#i know my broken and never healed ankle will bail on me

[ashintheairlikesnow]

if you’re still doing the ask game, I’d kill to see number five for either Jake, Jameson, or Jax. you know how I love my drug whump

I have so many prompts sitting in my inbox that are numbers to ask games that I can't remember what the prompts were... but I remember this one. This is as good a time as any...

CW: Pet whump, dehumanization, drugged whumpee, beating, described body/bones, brief emeto ref, restrained, sadistic whumper, collared, chained up

Direct Sequel to Deep Breath / I'm Ready. Part of the Jameson's Backstory mini-series.

-

"I have a system, dog. I have a method. I have a way these things are done."

Robert punctuates each sentence with another kick to his ribs, and the pet grunts with the impact, telling himself to let some of the pain bleed out into the man's boot. With his hands tied behind his back, a short rope linking them to his ankles, he's forced into an arch that leaves his most vulnerable places entirely unprotected.

Open.

On display.

Inviting the next blow.

At least whatever was forced down his throat dulls things a little bit. It's a mercy, he thinks, because Robert isn't done with him yet. The world roils and spins around him like the ocean on a stormy day. The pet is a white-capped wave when the next kick comes and something snaps inside him.

Watch it rain, a soft voice says somewhere inside him. A small hand grabs his own. Watch the rain fall, Johnny. Don't you love rain?

He whimpers, sweating into the blindfold, shivering reflexively as cool air hits the sheen of wet over his skin. He doesn't know who Johnny is.

"Please... please..." His pleading is weak, voice cracked and breaking.

But he just wanted to do the only thing he could to help the young man in the bathtub. He just wanted to help.

Now he's helpless.

Robert's boot, pulled back for the next kick, pauses at the sound. "What's that? You not enjoying this?" He exhales, letting out a thready laugh, before he drops into a crouch, running his hands over the pet's hair. Robert watches him flinch back, unable to see it coming. His thumb finds a spot rubbed bald by the straps of the muzzle and he runs over it, humming, finding the scarred places where the muzzle has cut in enough to make him bleed, over and over. The pad of his thumb is rough, calloused from his job. "You don't like taking your punishment, hm? Is that it?"

The pet holds as still as he can, panting, trying to push past the throbbing ache on his left side. Broken rib, maybe, or just bruised. He'll find out if it heals right or doesn't.

"Please-... please stop," He whispers.

That only gets him another laugh, meaner this time. "That boy had two more weeks of life left in him," Robert says, in a tone of perfect rationality. "I chose him special, and you got it in your head to ruin everything. I just don't see how I'm the bad guy here."

He sighs, and rips the blindfold off over the pet's head.

The pet looks up, struggling to focus, only to take a fist to the face as soon as he does. Knuckles crack into his jaw, but nothing breaks. It's a miracle he hasn't lost any teeth.

His head bounces off the floor, a flash of white behind his eyes. He hears a rough voice cry out in pain and realizes it's his own. The world, already a seasick cruise ship, bobs even more dangerously around him.

He's being blown around in circles, saltwater coming in too fast to bail out. He's going to be sick. He's going to throw up on the floor and drown.

Just like he drowned the man in the bathtub who begged him to do it, who said I'm ready, who held his hand, who struggled at the end and then stopped, and then-

And then...

The air had gone briefly cold after the man had stopped moving and the pet had felt a breeze through his hair, as if something in the man was leaving and moved past him on its way somewhere else.

He starts to cry, unwillingly.

His sobs comes out through gritted teeth, tears forced out of eyes he's closed as tightly as he can to try and keep them hidden. His body shakes.

"Two weeks you've robbed me of," Robert says, standing back up. He groans, and the pet can hear him moving around the room. He doesn't dare look up to watch him, not now. "Two weeks, and now it's all wrong. Now nothing happened the right way, it's all fucked up now. I have a system. I have a method, I have a routine, and you fucked it all up!"

The last words come out a deafening scream, and the pet cries out again, trying as hard as he can to duck his head and hunch his shoulders, wanting only to protect himself in whatever meager way he can. The sound of Robert's voice bounces around inside his fucked-up skull. The water is pulling him under now.

The waves lurch and break against him as Robert grabs him by the arms and drags him. Hog-tied, he can do little more than squirm as he's pulled back into the hallway, to the grimy bathroom.

The young man isn't in there anymore.

"I should kill you," Robert snaps, depositing him back on the cold tile, wet now with water splashed out from when Robert found what he had done and had dragged the body out, trying to revive it so he could hurt the young man more. "I should fucking kill you, you stupid dog. You ruined everything!"

The pet tips his head back until it touches the floor, looks up at Robert looming over him, all malevolence and rage. Beyond his fear, the pet finds a core of something that burns bright and hot, stronger than the smell from the basement. Something sharper than the knives he is cut with, something stronger than Robert's shouting or his fists.

The pet makes an expression that could be a smile or could be a snarl. It could be appeasement or bared fangs. His lip busted at some point and he feels blood on his teeth, tastes it on his tongue.

It makes him think of Nanda.

He lets the blood shift into his mouth, lets it pool on his tongue. Tastes the copper-salt, the hint of sweet. The taste of love, of Nanda's mouth, of his low voice, hands in his hair or on his hips.

Once he has enough, the pet spits blood into Robert's stupid fucking face.

"I hope the next one goddamn kills you first!"

Robert goes still, and silent. His eyes are ringed in white, like a horse about to bolt. Then his hand comes up to slowly wipe away the smear of pink-tinged saliva on his cheekbone running down to his jaw, marked with a five o'clock shadow.

"Fucking dogs don't know how to stop their bark," He mutters to himself. Whatever his plan in the bathroom had been, it's clearly not enough. He pulls the pet up, then lets him fall again. Stares around, eyes bouncing over the still-full tub, the ring of grime around the tub where the water still sits.

Then he just shakes his head. "No, no, no," He mumbles. "No no. Calm it, Bobby. Calm it. Think think think."

The pet stares up at him. His body holds more disgust in that moment than he ever thought possible.

Robert disappears back into the hallway, leaving the pet where he is. Outside the barred bathroom window there's a soft birdsong and the faint hint of sunlight. What time even is it? The pet never knows. The bathroom is the only window that isn't covered with heavy blackout drapes almost all the time.

He focuses on breathing, keeping things shallow to hold the pain in his ribs at bay as best he can. His wrists hurt from the ropes rubbing them raw, his muscles are pulled painfully taut and stretched.

Robert returns with the gag-muzzle, forcing the plastic bit between his teeth. His tongue pushes against it uselessly, working to try and make it comfortable even as his jaw already protests what it knows is coming. The straps slide over the bald spots, buckle into place. The pet shudders at the familiarity of the feeling and tries instinctively to jerk his head to the side.

Robert grabs him by the hair and forces his head back, giving a humorless rictus grin at the pained grunt forced from the pet's throat. "Oh, you don't like that, huh? Shoulda thought of that before you fucking ruined my system. My method. My routine."

You said that already, the pet thinks, but it occurs to him Robert probably doesn't remember that. He's never sure what Robert actually knows about his own words, how much sinks in to memory. He's always repeating things like it's the first time he's ever said them.

The rope between his wrists and ankles is cut and Robert pulls him up to his feet, shoving him forward. The drugs keep the pet struggling to hold himself upright, stumbling to one side or the other. He can still feel the waves - inside him, battering, trying to pull him back under the cold dark water.

He goes willingly enough, shuffling with his hobbled ankles, until Robert has him at the basement door.

The pet rears back in a sudden panicked realization, a muffled, unintelligible babbled plea coming out around the bit, behind the leather muzzle already making his skin pour sweat. He shakes his head wildly back and forth, tries to yank himself free.

Robert's laugh is wild and crazed this time as he shoves the pet forwards and it's either go down the stairs or fall.

The pet's foot finds cool smooth old wood that creaks and he whimpers, the smell flooding his nose making his stomach twist and turn. The next step. A third. A fourth.

The light is on in the basement, a single bare bulb shining a thin circle of light over the disturbed earth on one side. The other side is untouched except for some boxes and the chemical barrels, wreathed in dark shadows that let nothing escape.

"You like 'em so much, you can spend the night with 'em, huh? Just have a little sleepover with my friends here, hm? How's that sound? How that fucking sound?!"

The pet whines as Robert screams in his ear, shaking his head again and again as he is forced step by step down into the basement where they die, where he buries them. His bare feet touch down onto the earthen floor, coolly dry down here, chilly compared to the upstairs. The pet is shivering but it isn't really from the cold.

Goosebumps burst all over his arms and legs, a thrill of terror down his spine as Robert pulls him over to the shadowed corner where the boxes are. There's a hinged metal collar with a chain that attaches to the wall, and the pet realizes that Robert must use it when they're down here just before Robert throws him down on the ground and closes the metal with a snnnnkt over his leather collar, around his neck.

There's thigh bones, he thinks, in a pile over underneath the lightbulb. Just a bunch of fucking goddamn femurs, like Robert comes down here to play fucking barbie dolls with dead people, taking them apart and putting them back together.

Welcome to Malibu Barbie Dreamhouse, he thinks, and a manic horrified laugh bubbles up his throat. John Wayne Gacy edition.

A padlock is hooked through the front of the collar, cold metal slapping down against the top of the pet's collarbone. He looks up at Robert, who is right in front of the light bulb from his perspective, his face black and unreadable.

Please, he tries to say. I'm sorry. Please. All that comes out is muffled animal whines.

"You love them so fucking much, you can be best friends." Robert ruffles his hair. He grins, and the yellowy white of his teeth is all the pet can see of his face. "Enjoy your sleepover, dog."

He turns and leaves, ignoring the pleading whines of the pet as he climbs up the stairs, the creaking like a chorus, a harmony to the pet's cries for this to not be real.

The light seems to shimmer around its edges - it's just the drugs, he tells himself, it's just whatever was in those pills - and shift. Dead people could hide down here in the dark places, with their bony fingers reaching out to grab him.

He whimpers again, softer this time.

He manages to shuffle himself on his ass backwards until he hits the basement wall, smooth stone older than the house itself. His hands are still tied behind him and his ankles are still hobbled. Tears run from his eyes, drift along the edge of the muzzle, drip down from his jaw into the dirt. He sobs around the bit gag, whining until he can't remember if he even is human at all any longer.

Then he sees a face and gives a full-body shudder.

At first he thinks it's the drugs, but it's not. The young man who begged him for help, the reason he's down here at all, isn't buried yet. He's just lying on the ground under a worktable on the other side of the basement. His hands are still tied together in front of him, his soaking wet hair has begun to dry, frizzy and tangled.

Something about the face, though, gives him pause.

He's seen them dead before, their faces etched in horrified screaming, empty eyes wide and terrified. He's seen them trapped in their final agonies long after they're gone.

But the young man across the basement looks like he's gone to sleep there on the floor, that's all. His color's all wrong but the dim light keeps that from being too obvious.

He looks like he's sleeping.

He didn't die screaming under Robert's knife, or begging for it to stop as the blows kept raining down. He isn't tied to Robert's bed, he isn't anything like that at all.

The pet's fear is still in him, heart beating jackrabbit-fast against the inside of his chest, but he stares and stares at the young man's body and begins to understand that... he doesn't need to be afraid of them.

He doesn't need to be afraid.

He needs to be angry that they die like this, not afraid of them.

Anger is what keeps him breathing, what keeps him thinking, what keeps him alive.

He made Robert furious, but more importantly he took a victory from him, he took power from him. He took away control. He made it so Robert can't feel like he owns the young man in his death, like the body is his because he made it.

No.

As long as he isn't dead, that means he isn't out of time. As long as he keeps breathing, as long as he keeps thinking, as long as there are parts of him that Robert doesn't know, doesn't own, that he can't control.

As long as he stays angry.

As long as he has hope.

I'm going to get out of here, he promises the young man's body, the pile of bones, the rest of them under the soil. I'm going to escape. I'm going to do something, someday, when he gives me the chance.

I'm not like him.

I'm not like any of them.

I want to be like you, instead, but alive. I want to live.

I'm going to live.

For a second he smells water, he hears a voice he can't understand and tastes the young man's voice on his tongue, the taste of sage tea with milk.

The pet swallows and closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose, holding the air, breathing out again. The air shifts around him, touches his face just above the muzzle.

In the perfectly still basement, a breeze shifts along his skin, rustles his hair just a little.

Something moving past him on its way to somewhere else.

-

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @eatyourdamnpears @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @boxboysandotherwhump @outofangband @whumptywhumpdump @thehopelessopus @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @butwhatifyouwrite @newandfiguringitout @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @oops-its-whump @endless-whump @cubeswhump @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whumpiary @burtlederp

[libraryofloveletters]

The Boy Next Door

Eddie Diaz x Reader 

Warnings: mentions of divorce, step-parents, a little bit of arguing, alcohol and consumption of, like one swear word, mentions of sickness

Category: fluff 

Word Count: 2.3K

Author’s Note: ahhh okay hi! this is my first 911 fic, idk it’s mostly self indulgent because I can’t get this idea out of my head, so here we are :) also for the purpose of this, Eddie never got married nor did he have Christopher 

Italics are flashbacks 

----

To say you were average was the understatement of your life, you weren't special nor were you awkward or shy, you were just average. You had always been the average person, in an average neighbourhood with an average life. 

But the boy next door, there was nothing average about him. 

The first time you met the boy next door was when you were 14, you had just moved into the neighbourhood with your father and his new wife. There was still lots to be done, the air conditioning was broken and your father seemed to misplace his toolkit during the move. He left you in the smouldering heat and ventured off to find a toolkit. Not only did he return with a toolkit but visitors as well.

“y/n!” your father shouted from the bottom on the staircase, “what?!” you shouted back. “Come down here!” you groaned as he called for you again, what could he possibly want now? 

Your father stood there with a man and a boy who you could only assume was his son. “Y/n, this is Ramon and his son, Eddie. They live next door and Ramon was kind enough to loan his tools and help me out.” you smiled at them from the top of the stairs. 

“Come down and get Eddie something to drink” your father said, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes and made your way down the stairs. 

“Would you like some lemonade ?” you asked, walking past him to the kitchen, he followed you. “Please” he leaned against the wall watching you move around the kitchen. 

“So, I hear you have a step mom?” he asks, you could feel his eyes burning into your back as you got the lemonade from the fridge. “Unfortunately” you mumble and pour some of the liquid into a glass, Eddie made his way over to the counter, he leaned up against it. 

“Do you know how to stand straight ?” you glance at him up and down, he laughs and shakes his head. 

“Why is it unfortunate that you have a stepmother ?” taking a sip of the lemonade, his eyes fixed on you. “Have you ever seen Cinderella ?” you asked, hopping up on the counter and picking up the other glass, Eddie nods. 

“Imagine living with Cinderella’s stepmother but times 100″ you groan, Eddie had a smile on his face. 

“You’re joking”

“Wish I was” 

“Well that sucks” he gave you an apologetic look

“Big time” your eyes are on your legs which were swinging back and forth. Eddie grabs your leg suddenly, “what the hell!” you jump, he laughs again. 

God he has such a cute laugh, wait what ? Stop he’s your neighbour, you barely know him.

“How’d you get that?” his thumb rubs over a scar on your leg by your ankle. “Bike accident when I was younger. It just didn’t heal right and left a scar, also because there was a giant gash there for a few weeks” you shrug. The two of you were in the kitchen for a few minutes, Eddie’s hand was still wrapped around your leg, neither of you saying a word to each other. 

“Eddie! Time to go!” Ramon shouted for Eddie, he let go of your leg. “See you around ?” he asked, you nodded, “yeah, see ya” Eddie smiled at you and you smiled back. 

You rarely saw Eddie after that day, he had been helping his father at his shop all summer so you never got a chance to hang out. When school started, you had a few classes with him, he occasionally asked for the answers to the homework after his practices ran long, which you gave to him. 

Somewhere deep down, you had a soft spot for the boy next door. 

Your friendship, if you could even call it that, was built solely on the fact that he lives next door and went to the same classes, if it weren't for that, you’d never speak to him. He wasn't a popular kid per se but he had a solid friend group and played sports, so in his own way, he was a popular kid. You were the kid that had your head down, did what you were told to do and left. 

High school flew by and you were glad. The whole “your high school years are the best years of your life” was bullshit, if anything, you ended up coming out more confused than you went in. 

The second time you spent time with Eddie was at your graduation party. The graduating class had arranged a grad party for yourselves in the neighbourhood. It consisted of loud drunk teenagers and their tipsy parents. By midnight, the street began clearing out, you hung back simply because you didn’t want to go home and deal with your stepmother and your father. 

Sitting on the curb at the end of the street, you could see the entire street. There  were still a few kids, a group of boys playing football terribly, a couple making out in the corner and some girls posing for pictures by some car. 

Eddie’s shouting broke your thoughts, “Papi I'm going!” It sounded like something had shattered, perhaps a bottle. You got up and slowly made your way over. “You want to throw away your life? Stay here, get a job Eddie, I won’t allow you to do this!” his father shouted back at him. Eddie began walking away from his father, Ramon grabbed his hand. “Do not walk away from me!” he shouted again. 

“You made up your mind and so did I. I'm going.” Eddie said sternly and walked away. He walked past you on his way to wherever he was going. He didn’t stop, he didn't talk, he just pushed past you and left. 

Eddie left home a few weeks later. You kept up with his parents, stopping by for dinner every once in a while. His father didn’t talk much about him, just that he was good and that’s all. Once his father left, his mother told you about what actually was going on, how Eddie felt as if he had found a purpose there. She shows you letters that he had sent and a picture he had sent her in his uniform.

“Doesn't he look handsome ?” she smiled, showing you the picture of Eddie. “Yeah, very handsome, Mrs. Diaz” you smiled back. 

“Do you know when he’s coming back?” 

The smile dropped from her face. “He- uh, reenlisted” she mumbled. “Ramon doesn't know” 

You nodded, “I won’t tell” 

“Who’s not telling what?” his father came back in for a moment, you smiled at him while Mrs. Diaz turned her attention to the sink. “Oh just that Mrs. Diaz is helping me with dinner for my grandparents tomorrow” you pick up the bowls on the counter, “Thank you for dinner, I'll see you guys around ?” 

“of course, thank you for coming over. it’s nice to have you around” his mother gave you a hug. 

You spent a lot of afternoons with his mom, just helping her out around the house. It wasn't until 4 years after that night that you saw him again. A few bruises and bumps, a couple scars and broken bones you were sure of, but he was back in one piece. In true Diaz fashion, his parents insisted on throwing a party for him. It was supposed to be a small party, just a few neighbours and family. By the time Mrs. Diaz was done inviting people, there was triple the amount of people coming. 

You headed over with your father, he had gotten sick recently and required a bit more help now. Truthfully by 25, you had planned to be living on your own but with your father getting sick and your step mother bailing, you stuck around. Once you got him situated, you found Mrs. Diaz in the kitchen. 

“Hey” you smiled at her, taking the bowl from her hands. “Hi mi amor, how are you ?” She smiled at you, you rested the bowl on the table across from the two of you, “I’m okay for now.” 

Eddie’s laughter filled your ears, that was a sound you didn't hear often but one you loved nonetheless “It’s good to have him home” his mother smiled, watching her son from the window. Mrs. Diaz gets pulled off by someone leaving you alone in the kitchen, turning to the fridge, you look through for a beer. “hey, pass me one too” his voice called as he watched through the backdoor. You pulled two out and handed on to him. 

“Thanks” Eddie leaned against the counter, you couldn't help but chuckle. “What?” taking a sip of the beer, his eyes meet yours. “Nothing, just noticing your habit of leaning on things” you stood across from him. 

“Sorry, but do I know you from somewhere ? You seem so familiar” his brows furrowed, tongue running across his lip. “I’m y/n, we’re neighbours” you told him, his eyes flickered up and down you, your name leaving his lips. 

God, your name never sounded so good. 

“Y/n...” his eyes ran over your body once more, his eyes locking on your foot. “Ankle Scar” he smiled, you nodded as your lips curled into a smile. “God, I'm so sorry I didn’t rememb-” “don’t worry ‘bout it, I'm not really anyone worth remembering” 

Eddie’s smile dropped, a pout visibly on his face. “Don’t say that, I'm sure you are.” 

