook?

Something about the way she’d said it pulled memories from Emma, precious ones that she’d tried to put away, seal in a box in her mind to never be opened again. Seeing him outside her apartment on their first date with the dapper, short leather coat. The rings he’d worn as long as she’d known him, their coolness against his heat, the way they’d run over her skin, the way he’d remove them before bed. The bands of pale skin they left behind on his fingers. Liam’s ring that she wears around her neck, and god, his necklaces.

And his hook. For some reason, she’d never included that as something that would be counted as a personal affect. It was a part of him, so she’d never… in her mind, it would be buried with him.

So Snow drives her, and she signs for the body and his personal affects. She’s running her fingers over the exquisitely smooth leather when her fingers trip over something that shouldn’t be there.

The floor drops out from under her as she pushes her fingers through the hole in his jacket where she ended his life with a blade meant for her.

Snow barely manages to get her home.

***

There’s a funeral to plan, Emma knows this, but she sees no evidence of it. Her mom and dad keep saying we’ll take care of it. “What if you pick a coffin he doesn’t like,” is all she can think to say.

David sighs. “Do you want the final say on the coffin?”

She doesn’t. She doesn’t want to see or imagine the wooden box where Killian’s body would be placed, where his body would rot and decay beneath the ground.

But she nods.

“What was his middle name?” Snow asks gently.

Emma’s look must convey confusion.

“For the headstone,” she clarifies.

“He doesn’t have one,” answers Emma. “He’s just Killian Jones.”

They must notice Emma’s inability to use the past tense, but neither comments on it. If they do, Emma isn’t sure how she’ll respond. Her parents may have lost each other countless times, but they always had the finding part to ease the pain of not having each other.

Emma can’t help but feel cheated.

***

The wake and funeral are an exercise in a lot of things. Patience, being the primary. Regina helpfully plays attack dog when she can tell someone is starting to get on Emma’s nerves.

She stands on the side of the grave, only half listening to the empty words the minister is saying. There’s a curl of anger in her belly because he didn’t even know Killian, he has no right to talk about him and tell her that we should not see death as an end.

Emma only realizes her hands had been shaking when Regina reaches over and hooks her elbow around Emma’s.

“I know,” whispers Regina. “I know.”

So Emma manages to hold it together. At least until her father gets up to speak.

“When I first met Killian Jones… he was not a friend. Even when he started to turn himself around and brought us to Neverland, I still didn’t like him. Partially because he liked my daughter…” A chorus of understanding chuckles echoes through the gathering. Emma feels an unwitting smile pull across her face. “But also because I… didn’t think he was a good man.” Charming lets out a soft chuckle of his own. “I’ve never been more glad to be more wrong.

“When we were in Neverland, I was infected by what we thought was an incurable poison. He could’ve easily let me die, but he risked his own life instead to save mine. He was kind of an ass about it,” he says with a chuckle, “but that’s kind of who he was. He could be irreverent and cocky, but under that… there was a good heart.

“Storybrooke… it has a way of changing people. It’s funny, Regina made this place to take away the happy endings, but I think it also has a way of giving them back. But it’s not without work, and… paying the price for your actions.

“And Killian paid for his mistakes with his life. He gave himself up to save all of us. To give us our chance at happiness here.” Charming sends Emma a meaningful look. “He was a man who fought hard for those that he loved and left his mark on all of us in his own way.” His feet shuffled, and he sighed deeply.

“While he was with us, we were privileged to not just know a good man, but a great one. And I wish… I wish that we had more time with him.”

Emma manages to smile through the tears because if that isn’t the understatement of the century, she doesn’t know what is.

She makes it through the funeral. That night, she lies awake in her room in her parents’ loft, clutching one of his shirts to her chest.

There’s nothing else to feel but profoundly empty.

***

It’s Henry who convinces her to keep the big, blue house. “We picked it out for us,” he says. “Killian wanted you to have a future. And he was hoping you’d want to have that future here.”