“Is that why you didn't remember me ?” you teased

“We went to high school together” he took another sip, you nodded in agreement. “We’ve also lived next door to each other since we were 14”  you smiled at him. Again, the smile vanished from his face, “okay, now I really feel like shit. God, I'm sorry” “It’s cool really” you gave a smile once more. 

“Don’t you have a party to get back too ?” 

“Eh, not to fussy about parties to tell you the truth. I might take a walk around the block, care to join me ?” 

“Actually, yeah, I’d like that” 

Eddie opened the front door for you, letting you step out first. The two of you headed through the front to avoid everyone in the back, you walked down the street together, the dull streetlights lit the sidewalks, beer in your hand. 

“What have you been up to?” Eddie asked you, “Well, I'm a nurse but only part time. My dad needs me around.. now that he’s sick” 

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, your dad’s a cool guy” 

Scoffing, you take a sip of your beer, “yeah, you’re the only one that’s ever thought that” your statement making Eddie chuckled. “If you don't mind me asking, what happened to the wicked step mother of the west?”  he looked over at you as he walked along the curb of the sidewalk, his arms out to balance himself. 

“She bailed when he found out he was sick.” 

Eddie stopped walking, “seriously ? that’s a bitch move” “yeah, tell me about it” 

Taking a seat on the curb, Eddie sat down too. The street was quiet for the most part, the only noise coming from down the street at Diaz’s place. Your fingers tapped against the beer bottle in your hand, aimlessly trying to keep up with the beat of the music. Eddie’s hand on your ankle startled you, causing you to drop the bottle. “Seriously ?! Again?” you shout, Eddie put his finger over your lips. “Shh! you’ll wake up the neighbours” he muttered, you rolled your eyes at his statement. “Tell me nurse y/n, how does one not ‘heal right’” he laughed, his thumb rubbing against the scar and causing you to roll your eyes again. “surely you can tell me that, Sergeant Diaz” 

Eddie looked shocked, “how did-” “your mom, she never stopped talking about her son, the army sergeant medic” you teased, he shook his head, laughing. “I know you’ve only been back for a few weeks, but what’s next ? Are you going to stay ?” 

“If I have a reason too, I will but I- I don't know what’s next” Eddie sighed. 

“Perhaps a change in scenery ?” you asked, he looked over at you with a questionable expression on his face. “I'm moving, to California in a few months” you told him. 

“Oh? What for?” 

“A change in scenery” you laughed and he smiled at you. 

“I haven't thought about moving, maybe it would be nice. A break away from here, not that I don't love it here, I love my parents too but-” he stopped talking, he realized the more he went on, the deeper a hole he dug. 

“You know, I hear the LAFD is always looking for recruits. I’m sure they wouldn't mind having an army medic on the team” you glance over at him, there’s a pause in the conversation. 

Eddie looks over at you, “that’s not a bad idea” his arm wraps around your shoulder, pulling you into his side, your arm his rested on top of his knee, 

“What do you say to a road trip and a roommate ?” he looks down at you. 

You look up at him, “I think I'd like that”  

---

tagging: @ssa-volturi​ @geeky-son-dr-reid

[asterekmess]

S3A - E1

Okay, instead of making like massive reblogs of thoughts as I have them for the episodes, I’m gonna just make a massive bullet point list that I’ll add to throughout the episode, so you get One post per episode instead of “Like all nine million of them.”

I put Read-More’s because I care.

Thoughts (of which I have far too many):

I’m in the first ten seconds of the fuckin episode. Why the fuck is Braeden electrocuting Isaac? Like, look, I wanna like Braeden. I have issues with her entire moral system, but I still wanna like her cus’ she saves Isaac. But...how am I supposed to do that when the literal first thing she does is electrocute my boy??? He’s knocked out, not DEAD (not that that’s how shocking someone’s heart even Works) and it’s not like she needs to trigger the healing process. He’s already got Gaping slash wounds on his chest. He’s hurt enough. ALSO. “Be quiet”?? R U Serious? You’re electrocuting him. YOU try being quiet with fucking jumper cables on your chest.

The CGI...is so bad. Oh my god. What the absolute fuck. it looks like Sharkboy & Lavagirl. And why aren’t Ethan & Aiden’s claws doing anything to the bike?

I AM CONFUSION. If the twins don’t have to take their pants off to do the Transformers shit, why do they have to take off their shirts? Can...can I just skip that? Make the big bad werewolf wear an ugly hybrid of two of their stupid ass sweaters? Or do Ethan and Aiden really just like being shirtless that much? (I wouldn’t put it past them)

What is with Braeden and the electricity?

The writing in this show, what the fuck? “I thought I told you to hold on” EXCUSE ME, ma’am. He literally just passed out. His bad I guess.

Guess who has to add the anti-scott tag to this now? Anyway, I hate that Allison’s bit in the intro is her kissing Scott and then drawing the bow. Like, they’re broken up. They don’t get together in this season. Why are they kissing in the intro? That had to have Totally pissed off Scallison fans.

There’s my boy, holding up lizard tattoo designs. Pls tell me he took a pic and sent it to Jackson with the caption “It’s YOU.” Like, yes, way too soon, but man it’s fuckin funny.

This tattoo artist is a good-ass salesman. However, p-sure he’s not a good-ass artist if he had to wrap Scott’s arm up That badly. Like...they have stuff for that. Fuck, the one I got on my ankle, they used SaranWrap and Tape. Just needs to be kept out of the open air for a bit. You don’t need like eight layers of gauze. I do feel for Scott tho. That tat probably cost him like $50-75 before the tip. Oof.

Eyyy, time to be salty. Ya’ll know I love Allison, but does it get any more clear that she totally bailed on everyone after the warehouse? She went to France! She doesn’t even know what happened to Jackson after he got cured. ALSO. Lydia says “Derek taught him the werewolf 101.” Not Scott. Derek. XP

Lydia, honey, leave Allison alone. If she doesn’t want to go on the double date, go alone and make it an orgy. Fun, right? Wait, no. Don’t. You’re 16. Don’t do that!

When exactly did they “agree to give each other the summer”? She said “I’m breaking up with you.” he said “I’ll wait” and then she cried into her dad’s arms. Like...why didn’t we get to see this apparently incredibly important conversation? (maybe because it didn’t happen??)

I fucking LOVE the “I’m just gonna say hi. HEYYYYY! You know....they probably didn’t see us.”

The most horrific thing about that moment was the bad CGI.

I WANNA POINT OUT how cute it is (in a like, sad way cus’ she’s terrified) that Lydia is close enough to Stiles now that she immediately goes for his side and they like insta connect with the eye contact. Not in like a Stydia way, but like, they’re close. she trusts him and goes to him when she’s scared, even though he’s human and you’d wonder if she shouldn’t go to Scott instead, since he’s the werewolf.

SCOTT WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING THE DEAD DEER. Your ability to smell chemosignals/sense emotions has nothing to do with touching. Stop poking the dead animal.

Wait, WHY is there a full moon in that shot? The full moon isn’t for like a week! I COUNTED.

...what? Why the fuck does Braeden think Scott’s an Alpha? Why tho? Like, seriously? WHY? He’s not an Alpha yet. Nowhere near it. And if she knows bc Deaton told her (i think he was the one who hired her) then shouldn’t she know he isn’t one yet? IF SHE KNOWS that she can tell Melissa abt werewolves, WHY doesn’t she know that Scott’s Melissa’s son? Where is the LOGIC?

Scott’s morning routine is giving me Legally Blonde vibes. ~my perrrfectt dayyy, nothing standing in my wayyy~

I can’t tell. did Allison get highlights, or straight up dye her hair brown?

This sweet moment between her and her dad. Yes. Pls.

I will admit, I like getting to see each of their mornings.

Lydia...who are you fucking? Honey, you’re sixteen. Why isn’t whoever the fuck is in bed with you also getting ready for school? What.....the fuck?

Completely different Beacon Hills High School set. I really can’t blame the writers for that.

Wtf Davis? You list Erica and Boyd as being 17...since when? They’re supposed to be entering their Junior Year of high school. They would be 16 GOING ON 17. ANd what the hell do you mean Erica’s birthday is August 16th? She said in the last season that she’d “Just turned 16 a month ago” that was Spring semester. ???? Come on, guys. Seriously. Writing 101, getting to know your characters. I don’t know anyone writing a novel who doesn’t know the exact birthday of their characters. Plus, they cut 2 in. from Gage Golightly’s actual height, while adding an inch to Sinqua’s (according to google, which isn’t always reliable) Whatever. Boooooo.

Uh...that principal was threatened by the Argents. Victoria herself promised to torture him if he didn’t resign. Why does he look so surprised by the fucking sword in his office? For that matter, why is he at the school at all? He KNOWS the Argents attacked him. This should cause problems!

Honestly, Lydia, I love you. Like, go for it. Nothing wrong with not wanting to date and just wanting to have fun. My issues stem from YOU BEING 16. Yes, teenagers have sex. But this is ridiculous. Why is there so much sexualization? I knew a grand total of like....two teenagers who had sex at 16? and like one who did at 15 (which they say in canon she and Jackson were banging before her birthday). Like, it’s not nearly as common as y’all are making it out to be. Knock it off.

WHEN DID MELISSA MEET ISAAC PROPERLY? WHEN did that HAPPEN?

....so why didn’t Derek answer the phone? They literally never explain? He shows up, so...why didn’t he answer?

I’m SO InCredibly Disturbed by Jennifer having everyone’s phone numbers. HOW? In What Way is that REMOTELY appropriate? WHY did no one question it? Why didn’t STILES or LYDIA question it?

So tiny, bugs me so much. He didn’t turn his phone off. He turned his screen off...is it that hard to have him do the right one?

uhhh. Werewolves can smell other werewolves. Wanna tell me why Isaac can’t tell a werewolf just walked in the room? An ALPHA no less?

why TF are Kali’s iris’ and pupils so fucking massive?

So...what was the deal with the birds? Don’t they say later that Jennifer like summoned them? So they aren’t from the Alpha pack scaring animals? And also, how would the Alpha pack be scaring animals if they’re like, in the middle of town? They said in S1 that “wild animal sightings are up” like what 75% or something? “As though something is scaring them out” but that made sense, bc we knew Peter was running around in his full-shift (it’s a fucking full shift, it’s just fucked up) in the woods. But these Alphas aren’t, they’re integrating. So is it Jennifer that the animals are afraid of? Like, does she have sPoOkY aura or something?

More bad CGI.

WHy is no one responding to the woman stumbling around in nothing but a hospital gown?

ONCE AGAIN. Werewolves can Sense Werewolves. SCOTT you sensed Isaac in a BOYS LOCKER ROOM. DUKE IS RIGHT THERE. WHT THE FUCK?

angry smoker doctor  “Why don’t you wheel this joker out of here?” “I’m gonna go smoke” Grrr

Sir. clearly your mask wasn’t tied on appropriately. it shouldn’t just Fall Off when you touch it. there are Protocols! STOP THE SPREAD. also, someone wanna tell me why none of these alphas can keep their claws in? A lil flashy flashy red eye would’ve done the trick just fine.

Okay no, seriously what the FUCK is up with these contacts, you guys? THEY”RE MASSIVE???

Ugh, can I just *swoons* “I’m an Alpha!” slice “So am I.” That is just so fucking smooth. Woo. I feel so safe ohmygod. PLUS. Derek KNOWS Ennis. I can’t imagine how satisfying that had to be.

Uh, Derek, honey. You’re Isaac’s legal guardian. You can just Sign Him Out of the hospital. With clothes and everything. What are you doing?

Honey, what do you mean the county took it over? If they were gonna do that they’d have done it six fucking years ago. Unless you gave it to them, it’s still yours? I did the research. Like HOURS of it.

What do you MEAN there’s a magic healing herb that helps with Alpha wounds? Since when do Alpha wounds need extra healing, I thought they just took a lil longer? ALSO why is it growing INSIDE your house???? SCOTT. Isaac is fucking UNCONSCIOUS. Can your tattoo fucking WAIT A MINUTE?

I have so many questions. WHY does Braeden know who Allison is? If Lydia’s immune to magic, WHY is Braeden able to bruise her? WHY can Braeden DO magic? and WHY is Chris allowed to take Lydia out of school?

ALLISON you had Geometry LAST YEAR why are you holding a GEOMETRY BOOK??

ohhhhmygod, Derek. Derek. DEREK. Your eyes are pretty on a normal day. That little Blink and ruby reds thing? Ohmygod. I just. I wanna take a picture and just stare at it BUT. how tf does this whole red eye thing work? You can see in the dark....but now you also have x-ray vision? You know, I could believe it was thermal vision...maybe? If Scott was still healing for some reason maybe the tattoo would be brighter? Otherwise I have no idea what is going on.

BUT SCOTT”S NOT 18??? He’s Still fucking 16, or even 17, but not 18. WTF? He needs parental consent in the first place (i should’ve mentioned this in the other note abt the tattoo)

uhh...seriously? When someone breaks up with you and tells you not to talk to them anymore...why do you need a reward for doing as they asked? Like, yeah, you’re sad, I feel that. But making it a ‘reward’ sounds kinda weird. You know what makes it really easy not to text the ex that doesn’t wanna talk to you? Delete her number.

WHY THE BLOWTORCH? SOMEONE WANNA EXPLAIN? Peter’s not covered in tattoo from when he was literally burned alive, why the FUCK would a blowtorch create a black tattoo on Scott’s skin?

DEREK. HONEY. Why would Stiles be able to hold Scott still??? Scott’s a werewolf.

All this bullshit to explain away Posey’s tattoo that he got. Like, damn dude, we all like tattoos, but you have a job that needs bare arms on the regular. That was kinda rude.

Where did braeden get clothes? I forgot to ask.

uhhhh. Ephemeral might technically work in that sentence, but that’s still really awkward.

WHY THE FUCK DID YOU DESTROY HIS DOOR? YOU FUCKING ASSHAT. And WHY the instant fucking grr face? “why’d you paint the door?” uhh, leave him alone? He can do what he wants? It’s his house? Also, don’t get all fucking rude about the alpha pack. He told you it was a rival pack.

KALI. PUT SOME FUCKING SHOES ON. JESUS.

Why exactly does Scott see the symbol and INSTANTLY put together that it’s got anything to do with the Alphas or the animal attacks? Where is the logic jump there?

What exactly was the POINT of popping your claws if you were gonna kick her in the face???

UH, Melissa? Why didn’t you tell Scott that there was a whole other person with Isaac?

What is with the face touching, Duke? I’ve never known a blind person who actually wanted to rub their hands on my face to ‘find out what i look like?’

Really not a fan of all these weird jumps and camera angles with the awkward reflecting.

WOah WOah. Allison gets to PAINT her APARTMENT? Wtf kinda BULlshit is that? My landlord won’t let me do that. Rude.

I know they’re imprisoned and it sucks, but they’ve been there for four months, they had to have gotten bored. Do you think they broke into any of the security deposit boxes to see if anything was left behind?

Last thoughts: They really went for it with this episode. I have plans to change a lot of it. Hopefully I can mesh the changes with the general plotline.

[repulsivepangolin7]

Fic: 31 days of whump (9/31)

A/N: Alright, this is actually one of the few chapters which is connected to another chapter. So, this one and the next one goes hand in hand.

Word count: 1 435

Jingle bells was playing from a store somewhere along the street. People were dressed up for cold weather, even though they were in the city of Angels. Luca smirked to himself as he watched the weird mix of people walk down the street. Some in t-shirts and shorts, some with scarves, beanies and mittens. Didn’t folks realize that it was sunny and like 65 degrees out?

People were walking around with the big and REALLY BIG paper cups of Starbucks seasonal beverages, and he could see a street vendor further down the street selling sugar and cinnamon burnt almonds. He would have to buy some of those.

“How are you doing?” Tuana, Kelly’s mom, asked as she cast a worried glance over at him.

Luca realized he was starting to break a sweat, and paused in order to adjust his crutches. “Good, good. I’m doing good.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking up at him, “We could step inside that bakery and grab a bite and some coffee…”

He knew she was bailing him out from admitting that his leg hurt. A broken ankle usually hurts the first couple of weeks after it’s broken.

“Coffee sounds good…” he nodded. He would have admitted that his ankle was throbbing like crazy, if it hadn’t been for her giving him the perfect out. Besides, he could always go for some coffee.

They went inside the small bakery a couple of stores down.

Their first mission was to find a table to sit down by, then Tuana would go order for them.

They found a table standing against the rear wall, with four chairs. Luca sat down with his back against the wall and propped his recently injured leg up on the neighbor chair. He missed a pillow to place his leg on, but beggars can’t be choosers.

“What do you want to have?”

“Coffee, black.” He started, and readjusted his leg, “And something that looks tasty.”

“Like a sandwich? Croissant? Cupcake? Cake?”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having…” Luca chuckled.

“Alright.” she smiled, “Carrot cake then?”

He nodded, “Sure, sounds awesome.”

“How does your ankle look now?”

Luca scrounged up his nose. The surgeon who had operated on him had fixed his fractures with plates and screws. He wasn’t wearing a cast.  “Prolly swollen… Feels like it.”

“We can take a cab back to where we parked later…”

“Nah…” he shook his head, “Feels good to be walking around again. And it’s not that far. I just need a sit-down break.”

She nodded.

 SWATSWATSWAT

 A minute or two later the owner came by, with a slightly annoyed expression. “Hey, you can’t have your feet up on our furniture.”

Luca looked up from his phone. Tuana was still in line to place their order.

“Man, I need to have it elevated for a spell…” his shoulders slumped.

“What?” the owner answered dumb folded.

“I broke my leg at work about two weeks ago…”

“You ain’t got a cast.”

Luca nibbled on his lower lip for a short second, “I know…”

The owner was about to cross his arms to make it more obvious that he was getting annoyed, when Luca leaned forward and pulled the hem of his pants up towards his knee, revealing thick bandages going up both sides of his ankle.

“They secured it with metal plates and screws.” he explained, “My girlfriend over there and I have been Christmas gift shopping for her kid for two hours. My leg feels like it’s about to burst.”

The owner glanced over towards the line, then back at Luca with an entirely different expression, then he looked down at the floor and saw the crutches Luca had hid under the table. “I’m sorry. Never mind… Just have your leg up…”

“Thanks.” Luca nodded.

“Do you want a pillow or some ice to put on it?”

“You have those things here?”

“Sure thing.” the owner nodded, “We’ve got ice in the ice machine, we’ve got plastic bags to put it in. And we’ve got some pillows in the couch area.”

“That’d be great…” Luca smiled.

The owner gave a short nod and headed towards where the couch area probably was, before he a few seconds later returned with two pillows. “Here. You probably want to arrange them by yourself.”

Luca nodded, “Thank you.”

Then the owner went to find some ice for him.

 SWATSWATSWAT

 “What did that guy want?”

“Wanted to know if I had a good reason to have my leg up on one of his chairs.” Luca flashed a quick smile, “He found some pillows for me, and now he’s fetching some ice for me.”

“Oh, okay…” she nodded as she placed their coffees in front of them, “That’s good.”

Luca nodded.

“The guy behind the counter said he’d come over with the cakes in a couple of minutes.”

Luca nodded and leaned forward to adjust his leg and the pillows.

“Can I take a look?” she asked as she nodded towards his leg.

“Sure.” Luca nodded and pulled the hem of his pantleg back up.

“Sure is swollen…” Tuana noted as she placed a couple of fingers against the front of his lower shin, “At least it has a normal temperature. How does it feel?”

She helped him pull the hem back down again.

“Better now that I have it up.” Luca smirked, “It’s fine.”

Tuana nodded and sat down opposite him.

“So…” Luca sat back and looked over at her, “Given any thoughts to what you want for Christmas?”

She shrugged, “Haven’t really thought about it. But you don’t need to get me anything. I don’t think it was the best of ideas for you to tag along today, judging by how swollen your leg and ankle has gotten.”