Emma bites her lip. I’ll be happy knowing that you’ll have one.

The soft way he’d spoken to her just before the end. It’s okay.

The last thing he’d ever said to her.

It’s okay.

Henry doesn’t say anything, just leans over and hugs her. She feels a different tug at her heart that he’s almost as tall as she is, and wraps her arms around her little boy in return.

“I love you so much,” she says. “You know that, right?”

Henry laughs a little bit. “Yeah, mom. Love you too.” She doesn’t let go for a long time.

***

She has good days and bad days.

Her good days mean she can think of Killian and laugh at a memory, can think of him and her heart feels full for having known him. She goes to work, she meets with Regina for lunch, she sees her parents for dinner, takes care of her little brother and feels like she’s truly listening to his last words.

It’s okay.

It will be okay.

But then there are the bad days. Days when she feels like she can hardly get out of bed, days when the grief sits on her chest like a stone and she feels like she can hardly breathe. Days when she gets so angry at life for handing her this fate, at him for giving himself up, at the darkness, at Merlin, at her parents, at Regina, at herself.

After one of her particularly bad days, she makes a copy of her house key and presses it urgently into her mother’s hand. Snow seems to understand, and softens. She grabs Emma’s hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

And Emma--

A month after his death, Emma starts seeing him. Always just out of the corner of her eye, almost as if he ducked around a corner before she could fully lay her eyes on him. And sometimes she’d hear him. No full words or sentences, just sounds of living and breathing that were so unbelievably Killian she could cry.

At lunch with Regina, she must notice something off about Emma.

“How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.”

Regina gives her a look.

Emma can’t keep staring at her, so she turns her gaze down at her grilled cheese.

“You’re not fine, Emma. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not--” she runs a frustrated hand through her hair. “I’m not trying to lie, I just… I can barely explain it to myself. There’s just a lot going on for me right now.”

Regina’s head cocks fractionally, and she’s quiet for almost a full minute. Emma can barely meet her intense gaze.

Emma finally breaks, “What?”

“You’re seeing him, aren’t you?”

Emma startles.

Regina nods and sighs sadly. “Are you hearing him too?”

There’s a pressure in Emma’s throat and a burning behind her eyes, and she nods.

Regina sighs again, softening and reaching for Emma’s arm. Regina looks up, profound grief on her face when she says, “I saw Daniel for months after it happened.” Emma’s gaze snapped to hers. Regina just shakes her head slowly, a small, sad smile twisting her lips. “I would dream about him almost every night, and when I was awake, I’d… I’d be walking through a crowd and would see him just out of reach. I would hear him at the oddest times.” Regina shakes her head again. She squeezes Emma’s arm. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

There’s a heavy pause between them. “Does it go away?”

Regina nods. “After a while. But it just… it takes time. It was the worst when it was fresh,” she says. “I saw him less after time went on. It never hurts less, but… you learn how to hold onto it a bit easier.”

***

He’s screaming.

It’s Killian and he’s in pain.

Emma jolts awake, and imagines his tortured cries will end now that she’s no longer asleep, but they don’t. They echo through her room, but she has no idea from where.

Her heart is racing as she throws the covers off her legs and gets out of bed. “Killian?” she calls out, tentatively.

He doesn’t give any indication of having heard her, his scream dying off into a choked sob. It sends a knife through her heart to imagine him somewhere in pain, that he’s screaming for help but no one is coming for him--

“Killian?” she calls louder, opening her door and walking out into the hall, where the screams are just as loud as they were in her room.

“Killian!” she yells, not quite knowing why she would expect an answer.

Killian’s next sound is a pained groan that morphs into a reluctant scream, as though every sound he made was being pulled out of him.

She’s glad Henry isn’t here to hear this.

As soon as she thinks it, she realizes-- god. He’s dead, and she’s imagining this. She must be imagining this, because it’s not possible.

This is all in her head.

She freezes in the hallway, unable to move and unable to just ignore the sound of the man she loves crying out. She begins to weep, and slides down to the floor, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs.