Luca shrugged, “Hey, I could always get one of my teammates to drive me, or I could get one of them to go buy whatever I decide to get you for me. Stuff like that is easy now with video calls you know…”

“True…” Tuana rolled her eyes a little, “What if I say that I just want your company for Christmas?”

Luca grinned wide, “Well, you just stole my Christmas wish…”

“I’m just assuming you’re going to celebrate with us.” she tilted her head, hoping he’d nod or say yes, or something along those lines.

He nodded, just as the owner came back with a few freezer bags with ice. “Here, I struggled with finding the bags. One of my college kids practically rearranged the back kitchen the last time he cleaned it.”

“Thanks man…” Luca smiled, and let out a sigh of relief when he finally was able to drape two improvised icepacks over his lower left leg. “Thank you.”

“Gotta support our boys in blue, right?” the owner shrugged.

“How… How did you know?”

“Saw Tuana standing in line, without her bestie.” The owner answered, “Figured she finally worked up the nerve to bring her cop boyfriend here. Just had to see her sit down next to you before I was sure.”

Luca chuckled.

“So you got hurt at work?”

“Yeah.” Luca nodded, “Landed bad after jumping a fence. Didn’t help that I landed on top of a skateboard.”

The owner cringed, “Well, I hope you heal up quickly.”

“Thanks,” Luca smirked, “I’ll probably be back on my feet in no time.”

The owner nodded, “Where are my manners, I totally forgot to introduce myself… I’m Ben Neagley.”

“Dominique Luca.” he replied, “Just call me Luca, most people do.”

Ben nodded, “Yeah, kinda picked up on that from Tuana and Macy chatting about you.”

Luca chuckled and glanced over at Tuana, then back at Ben, “Not all bad I hope.”

“Oh, no…” Ben shook his head, “I wish my wife was as impressed with me, and proud of me as Tuana is of you. I’ve been hoping to meet this fantastic Mr. Luca.”

Luca glanced over at Tuana again, sending a flirtatious wink her way.

“Well, I’m just attempting to be the man she deserves.” Luca answered before turning back to Ben, “She’s by far the most amazing woman I’ve met.”

Ben smiled, “Yeah, you have to take good care of her.”

Luca nodded, “Trying to.”

“Oh, stop it… You’re doing a great job.” Tuana smiled.

 SWATSWATSWAT

 The waiter came by with the cakes, and Luca grabbed a spoonful of the frosting on top. “Damn, this is good.”

Tuana nodded before she had even tested it, “Macy and I have this as our coffee spot. The carrot cake here is my favorite. The frosting is a dream.”

Luca nodded energetically and smiled at her.

[accio-ambition]

Knowing Little Notes

For those, like me, who are only interested in the Super Bowl for the commercials and the halftime show, I come to you this overly commercialized day with my contribution to @captainswanbigbang‘s CS Little Bang. A super special shout out to @technicallysizzlingcloud for beta-ing this monstrosity and @mrs-emma-swan-jones for a lovely art piece. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: Emma Swan doesn’t do kids. Or, more accurately, she hasn’t done kids. But when a friend in need asks her to do kids - more specifically teach them - Emma dips her toes into the education field. Her first foray into substitute teaching is for Mr K. Jones, who proves to be a great asset in this whole “learning to teach” thing. It helps Emma understand what her friends get out of the job: that the best life lessons sometimes come from students and a nice little note. Rated: T for language Read it here or on AO3, whatever floats your boat

By trade - if you could call it that - Emma is a bail bondsperson. She chases after skips who’ve failed to pay her back: an irony in the fact that she has nothing, money or otherwise. She’s got an apartment the size of a comfortable closet and enough to eat takeout on occasion. Still, it doesn’t  require a college degree that she doesn’t have and it’s active enough for her. It’s great for the lifestyle she leads. She can find a gig in any city, no matter where she might find herself. It’s awesome.

Until it isn’t.

She’s sprained her ankle one too many times and this time around she’s got a broken wrist to accompany with it. Her skip decided to get a little rougher with her than usual, slamming her wrist into a granite counter. She’s lucky it was only her wrist with the heels she was wearing.

Still, a broken wrist means a cast: which means she’s out of the bail bonds game for at least the next two months, probably longer. Her office won’t pay her rent or her bills, to the surprise of no one, and she’s not moving out of the only little square of the world she’s ever been able to call her own.

That’s how she falls into substitute teaching.

Mary Margaret tells her about it one evening soon after Emma gets her cast on, taking on the role of pseudo-mother caring for her healing daughter.

(She even signs the cast, and Emma can’t quite quell the feeling of a little girl excited to have everyone at school sign her cast.)

It’s an easy way to make money, Mary Margaret insists - solid hours, a schedule that changes, yet stays the same and the properly-trained regular teacher comes up with all the plans.

“All you have to do is follow them,” her friend tells her.

She helps Emma cut the plastic bag off her arm after showering all the sweat and hospital grime of her body. A timer goes off in the kitchen, Emma’s rickety oven on the verge of catching fire with the casserole Mary Margaret’s got cooking away in it. With an thrilled little noise, she goes off to check dinner.

(Emma is consistently surprised she isn’t actually Mary Margaret’s child with her husband David. With the way they all act around each other, they might as well be.)

“I don’t know,” Emma shouts into the other room, ripping the remainder of the shopping bag off her arm. “I don’t really do kids.”

“You haven’t really done kids,” Mary Margaret corrects her. The top of her head pokes from around the door jamb to glare at the other woman. “That doesn’t mean you can’t do them.”

She disappears again and Emma can hear the oven door screech open, slam shut, and her friend place whatever was heating up on the stovetop. A drawer opens and Mary Margaret returns to her living room to take the seat next to Emma’s, an empathetic expression on her face.

“Give it a try. I’ll put your name in the system for some coworkers of mine and you can try it out. If you don’t like it, you don’t like it. But at least it’ll get you out of the house.”

“And the money,” Emma adds, pointing a finger down the plane of her face. “Gotta pay rent somehow.”

Mary Margaret’s hand comes to rest on the hand of hers that isn’t wrapped up in plaster. “We can help you out this month if you need it,” she offers. “You just figure yourself out first and then we can deal with everything else.”

“Thanks Mary Margaret.” Sighing, Emma relaxes into the couch cushion, enjoying the delicious smell wafting from the kitchen. Her eyes slide shut for a moment, merely taking in the aroma mixed with the warmth of her seat, and the nice little cocktail of pain meds she’s got in her system right now. When she opens her eyes, Mary Margaret’s expression has morphed into something weirder, like she’s holding back a secret, which she never does.

(She tries, bless her honest heart, but Emma knows from experience that if you share a secret with Mary Margaret, you share a secret with David and all of his work friends, and sooner rather than later, all of Storybrooke knows.)

“You don’t happen to have an ulterior motive, do you?” she asks. Hesitantly, Mary Margaret shakes her head, but her eyes widen and she’s biting her lip and her cheeks are starting to grow red.

She’s lying.

“Mary Margaret,” Emma chides, drawing out the final syllable of her name.

Her friend shrugs. “Well, you need a gig,” she says slowly. “And I’m going to need a long-term sub in the near future.”

Long term? Not that she didn’t already suspect it, but now Emma knew something was off. In all the days and months and years that she’s known Mary Margaret, she’s never known her to skip out on school. She loved those kids as if she had carried and borne them herself, every single one of them. “How near?” Emma asks.

Shrugging, a small grin starts to grow on Mary Margaret’s’ lips. “About five or six months,” she says. That only further confuses Emma. Mary Margaret giggles and slaps her knee. “Oh, did I forget to mention I’m pregnant?”

Emma’s silent with shock, her jaw dropped. She’s not quite sure why: it is the next natural chapter in their story. Both of them would be - will be, she supposes now - wonderful parents.  Mary Margaret with the summers off and David as overprotective as he is make the perfect combination. Not to mention they’ve both got so much love, they aren’t sure where to put it.

And she gets to be cool Aunt Emma. All the perks of having a kid with the option of returning him or her to their biological parents.

But her silence apparently lasts too long as Mary Margaret’s expression begins to fall. It seems she’s taken Emma’s moment to process the wrong way. “Look, just try it out,” she insists, her hands coming up between them. “If you don’t like it, I’ll find another sub, but you’re going to love it and you’ll love my class this year. I promise, I don’t trust anyone else but someone close to me with-”

Emma interrupts her unnecessarily hurried words with a hug despite both sets of knees impeding them. “I’m so happy for you,” she says into the fabric of Mary Margaret’s shirt shoulder.

It sounds like Mary Margaret’s crying, or trying not to and failing to do so. She’s making little sobbing-hiccup noises into Emma’s ear.

When they pull away from each other, Emma’s proven right: Mary Margaret’s eyes are red around the rims and she wipes at what may or may not have been full-fledged tears. Emma nods, feeling her smile grow on her face.

“Yeah, I’ll give it a try, but don’t you worry about what comes after.” Taking her hands, Emma squeezes them. “You’re having a baby!”

Mary Margaret nods enthusiastically, still wiping at the remnants of tears. “Yeah.”

“How’d David react?” Emma asks excitedly. If she knows David at all, she knows that his reaction to the news of impending fatherhood would rank high on the list of adorable videos on YouTube.

“Oh, I’ve got a video.” Mary Margaret digs beneath her for her phone, chuckling the entire time. Once she’s unearthed it, she unlocks the phone and hands it over to Emma. “It’s only the latter part of his reaction, but it was wonderful.”

In the video, David’s already kneeling on the ground, his face painfully contorted into something precious, with a little onesie in his hands.

“It’s a Huskies jersey,” Mary Margaret explains. “It’s got Nolan and the number three on the back.”

“That’s too cute,” Emma replies, her eyes still transfixed on the phone screen. It’s sweet, even if the jersey idea is a little cliche for her taste. UConn’s basketball team is David’s favorite, a relic of his glory days of college, and it was the first round of the 2004 NCAA tournament that he met Mary Margaret in a Boston bar. The Huskies went on to win that year, and, rumor has it, David proposed the night they did.

She definitely spots tears rolling down David’s face as Mary Margaret’s recorded giggle comes from the speaker. He keeps asking, “Really? Are you serious? No joke?” and Emma can’t help but feel her own eyes begin to water.

(She blames it on the painkillers, messing with her natural emotional state.)

Thankfully, the video ends, and she has to take a moment to collect herself before turning back to her friend. During her life, Emma’s friends have been few and far between, but since the moment she accidentally spilled coffee on Mary Margaret’s skirt while running after a skip, she’s known the woman’s heart was two sizes too big. Her reaction had been to worry about Emma and her hand drenched in scalding coffee over the fabric dripping down her legs and the stain ruining it.

“You’re going to be an amazing mother, Mary Margaret.”

Mary Margaret’s smile is watery, her eyes shining with joy. “I have as much confidence in you as you have in me,” she assures Emma. With a final pat to her hand, she stands and begins to pack up her things. “You need to rest now. I’ll text you the details of a job and you can ask all your questions later.” She points toward the kitchen. “Dinner should be cool and ready to eat in five minutes. Just throw some tin foil on top and put it in the fridge when you’re done.”

Emma hums, the thought of sleep quite inviting, as she settles into the couch cushions. “Thanks, Mom,” she mumbles. “Congratulations.”

0000

Of course, the classroom door is locked when Emma finally finds it, which forces her to wander about even longer until she discovers the front office again. When the custodian graciously opens the door and flips on the lights, she’s only got about fifteen minutes until first bell.

“Great,” she mumbles to herself. “Off to a great start.”

She’s still got the cast on her wrist, weeks one through four checked off on her road to recovery. At her last visit, the doctor told her things were looking good, but due to her age, the bones were resetting slower than normal.

(That’s something every late 20s, early 30s woman wants to hear. “You’re too old for your bone to move like they used to, so hope you like not being able to wash your hands properly.”)

But for now, Emma’s got her first gig as a substitute teacher to tackle. Hopefully more in the psychological and mental aspects and not so much in the physical one. According to the text Mary Margaret sent her last week, she’s subbing in on a fifth grade class today.

Better for novice subs, she wrote. They’re pretty smart and they know how to use the bathroom by themselves.

Didn’t know that was an issue I might be facing, Emma responded, but awesome.

As Mary Margaret had informed her, the teacher’s left the lesson plans on his desk, front and center, an array of worksheets and handouts surrounding it. This teacher, a Mr Jones, has labeled every pile with the period it had to be handed out with a sticky note. It was all so precise, she can’t quite believe that this man is a teacher and not the commander of an army. If she was a more ambitious and less anxious person at the moment, she might pull out a ruler and measure exactly how far apart each pile is from the other.

(She’s willing to bet it’s equivalent all the way around.)

Granted, she thinks as she quickly skims the plans and shuffles the piles around, keeping order in a classroom might be worse than any war zone at certain times.

She reaches the end of her agenda for the day and finds a handwritten note added after the typed postscript asking for notes throughout the day.

‘Many thanks for helping a dashing rapscallion out. Mary Margaret spoke quite highly of you. They’re good kids. You’ll do wonderfully. K. Jones.’

Emma sighs and slumps down into the rolling chair behind his desk. “Well at least he’s confident enough for the both of us,” she grumbles to herself.

Flicking her eyes to her watch, she finds she’s still got a few minutes. She breathes deeply, mentally giving herself a pep talk while taking in the rest of the room. What looks like a reading nook - bookshelves and small bean bags - crowds the corner next to her. Cabinets and closets line the other side of the room until they reach the door diagonal to her current seat. There’s a question of the day written on the board, awaiting students to answer it in order to inform her of their attendance. Each clustered table of desks has a sign dangled over it, what look game pieces from Battleship, if Emma’s not mistaken.

In front of her, it’s a surprisingly clean desk, save for the teaching supplies K. Jones has left out for her. A pencil holder with a few writing utensils and some scissors is the only teacher-like decoration - the only decoration at all, save for two framed photos. One of the frames holds the picture of a boat and the other is of two men on what’s presumably the same boat. They’ve both got dark hair, one more so than the other. They’re both quite handsome, with striking blue eyes and wide grins across their faces.

The mess of the maniac - whether K. Jones be the curly haired one or the black haired one in the photo - is behind the desk: piles of papers and trays, books and clipboards. How anyone could find a single thing in that mess, Emma decides as she stands, is a fucking miracle. She doesn’t even want to contemplate that part of teaching, the grading and commenting and whatever.

She’s writing her name toward the top of the chalkboard when she hears “Who are you?” from behind her. Emma turns to find a boy, backpack heavy and jacket nearly swallowing him up, standing in the doorway.

“Are you our substitute?” he asks.

Emma nods, gulping away her nerves. “Yeah.” Her voice wavers, so she clears her throat and tries again. “Yeah, Mr Jones is out today. I’m Ms Swan.”

The kid walks up to a desk at the cluster of tables beneath the aircraft carrier sign, close to the front, and sets his backpack on top. “Cool.” He says it so nonchalantly that Emma wonders if she was that calm and collected when she had a substitute at school. She remembers bits and pieces of elementary school, most memories tainted by bad group homes or unworthy foster parents. To be honest, thinking back on it now, Emma’s pretty sure she spent most of her grade school days daydreaming in fairy tales.

The zip of the boy’s backpack wakes her up a little bit, and Emma shakes her head. As he’s putting books and journals in his desk, he asks, “Are we gonna watch movies all day?”

Emma chuckles, setting the chalk down on the blackboard shelf. “Sorry, kid, but Mr Jones actually left us a bunch of stuff to do.” He groans, the arms of his jacket shushing as his shoulders slump. “Don’t worry, there’s a game or two, I think,” she assures him. The boy goes on, grumbling to himself as he hangs up his jacket and backpack. Curiosity strikes her as she shoots another glance at the classroom clock. “What are you doing here? I didn’t hear the bell ring.”

“My mom’s the principal, so we come in early and I go and count the buses.” He pushes his chair in beneath his desk, then comes up to her with an outstretched hand. “I’m Henry.”

“Oh, cool,” she says, very adultlike and not at all frightened by the fact that the principal’s son is in her class today. “Hi.”

He stares, assessing her with his wide brown eyes. Henry squints at her and Emma can’t help but try and swallow away the lump that’s gotten stuck in her throat. “You’re a new substitute, aren’t you?” he inquires slowly.

Guilty, Emma grimaces. “Is it that easy to tell?”

Henry shrugs, finally releasing her hand. “I’ve had a lot of practice.” He points toward a couple of desks in the back of the room, near the reading corner. “These kids are going to give you the most trouble, but if you threaten them with walking the plank, they usually hush.”

“Walking the plank?” she asks, confusion coloring her voice. It sounds like a reprimanding tactic, but she would have thought that something like a plank to be walked across should’ve been mentioned in the lesson plan.

(Not to mention it sounds kind of humiliating. While Emma wouldn’t have put it past the administration back in her schooling days, it sounds a little too corporal punishment-y for the school system Mary Margaret has described.)

“It’s basically a detention. Mr Jones sends someone to the lunchroom to sit with Lunch Lady Cora.” He turns back to her, lifting his hand up to hide his mouth from the side. Dramatically, Henry whispers, “Sometimes, the kids come back crying.”

“What? Is he allowed to do that?”

“Mhm,” Henry hums with a nod. “They usually just help count the lunch money or clean the lunch trays, but Cora is not a nice lady.”

Emma scoffs and goes to stand by Mr Jones’ desk. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

She jumps a bit when Henry pats her on the arm. “You’re going to do great, Ms Swan. I believe in you,” he tells her.

As silly as it may seem, one of her temporary students having such innocent confidence in her does make her heartbeat slow just a tad and her nerves settle. Plus, it bodes well for how she deals with kids.

(Maybe Mary Margaret is right; maybe she just hasn’t had the opportunity to do this child caring thing.)

“Thanks, Henry,” she says quietly. “That really means a lot.”

He smiles. “Well, I’ve got to get to work. I’ll be back before the morning announcements.”

“Alright,” she says with a sigh. “Be good.”

Nodding, Henry salutes her. “Yes ma'am.”

As Henry leaves the classroom, the morning bell rings. He’ll have to fight against the stream of kids heading to their rooms, chatting about last night’s football game, or the pros and cons of certain Pokemon.

(That’s something kids talk about, right?)

In the few precious moments of solitude she has left, Emma takes another deep breath.

“Here goes nothing,” she murmurs.

0000

She sits down at the teacher’s desk after seeing the students off to their busses. Heels were a poor choice today and she’s got the start of a migraine brewing behind her eyelids.

Despite all that, Emma hasn’t felt so accomplished in a long time. Even before she spent the last month sitting on her couch, watching Netflix and trying to avoid the unscratchable itch on her forearm. While the bail bonds business was always booming, the rush of adrenaline attained by catching a skip was nothing compared to the camaraderie and naivete an elementary school supplied her with in one day.

For the moment, Emma slides her feet from her shoes, letting the blood flow back to the places where the nerves have been pinched for the majority of the day. Sighing, she reads over the handwriting scrawled across the bottom of the lesson plan again. Then she flips the little packet over. She contemplates what to write - whether to tell him that Henry was a great asset and helper today, how far they got in the science lesson, and the like - but she settles on the simplest of comments.

‘You’re right: they’re great kids. I’d be happy to come back. E. Swan.’

And it feels right, scribbling that out at the bottom of the page. But then she feels a little guilty, not leaving details about their lesson on photosynthesis, or that his math class managed to trick her into playing Jeopardy the entire time; so Emma goes back and leaves some notations along the side of Mr Jones’ outline. Little things, nothing extensive, but it is her first time subbing. How is she supposed to know what to do?

When Emma feels that all is said and done, she packs up her purse, straightens up the piles of papers, and heads back into the empty hallway, the room darkening behind her. Her heels are back on, their click-clacks slow and measured now that her feet ache and she doesn’t have to walk from desk to desk explaining certain questions.

“So?” The voice comes from ahead of her, raising in question. Mary Margaret’s locking up her own classroom, two bags hanging from her shoulder with another one on the ground beneath her feet. Despite being busy with her own class, Mary Margaret made sure to check up on Emma during her planning period. She’s got a smile on her face right now, shouldering her third bag as she asks more leadingly: “How’d it go?”