“I’m going crazy,” she whispers.

***

The screams had abruptly cut off not long after she’d sunk to the floor, but she knew she wouldn’t have a prayer of getting back to sleep.

So she makes herself a pot of coffee and watches late night TV until the sun comes up. She watches the clock until precisely 8 AM, and then she calls Archie to set up an appointment.

It was one thing to see him out of the corner of her eye and hear small sounds that she thought belonged to him, but last night… that wasn’t normal.

She schedules an appointment for later that day, and calls in at the station. Her dad will already be working, and she knows that she won’t be of any use to him today.

“I’m proud of you,” he tells her when she reluctantly shares that she’s going to see Archie today. She doesn’t give him any details about what prompted the appointment set up. “We’ve been hoping you’d decide to give counseling a go in your own time.”

“He’s helped Henry a lot over the years,” she answers. “I figure there’s no harm in giving it a try.”

She can hear his smile over the phone. “That’s the spirit. Listen, I gotta go, someone just walked in, but I love you. Give your mom a call too, okay?”

That makes her smile a little. “Okay. Love you too.”

***

“So, Emma, what brings you in today?”

Archie’s office is surprisingly homey. Done in warm colors and wood, the place could pass for a sitting room in someone’s house. Emma supposes the only experience she’s ever had with therapists is what little Henry has told her about his sessions, and the aloof ones on television with modern and sterile offices. Emma sits on a comfy leather couch with a woven blanket underneath her with hands clasped and elbows on her knees.

His is a loaded question, honestly, but she figures she’ll address the most immediate cause. “I heard Killian screaming last night.”

He clearly hadn’t been expecting that. “I’m--I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“I woke up last night because I literally heard him screaming in pain. At first I thought it could be a dream, but then it didn’t stop, even when I was awake.”

“Had you heard or seen him before this incident?”

“Yeah,” she answers, “but not like this. It’s always like little flashes, you know? I’d see him out of the corner of my eye, or hear him chuckle or breath or something from the other room. It was never… it never hurt that much.”

“You also mentioned that you thought it might be a dream. Had you had any dreams like this beforehand?”

She takes a sharp breath in. “I’ve watched myself kill him almost every night since I did it. But there’s never been screaming, at least not that I can remember.”

“How much sleep have you been getting? With the dreams, I can’t imagine very much.”

“I don’t know. It varies. Sometimes I sleep for an hour, sometimes twelve.”

“And how much have you told your family about what you’re going through?”

She knots her fingers together, twisting and pulling. “Not much. I don’t want them to worry about me.”

“Emma, they love you. Grieving is always difficult, but it’s a lot less so when you don’t try to go it alone.”

She doesn’t immediately reply.

“What do I even say to them?” Emma says. “My parents don’t get it. Yeah, they’ve lost each other before, but never permanently. Never to death. They’ve been great, as much as they can be. They handled Killian’s funeral and everything, I just… they just don’t get it. And then Henry. I’m just trying to keep things normal for him, but…”

“But?” Archie prompts.

“I can barely keep things normal for myself. Even before I was hearing him, it just…” A tear slides down her cheek, and her voice cracks. “It just hurts. And it’s not stopping.”

“Emma,” Archie gently says, “what you went through was an incredibly traumatic experience, one that won’t ever fully leave you. But right now, it seems as though your trauma might be stopping you from beginning the natural grieving process.”

She sighs. “I just don’t want to feel like this anymore. I want to have more good days when I can think about him and not be sad.”

Archie grins sadly at her. “When you read a book, the final punctuation mark isn’t the story itself, only the way it ends. Before that, you have chapters full of adventures and special moments. They are the real book, not that last period. When we think of a book, we think of it as a whole, not just how it ended.

“I think it might help you to talk about Killian. Tell me some of your favorite memories of him. Do you think you can do that?”

Emma is quiet for a minute, listening to the faint sounds of Storybrooke outside of Archie’s office. Every so often, a car will drive past, she’ll hear the murmur of voices below the widow, the ring of a bicycle bell and the rattle of its chain, the sharp annoyance of Granny at one of the dwarves, the quiet chirp of birds and the sound of a distant dog howl. The world keeps on spinning.

It’s okay.

She starts talking.

***

The day is chilly, fall melting gradually into winter, the grass browning beneath her feet and over his grave.

Talking to him makes it easier. He always had a way of settling her heart, making her feel solid. She laughs because here he is, gone and buried, and he’s still doing it.

Killian Jones Beloved brother, friend, and partner. “Listen for my footfall in your heart. I am not gone but merely walk within you.”

It’s a pretty headstone. Polished black marble with the letters carefully chiseled out to sum up the whole of Killian’s long life into a single set of phrases. It feels like an injustice, that she can’t make everyone who looks at this headstone understand who he was. Understand the kindness that dwelt in his heart, the patience and passion and confidence and the love.

“Hi,” she says on approach before sitting cross-legged on the fresh sod over his grave. “I brought some more rum,” says Emma as she uncaps the glass bottle. She pours a shot at the base of the headstone before taking a pull herself. “You’re probably running low down there,” she jokes. “One of these days I’ll just have to bring you a flask.”

She continues, “Things are pretty good. Robin and Regina are still trying to sort out the mess with Zelena. The kid’s real cute, for all her messed up lineage. They’re naming her Hope. It’s… it’s a good name, although I think ‘Hope Hood’ sounds kind of ridiculous. I thought my suggestion was solid, but Regina refused to spring for Hermione. Whatever. Their loss. Robin liked it, though.

“Um, Henry’s back in school. I feel terrible that he missed so much because of… everything. I’m afraid I’m a terrible mother. What kind of responsible parent pulls their kid out of school to fight fairytale villains?” She pours two shots out for him, and takes another herself. “I know Storybrooke is weird, but he needs to learn, you know… normal kid stuff. Like the capital of South Carolina and what a conjunction is.

“He misses you,” she says then, a tear slipping from her eye. “He misses you a lot. He doesn’t talk about you very much, but he goes to the Jolly every day after school to make sure it’s still in working order.” She can practically hear the way he’d say the Jolly is a she, Swan.

He feels so close when she’s here. Like if she closed her eyes and reached out her hand she could touch him.

She dumps a good four shots of rum out over the ground beneath her.

Listen for my footfall in your heart. I am not gone but merely walk within you.

Emma moves so that she can lean back against the stone and just listens.

In the distance, she can hear a chorus of dog howls.

***

It’s early on a Saturday evening when she gets a phone call. Henry had just left to go hang out with a friend with a promise that he’d be home by 11, and she’s just about finished cleaning up the remaining dishes from their dinner. The caller ID on her phone is completely blank, which is odd. With her hackles up and curiosity piqued, she slides her finger across the screen to answer.

“Sheriff Swan,” she answers.

There’s silence across the line.

Emma’s brow furrows. “Hello?”

A short burst of static disrupts the silence. She thinks she hear the sound of someone breathing.

“Are you in need of assistance?” she asks urgently, as she begins to pace towards the front door.

The static continues at odd intervals, sometimes coming in harsh and loud and others in barely a whisper. Now she knows she hears breathing on the other end, strained and heavy. It’s still not particularly noisy, but it’s unmistakable.

“Listen,” she says and she begins stuffing her feet into her boots, “we’ll trace this call, and we’ll come find you, okay?”

The harsh breathing becomes a pained grunt and then a drawn out groan. Emma freezes with her hand hovering just over the sleeve of her red leather jacket.

A heavy moment passes, her words caught in her throat and fear sitting low in her gut.

“Killian?” she chokes out.

There’s no response on the other end. Another pained grunt that ends in a whimper.

This is insane, Emma thinks. This is just some prank, some asshole who decided to mess with the Sheriff, and she swears, whenever she catches them, they’re going to regret--

“Let me go.”