Emma laughs, giving up the battle with her heels. When she meets up with her friend, she leans against the wall and takes her shoes off until the coolness of the linoleum soothes her feet. “It all makes sense now,” she says.

Mary Margaret chuckles, hitching her bags up higher. “And what, exactly, does that mean?”

Taking pity on her friend, Emma grabs one of the bags from her hand and throws it over her own shoulder.

She ponders over her words before responding. “You always tell me how tired you are and how your feet hurt and I never understood because I thought you spent all day playing Legos with a bunch of kids,” she explains. “But now I get it.”

“That’s all I wanted to hear.” Together, they walk - or stumble, more suitably for Emma - down the hall, bidding goodbye to other teachers and staff members as they make their ways outside.

With a sigh, Emma’s forced to take a seat inside the front office to don her shoes once more.

“So?” Mary Margaret asks, pushing open the front door.

The afternoon sun burns Emma’s eyes after a day spent indoors under artificial light, and that along with her friend’s hanging question cause her to grunt.

Mary Margaret sighs and nudges her arm. “Did you like it? Can I count on you to sub for me?”

Her immediate answer is no - it goes unspoken, but Emma’s first response is always to avoid change. Especially change that might benefit her. She’s been a runner all her life, which made bail bonds a wonderful option from her. She could pick up and move, find other skips to chase in any city in and state, no matter what problem she might have been running from at the time: relationships, dreams, emotional trauma, just to name a few.

But this is Mary Margaret, her closest friend in the world, one of two people she’d do anything for. And she did have a wonderful time today. Her comment to Mr Jones was the furthest thing from a lie, surprisingly enough.

When they reach their cars, Emma takes a deep breath and turns to her friend. “I’ll do it,” she says, confident grin across her face. “It was great. So when little Emmett comes, I’ll sub for you.”

Furrowing her brows, Mary Margaret repeats, “Emmett?”

“Well, it kind of seems like you guys are set on a little dude and you’re obviously going to name him after the most important person in your life,” she reasons, smile growing wider.

“My husband?” she says. “My father, or his?”

Emma scoffs, opening the driver’s door with a flourish. Brushing her hair off her shoulder, she says, “Me, obviously.”

“Of course.” Mary Margaret comes over and hugs Emma, squeezing her a little tighter than considered normal. “How could I be so obtuse?”

“It’s okay,” Emma says, patting her on the back. “You’ve obviously got a bad case of pregnancy brain.”

That earns Emma a slap to the shoulder, and chuckles break from her mouth before she can stop them.

“It’s not that bad,” Mary Margaret complains, her voice high and on the edge of whining. Her hand falls to her stomach, just a hint of a bump there, easily mistaken for a food baby or even a trick of the light.

“Not yet,” Emma corrects her. “But if pop culture is to be believed, the worst is yet to come.”

0000

Emma’s enjoying the bright and warm sunshine as she steps outside of the doctor’s office when her phone rings.

“So much for nice things,” she grumbles.

Fishing her phone out of her bag with her new cast around her wrist, Emma sighs when she reads the caller ID. As much as she loves the woman, Mary Margaret has been beginning to get on her nerves in the last couple of weeks. She calls every couple of hours, asking her if she’d be okay with doing this when she’s out because the rest of her team wants to do it or if she wants to take over for so-and-so who’s got an emergency root canal in the morning. And that’s only the school-related calls. The other ones are pregnancy scares or new things she learned while researching during lunch.

She’s a mess, in Emma’s opinion. A big happy mess.

So when her friend calls on her afternoon off, Emma picks up, no matter how much she wants to just ignore it, go home, and nap on the couch until dinner.

“What’s up?” Emma greets, walking up to her Bug and leaning against it.

“What are you doing Thursday?” Mary Margaret’s words are said without preamble, as if this were a major emergency.

(It better be for something good. There is precious nap time to be spent on the couch.)

“Umm, nothing, I don’t think,” Emma replies. “Why?”

There’s some shuffling on the other end of the line, as if Mary Margaret is moving quickly or trying to hide her voice. “I ran into Mr Jones in the hallway and he’s had something come up suddenly,” she explains. “Asked if you were available to sub for him.”

“Oh.” She can’t say she wasn’t expecting this, but Emma is still kind of surprised. A person with absolutely no training in the field is a little - she doesn’t want to say unwise seeing as she’s benefitting from it, but that’s the only word she can think of at the moment. But it’s nice to know that she did something right the first time around. “Sure. Yeah, I can do that,” she finally decides.

On the other side of the line, Mary Margaret makes some little whooping news. “Great, I’ll let him know,” she says. “Would you like me to pass on your number so he can contact you directly next time?”

“No!” Emma yells, unintentionally scaring the man three cars down trying to load groceries in the trunk. “No, I don’t even know the man. That can’t be protocol or something. Tell him to leave any more dates he knows with his plans and I’ll get back to him.”

Mary Margaret hums in agreement, her tone a little different when she says, “Okay.”

“Thanks, Mary Margaret,” Emma offers, opening the car door. “I just got out from the doctors’, so thank you for calling me, but I need to get home before I pass out behind the wheel.”

“Oh! Of course!” And with a quick farewell, Mary Margaret’s back to work and Emma’s on her way home.

0000

This time, Mr Jones’ door is unlocked when Emma makes her way in to school Thursday morning. She’s feeling a little more comfortable with the whole situation, having already gotten over those first time jitters. These kids know her a little better now, and she’d like to think - or maybe hope is the correct terminology - that she has no qualms in making them walk the plank if they act out of order today.

Just as before, Emma finds a pile of materials on the otherwise clean desk. She sets down her bag atop the mess behind the desk, slightly more organized than it was the last time she subbed, and begins to read the lesson plans Mr Jones left behind, adorn with a handwritten note at the top.

‘Ms Swan - or who I hope is Ms Swan.’

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, seeing her name scrawled across the top of the page in this elegant script. He specifically asked Mary Margaret to contact her and his students had to have mentioned her name. But still, something happens inside her when she reads the greeting of his note.

‘Thank you for coming in again. You seem to have made quite the impression on my class, for they asked for you by name,” his note goes on to say. “I consider myself a strong man, but when 23 fifth graders plead with their best puppy dog eyes, I am weak-willed and hopeless.’

The image she conjures up is of the men staring at her from the picture on the desk, all bravado and masculinity, going to complete puddy at those kids’ request. It does something weird to her stomach, makes it flip and contort into an unusual shape, not unlike how reading her own name in his writing did.

His note easily leads into today’s lessons - fractions in math, harms of smoking during health, nothing she doesn’t think she can’t handle - before signing off as he did before: ‘You’ll do wonderfully. K. Jones.’

There are many things in life that Emma considers luxuries that some of these kids wouldn’t. She never had any guardians that were so flawless and incredibly confident in her as Henry’s mother. She never really had parents at all: the first time Emma felt like someone actually cared about her was when she met Mary Margaret and David.

And now, Mr Jones seems to believe in her as well.

“Ms Swan!” Looking up from the notes, Emma’s pleased to find Henry standing in the doorway, his backpack dragging on the ground. “You’re back!”

Emma can’t help the wide smile that crosses her face at his sentiments. “Yeah, kid. I’m back.”

And surprising her even further, Henry jogs across the room, dropping his bag near the front before embracing her tightly. Tentatively, she pats his back, her hand coming to cradle the base of his head.

“Well, this is a very nice welcome back,” she says.

Henry steps back, a little breathless. “I’ve got to count the buses, but I’m really excited that Mr Jones asked you to come back.” He’s gone as quick as he’s come, leaving Emma to chuckle to herself. She takes a seat at the teacher’s desk, grabbing a pen from the supplies holder, ready to write down today’s first note.

“Mr Jones,” she writes, mumbling to herself. “I was honored to hear that your kids wanted me back. I really enjoyed them the first time around and I’m sure I will even more so this time. I’m afraid if I keep coming back, they’ll get the best of me and prove me wrong.” Sticking her tongue out, Emma debates writing the next words, but decides she really has nothing to lose. “But thanks for your bid of confidence. I don’t think I can actually explain to you how much that means to me.”

The bell rings, the sound of kids on their way to class start echoing through the hall, and the school day is off to a rousing start for Emma.

Homeroom bleeds into social studies which bleeds into math. It’s been a while since she’s had the opportunity to do anything with fractions besides try to suss out whether she’s consumed a legitimate half bottle of wine in any one sitting. But going over it in pizzas - something that hasn’t changed since she was in school - opens her eyes and does make simple math a little more welcoming.

Mr Jones left behind a worksheet to cement the information in their fifth grade brains, and after Emma explains it, she claps her hands.

“When you guys are finished, you can do something quietly,” she adds, rolling her wrists. “Read, take a nap, doodle, whatever. Just stay quiet.”

As she takes a seat at her desk, the scritching of pencils overtakes the room. Mumblings of math questions asked to neighbors die off into silence as the students start, focus, and finish up their work. Always a bit paranoid of what’s to come and making sure she has enough time to get through everything she needs to, Emma flips through the lesson plans again. This time around, she notices that, as she told Mary Margaret to pass along, Mr Jones has included a few more days he’d request her services. She joins the chorus of busy pencils by writing down the days he’s asked her to come in in her planner.

(She bought a planner for this whole endeavor and, damn, does it make her feel professional.)

Just as she’s penciling in the penultimate date, Henry clears his throat on the other side of the desk. When she looks up, he hands her the piece of paper he’s got in hand.

“Are you done already?” she asks.

“Yeah, but this isn’t that.” Henry shakes it a bit. “Take it. I drew you something.”

“Really?” Emma’s never had anything drawn for her. Granted, she’s never really spent enough time with children to give them the opportunity. Still, she’s oddly honored. “Well, let’s see it.”

Taking the paper from his hand, Emma looks at it all. He’s obviously put a lot of work in to it, whipping out the crayons and even signing his name at the bottom in his best attempt at cursive. It’s a drawing with a house and some pretty good stick people, and Emma considers herself to be a stick people connoisseur.

“It’s lovely, Henry,” she tells him, meaning every one of those three words.

“Good.” She sets it on the desk, trying to take in all the little things he’s included. The house has a chimney with smoke billowing out of it. It even looks like there’s city skyline in the background.

(How he managed to do all this work and finish his math worksheet in the allotted amount of time has to be a trick of magic.)

Henry points to the figures, standing in front of the house. “This is you, of course,” he explains. “You can tell by the blonde hair and the red jacket.”

She chuckles at that. “That’s what I was thinking. It’s cool that you noticed I always wear that jacket.”

Shrugging, Henry merely says, “It’s very hard to miss.” And then he gestures to the other figure, standing beside her little stick on the paper. “And this is Mr Jones.”

“Oh.” She can see it. The dark hair and what looks like equally as dark clothes on his stick could easily be the men in the photo on Mr Jones’ desk. Henry’s depiction makes it seem like his teacher has curly hair, making Emma believe she’s finally discovered which man in the picture is actually Mr Jones. “And what are we doing?” she asks.

“You guys are going home.”

“Yeah?” The one thing that Mary Margaret told her before becoming a substitute was the innocence Emma would encounter in the school. When she was a child, Emma remembers believing that teachers lived and slept at school as well. But Henry’s a smart kid - surely his mother would’ve explained that teachers don’t all live together, especially not in the school building. “You know me and Mr Jones don’t live together, right? We have different homes.”

“I know,” he assures her. “But I think you would be happy having the same home.”

Emma mulls over his comment as Henry makes his way back to his desk. She thinks about it even harder when she comes in a couple days later - at this rate, she’s concerned about whether or not Mr Jones is trying to get himself fired. It seems like she’s spending more time teaching his class than he is and that has to be a liability of some sort - and finds a line in his customary note that doesn’t necessarily shock her, but does mildly surprise her.

‘Please, love. The only time you need refer to me as Mr Jones is around the children. Otherwise, please call me Killian.’

Oh, she thinks, taking a seat on Mr Jones’ chair.

“Killian,” she corrects herself aloud.

The only other person she calls by first name in this school is Mary Margaret, but that’s because she’s Mary Margaret. And Lunch Lady Cora, Emma supposes, but that’s because at this point, she’s convinced the food service manager doesn’t have a last name. Everyone, even principal Regina Mills, calls her Lunch Lady Cora.

But now there’s Mr Jones - Killian.

Now this is an interesting development.

(Maybe Mr Jones and she could be happy in the same home.)

0000

Though Storybrooke Elementary’s environment is quickly becoming her home turf, there are days where no one - not even Mr Jones, the enigma himself - needs a substitute. And though her wrist is nearly healed completely, Emma’s told her boss she’s taking a little bit of time for herself, exploring other options, something prophetic like that.

That being said, there were still bills to be paid and food to be eaten. Christmas presents to save up for that weren’t going to pay for themselves. So she expands her horizons: reaching out to other local schools in the district, picking up the odd jobs here and there, but always more than happy to come back to her Storybrooke home away from home.

It makes her days at the elementary school - especially with Mr Jones’ class - all the more precious and enjoyable.

She’s pulling double duty one day in January, the morning as Mr Jones while he, apparently, attends to his brother during a bad bout of illness, and the afternoon in the art room. In his plans, Mr Jones - Killian - said he would be back in time for him to escort the students down to the lunch room. Emma’s got them all lined up, ready and quiet for him, but he’s late. And she’s hungry.

Luckily, Emma spots Mary Margaret down the hallway, her belly proceeding her in every direction she turns and action she takes. Close to frantically, Emma waves her over.

“Are you going somewhere important right now?” Emma asks.

Mary Margaret shakes her head. “I was going to see if the vending machine in the lounge had any Cheetos,” she replies.

Emma sighs with relief. “Would you mind watching Jones’ class until he gets here? He’s running late and I’ve got other plans to familiarize myself with. I can bring some Chee - “

“No, Ms Swan, you have to stay for just a little while longer!” some of the kids whine. They’re getting restless, discussion striking up over the entirety of the line. They’ve been good all morning, so it’s sort of unsettling that they’ve decided to act up now as their teacher could literally be walking down the hall for them.

“Why?” Emma asks of the children. Their line is no longer straight and neat; instead, it zig zags, with a few kids here and there straying to the side of their peers to watch her. “What are you kids up to?”

She’s seen their innocent faces before, when she’s spoken to them about a project they were supposed to have previous information on and didn’t. These farces of faces are nowhere close to those looks. “Nothing, we just don’t want you to leave,” the general class mumbles.

“Well, I’ve got to go,” she tells them, taking a step further away from the classroom and closer to the fridge that holds last night’s leftovers-turned-lunch. “My time with you guys is up today and I’ve got to go grab some lunch before I have to be Mr Jefferson down in the art room.”

“You can’t!” Henry yells finally. He’s right on the other side of Mary Margaret, taking this week’s assigned job of line leader very seriously. Everyone’s sort of stunned into silence, children and adults alike. “Mr Jones is coming back,” he says in place of an explanation.

“I know,” Emma responds slowly, trying not to show her frustration just as her stomach rumbles. “That’s why I’m leaving.”

“No,” Henry grouses. “Ms Swan, you’ve really got to meet him.”

“I will, one day.” She can feel her expression soften. Though these kids can’t see inside her mind - thank god - but she gets the feeling. For planting himself so solidly in a place in her life, it is a bit of a shame that she and Mr Jones never met in person, only talked through Mary Margaret or his lesson plans. “But right now, I need to eat,” she says gently, her stomach growling quite audibly, further accentuating her point. “Now, be good for Mrs Nolan until Mr Jones comes. Then you can moan and groan to your hearts’ content.” Giving them a smile, Emma sets her hand on her friend’s shoulder and squeezes. “Thanks, Mary Margaret.”

She tries to hide her laughter, one hand covering her grin and the other resting on her stomach. “No problem,” she says, waving her off. “Go eat.”

Emma’s halfway to the lounge, Mary Margaret barely in sight, when she shouts back, “I’ll get you the Cheetos, I promise!”

0000

In the months that she’s been substituting, Emma’s learned quite a lot. She’s learned the basics of each grades’ curriculum, the generic schedule of the day, and most of the names of the rest of the staff.

(She’s pretty impressed with herself.)

(She’s also learned a lot more about the man who’s chair she often sits in while watching his class. And he writes like he’s got a stick up his ass, but in that whole Jane Austen, kind of romantic way.)

(Her heart speeds up every time she reads his customary last line - you’ll do wonderfully. K. Jones - even if she doesn’t admit it aloud or to herself.)

But the hardest lesson she’s learned during her time is that even the best situations come to a harsh head at some point in time. On a late winter day, something has ruined the feng shui or the status quo or whatever else you might want to call the vibe Jones’ class has managed to pull off every time Emma’s come in to sub. Today was a shitshow, and that’s putting it lightly.

From the moment Henry walked in this morning, already running behind and in a grumpy mood because his mother wouldn’t allow him to go to a sleepover later that night, Emma knew it was going to be a bad day. It was gray and rainy outside, her shoes were soaked through, and something just felt off.

It only went downhill from there.

Lily threw up in the classroom sink, setting off commiserative vomiting from Austin and Camille.  Though the custodian tried to clean it up while the classroom was empty, the smell lingered, making it the only thing Jones’s kids would talk about for the rest of the day. Every sentence example, math problem, anything, had to do with puke.

It made Emma not only feel crappier than she’d been feeling earlier, but it all made her feel nauseous herself, as well as develop a headache. When she realizes two and a half hours are still left in the school day, it takes incredible effort not to collapse in Killian’s chair and break down.

After drudging back in from the pouring rain that greeted her at dismissal time, Emma is a step and a half away from murdering the next person who speaks to her. She needs to punch something or scream, anything to rid herself of this frustration and anger making her vision red. She should use this mood to fuel a gym workout, but she knows she’ll barely make it to the liquor store before going back to her place and drinking it all, whatever it is, in one sitting.

She takes a moment to collect herself, taking some deep breaths at Killian’s desk, his lesson plans staring up at her. She has to write the day’s notes and, as she’s been since the start, Emma’s going to be honest.

Completely foregoing her customary greeting, Emma gets to the point. ‘I take it all back. Your kids are little shits.’ Solid start, she thinks to herself.

Her anger floods out of her without any real permission. ‘God, I don’t know what happened to them, but I wanted to strangle them all, and I know I shouldn’t be telling you this because you love them and they love you, you’re their captain and they’re your crew but they’re all little shits. And I know that was a run on sentence BUT THAT’S HOW FRUSTRATED I AM.’ Hand beginning to cramp, Emma leans on the back fo the chair and sighs.

During her past gigs, she’s sometimes held back the darker parts of the day - if they didn’t get to a certain activity or if she had to send someone to detention - because, overall, his class was wonderful. She thought so, especially after visiting other school with classes not nearly as tame.

Today was just too much, though. Putting pen back to paper, Emma begins again. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be writing this down, but I’ve got no other way to tell you. And I wanted to tell you, but not in a tattle tale sort of way.’ She sighs again, her frustration nearly drained away now. ‘I really do like your kids and I know that everyone has bad days, but the chances that all 23 of them were having a bad day on the same day are odds practically worth playing the lottery on.’

Mary Margaret knocks on the door, asking her if she’s ready to head home yet, and Emma quickly ends her note with her signature. Packing up her stuff, she debates telling her friend about the circus she was ringmaster of today, but she doesn’t.

(If she doesn’t tell him that she feels like he’d understand her feelings better than Mary Margaret or any of the other teachers, that’s her business.

And his, if he wants it to be.)

0000

For some reason, spring in an elementary school is a better place. Not that there’s any scientific proof that accompanies Emma’s conclusion, but she can safely say that she hasn’t experienced a spring like this one. The kids are happier, especially since they can start going back outside for recess after the horrible winter. The teachers are excited to see the end of the school year in sight.

There’s one thing specifically that makes this spring the best one yet, though.

Once again, she’s subbing for Mr Jones on a Thursday. His excuse is that he’s cashing in some vacation days to clean up his ship before he and his brother take out it out on the waters for the first time in the season.

(The vacation time this man has saved up…honestly, he must’ve worked for fifteen years straight to earn this much time off.)