Clear as day, his voice rings over the phone. He sounds tired, haggard, and hurt.

“Killian?” she says again, because she can’t help but say it again.

And again, “Please let me go.”

She feels emotion rising in her throat. An I can’t lays on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn’t get a chance to say it back.

Another voice now. Crisp, formal, and impatient, “That wasn’t the right thing to say.”

Emma hears the line disconnect, and lets out a heaving, wet breath. Scrubbing a hand across her eyes, she immediately dials the station. David’s just on call tonight, but if she’s timed it right, he’s still there.

And he answers, but she doesn’t give him much of a chance to ask her anything and immediately demands, “I need you to trace a call that just came into my cell.”

“I--okay. Let me just boot up the computer.” She can hear him moving back into the station, shuffling papers aside to get to the computer system that’s not much younger than she is.

“It’s gonna take a minute,” David says. “Why am I tracing this call? What happened?”

Emma feels the fear deep in her gut, and answers, “I’m sure it was just a prank call. Some kids screwing around and felt like messing with the Sheriff.”

“What about caller ID?” he asks.

Emma can’t stifle her snippy retort, “Wow, thanks, Dad. I never thought of that.”

“Hey,” he says gently, “I’m just trying to help.” She immediately feels a stab of shame.

“Sorry, it’s just… they used his voice.”

David can’t quite cover his sharp inhalation. He says nothing, and Emma hears the tic-tic-tic of the ancient keyboard paired with her father’s dismal typing speed.

“When did you say this call came in?” he asks quietly.

“Just a few minutes ago,” she answers. “What did you find?”

“Emma,” David says, and it’s the tone. The one he and her mother have begun to use whenever they think they have to handle their daughter with kid gloves.

��What did you find, Dad?” she asks again, more urgently.

He sighs. “Emma, you haven’t received any calls since 3:04 this afternoon.”

Her fear turns icy in her stomach. The ice expands, pushing up and up and up until it feels as though her throat is frozen.

“I--” She swallows hard, trying to find her words. “That’s not possible. My phone rang, the call connected, I…”

“You said that you heard his voice,” David says, all gentle and pitying and Emma is just getting angry now. “Maybe it’s just--”

“Just what, David?” she snaps. “Just your daughter going insane? Just me not being able to handle losing the people that I love? I know you’re thinking it, you might as well just say it.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” he answers. “But sometimes grief does strange things--”

She scoffs, “Oh, save it. You’re not my therapist.”

“No, I’m not, but I’m just trying to help you.”

And she knows that. She does. Emma leans her back against the wall and tilts her head so she stares at the ceiling. “You can scrub a phone call from a record in a heartbeat if you know how,” she says. It has to be the answer. She can’t bear the alternative. (She’s been getting better, going to Archie has been helping, and this can’t be--)

“I’ll look into it more tomorrow,” she continues. “If someone scrubbed a call, they might have left some digital fingerprints that we can trace.”

David pauses over the line. Emma braces herself for another well-meaning speech about being concerned for her mental health. “Okay. We can do that.”

Emma closes her eyes. “Good.”

“I love you,” he says.

“I know,” she replies. “Love you too. Sorry for…”

“Don’t apologize. I’ll always be there when you need me.”

***

She tells Archie about the phone call next session.

“My dad thinks I’m crazy, he’s just too nice to say so,” she explains.

“And what do you think, Emma?”

She blows out a harsh breath and leans back against the couch cushions. “Logic would agree with David.”

Archie smiles gently. “I didn’t ask about what logic says, I’m asking about what you think.”

Emma runs a finger over her tattoo. “It feels… it just feels like him,” she says. “When I was first seeing him, it felt like I was just imagining things, but the call? Hearing him screaming that night? That felt real. It still feels real.”

He nods. “You sound conflicted about these feelings.”

“Because it is insane,” Emma says. “He’s dead and gone and I keep hanging onto him because I can’t--” The words from the call ring in her ears.

Let me go.

Please let me go.

“You can’t what?” Archie prompts.

She looks down at the carpeted floor, idly picks a hangnail, because she can’t--

“I don’t want to forget him,” she answers shakily.

Doesn’t want to forget his rare laugh. The way he’d smile at her, the way he’d wrap his arms around her and make her feel like she could do anything if she wanted to. The way he’d run his fingers over her skin, the way he’d say Swan and love and I love you. The furrow he’d get between his brows when he was confused or worried, the crows feet around his eyes that she’d never see get deeper, his hair that would never go gray with age and--

“Emma, that’s not bad or shameful,” he says. “The loss of a loved one, particularly one that you relied on as much as Killian, shouldn’t be easy to deal with.”

“At least I’m succeeding there,” she says.

That draws a bit of a smile from Archie, but it’s tempered a moment later. “Having a hard time isn’t something to be ashamed of. It’s important to remember that moving on and letting him go isn’t forgetting him. Wouldn’t Killian want you to be happy?”

She nods slowly.

It’s okay.

Let me go.

“It’s hard,” is all she says in response.

“I know. That’s why you’re here, why it’s important to keep your family close. You don’t have to go through this alone, Emma.”

And that makes sense. She knows that.

But it doesn’t explain the other voice.

Something in her stops her from mentioning it.

That wasn’t the right thing to say.

***

Part of her thinks that she is crazy. But the other part of her is no longer so certain. No longer certain that this is just grief having its way with her brain.

Because now there’s this what if ticking away inside her head like a clock.

What if he’s not really dead. (But she saw his body. She ran him through.)

(But Rumplestiltsken was dead too, once.)

What if something happened, and he’s trapped somewhere--

It is crazy. She knows that. But Storybrooke is basically powered by crazy, and if she can stand here in a town created by a magical curse, with people who are from a different world, who had fake memories shoved in their heads, who lived the same lives without aging for 28 years, and--

“You need to stop,” she mutters quietly to herself as she reaches over to the passenger side of the bug and pulls the bottle of rum out of the paper bag.

Per Archie’s recommendations, she still comes to the cemetery to talk to him but has been doing it less than she had in the past. This is the first time in a week that she’s come here, but it feels… different now.

The phone call is still stuck in her head, the insistent tick of doubt, and the sound of that second voice. That wasn’t the right thing to say.

The sound of him. Desperate and pleading.

“You really need to stop,” she says again as she opens the door and ventures out across the cemetery.

It’s an overcast day, but warmer than Emma would’ve expected. The place is deserted, Emma the only soul interested in visiting the dead today. He is buried at the top of a gentle rise, enough height that one can see the ocean horizon on clear days. She’d thought that was fitting.

Emma sees the black headstone, the words across it familiar now, and says on approach, “Hi, Killian.”

She expects to sit near his headstone, share the rum, tell him about what he’s missed.

She does not expect it when he flickers to existence before her very eyes.

The bottle of rum slips from her fingers, taking a step forward out of pure instinct before she freezes.

He’s looks terrible, his face swollen and bloody, his clothes torn and filthy, but it’s him. As surely as her feet are on the ground, he stands across from her just in front of his headstone.

All the breath has left her body, leaving her gaping and frozen in front of him.

When he sees her, she can feel the tears gathering in her eyes because it’s him. It’s him. He’s--

“Emma?”

The tears fall then, because it feels so good to hear him say her name, his voice gentle and disbelieving and everything that she’s been missing for the past few months.

“Killian?” she says, tentatively taking a step forward.

His expression is shocked, and under that there’s an undeniable layer of fear. “Where are you?” he asks, and his voice sounds muffled, as though there’s a thin wall between them.

It takes her a few moments to respond, still shell-shocked that he’s standing in front of her, speaking to her. “I--I’m in Storybrooke. Wh--where… Where are you?”