But if it weren’t for him, Emma wouldn’t feel nearly as prepared to take over for Mary Margaret when her time comes. Her due date fast approaches, but the devoted teacher she is, Mary Margaret has insisted on working until the baby pops out of her. She’s big as a small whale, not that Emma would ever tell her that, and it’s beginning to wear on her. She gets grumpy a lot easier than Emma thought she’d ever see and every time Emma runs into her, Mary Margaret is grumbling and complaining for the baby to get out.

Emma’s eating lunch in the teachers’ lounge, her sandwich halfway to her mouth, when Mary Margaret finds her, face red and eyes wide.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Emma asks, setting her sandwich down and dusting off her hands. She knows Mary Margaret’s due date is this week or next, and her all last night about killing feet was an unforgettable rant Emma could never unhear.

Mary Margaret leans against the back of a chair in front of her, her breathing a little heavy.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” she inquiries.

Brows furrowing in confusion and concern, Emma says, “Um, I’ve got a gig at Fairy Forest Elemen-”

“Cancel it.” Mary Margaret closes her eyes and takes a deep breath through her nose. “Your long-term sub starts now.”

“Now?” Emma can’t help but repeat her friend’s words. Mary Margaret’s still here, how can Emma sub for her unless -

Then everything clicks. “Mary Margaret, are you in labor?” she asks gently.

Mary Margaret nods her head. “It’s gotten really bad in the last half hour, but the kids are in art class now.” Pausing again to catch her breath and, Emma can only assume, survive another contraction. “Regina can find someone to cover me for the afternoon, but it’s all you tomorrow.”

Emma chuckles hysterically, head falling back. “The last thing you should be worried about is me,” she says, packing up the rest of her lunch. She’s had enough to last her. Emma’s foremost concern right now is the woman across the table. “Is David coming for you? Can you drive? I can take you to the hospital, I’ll ask Kathryn to cover for me.”

But Mary Margaret waves her off. “David’s going to meet me at the hospital. I can drive myself there.”

“Oh, hell no, not on my watch.” Throwing her trash in the bin, Emma comes around the table. She turns Mary Margaret toward her, trying to be as comforting as the woman’s always been for her as she leans against Emma. “Grab your stuff from the classroom and meet me in the front office. I’ll tell them what’s going on.”

Mary Margaret nods before leaning her head against Emma’s collarbone. Emma can feel her stuttered breathing on her skin, and all she can think to do is rub her friend’s back. “Everything’s going to be great. You and David are the only people I know who are already the best parents in eh world.”

“You think so?” Mary Margaret whimpers.

“I know so.” Carefully, Emma pushes Mary Margaret up. Her friend’s got tears in her eyes, welling up from red-rimmed lids. Emma couldn’t begin to contemplate whether those are from excruciating pain or bubbling emotions. With a watery smile of her own, Emma cups Mary Margaret’s cheek. “We’ve got a hospital to go to. Let’s not fuck around.”

That makes Mary Margaret laugh, tears spilling over. “An elementary school, Emma,” she reminds her. “We’re in an elementary school.”

“I’ve heard much more creative and worse things from the second graders,” Emma jokes. “C’mon.”

Emma escorts Mary Margaret to her classroom and leaves to deal with her own situation. She all but jogs back to Killian’s room and throws her belongings in her bag. Swiftly, she sits down and scrawls out her own note on the back of the lesson plans.

‘Mr Jones,’ but then Emma scribbles that out because her best friends is having a baby and there are just as many emotions coursing through her body as in Mary Margaret’s, and writes ‘Killian.

‘I’m really really sorry, but I had to leave early. Mary Margaret’s in labor and she was going to drive herself to the hospital and you and I both know I wasn’t going to let that happen. Kathryn Griffith’s gonna take over for the rest of the day, I think.’ She should probably cement that plan before leaving school premises. ‘Please apologize to the kids for me. I couldn’t wait to play Jeopardy with them. Just, you know…’

Emma doesn’t really know how to end that sentence. She’s never met this guy in person, but he and his class have become such a huge part of her life that leaving like this is a bit of a shame. Just, such a lackluster ending to this adventure.

There isn’t time to find the right words, or even time for the struggle. She quickly ends her note with, ‘I’ll be around for a while, so if they want to visit Mrs Nolan’s room, they’re more than welcome. Thanks.’

And then, because she’s already in a weird sentimental mood, Emma smiles as she writes out, You can visit, too, if you need some pointers. I know you haven’t been here in a while, but don’t worry: you’ll do wonderfully.”

She tidies up the desk, making sure the plans are front and center for whoever takes her place this afternoon, before she grabs her stuff and whisks down to the front office. Just as she’s turning the corner - she can literally see one of the secretaries easing Mary Margaret into a chair through the window - Emma literally bumps into Henry, on his way back to the cafeteria from a hop to the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” he asks, his little face scrunched up in confusion.

Emma stops her stride long enough to explain, “Mrs Nolan’s having her baby and I have to drive her to the hospital.” She pats him on the head before kneeling down to his level. “I’m not going to be in for Mr Jones anymore, but I want you to tell your whole class I’m sorry, but they can come visit me.” She raises her brows to accentuate her point. “Okay?”

Henry nods in understanding. “Go. Babies don’t wait for a long time.”

Laughing aloud, Emma pulls Henry in for a quick hug. “You are wise beyond your years, Henry Mills,” she compliments. “Get back to lunch.”

With a last grin, Henry waves and heads back to the cafeteria while Emma makes her way to the front office. She enters with a smile and a clap of her hands. Looking at Mary Margaret, she tries to put as much excitement into her voice as she can.

(It’s really not that hard to do. It’s a very exciting time.)

“Alright, let’s go have a baby!”

0000

Little Robbie Nolan has the charm of his father and the sweetness of his mother. Barely a couple hours old, Emma finds herself already head-over-heels in love with the infant. When Mary Margaret gifted her a newborn photo, it immediately finds a permanent home in Emma’s wallet. A blown up copy of it hangs on the blackboard of Mrs Nolan’s classroom, much to the pleasure of her students.

It’s not too difficult to transition from teaching Jones’ fifth grade class to the Mary Margaret’s third grade class. It helps that Emma’s been around the curriculum before and, despite being on maternity leave, Mary Margaret is more than willing to help her write out lesson plans.

(They’re such a bitch, lesson plans. Even with professional training, Mary Margaret admits they suck, which means they suck even more for an amateur like Emma.)

Other than that, Emma’s first foray into long-term teaching is off to a resounding start. It doesn’t hurt that she gets to drop by and see the proud parents and their sweet son whenever she’s got the time after school.

(Her phone background may or may not be a picture of him sleeping in her arms. She’s got absolutely no shame. He’s just so stinking cute.)

One morning, Emma hears the classroom door open while her back is turned, writing the current math problem on the board. She continues to ignore the visitor because, if she’s learned anything in the last couple months, it’s not to let anything or anyone interrupt her train of thought in the middle of a lesson. If it’s that important, they can send an email or still wait until she writes an equal sign.

“Alright, I’ll give you a couple minutes to figure out the answer to this one,” she tells the class, finally turning around to face them. “Remember what we’re learning today. Find the answer using exponents, not the calculator.”

With a clap of her hands, the gentle hum of pencils scratching out figures and students whispering to their neighbors take over the classroom. Only then does Emma turn her attention to the man in the back of the classroom.

He’s sitting against the ledge, his legs stretched out and his arms crossed over his chest. There’s something about him that keeps Emma from immediately throwing him into the hallway. There’s a silly kind of smile on his face, his head tilted to one side as if he’s taking his time in assessing her.

It’s unnerving. She knows she was never formally educated in teaching, but she’s learned a lot, she’s comfortable with what she’s teaching, who is this guy to judge her?

Emma makes her way around the tables, checking how some of the more troublesome students are doing and making sure some of the more distracted kids keep to their assignment, and all the while this strange man stares at her. When she finally gets to the back of the classroom, she stands directly in front of him.

“Can I help you?” she asks sternly.

The man’s tongue peeks out from between his grinning lips. “Not particularly, love.” Though the tone of his voice matches his looks, the accent throws Emma off. In the middle of Maine, the last thing she was expecting to come out of this man’s mouth was a vaguely English accent. “I finished all my planning early,” he continues, “and, since you so kindly invited me, I thought I’d come and see the woman my students keep fawning over.”

She can feel her cheeks redden as she gulps. That’s why the dark, messy hair and bracingly blue eyes look familiar: they’ve stared her down from the framed picture on Mr Jones’ desk. So that could only mean one thing.

“Mr K. Jones, I‘m guessing?”

He sticks out his hand, standing up. “You’d be correct.” She takes his hand and, out of nowhere, he kisses her knuckles, causing her blush to deepen. “Although I’ve told you, you are more than welcome to call me Killian.”

“Killian.” She’s only said his name aloud a few times, but this is by far the  most swoon-worthy it’s ever left her mouth. She shakes her head. “Emma Swan,” she tells him back.

“Oh, I’m well aware,” he says with a raised brow. Settling back against the shelf, Killian gestures toward the blackboard. “I do have to admit, I can see why my class would rather have you than me teaching.”

“Please,” she scoffs, finding it much easier to throw away his compliment than to take it at face value. “Those kids adore you. The first couple times I subbed for you, it was ‘Mr Jones does this for us’ and ‘That’s not how Mr Jones does it.’” Emma rolls her eyes. “I swear, it was a miracle we ever got anything accomplished.”

Shaking his head, Killian chuckles to himself. “That’s exactly the type of thing a teacher loves hearing.” A student, Violet, if Emma remembers her name correctly, comes up to them and asks a question that Emma - not to toot her own horn or anything - answers quite expertly. Only after she answers Violet’s question does she realize that the rest of the class has progressively gotten louder, obviously finished or close to finishing their practice worksheets.

Killian, it seems, has noticed as well. “It sounds like the natives are getting restless,” he comments, pushing off the shelf. He leans closer to her, his voice getting deeper and quieter. “I’ll let you get back to this riveting lesson.”

Emma can’t help but groan a little bit and complain, “Do you have to?”

He laughs. “That is what they’re paying you for, isn’t it, Swan?” Another student comes up to her, asking if he can make a trip to the bathroom. Emma permits it, and the student leaves just as Killian clicks his tongue. “Well, I heard you were in the building and I didn’t want to waste an opportunity to put a lovely face to the name.”

She rolls her eyes, resting her hand on his arm. “Alright, Romeo, you’ve already had English class, from what I remember. No time to be poetic now.”

“Right, serious stuff, maths.” He claps his hands, gathering the attention of the class. They turn in their seats and quiet down, something she’s yet to accomplish as quickly as he has now. “Alright, mateys, I hope you’re on your best behaviors for Ms Swan here. I don’t want her to have to call Mrs Nolan and advise her who should walk the plank.”

Someone in the room gasps. “You wouldn’t, Mr Jones!” someone shouts while another student yells, “Ms Swan can’t call Mrs Nolan. She doesn’t have her number!”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that something you want to try?” The children start mumbling to each other, some saying how they’ve seen Emma with Mary Margaret in the past and others who are saying they’ve never met in their life.

Killian, however, leans to whisper into her ear. “If you find yourself a tad bored after school or during planning, you know where to find me.” His hand lands on her bicep, giving it a light squeeze to get her attention. He winks at her one last time before sneaking out of the room, leaving her to deal with the tizzy he’s riled her students up into.

Come the end of the day, Emma’s feet hurt, she’s got papers to grade, and she has to get up and do it all over again tomorrow, but the intrigue behind Mr Jones’ offer is just too much to pass up. So after she waves goodbye to the buses, she slowly makes her way to the back of the school building. Most of the teachers leave shortly after the students, making the hallways slightly darker as she wanders through them now. At the end of the corridor, Mr Jones’ room is quite literally the only light at the end of the tunnel.

His door is wide open, but she knocks hesitantly anyway. He looks up from his pile of papers, the pen that was scratching away at written remarks coming to a halt. Killian smiles.

“Surprised to see me?” she asks shyly.

“In all honestly, yes,” he answers. “I thought I may have come on too strong,” he admits. His hands land on the top of the desk as he goes to push himself out of his desk chair, but Emma holds up her hands to stop him.

“No, don’t stop grading on my account,” she insists, walking toward him. “I’m learning how hard it is to get back to grading once you stop.” When she reaches the other side of his desk, Emma slides atop one of the desks nearby. “What are we reading?” she asks.

“This month’s book reports,” Killian says, settling back into his seat with a sigh. “You would think I handed them the book and asked for the report all in the same hour.”

“I’m sure that’s how it seemed for some of the kids.”

He hums, returning to the paper in front of him to quickly write something across it before  turning back to her. “I’m wonderfully pleased that you stopped by, but you really don’t have to stay. I don’t want to keep you from any plans.”

“Well it’s your lucky day,” she replies without much thought. “I find myself a free agent this evening.”

She does, kind of. She was going to swing by and let Mary Margaret and David, who knows, go to the grocery store on a date or something while Emma watched Robbie. But she didn’t set her plans in stone, so she can technically push it off until tomorrow.

(And if she plays hooky to finally talk to this man in person, then sue her.)

Sliding off the desk, Emma grabs the student’s desk chair and swings it until it’s around the side of the teacher’s desk. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks.

Killian’s brows crawl up his forehead. It seems she’s caught a little off guard. “Um, not particularly,” he says, surveying the piles on his desk. “Your company is more than enough assistance.”

She blushes. “Are you sure? You don’t want me to put stickers on good papers or draw little monsters on the bad ones?”

Laughing, Killian sets his pen down again. “As much as I would enjoy that, I don’t think the administration would be too fond of the monsters.” He gestures at the pen in front of him, blue ink bubbled up at the tip. “Can’t even use red pen anymore because it’s been shown to be too angry or some shit like that.”

Emma gasps, her hand covering her mouth for effect. “Such language,” she says, her hand falling from her mouth to her chest. “Think of the children.”

“After hours,” he reminds her with a smirk. “You’ve roamed these halls long enough to hear something along those lines. You’ve worked with some of those kids. Called them little shits, if I remember correctly.”

Emma shrugs. “As true as that might be,” she admits, “doesn’t it feel wrong?”

This time, Killian shrugs. “We are the adults in this realm. We’re the ones that rule the school.”

“Isn’t that what the psychiatrists say when the patients run the asylum?”

“Probably.” They both fall into silence as Killian goes back to grading. Emma, trying not to bother or creep him out too much, watches over his shoulder as he writes out comments. He sighs, putting the pen down again and scaring her a bit. “How about I finish up this assignment and then we can do something outside of school property?” he suggests. Raising an eyebrow, Killian adds, “Perhaps grab a drink.”

Pretending to be scandalized, Emma scolds him: “Mr Jones, it’s a school night.”

He smirks, his hands coming to rest wide at the back of his head. “All the more reason, Ms Swan.”

Rolling her eyes, Emma gets more comfortable in her chair. “Now I understand why you needed me so often,” she reasons, crossing her arms over her chest, feeling a little self-satisfied. “I bet shrill fifth grade voices do wonders to a hangover headache.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe, love,” Killian grumbles. “Although, to be completely transparent, the thought has crossed my mind that those students of mine are trying to replace me with you. They practically forced me out of the classroom when I so much as sneezed.”

Emma laughs. “I kind of get that impression too. They always wanted me to stay longer on half days so we could meet.”

Killian hums. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell them that we have then,” he suggests. “Leave them in suspense.”

While he goes back to working diligently, Emma tries to focus her attention on something productive, like perhaps cleaning up the counter on the other side of the room, but ends up getting distracted instead.

“Where’s the accent come from?” she asks. It’s something that’s been as on-and-off a thought as he has since they met in person earlier in the day.

(Mostly on.)

(He’s been very difficult to get off her mind.)

“My upbringing, I should believe,” he answers, not looking up from the paper before him. “I was raised in Kingston, outside of London.” Glancing up at her briefly, Killian asks, “Is that a problem, Swan?”

“No, of course not. I just wasn’t expecting it.” Under her breath, she adds, “Certainly isn’t unattractive, but whatever.”

By the way he chuckles as he marks a less-than-good grade on the paper before him, Emma’s assuming her attempts at subtly aren’t that at all.

“Who’s the other guy in the picture?” she asks, avoiding the tension that might arise as well as the warmth rising on her cheeks at being caught.

“Liam, my brother.” Emma sighs, because that makes a lot of sense. They look enough alike and Killian has mentioned his existence in many of his notes. “We sail out on the Jolly Roger during the summer,” he explains.

“Ah, that explains the boat picture.”

“Ship,” he’s quick to correct her.

“Ship?” Killian looks up briefly again to nod at his correction.“Ship. Where’s she these days?”

“Oregon coast, if you can believe it.” Sighing, Killian put the cap on his pen and sets it down. “As much as I love this nice tete-a-tete we’ve got going here, I would be more than happy to discuss it after I finish these last five papers.” He taps his fingers on said papers, his brow arching with challenge.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Emma chuckles, getting up and walking backward toward the dirty counter. Pointing over her shoulder, she says, “I’ll go busy myself over here. Let you get your work done, I guess.”

“That’s all I was asking, darling.”

0000

“Is this seat taken?” Killian’s voice startles her, deep and closer than she could’ve expected. Not that she was expecting his voice at all. Per the daily staff email, he was supposed to be out sick this morning, shouldn’t be on school property until quarter after noon.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, looking up at him from her seat.

He searches the room, confusion clear on his face. “This is the teachers’ lounge, Swan,” he says gently, as if she’s the one who shouldn’t be here. “It’s a public space.”

“But your kids are in your classroom,” she reasons. “And the email said you were out sick.”

Killian shrugs, setting his bag on the table space next to her. “Took the morning off for professional development but thought I’d come in anyway,” he says. His hand rests on the back of the chair next to her as his eyes widened in entreaty. “So may I sit here?”

Still a little stunned and not yet rid of the goosebumps from her earlier surprise, Emma nods. “Yeah, sure.”

Not that there was anything really to go off of before, but something changed inherently between them that night they went for drinks once he finally finished grading book reports. Their banter evolved before Emma’s eyes, from the long distance banter of their little notes to the quick-as-a-whip sarcasm and smartassery of real life interactions.

That night, after he treated her to a drink - or four, as it ended up being - Emma’s found him in her pathway more often than not. They’ve taken to counting the number of times in a day they see each other and Emma would be wrong to say that she doesn’t look forward to that little game of theirs.

(Their record so far is 13. They were both pretty impressed with themselves.)

(She treated him to drinks that night.)

(And dinner.)

(It might have been a date.)

And then the texts start and Mary Margaret still helps her with lesson plans on occasion, but now that Robbie’s a little colicky and her and David are a little more sleep deprived, Killian’s more of her go-to guy for that.

(Among other things…)

He’s scooting into the chair beside her, the legs of the furniture scratching against the linoleum, as he asks, “How is the little Nolan babe these days?”

“Robbie.” He knows the baby’s name: Emma’s told him time after time, especially when Mary Margaret sends her a new picture. And she can tell that Killian’s just pulling her leg by the sly grin growing on his face as he looks at her. Rolling her eyes, Emma can’t help from smiling herself. “He’s wonderful. All three of them are great.”

“That’s excellent to hear.”

“So were you just too upset at the prospect of not seeing me today that you had to come in?” she asks goadingly.

The one day she’d called in sick a couple days ago, her phone had nearly shut down with the sheer number of texts and missed calls she gotten when she finally decided to get up from her bed and shower. Sure, she expected the handful from David and Mary Margaret, the one or two from Regina saying that her sick leave was approved and to feel better, but she thought Killian might die without seeing her. It’s how his dramatic messages came off. Despite her telling him not to, he stopped over after work just to make sure she had everything she could’ve possibly needed.

“Would it put you off completely if I admit, yes, a wee bit?” he admits sheepishly, his tongue running across his lower lip. “You’re quite enchanting, love. No matter what’s already happened, you make any given day a hell of a lot better.”

Emma blushes, focusing back on the emails that awaited responses. “That still doesn’t really answer my question.”

“Yes it does.”