He looks like he’s about to reply when Emma hears the sound of a dog growling. Killian looks behind him, and pure fear takes over his expression before he looks back at her. “Emma, listen to me, you need to stay in Storybrooke.” The growling gets louder. Emma’s heart is pounding in her chest. “No matter what you see or what you hear, you need to stay there. He can’t get to you there.”

“Killian, I’m--”

He looks back again, fear bleeding into resignation. He turns back. “I love you so much, Emma. But please just let me go.”

She shakes. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You have to,” he urges. “I won’t let him find you or our family. I know this doesn’t all make sense, but you have to trust--”

The growl turns into vicious barking, and Emma doesn’t see the thing that grabs him, but she hears his scream of pain. He collapses to his knees, but doesn’t remain for long, and is dragged backwards. Emma can’t stop herself from running after him, but she can’t reach him before the image of him disappears through his headstone. The sound of his pain echoes for a second longer before it too disappears.

Emma falls to her hands and knees, crushing grass between her fingers.

Killian Jones isn’t dead.

And he’s in danger.

***

She should’ve known they wouldn’t believe her.

Emma tells her parents what she saw at the graveyard, can recall it with perfect accuracy what she saw and felt, but they just--

They give her the look and speak to her in the tone. “You’re still grieving,” says Snow. “It’s good that you’re telling us about these things because we want to be there for you and help you.”

“You don’t believe me,” she says flatly.

“It’s not that we don’t believe you,” David assures. “But Emma, he’s dead. We buried him almost three months ago. There’s no magic that can cheat death.”

“And until last year, there was no magic that could let you go through time!” she snaps. She shakes her head. “I’ll handle this on my own.” She turns to walk away.

“Emma--” they both say, but she won’t have any of this.

She whirls on them like a hurricane. “Don’t test me,” she says. “You might think I’m crazy, but I’m not. I know what I’ve seen, and I need to know the truth about what’s happening to him.

“And I will do it by myself if I have to.”

***

Regina finds her in the library.

Emma imagines that her mother probably filled Regina in on what was going on but figures it was probably Belle who sold out her location.

(It was also Belle, however, who gave her every book she needed without complaint or talk of this isn’t real. It has been easy to forget that there were other people who cared about Killian, too.)

The click of heels in unmistakable, but Emma doesn’t look up from her research.

In the book she’s reading, there’s an illustration of a three-headed dog, large and muscular with terrifying fangs. A caption beneath it is printed in small letters. Cerberus, it reads. The Hound of Hades. Something had grabbed Killian from behind. Something that growled and barked and something that Killian was terrified of.

Regina doesn’t say anything for a minute, but Emma can hear her rummaging around the paraphernalia at the edge of the table.

“Some quality sources you’ve got here,” Regina quips, and Emma glances up to see her holding the VHS of Disney’s Hercules.

Emma just shrugs. “A lot of the after death mythology includes mentions of Hades and the Underworld. Since everything here seems to skew towards the Disney version, I can’t rule anything out.”

“Mind if I sit?” Regina asks, indicating an empty chair at the table.

Emma doesn’t say anything, and Regina takes that as an invitation and sits.

“If you’re going to tell me I’m wasting my time or ‘you shouldn’t be alone right now, Emma,’ then save it.”

Regina smiles a bit. “I was going to say neither of those things. I just want to know what you’ve told Henry.”

“Nothing,” Emma answers. “I can’t tell him this.”

Regina raises a brow. “Our son is the truest believer, and you don’t think he’d believe you?”

“It’s not that I just…” Emma makes a frustrated sound. “I know I sound nuts.”

“No kidding,” Regina says.

“Not helpful,” Emma shoots back. “I just don’t want him to have to make a choice between me and everyone else.”

“Fair enough,” replies Regina. She looks down at all of Emma’s materials spread across the table. “What makes you think he’s real?”

“You know better than anyone else what it’s like to lose people you love,” Emma says. “You told me you saw Daniel after he died. But I think deep down, you knew it just wasn’t him.”