Starting to get frustrated, Emma finally huffs, “Then why exactly do I see you so much even when you should be with your kids and you aren’t off on P.D.?” It’s been on her mind as often as his accent when she showers or his blue eyes in her dreams. The instructional assistant has their desk in her classroom and she doesn’t even see them 13 times in one day. Something odd is afoot with their little game, and Emma knows it’s almost certainly Killian’s doing, because it sure as hell isn’t hers.

He sighs, opening his laptop. “I might, on occasion, ask someone to watch my classroom under the pretense that I need to visit the restroom.”

“And you come find me instead,” she extrapolates.

His hand reaches up to scratch behind his ear, a nervous tick Emma’s learned in their time together. “Guilty as charged,” he admits shyly.

Emma tsks at him. “You’re going to get in trouble one of these days,” she tells him, her voice melodic, almost gloating.

This time when he leans in to whisper in her ear, at least she’s got some warning: his jacket shushes up against the fabric of the chair. “Life’s not worth living without a little risk,” he murmurs enticingly. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Killian pulls away, much to her chagrin, although it’s probably for the best. She isn’t quite sure she could be held accountable for anything she may or may not have done if they’d maintained their proximity.

(She hasn’t had the pleasure of experiencing much of a romance with Killian thus far, but she certainly has enough fantasies to fulfill to give her a good idea of how it might have happened.)

And as he goes to putter about on his laptop, Emma hopes that Killian isn’t talking about only risking a few minutes with his students to see her. It sounds like he plans on jumping out of a plane, or swimming with sharks, or something even more life-changing than that.

(She can’t help but be curious as to what he might be thinking. Because if she’s on his wavelength, his and her little life-changing risk might coincide.)

(Or at least she hopes they do.)

0000

It’s a rainy Saturday, which hopefully bodes well if old wives’ tales should be trusted. Emma’s dress is perfectly white, probably the only solid white piece of clothing she owns that doesn’t have food stains or art project remains on it. It’s a hazard of teaching she’s gotten used to in her time as a substitute and then a fully-certified teacher, but seeing this pristine dress on, reflected back at her in the mirror, makes her wish that maybe she had a couple more shirts and pants that were at least this close to clean.

(Thank goodness she had had the foresight to ask to get ready in the back room of the church. The moment she steps outside in the downpour, her dress could be ruined. But she’ll roll with the punches.)

Mary Margaret sniffs slightly, a tissue covering the lower half of her face. Emma matches her gaze in the mirror.

“No, don’t do that,” she says sternly, already feeling her bottom lip beginning to tremble. “If you start crying, then I’ll start crying, and I can’t afford to redo my makeup.”

Sniffing again, Mary Margaret pats lightly at the corners of her own eyes. “You’re gorgeous,” she says, her voice as watery as her eyes.

Emma‘s smile is sympathetic. “Thanks.” For a moment, she just stares at her friend, equally as beautiful in her own maid of honor dress, before she shakes herself out of it. Looking back in the mirror, making sure everything is absolutely perfect, Emma asks, “What time is it?”

“Time to go.” David’s sassy response comes from the doorway. He looks dapper himself, even with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression is nearly identical to his wife’s, looking entirely the part of a man walking his daughter down the aisle. “You look like a blushing bride.”

Shoulders slumping with emotion, Emma grins back. “Thanks, Dad.” Stepping away from the mirror and toward her friends, she asks, “Where’s Robbie?”

“Granny’s got him, I think.” David leans over and kisses Mary Margaret on the temple before wrapping his arms around both his girls’ shoulders. “Or maybe Regina. I don’t know, the boy’s got so much damn charm. He’s been making his rounds.”

“Of course he has,” Emma chuckles out. She takes a deep breath, centering herself just like she did before taking the PRAXIS or walking into her first interview post-teaching degree. Then she opens her eyes, blows out a raspberry, and grins. “Okay, let’s do this.”

Mary Margaret squeals in delight as David smiles. Taking her hand, David threads Emma’s arm through the crook of his elbow. Mary Margaret goes ahead of them, taking on the role of maid of honor as seriously as she has since the day Emma asked, and David leads her to the back of the church. An attendant opens and closes the door, permitting the rest of the wedding procession in. They casually walk down to the altar, to where she knows Killian is standing there waiting for her, big brother Liam at his side.

(Liam had texted her last night, acting as the middleman between the two of them, telling her Killian was a ball of nerves and would probably be a little less than up to any arduous activities after tonight was over.

She told him she’d probably be the same. If she knew her fiancé, Killian’s last night as a bachelor would have been as sleepless as hers as a bachelorette.)

The door clunks shut behind Mary Margaret, leaving Emma and David the only ones in the hall besides the official door opener.

David’s hand taps on hers gripping to the crease of his elbow. “You ready?” he asks.

Licking her lips, Emma nods. She’s got one more thing on her mind before she’s really ready to do this whole ‘until death do us part’ thing.

“Thank you,” she says quickly. David squints his eyes at her. “If you hadn’t knocked Mary Margaret up, then we would never have gotten here. So I just wanted to say that before everything gets really emotional and everyone gets questionably drunk.” She breathes deeply and sighs. “Okay, yeah, now I am.”

David sniffs, holding back tears. He may be putting on a little bit of an act, but she can tell there are real tears ready to fall once the ceremony starts. “What a bomb to drop at a time like this,” he murmurs.

Emma shrugs, adjusting her bouquet to ward off any awkwardness she feels. “You’ve been around Killian,” she says. “Guess I’ve gotten a little too used to waiting for the dramatic reveal thing he does.” Sighing again, she stands up straight and faces the door separating her from the rest of her life.

(Not to be dramatic or anything.)

“Really, let’s do this,” she says confidently. “I’ve got a knot to tie.”

David gestures to the attendant, and the door opens to reveal their guests, pews nearly full on both sides. As she and David take their measures steps down the aisle, she waves and smiles at all the faces she recognizes as they pass by. Some of her master’s program classmates are here, along with current coworkers and former teachers. Hell, even some of her former coworkers from the bail bonds agency have made it. Probably just so they can go to the party afterwards.

(Definitely so they can go to the party afterwards.)

And at the front of the church, in the second and third rows, are 22 teenagers, their smiles so wide it nearly brings Emma to tears. The 23rd - mastermind matchmaker Henry - stands behind Killian with his other groomsmen.

It’s been a few years - Mr Jones’ fifth grade class now well into their high school experience - but every single one of them found the time between academic decathlons and track meets and Shakespeare plays to watch their teacher and their favorite substitute get married. At first she thought it was a little unconventional, but when she brought it up to Killian one night before they fell asleep, he found it brilliant.

“In case you haven’t noticed, love, those kids still love you,” he’d whispered into the skin of her shoulder. “At least one of them sends me an email updating us on their lives every week. We’ve attended every play and homecoming.” She had curled into his chest, her head coming to rest over his steady heartbeat. “I’m pretty sure those kids see us as their cool aunt and uncle.”

“Well, I guess it would an insult not to invite them to a family wedding,” she’d murmured back.

Emma thought she’d be able to hold herself together until at least the vows. While she had decided to use the traditional words, she knows Killian has written his own, probably with the specific intention of destroying her emotions. But the moment she spots those kids, she remembers every little nudge they gave her, every time she wrote to Killian about the days they spent trying to get through a lesson plan, and the dams break.

Much to David’s surprise, Emma stops in the middle of the aisle, two pews from the altar. She makes eye contact with Killian, who tilts his head, silently asking what are you up to?

Emma gestures toward the kids next to her.

He understands, stepping down from the altar to her side.

Emma turns to David. “I know this is a little off book, but I’ve got a couple people I’ve got to thank,” she tells him.

David smiles and moves her hand from his elbow to Killian’s proffered arm. “Say no more,” he says. “I completely understand.”

With a kiss to her forehead, David heads to Granny’s side, taking Robbie from her grasp.. Vaguely, Emma can hear her maid of honor stand up and start explaining the small halt in the ceremony, but Emma herself is too focus on squeezing the life out of every kid that comes to her. Each one of them embraces her back, some of them whispering how excited or happy they are, before moving on to hug Killian. It only takes five or so minutes to make it through the class, some of the girls crying even harder than they were before at the gesture.

Once the last student - Henry, of course - makes it back to their place, Emma wipes cautiously beneath her eyes. Killian takes her other hand and squeezes.

“Are you ready to get married now?” he asks, his voice lovingly mocking.

Emma nods, leaning into his shoulder. “Hopefully I won’t get distracted now,” she says.

Killian kisses the top of her head. “Don’t worry, love, you’ll do wonderfully.”

[redvsvblue]

Leave The Soul Alone

So the first part of this was inspired by “Bones” by MS MR (did you catch that lyrics title?), and, uh, I wanted to do something a little spookier for Halloween, hence - monster AU. They’re not any specific, named monsters/things, but feel free to ask if there’s any confusion about their properties/beings. Is OT6 but not focused on too much. Set in the FAHC AU. Doesn’t appear to have a fucking proper ending but I didn’t want to force one. 

Warnings: some semi-graphic? depictions of violence, uh, oh god I guess it also counts as body horror now, but it’s nothing particularly gory or gruesomely detailed. Ask if you have any concerns before reading - I’ll be happy to help! 

"We should get back."

"Yeah, okay." Jeremy cracks his wrist back into place and straightens his leg, glancing up at Ryan. "Aren't you gonna attach that?"

Ryan looks down at the arm he's holding, shrugging with his armless shoulder.

"It can wait," he says. "Needs a better joint anyway."

Jeremy rolls his eyes and Ryan rakes a hand through his hair, something creaking when he smiles.

"Dude, we need to oil you," Jeremy says, his bones cracking as he bends his fingers back to normal – Ryan helpfully kicks Jeremy's kneecap straight and Jeremy rolls his neck on his shoulders, frowning when he tests his jaw and finds it too loose.

Ryan swings the arm over his shoulder while Jeremy pushes his jaw back into place, grinning when his teeth click together. There's a dent in Ryan's side – but nothing that won't buff out, as he likes to say. The panel at the back of his neck swings open and Jeremy reaches forward to close it, pushing on the stubborn latch until it locks.

"You think Gavin's around?" Ryan asks, his neck creaking as he looks up at the high ceilings of the chapel.

"Probably," Jeremy says with a shrug, stepping over a body and leaning over to pick up its baseball bat.

"I'm right here, you bastards," Gavin says, fading into sight above them, floating backwards as he crosses his arms and frowns at them.

"Oh good," Ryan teases. "Thought you'd bailed."

Gavin scoffs and Ryan spits oil to the side before grinning back up at him. Jeremy rests the bat on his shoulders and wipes blood from his split lip as he follows Ryan and Gavin out of the church.

Ryan strides casually over to the sleek blue car, waving cheerfully with his detached arm – Gavin floats past them and his breeze ruffles Jeremy's hair and clothes, colder and sharper than the midnight air. The moon shines high above, casting eerie shadows behind them – or none at all, in Gavin’s case, merely falling on trampled, forgotten grass and eroded statues.

Ryan pulls open the back door and slides in beside Gavin's body, thumping it playfully on the knee as Jeremy folds himself in and closes the door. He accidentally disjoints his ankle with his fidgeting and twists it back into place before stashing the bat in the footwell.

"Thought you'd never get here," Jack says, lifting her eyes to them in the rearview mirror with a smile that has too many teeth. She taps the steering wheel as she rolls away from the scene, humming cheerfully. The parts of her shrouded in shadow appear gaunt and thin – from the corner of Jeremy’s eye they look like pure skeleton, but when he turns his head to face them they’re flesh once more.

Ryan rubs a thumb over his dented cheek and slides his fingers inside his mouth to pop it out, wiping artificial spit on his shirt afterwards. He winks at Jeremy. Jeremy rolls his eyes.

Gavin jerks awake with a huge breath, colour rushing to his skin as he coughs and thumps his chest, shaking his head to focus himself – he blinks until he regains his bearings, glancing around the car and bracing an elbow on his knee as he rubs his temple.

"Welcome back," Ryan says, laying his arm over Gavin's lap and lifting up his own shirt to flip open a panel and fiddle with a few disconnected wires. Jeremy fixes his ankle again and Gavin slumps back into his seat with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. He shoves the arm back onto Ryan’s lap and Jeremy plays idly with the wires poking out at the joint, twisting them into random shapes as Jack drives.

“Michael hasn’t responded to me,” Gavin says with a frown, peering down at his phone.

“He’s just pissed he couldn’t come in the church,” Jeremy scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “He’s fine.”

“They have anything good?” Jack asks, flicking her hair back over her shoulder. They round a sharp corner and the bat falls onto Jeremy’s foot. He kicks it idly.

“Nah,” Ryan says, closing his panel and tugging down his shirt. “Although they won’t be arms dealing again.”

Jeremy shrugs and murmurs in agreement, wiping at his lip.

The tired silence is broken by Gavin’s startled shriek, his phone clattering into the footwell as he shoves at Ryan’s detached arm.

“It’s cold!” He exclaims, batting it away when Ryan waves it at him, brushing immobile fingers over his neck to make Gavin squeak and flinch again.

“Gav, you’re literally dead,” Jeremy deadpans. He laughs when Ryan slaps at Gavin’s hand with the disconnected arm in a poor facsimile of a high-five.

“Yeah, well, I still don’t want Ryan’s bloody – metal things pokin’ at me!” He squeals, smacking Ryan’s arm and jumping when it jabs at him.

“Metal things? I’m offended, Gavin,” Ryan teases.

“Oh, shut up, you know what I mean.”

“At least it’s not his metal dick,” Jack chimes in – Gavin giggles at the thought and Ryan merely turns his arm to Jack, prodding at her elbow from the backseat.

“You know perfectly well I don’t have a metal dick,” Ryan says, smiling at Gavin’s hiccoughing laughter.

“Dickless,” Jeremy adds. Ryan kicks his ankle out of place.

“Didn’t hear you complaining,” he bites back with a lewd grin.

“Fuckin’ - yeah, you’re not wrong,” Jeremy concedes, lifting his hands in surrender. Jack laughs and the disembodied arm pets clumsily at Jeremy’s cheek.

-- 

“Hey Gav,” a rough, dark voice growls, rumbling and as deep as the depths of hell themselves.

Gavin perks up and spins around from where they’re unpacking the boot, opening his arms wide.

“Michael!” He chirps cheerfully – Michael’s face splits into a crooked grin and the hellfire disappears from his aura, fading back to nothing as he drops the few inches from floating to earth.

“How’d it go?” Michael, asks in his normal voice, pulling Gavin in for a one-armed hug and keeping his arm over his shoulders as he inspects the boot. “Any good shit?”

“Nothin’,” Jeremy replies, tossing the bat over behind Jack’s back – Michael catches it neatly, eying the deep scratches marks on it. “They were useless.”

“Fun to beat up, though,” Ryan rasps. He coughs and spits more oil to the side. “You’d’ve liked them. Real rough ‘n tumble guys.” More oil.

“Dude, you sure you all right there?” Jeremy asks, slapping Ryan’s chest when he coughs again. “Sounds like your lungs got bashed up.”

“It’s fine,” Ryan says, running a hand over his throat. “Just need a discharge.”

“Here, those need to be cleaned,” Jack instructs, handing over a couple of SMGs to Jeremy. “And these.” She hands bloody pistols to Michael.

“Let’s go, boi,” Gavin says, grabbing a handful of knives and turning to go, Michael with him – Jeremy picks up some more guns and Ryan gathers the heaviest in his good arm, bending the elbow of his disconnected one so he can wear it around his shoulders like a metal snake. Jack picks up the last of the stuff and slams the boot closed, locking it while Jeremy and Ryan saunter away after Michael and Gavin.

“Y’think Geoff fixed his TV yet?” Jeremy asks, glancing up at Ryan.

“I don’t think he can,” Ryan says with a laugh. “He can barely uncross my wires.”

“You’re more complicated than a TV, Ryan.”

“Aw, are you calling me complex? That’s sweet, Jeremy.”

“Jeremy’s flirting with Ryan again!” Michael hollers from ahead of them, kicking open the garage door and tugging Gavin through.

“Michael’s touching Gavin’s ass again!” Jeremy hollers back – Michael’s hand immediately slips up to Gavin’s spine and they all laugh.

“Do I hear my favourite little devils?!” Comes a shout from the kitchen.

“Only one of us is a devil,” Jeremy calls back, dropping his load on the table with the other dirty equipment.

“I’m not a devil,” Michael grumbles.

“Isn’t it the same thing?” Gavin asks. “Y’know, devil and demon?”

“No, it isn’t – for fuck’s sake, Gav, how many times do I have to explain this to you?” And they bicker as they drop guns and head into the kitchen. Ryan sets his arm down beside a minigun and Jeremy quietly reaches forward to curl the fingers and straighten out the middle one – Ryan chuckles and bends the wrist so his arm is flipping off anyone who enters through the kitchen door.

Geoff’s standing over a bubbling pot of vegetables when Jeremy and Ryan and Jack wander in, stirring with a wooden spoon as Michael and Gavin chat beside him. Geoff grins broadly at them and pecks at Jack’s cheek when she brushes past him to the fridge – she smiles and squeezes his shoulder before she tugs the door open.

“How was it?” Geoff asks, glancing up at Jeremy and Ryan.

“It was good, yeah,” Jeremy says, crossing his arms and leaning them on the counter. Ryan coughs wetly behind him and turns to spit into the bin. Jeremy jerks a thumb at him over his shoulder. “Ryan needs a discharge.”

“Yeah, I could use one of those, too,” Geoff sighs, waggling his eyebrows at Jeremy’s laugh. Ryan rolls his eyes.

“Not that kind, Geoff,” he says. Geoff snickers and takes out his spoon to put a lid on the pot before pressing his fingers to Jeremy’s jaw and tilting it up to inspect him, frowning when he sees the split lip and the purple bruise colouring up the left side of his neck.

Geoff rubs his thumb over Jeremy’s lower lip and leans down to kiss him gently, first on the lips and then on his bruised neck – Jeremy feels his lip heal together again and then dull ache of the bruise fades, cleared by Geoff’s magic.

“What about me?” Ryan says, hooking his one arm over Jeremy’s shoulder to dangle over his front.

“Doesn’t work on you,” Geoff says, an amused grin ticking up the corner of his mouth. Ryan pouts and Geoff laughs again, leaning in to brush his lips over the bolt of Ryan’s jaw nonetheless.

Ryan rests his chin on Jeremy’s head when Geoff pulls back – a moment later Gavin’s head is wriggling up under Geoff’s armpit and Geoff laughs brightly, immediately clamping his arm around Gavin’s neck and knuckling his head. Gavin yelps and the rest of them break into loud laughter, echoing off of the kitchen tiles and out of the open windows, only interrupted by the angry boiling of the vegetables and Ryan’s short choking fit.

-- 

“I don’t think you wanna do that, buddy,” Jeremy says, deliberately opening and closing his fingers on the grip of the bat hefted on his shoulder.

The guy spits blood at them and grins crookedly despite the messy cuts pressed into his jaw, blood and saliva trickling down to drip off his chin. Michael snarls and rubs his thumb over his bloody brass knuckles, lifting them again in a clear threat.

“Where are they?” Michael growls, his eyes ablaze with unholy fire, his voice too rough-edged to be human.

“None of your fucking business,” the guy snaps, cracking his knuckles.

“Wrong answer,” Jeremy says, clicking his tongue in disappointment. Michael steps up inhumanly fast and swings again, sharp and hard – the guy staggers back, clutching his jaw and seething at them, blood welling up in his mouth and leaking down over his fingers. Michael’s fist connects once more with a wet crunch and the guy crumples to the ground with a shout, pressing clumsily over his broken nose.

“Where. Are. They?” Michael spits, looming over him.

“None...of...your...business,” the guy pants, laughing weakly.

“Y’know, Robbie, we would have let you go,” Jeremy says calmly, dragging the bat down to rest it on the ground. “If you just told us where the girls are.”

“Liar.”

“No, really, we would have.” They wouldn’t have.

“Hurry it up in there!” Ryan calls from the entrance to the alleyway. “We got a schedule to keep!”

Michael glances back at Jeremy and the heat of hellfire rises around them, the air hot and crackling against Jeremy’s neck. Jeremy nods, smirking when Michael’s aura flickers with violent flame.

Michael grins back and turns to deal with Robbie – Jeremy spins on his heel and walks out towards Ryan, whistling cheerfully as blows land behind him.

“Nothin’?” Ryan asks, stubbing his cigarette out against the wall.

“Nope.”

“Shame.” Ryan glances over at Michael and Robbie and hums quietly. “He’d have been a good rat.”

“Too late. When’s Gavin getting here?”

“Five minutes.”

-- 

Jeremy gets decked in the face and he goes down hard, his jaw dislocated immediately and his head smacking against the ground – the thug steps up to stand over him, snarling as he raises a boot. Jeremy roughly pushes his jaw back into place and just before the boot comes down a metal hand curls in the guy’s shirt, wrenching him to face Ryan, who punches him in the face and pushes him to the side, offering his other hand to Jeremy.

Jeremy wipes blood from his chin and is about to thank Ryan when another guy rushes up behind Ryan – before Jeremy can say anything the guy stabs a knife into Ryan’s shoulder and there’s a brief, breathless moment where Ryan jerks and the guy grins triumphantly. Idiot.

Ryan slowly, slowly reaches back to pull out the knife, whirling around and plunging it into the guy’s neck with a grunt. He yanks it out again and the guy collapses to the floor like a sack of potatoes, blood gurgling out of his torn neck.

“Asshole,” Ryan spits, twisting to inspect his shoulder. “I just got a new one.”

A hail of bullets pulls them from their moment and Jeremy drops with Ryan, both of them flattening their fronts against the cold concrete. Ryan glances over at the low wall, at the gang shouting behind it, and back to Jeremy.

“Got any grenades?” Jeremy asks. Ryan frowns and shakes his head – then pauses. Narrows his eyes.

“I can make one,” he says. Jeremy furrows his brow in question and Ryan scoots closer, shifting to tug up his shirt and unlatching a small panel.

“Give me your hand,” he orders. Jeremy circles his fingers around his wrist and gestures questioningly – Ryan nods and Jeremy pops his wrist out of the socket and hands his hand to Ryan, the joint loose and free under the skin. Ryan guides him to the opening and Jeremy wriggles his hand in, his wrist pinched uncomfortably tight between Ryan’s hard insides and the metal casing of his torso – it wouldn’t fit if the bone wasn’t disconnected.

“The second battery,” Ryan says – Jeremy digs his hand further in and closes his fingers around a hot cylinder, pulling experimentally. Ryan shakes his head and Jeremy squeezes his fingers in deeper to find the second, smaller battery, securing a grip around it and tugging to let Ryan know he’s about to pull. It’s slick and slippery with oil, sticky to the touch and hard to grip properly.

Ryan nods and Jeremy rips the battery from its wires – Ryan hisses but stays helpfully still, gently guiding Jeremy’s arm out as Jeremy navigates the battery between burning metal and sparking wires. He manages to wiggle the battery out through the tight squeeze – something bends in Ryan and a few of Jeremy’s fingers disjoint but he manages to pull it out, his skin badly singed, dangerous red welts rising on his wrist and forearm. He’s sure it would hurt like a bitch if he could actually feel it.

Jeremy pops his fingers and wrist back into place while Ryan snaps his panel closed and rolls onto his front again. He bashes the battery against the ground, suddenly, smashing it against concrete until it lets out a sharp hiss.

Ryan cracks a grin and flips the battery in his hand, his own oil sliding down his fingers and dripping to the floor between them.

“Am I gonna have to run?” Jeremy sighs, wiping his fingers on his shirt. Ryan shrugs.

“Probably a good idea,” he says nonchalantly, and abruptly rolls over onto his ass, dragging his feet up to get ready to stand – Jeremy hurriedly pushes himself up to kneeling and Ryan flashes him another grin before hollering hey cunts! and tossing the grenade over the wall.

The bullets stop.

There’s a moment of silence. Two.

Ryan scrambles to get up and Jeremy follows, breaking into a sprint when the battery-turned-grenade explodes behind them, the wall cracking into concrete chunks and some grosser, bloodier chunks flying along with it – Jeremy steadfastly ignores those and runs for his fucking life as the bullets start up again in the smoky chaos, ricocheting off of the ground and pinging off of the walls around them.

They race out of the garage and erupt into a similarly chaotic street – the Fakes at one end holding down the truck and Bone at the other, trying to retrieve said truck. Ryan crouches behind a pillar and Jeremy presses himself flat to another.  

“Where’d you need us, Geoff?” Ryan asks over the comm hardwired into him.

“Need you to pin those two assholes down,” Geoff grunts in reply – Jeremy looks over to see him ducking and reloading behind the truck while Gavin and Lindsay hurry the girls out of the back.

“Which ones?” Jeremy asks. Jack laughs.

“There’s two driving around in Kurumas,” Geoff says. “Keep tryin’ to crash into us. Michael’s been chasing them down but he can’t get both.”

“ - motherfuckers!” Michael’s voice bursts through static and he growls, tyres squealing loudly in his background. “Fuckin’ assholes, I just got this repainted!”

“There’s two Adders just behind the bank,” Trevor says calmly. “Round ‘em up, boys.”

“Yessir,” Jeremy jokes – Ryan laughs at his little salute.

“Michael,” Ryan says, and waits for an answer. There isn’t one save for the rumble of turbo.

“His piece’s shot,” Gavin says. “Probably when he decided to try his fireball approach.”

“I mean, it worked, it took out the first two drivers.”

“Yeah, but now he can’t bloody hear us, Jack.”

Jeremy gestures to Ryan to go and they get out of the main street as fast as they can, winding into an alleyway and jogging to the bank.

“Hey!” Someone hollers – Jeremy looks up and Alfredo drops two sets of keys down from the roof; Ryan catches them easily and yells back a thanks as Alfredo puts his hood back up and shifts away in a blur of colour.

“Oh my god,” Ryan says when they see the cars.

“Hey, Trev?” Jeremy says.

“Yeah?”

“Love you, buddy.”

“Thought you’d appreciate it.”

Ryan tosses him his keys and Jeremy gleefully unlocks the Kurimmy while Ryan slides into his plain (boring) black one – although Jeremy knows from personal experience that that thing’s engine is way too overpowered to be even remotely safe – and the twin rumble of their engines brings a wild grin to Jeremy’s face.

“Ready?”

“You fuckin’ bet.”

[mizzcarey]

Empath with sociopathic tendencies.

Now I am fully aware of how those don't go hand in hand. They are both on completely different sides of the spectrum. Allow me to explain.

Let's go back to my first memory of realizing that I was an empath. I was maybe 4 years old, and walked into the living room to watch TV with my uncle. He looked fine, like it was just a normal day and I was gonna ask him if we could watch cartoons but instead Ifelt a pull towards him almost as if there was an invisible rope and my vision seemed to zoom at him even though I hadn't really moved, then the pain came. My chest became so heavy that I could hardly breathe, and I felt physical pain in my heart, it was my first time as a 4 year old experiencing the pain of a heartbreak. I didn't understand anything that was going on at the time but I knew that I was feeling what he was feeling. I ran up to him and cried and told him I loved him and he picked me up and we broke down. My mom ran in the room to see why we were in hysterics and he told her what I had done. Looking back that was my first sign that some people from mom's side of the family were also empaths. My mom understood immediately and sent me to my room to talk to my uncle and as I eaves dropped I heard him say that I am also gifted.

This continued as I got older but certain aspects dulled a bit as a grew. I realized I could only hone in on people close to me and only if they were feeling some sort of emotion, I couldn't do it with strangers or people that I had no sort of connection too. When someone I loved was hurting I started trying to take their pain onto myself, as if to share the burden so they didn't have to bare it all themselves. I now understand that I was absorbing some of the negative energy from them and replacing it with my positive energy which drained me hard and was why I often didn't feel good. With my Nana's help I also was able to apply the same technique to dull physical pain too. My nana was in the hospital with a broken leg, and she asked me to put my hand on her leg and point my other hand to the floor, she told me to envision the flow of energy as I pulled it from her leg allowing it to flowing through my body and push it out through my other hand. I got physical ill afterwards. I was drained further than I ever had been before.

So with that being said, I want to get into how I changed. My dad met this girl, she seemed great at first but I couldn't ever hone in on her which bugged me. No matter how close I got to her, how much I opened my energy to her, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't connect to her. Let's call her E. Right before I turned 13 my mom and her husband separated and she relinquished all parental rights of me so she didn't have to pay child support and I went to live with my dad and E. Things were great, until she started treating me different when my dad wasn't around. It started by her twisting my words around when I would talk to make me seem ungrateful or like a bad person and then dismiss me as argumentative when I tried to clarify. It started as maybe a once in a while thing and then eventually it was something she did multiple times a day and usually unprovoked with me not even having to say anything based on topics she had twisted my words on previously, by that point she was doing it in front of her family and I had given up defending myself. I was seen by everybody as a troubled child and I could feel how people felt towards me. I had stopped defending myself by that point, realizing that it would only make me look worse. My reputation was shattered and she was hailed as the hero who took in and cared for a troubled child as her own while I put her through anguish everyday. Even my own family started believing E. By that point she could just make up blatant lies about me and people believed them even my dad. I started to believe them too. I soon believed that I was a horrible person who could never do or say anything right and was just a waste of space. I began to self harm in various ways, I got satisfaction from pain, with pain came a release that I needed. My dad took my to the doctor and had me put on antidepressants, not like a therapist or a physiciatrist but a family doctor and I was forced different meds to see what would work, it got to the point where they were ready to start giving me cocktails of antidepressants mixed together in combination because to everybody else I must have some sort of chemical imbalance since I had such a perfect life when people were around. I finally found a medication that semi worked, but instead of making me feel happy, it just made me feel numb. I was content in my zombie like state as I stared off at the wall unmoving for hours a day. The fact that I didn't have emotion anymore that she could prey on angered E more than anything. She would scream and shove and push me around. Throw things at me. Leave bruises on me. All while telling me that since I hurt myself then why isn't it okay for her to hurt me too. It progressed further than that to the point that I was scared for my life. I still to this day honestly believe that if I hadn't of gotten out when I did then she would've murdered me. One time she slammed my head into the washer as hard as she could and threw me to the ground because I had "washed my clothes on the wrong setting". Another time she held my head down in a sink full of water until I almost blacked out because I didn't know not to use soap on the porous slab of stone that she used to bake cookies on.

The only way she could get the response she wanted from me in my zombie like state was by beating me out of it. So I became everything she said I was and more. If I was going to be assaulted or punished for something she said I had done then I was going to earn it. I rebelled, I turned into a bad person. I flipped a switch and turned dark. What I could still feel from others as an empaths, I used against them. I preyed on them by using abilities that I had grown so out of touch with that I practically had to relearn. I even scared myself sometimes when that little good side of me would try to peek through a cinch in my homemade armor. I began beating her at her own game. Taking her words and twisting them. Making her feel crazy. Prying for and picking at any little detail I could snag onto that may reflect how she felt. I adapted to be like her. I romanticized killing her, playing out every possiblity in my head of how I'd do it.

One night my dad went to a party while E was supposed to be home when we were asleep, and supposedly she didn't want to be alone in the house with me. So she left, my dad came home and came in to my room to ask wake me up and ask where she was but I didn't know. When she came back my dad accused her of cheating and she accused him because he supposedly wasn't at the party where she had gone to look for him. They both were drunk and my dad went to grab her phone and she attacked him. He had claw marks on his face and was bleeding in a few places. Then she came in to my room and sat down on my bed, because he wouldn't fight her in front of his "precious daughter", he said get away from her or I'll drag you out of here so she grabbed my ankle and said if you're dragging me then you're dragging her too. So I kicked her off me and he yanked her out of the room. She called the police and said he assaulted. The police came and eventually made their way into my room to question me, they asked to see my finger nails (I'm a nail biter so I had no nails) and told me that she was accusing me of scratching up my dad's face and I said no and told them about how she cane in my room and threatened to drag me out of my bed by my foot because my dad wouldn't fight in front of me. So she went to jail and the next day filed an emergency PFA against us which meant we had to get all of our stuff out of "her" house and move within an hour while police were watching us before she came back home because she had been released on bail.

I haven't been on antidepressants or self harmed since I've broken all contact with her at 15 years old. I'm now 24 and I have made so much progress. I'm extremely proud of myself. I have re-lived over and over, analyzed, and conquered my flashbacks and nightmares. I've healed relationships with my family and friends. I FIGHT every day to not be the person I was turned in too. I constantly hold myself accountable and keep myself in check. I exercise extreme caution with my thoughts and words. In order to keep myself from hurting people like I had, I lost a lot of my ability to be as strong of an empath, but I now am able to sense people like E. I can spot someone like her just from their energy and vibe. People like her have a specific feel to them. I wish I could explain it better, but all I know is that I have learned to identify and protect myself from these people before they even say a word to me. My most recent test was when I was at work, I work at a gas station and a woman was screaming at and degrading me for something wildly outside of my pay grade to control and I felt myself slip, I didn't even say anything but it must've been the look on my face or the vibe I put off or my body language but I slipped to that dark side and she instantly backed off. I've blocked my husband in order to never be able to use it against him like I had done to other people in my past. The only person I will carefully allow myself to fully connect with is my child, because I believe it makes me a better mother. I can comfort his soul and calm his storms. I know what he needs by seeing through his eyes and feeling through his heart. I am his safety blanket and his comfort on a rough day. I need him just as much if not more than he needs me, because I am the best version of myself with him. And I know if anybody were to ever harm him in any way, my wrath is only a flip of a switch away.

[csjmadhouse]

SALVATION|DAMNATION, the debut album from “metal-pop” singer/songwriter Cody St. John, accumulates many of rock’s sub-genres into one complete body of work. Touching on sexuality, mental health, religious frustrations and drug use; the Texas native delivers raspy vocals accompanied by soft, soothing backtracks to create a ‘battle of sounds’ that allows listeners to feel the internal conflicts St. John felt while recording the album.

INTRODUCE

Allow me to introduce myself  No, not him Not the boy with his eyes on the ground Afraid to make a sound  Allow me to introduce myself No, not you Not the guy that keeps it bottled up  Until he has an overflowing cup  Allow me to introduce myself  No, that’s not right Not the man who still cries  Over little white lies  Allow me to introduce myself  No, I don’t know who I am  I’m learning and growing everyday  But you won’t like who I am today Allow me to introduce myself  Now that’s more like it  Meet Mister ‘There’s always tomorrow"  Before he’s swallowed up by his sorrow Allow me to introduce myself  Now that you can see  Right through the cracks in my soul While I’m being fed from an empty bowl  

GOOD AT BEING BAD

You think good boys gone bad are sexy I’m a bad boy cuz I had to be To make it out alive Won’t be your fetish Turn the key Just drive Let me tell ya a little somethin Bout a kid who was given the world All he had to do Was stay on his knees And not question a word

Well I was bad at it Bad Bad Was no good at it Gave up all I had Got up from my knees Stand firm on my feet What can I say I’m good at being bad

Didn’t like bein yelled at For doin no wrong So I started breaking rules Rebel heart got strong And the more I said no To the people with their chins High up in the air The more powerful I felt Far removed now From the shitty hand I was dealt

And I was bad at it Bad Bad Was no good at it Gave up all I had Got down on my knees But not to worship at His feet What can I say I’m good at being bad

Dumping church wine down the drain Replacing it with Jack Is that the name on the bottle Or the boy scratching down my back Who even knows I zoned out when he lost his shirt Don’t remember what came next Just know it hurt Only at first Then it got good I fell for the man After they told me I never could

And he was good at it Good Good Was so damn good at it Gave up all I had Got down on my knees He swept me off my feet What can I say I’m good at being bad

EYE CANDY

Caught her eye with my abs Taking to the bag with some jabs She was in the gym to pick me up I was there to get jacked up Sorry pretty lady to crush your dreams Everything is not as it seems I want a lady in the streets But I was told I had to choose one So I only allow men in my sheets

Eye-eye-eye-eye-eye-eye candy Lemme feast upon this Ohhhh she looks so sweet But I ain’t allowed to taste it, no Eye-eye-eye-eye-eye-eye candy Why don’t you feast upon this Ohhhhh I taste so sweet But I need a man to take it Don’t mean I won’t be your Eye candy

Ohhhh she’s working those legs In a circular motion Hoping she’ll get My full devotion Too bad my sights Are set on her trainer Still she’ll catch these side eyes Come on, how could I blame her Walked in smelling like sweat and cigarettes Got me wanting sex and cigarettes Sex and cigarettes Let’s sweat out these cigarettes

Eye-eye-eye-eye-eye-eye candy Lemme feast upon this Ohhhh she looks so sweet But I ain’t allowed to taste it, no Eye-eye-eye-eye-eye-eye candy Why don’t you feast upon this Ohhhhh I taste so sweet But I need a man to take it Don’t mean I won’t be your Eye candy

I ain’t sayin’ never, baby Let’s both break a sweat I’ve been inside girls like you before Never said I wouldn’t again Right now men give me my rise But a girl like you could be my demise Why don’t you ride that bike one more time I really wanna see those thighs Might have a taste for guys Most of the time Right now I’ve got a craving For some cherry pies Oh-oh-oooooooohhhhhh

Eye-eye-eye-eye-eye-eye candy Lemme feast upon this Ohhhh she looks so sweet And I really wanna taste it, yeah Eye-eye-eye-eye-eye-eye candy Why don’t you feast upon this Ohhhhh I taste so sweet Think it’s time for a girl to take it Until then, I’ll just be your Eye candy

OUTLAW

Layin here shackled to the bed Eyes shut blockin’ out the harsh light Broken bottles from another wild night Looks like me and Mr. Right Picked ourselves another fight Sorry, Sheriff, please release me Didn’t mean to do the dirty things I’ve done Sorry, Sheriff, please release me Then you can join me on the run

Mustang’s tires Kickin’ up the dirt Kick, kickin’ up the dirt Got the sweat runnin’ All down your shirt Down, down your shirt While my hands creepin’ On up her skirt Up, up her skirt Hands up now Nobody’ll get hurt Hands up now Nobody’ll get hurt Tail end'a my car’s The last thing he saw Never gonna incarcerate This outlaw

Found me hiding out Like a sex crazed bandit With my pants 'round my ankles Caught me red handed Put those red limbs in some chains Made me watch as you took a needle And pumped mud in your veins Your eyes are gone, Sheriff Is anybody home? Your eyes are gone, Sheriff Now you’ve left me alone

Mustang’s tires Kickin’ up the dirt Kick, kickin’ up the dirt Got the sweat runnin’ All down your shirt Down, down your shirt While my hands creepin’ On up her skirt Up, up her skirt Hands up now Nobody’ll get hurt Hands up now Nobody’ll get hurt Tail end'a my car’s The last thing he saw Never gonna incarcerate This outlaw

Can someone post my bail Right now I’m s'posed be setting sail Tug at these chains to no avail Looks like I’m stuck Why’d I take the bate Why’d I come home late Now he’s so irate And he wants to fuck Ahhhhhhhhhh! Breathing in his exhaled smoke Hand on my throat making me choke Exposing my body to new pains Cotton mouth hoping that it rains

Mustang’s tires Kickin’ up the dirt Kick, kickin’ up the dirt Got the sweat runnin’ All down your shirt Down, down your shirt While my hands creepin’ On up her skirt Up, up her skirt Hands up now Nobody’ll get hurt Hands up now Nobody’ll get hurt Tail end'a my car’s The last thing he saw Never gonna incarcerate This outlaw

PRINCE HARMING

Blonde hair slicked back Reflects the sunlight from above Gives him the appearance Of an immortal deity Don’t be fooled By his glowing appeal He’ll get close to your heart Something he wants to steal He’ll hit and run Faster than he can Get that condom on Don’t believe him when he says He won’t do what scares you He’ll leave you with a baby And no father that cares too

Don’t you Don’t you put your hopes on him Don’t tell him your horrors and your fears He’ll crush you with it Kill you with it Use it to break your heart He looks oh so charming Too bad he’s really Prince Harming