Regina blows out a breath and looks contemplative for a moment. “I suppose. But I also let my grief spiral into rage and hatred for Snow who wasn’t even responsible… and I don’t want to see anything like that happen to you.”

Emma grumbles. “I’m not about to go all Evil Emma again. That’s not me.”

Chuckling a bit darkly, Regina answers, “I know. I’m glad. But I am worried you’re losing yourself in this one way or another.”

“Believe me, Regina,” Emma says, “no one is more aware of how this looks than me. But I need to know that I’m not missing something. I need to know that wherever he is, he’s going to be okay.”

Regina sighs and stands. “I think that’s just one of those things we have to take on faith.” She shakes her head slowly, opens her mouth to say something else before apparently deciding against it. “I’ll see you around.”

Emma watches Regina leave, her coat swishing regally behind her, and looks back down at the book in front of her.

She runs her fingers over the illustration.

Cerberus guards the entrance to the Underworld, and some say those in the land of the living can hear its howls.

***

“She’s going to the cemetery again today,” Snow notes, watching her daughter drive up the road from the main Granny’s window.

“That’s not odd,” says David. “And it’s good for her to go.”

“Is it?” Snow asks. “He’s been gone for three months.”

“That’s not all that long, you know,” Regina says. “Are you expecting her to, what, just forget she’s still mourning and move on so you don’t have to feel uncomfortable anymore?”

“No,” Snow replies, a bit hotly, “I’m just worried about her. She’s having hallucinations! I’m pretty sure that’s not a normal part of the grieving process.”

They all fall a bit silent, the elephant in the room of Emma’s difficulties sitting prominently between them.

“Maybe we’ve been giving her too much space,” David suggests. “Even if it seems like she doesn’t want us around, it must be hard for her to be going about this by herself.”

“We could meet her at the cemetery,” Regina suggests. “She’s been going by herself for all these months, maybe it would help to have some company.”

The Charmings agree to Regina’s proposal, and head out of Granny’s to their respective cars. The drive is short, and soon they spot Emma’s yellow bug and park next to her. They can’t see to the hilltop where Hook is buried, but they know Emma will be up there.

On their approach, they see her standing with her back to them, her arms wrapped around herself in front of her.

“I need you to give me more,” they hear her say. “I can’t find you unless I know how to get there.”

“Emma,” David calls, and Emma visibly startles before turning to face them.

Her posture immediately goes defensive. “What are you guys doing here?”

Snow speaks before Regina can stop her. “We were worried about you and didn’t want you to be alone,” she says with a hopeful smile on her face, even though in Regina’s estimation it was the worst thing she could’ve said.

Emma’s fist clenches and she backs up a step. “I don’t need you worrying about me--”

An explosion of something unseen goes off behind Emma, knocking her forward and unto her stomach and sending Snow, Regina, and David stumbling. The shockwave is clear and rippling, and dissipates at the edge of the hill.

Everyone is frozen in place except for Emma.

Because Hook is standing right in front of them.

He looks like he’s seen an arduous battle or vicious torture, with blood and filth over his whole body and his face beaten almost past recognition, but it’s him. Without a doubt, it’s him.

Emma is scrambling to her feet and then saying, “Killian, please. Tell me how to get to you.”

Regina is the one who manages to move first, coming to stand next to Emma. “How is this possible?” she whispers.

It looks like Hook is struggling to speak, like each word will cost him greatly. “Hades…” he manages. He screams then, an unseen pain rippling through him as he collapses.

Emma nearly collapses right along with him, but Regina grabs her arm and holds her steady.

Hook looks up then, his eyes boring into Emma’s. “He’s coming.”

Then comes a dark laugh, a chilling sound that sends a chill down Regina’s spine.

“Oh,” the disembodied voice says, “this shall be fun.”

#cs ff #cs angst #ouat ff #captain swan #my fic #emma swan #killian jones #you know you're in deep for a pairing when you still write fic for them #even when you no longer watch the show #this is angsty af

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