Second he told you To call him daddy You should’ve ran Now it’s too late Deep into third trimester I don’t think you can Turn back the clock Erase his betrayal He was a devil in disguise And you fell for his portrayal Of an angel from the skies

Don’t you Don’t you put your hopes on him Don’t tell him your horrors and your fears He’ll crush you with it Kill you with it Use it to break your heart He looks oh so charming Too bad he’s really Prince Harming

Did dirty deeds Careful, he’ll air your dirty laundry Those things he said he’d keep secret Have now been aired to thousands Shunned by your neighbors Got a baby With no aunts or uncles to be found Till you find a girl just like you She’s the fox, you’re the hound Burned that bridge years ago But with no one left And half siblings in hand You’ve both fallen victim To the devil’s demands

Don’t you Don’t you put your hopes on him Don’t tell him your horrors and your fears He’ll crush you with it Kill you with it Use it to break your heart He looks oh so charming Too bad he’s really Prince Harming

DEEP BLUE SECRET

Lost at sea I was flailing I was a victim Of your reckless sailing Cried out for a life vest And you threw me an anchor Sealed my fate when you kissed your girl Do me a favor, you be sure and thank her

Was I just your shipmate Your co-captain Your emergency sailor Explain to me then Was that not your seed I sat in Fit so tight custom made by a tailor Was I just your shipmate Or your deep blue secret

Takin’ on water now Down we go We’re sinking at the bow This ship’s met its demise Cast off as the SS Bullshit That ice on her finger Gave the hull a nice slit We’re takin’ on water now Down we go Punished for the outcome Of the captain’s show

Was I just your shipmate Your co-captain Your emergency sailor Explain to me then Was that not your seed I sat in Fit so tight custom made by a tailor Was I just your shipmate Or your deep blue secret

Waters raging Waters raging Waters raging in I will die I will die I’m dying for your sin How do I How do I How do I swim Waters filling Waters filling Waters filling to the brim

Was I just your shipmate Your co-captain Your emergency sailor Explain to me then Was that not your seed I sat in Fit so tight custom made by a tailor Was I just your shipmate Or your deep blue secret

COLD BED

  There I was thinking  We were on the right track  But I guess with you  I can never know for sure  You’ve flipped the script  Yet you’re still in the same role  Turned the tables  But still eat the same meal  Guess we’re not so different after all  Looks like we’ve hit a wall  Can’t waste anymore time  Acting like we just need to heal  Maybe there was hope once long ago But months have passed  This bed is still cold And we still haven’t closed the deal  Do we just not click Or are we too scared  I rarely take the blame  But on this I’ll share it  Frostbite on my neck  From where your kisses should’ve been  I’m chilled to the bone  And I can’t bear it  Should I try one last time To heat these sheets  Or just migrate  To another man’s home  I’ve always dreamt of wandering But I would’ve stayed for you  But it’s too damn cold  Now I have to roam  Fuck that, lets backtrack  What happened that night  When you didn’t hold me  In a room with no light  Now I remember  I could’ve grabbed you  Had a heart whisper 'do it'  While a brain cried 'don’t!'  Have you ever had a battle  Raging inside of your head  Where what you want is subdued Because your mind just won't  Hold me, please just hold me  Built a wall before I knew you  And now I can’t let you in  Until you bring your wrecking crew  Break me down  Wear me out  I’m exhausted from fighting  This thought of me and you  How’d I find myself  In yet another cold bed  Chills not from the blades Spinning hypnotically in the corner  Frozen from the sight of your back  Miles away on this four foot mattress  Throw more blankets on me  But this frigidness is still torture

LITTLE DRUMMER’S PLOY

Warned you about my ways  Guess you should’ve listened  Before I torched the fucking car That we first kissed in You’re tangled in a maniac’s web Now that you’re stuck  Where you gonna go You’ll never find a better fuck  The way I played you  The way I used your heart  I can see you wanna break away Too bad ya don’t know where to start

Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-bum-bum-bum I got your heart beating  Got your heart beating I got your heart beating Like a mother fucking drum 

Told you I was a sorcerer  Really more like a warlock  If that scares you Maybe you shouldn’t have sat on my cock  Listen now, mortal man It’s really not so bad  Can’t blame yourself For the power we sirens had  Reeling you in  Like a mindless seaman  Listen to the drums  They’ll have you screamin’

Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-bum-bum-bum I got your heart beating  Got your heart beating I got your heart beating Like a mother fucking drum  Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-bum-bum-bum I got your heart beating  Got your heart beating I got your heart beating Like a mother fucking drum

Waves are crashing down  Can you hear that sound Waves are crashing down  Surprised you’re still around Days are growing dark Somehow you’re still here  Days are growing dark Do you really feel no fear Sabotaged to save myself  Yet you’re still in my bed Sabotaged to save myself  Are you dumb or are you dead

Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-bum-bum-bum I got your heart beating  Got your heart beating I got your heart beating Like a mother fucking drum  Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-bum-bum-bum I got your heart beating  Got your heart beating I got your heart beating Like a mother fucking drum

DIG DEEPER

You-ou-ou Taught me the game Made me a player Stained my name You-ou-ou Broke my heart Made me a cryer Dodged the blame You-ou-ou Can’t run from me I am the slayer I’ve come unchained

Better dig deeper If you wanna find my heart Better dig deeper If you don’t know where to start Better dig deeper To find what makes me tick Better dig deeper That grave ain’t deep enough For you and your sins So you’d better dig deeper!

You-ou-ou Imprisoned me Envisioned me In celibacy You-ou-ou Made me ashamed Of the way I was laid You-ou-ou Told me To get to the gates I had to stop the debates

Better dig deeper If you wanna find my soul Better dig deeper If you don’t know where to start Better dig deeper To find what makes me tick Better dig deeper That grave ain’t deep enough For you and your sins So you’d better dig deeper!

If you wanna bury Your dirty laundry Then you’ll need a bigger shovel If you wanna bury Your enemies Then you’ll need a bigger hole If you wanna bury The dirt that’s on these hands That wrapped around a man’s pole Then you’d better dig some more

Better dig deeper! If you wanna find my heart, Better dig deeper! If you don’t know where to start Better dig deeper! To find what makes me tick Better dig deeper! That grave ain’t deep enough For you and your sins So you’d better dig deeper! Deeper! Better dig deeper If you wanna find my soul Better dig deeper If you don’t know where to start Better dig deeper To find what makes me tick Better dig deeper That grave ain’t deep enough For you and your sins So you’d better dig deeper! Dee-ee-ee-per!

ENCHANTRESS

Cultured by a cult  I was drowning in holy water  It wasn’t my fault I couldn’t swim Was praying for a life preserver But they nailed a cross to my back It’s no coincidence  That they’re shaped like anchors  Made jokes at my expense  While my lungs filled up Burned from the inside  By something that’s supposed to save  I wish my money was all I gave  Because once I handed them my soul Became bound to their ways 

Was I under a spell Before I moved to hell Mom I might like boys But I’ll never tell Been staring for so long Don’t know how you missed This boy I kissed I can see I pissed Off the Enchantress

Attempts to run  Were met with guilt  Because of course Jesus knows best  Look how much of His blood was spilt  Lord, when I screamed out  From the bottom of that font  You were nowhere to be found  You give what we need not want  I think my life was needed then It’s sure needed now  Got this bottle of pills filled as a taunt  This is not, this is not what I want  Please don’t kill me Please don’t go  Don’t make me the star  In the hangman’s show 

Was I under a spell Before I moved to hell Mom I might like boys But I’ll never tell Been staring for so long Don’t know how you missed This boy I kissed I can see I pissed Off the Enchantress

I will rise Into bluer skies When my time comes  When my body dies Naturally, that’s satisfactory At times it’s hard  But I can wait  Till my last breath  Runs away on its own  And I’m just bone

Was I under a spell Before I moved to hell Mom I might like boys But I’ll never tell Been staring for so long Don’t know how you missed This boy I kissed I can see I pissed Off the Enchantress

FAGGOT

Si coierit cum vir virum Sicut fit unum cum femina Et quod ex illis fit ut quia abominatio Welcome to the homo hanging show!

Tied me up Then held me down While my soul teared Spewed words like venom Held your hands high while I screamed Passed it all off as a prayer I had no demons To exorcise I was your challenge I’ll see to it that You never get your prize

Tried to turn me Yearn for me baby You haven’t earned me Showed no concern for me lately Called me a little faggot Blamed me for your hurting I’m a proud little faggot Commence the burning

Shined brighter than your lord When you set me ablaze You get so much joy From abusing the gays You hear the crackle Of these flames They’re gonna haunt you Make you remember our names Can’t extinguish a fire you started Time to join the dearly departed

Tried to turn me Yearn for me baby You haven’t earned me Showed no concern for me lately Called me a little faggot Blamed me for your hurting I’m a proud little faggot Commence the burning

What sweet bitter irony is this After threats of hell for so long You’re gonna be the one to burn Satan’s gonna make you his bitch Burn witch, burn bitch No sweeter revenge Than fucking one of God’s own Take it like a man Don’t you dare cry now Or all the little hellions Will call your soul a faggot While your body’s devoured By Earth’s hungry maggots

Tried to turn me Yearn for me baby You haven’t earned me Showed no concern for me lately Called me a little faggot Blamed me for your hurting I’m a proud little faggot Commence the burning

Nolite iudicare et non iudicabimini Nolite condemnare et non condemnabimini Dimittite et dimittemini Don’t you ever cast a stone at me!

WAR CRY OF A MADMAN

You made my heart race in the worst way  Had my mind in a whirlwind out of control  Tried to beg you to stop  No sound would come out So you just kept me spinning Round and round this madness-go-round Taking back the wheel  To my own life I’m the only one allowed to drive me crazy  You can bet on that, baby 

I’m a mad man  A fucking lunatic Baby I’m sick  I’m a mad man  A fucking lunatic Baby I’m sick 

Ain’t gonna reward no bad behavior  Knocked on the wrong door If you came searching for a savior  Warned you I’d only drag you down Why’d you try to fly with me Now that we’ve both crashed and burned  Think it’s funny how these tables turned 

I’m a mad man  A fucking lunatic Baby I’m sick  I’m a mad man  A fucking lunatic Baby I’m sick 

Came at me with open arms When he should have brought a needle He played it cool Knew when I brought the heat he’ll Crumble in my hands  Oh no, looks like I broke another man  How does this keep happening  In this jungle I dress like the prey Don’t be confused, I’m still the king Crown me now before I condemn you Got me craving a cigarette So I can smoke you out from the inside  Ashes to ashes, yeah the dust may fill you  But in the end it’s the lust that’ll kill you 

I’m a mad man  A fucking lunatic Baby I’m sick  I’m a mad man  A fucking lunatic Baby I’m sick  I’m a mad man  A fucking lunatic Baby I’m sick  I’m a mad man  A fucking lunatic Baby I’m sick 

FLY HIGH

Heart hijacked by the rhythm of the drum Bodies all over soaked in whiskey and rum Outsiders thinkin’ we’re all dumb  They need some green, aye, come and get some Guitar strumming Planes are humming  We’re all on something  Heeeey! Thanks for coming!

Got a million hands raised to the sky  Come on, angel, teach me to fly  Smoke touches the clouds as we all get high Come on, angel, teach me to fly  Fly! Fly! Fly! Flyyyyy! High. High. High. 

Brain hacked by the rasp in my voice  Move your feet, you don’t have a choice Scream out loud, wanna hear you rejoice  Don’t care if you came by bus or Rolls Royce Guitar strumming Planes are humming We’re all on something  Heeeey! Thanks for coming!

Got a million hands raised to the sky  Come on, angel, teach me to fly  Smoke touches the clouds as we all get high Come on, angel, teach me to fly  Fly! Fly! Fly! Flyyyyy! High. High. High. 

Come on!  Woooo! Yeah! Yeeeeeaaaaah!  Ohhhh, slow it down now.

Poppin’ pills right here at center stage  All the while the crowds still rage  Keeping this story stuck on this page  Let’s relive this forever, let’s never age

Got a million hands raised to the sky  Come on, angel, teach me to fly  Smoke touches the clouds as we all get high Come on, angel, teach me to fly  Fly! Fly! Fly! Flyyyyy! High. High. High. 

©2017 YM Records / Republic Records

[http://smarturl.it/CSJSD]

[csjmadhouse]

SALVATION|DAMNATION, the debut album from “metal-pop” singer/songwriter Cody St. John, will be available September 8th, 2017. Pre-Order now to instantly receive three tracks and unlock snippets to the rest of the album before they can be heard anywhere else!

INTRODUCE

Allow me to introduce myself  No, not him Not the boy with his eyes on the ground Afraid to make a sound  Allow me to introduce myself No, not you Not the guy that keeps it bottled up  Until he has an overflowing cup  Allow me to introduce myself  No, that’s not right Not the man who still cries  Over little white lies 

GOOD AT BEING BAD

You think good boys gone bad are sexy I’m a bad boy cuz I had to be To make it out alive Won’t be your fetish Turn the key Just drive Let me tell ya a little somethin Bout a kid who was given the world All he had to do Was stay on his knees And not question a word

Well I was bad at it Bad Bad Was no good at it Gave up all I had Got up from my knees Stand firm on my feet What can I say I’m good at being bad

EYE CANDY

Eye-eye-eye-eye-eye-eye candy Lemme feast upon this Ohhhh she looks so sweet But I ain’t allowed to taste it, no Eye-eye-eye-eye-eye-eye candy Why don’t you feast upon this Ohhhhh I taste so sweet But I need a man to take it Don’t mean I won’t be your Eye candy

OUTLAW

Layin here shackled to the bed Eyes shut blockin’ out the harsh light Broken bottles from another wild night Looks like me and Mr. Right Picked ourselves another fight Sorry, Sheriff, please release me Didn’t mean to do the dirty things I’ve done Sorry, Sheriff, please release me Then you can join me on the run

Mustang’s tires Kickin’ up the dirt Kick, kickin’ up the dirt Got the sweat runnin’ All down your shirt Down, down your shirt While my hands creepin’ On up her skirt Up, up her skirt Hands up now Nobody’ll get hurt Hands up now Nobody’ll get hurt Tail end'a my car’s The last thing he saw Never gonna incarcerate This outlaw

Found me hiding out Like a sex crazed bandit With my pants ‘round my ankles Caught me red handed Put those red limbs in some chains Made me watch as you took a needle And pumped mud in your veins Your eyes are gone, Sheriff Is anybody home? Your eyes are gone, Sheriff Now you’ve left me alone

Mustang’s tires Kickin’ up the dirt Kick, kickin’ up the dirt Got the sweat runnin’ All down your shirt Down, down your shirt While my hands creepin’ On up her skirt Up, up her skirt Hands up now Nobody’ll get hurt Hands up now Nobody’ll get hurt Tail end'a my car’s The last thing he saw Never gonna incarcerate This outlaw

Can someone post my bail Right now I’m s'posed be setting sail Tug at these chains to no avail Looks like I’m stuck Why’d I take the bate Why’d I come home late Now he’s so irate And he wants to fuck Ahhhhhhhhhh! Breathing in his exhaled smoke Hand on my throat making me choke Exposing my body to new pains Cotton mouth hoping that it rains

Mustang’s tires Kickin’ up the dirt Kick, kickin’ up the dirt Got the sweat runnin’ All down your shirt Down, down your shirt While my hands creepin’ On up her skirt Up, up her skirt Hands up now Nobody’ll get hurt Hands up now Nobody’ll get hurt Tail end'a my car’s The last thing he saw Never gonna incarcerate This outlaw

PRINCE HARMING

Don’t you Don’t you put your hopes on him Don’t tell him your horrors and your fears He’ll crush you with it Kill you with it Use it to break your heart He looks oh so charming Too bad he’s really Prince Harming

Second he told you To call him daddy You should’ve ran Now it’s too late Deep into third trimester I don’t think you can Turn back the clock Erase his betrayal He was a devil in disguise And you fell for his portrayal Of an angel from the skies

DEEP BLUE SECRET

Takin’ on water now Down we go We’re sinking at the bow This ship’s met its demise Cast off as the SS Bullshit That ice on her finger Gave the hull a nice slit We’re takin’ on water now Down we go Punished for the outcome Of the captain’s show

COLD BED

There I was thinking  We were on the right track  But I guess with you  I can never know for sure  You’ve flipped the script  Yet you’re still in the same role  Turned the tables  But still eat the same meal  Guess we’re not so different after all  Looks like we’ve hit a wall  Can’t waste anymore time  Acting like we just need to heal  Maybe there was hope once long ago But months have passed  This bed is still cold And we still haven’t closed the deal 

LITTLE DRUMMER’S PLOY

Warned you about my ways  Guess you should’ve listened  Before I torched the fucking car That we first kissed in You’re tangled in a maniac’s web Now that you’re stuck  Where you gonna go You’ll never find a better fuck  The way I played you  The way I used your heart  I can see you wanna break away Too bad ya don’t know where to start

Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-bum-bum-bum I got your heart beating  Got your heart beating I got your heart beating Like a mother fucking drum 

Told you I was a sorcerer  Really more like a warlock  If that scares you Maybe you shouldn’t have sat on my cock  Listen now, mortal man It’s really not so bad  Can’t blame yourself For the power we sirens had  Reeling you in  Like a mindless seaman  Listen to the drums  They’ll have you screamin’

Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-bum-bum-bum I got your heart beating  Got your heart beating I got your heart beating Like a mother fucking drum  Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-bum-bum-bum I got your heart beating  Got your heart beating I got your heart beating Like a mother fucking drum

Waves are crashing down  Can you hear that sound Waves are crashing down  Surprised you’re still around Days are growing dark Somehow you’re still here  Days are growing dark Do you really feel no fear Sabotaged to save myself  Yet you’re still in my bed Sabotaged to save myself  Are you dumb or are you dead

Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-bum-bum-bum I got your heart beating  Got your heart beating I got your heart beating Like a mother fucking drum  Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-dum-dum Bum did-di-bum-bum-bum I got your heart beating  Got your heart beating I got your heart beating Like a mother fucking drum

DIG DEEPER

You-ou-ou Taught me the game Made me a player Stained my name You-ou-ou Broke my heart Made me a cryer Dodged the blame You-ou-ou Can’t run from me I am the slayer I’ve come unchained

Better dig deeper If you wanna find my heart Better dig deeper If you don’t know where to start Better dig deeper To find what makes me tick Better dig deeper That grave ain’t deep enough For you and your sins So you’d better dig deeper!

ENCHANTRESS

Was I under a spell Before I moved to hell Mom I might like boys But I’ll never tell Been staring for so long Don’t know how you missed This boy I kissed I can see I pissed Off the Enchantress

FAGGOT

Si coierit cum vir virum Sicut fit unum cum femina Et quod ex illis fit ut quia abominatio Welcome to the homo hanging show!

Tied me up Then held me down While my soul teared Spewed words like venom Held your hands high while I screamed Passed it all off as a prayer I had no demons To exorcise I was your challenge I’ll see to it that You never get your prize

Tried to turn me Yearn for me baby You haven’t earned me Showed no concern for me lately Called me a little faggot Blamed me for your hurting I’m a proud little faggot Commence the burning

Shined brighter than your lord When you set me ablaze You get so much joy From abusing the gays You hear the crackle Of these flames They’re gonna haunt you Make you remember our names Can’t extinguish a fire you started Time to join the dearly departed

Tried to turn me Yearn for me baby You haven’t earned me Showed no concern for me lately Called me a little faggot Blamed me for your hurting I’m a proud little faggot Commence the burning

What sweet bitter irony is this After threats of hell for so long You’re gonna be the one to burn Satan’s gonna make you his bitch Burn witch, burn bitch No sweeter revenge Than fucking one of God’s own Take it like a man Don’t you dare cry now Or all the little hellions Will call your soul a faggot While your body’s devoured By Earth’s hungry maggots

Tried to turn me Yearn for me baby You haven’t earned me Showed no concern for me lately Called me a little faggot Blamed me for your hurting I’m a proud little faggot Commence the burning

Nolite iudicare et non iudicabimini Nolite condemnare et non condemnabimini Dimittite et dimittemini Don’t you ever cast a stone at me!

WAR CRY OF A MADMAN

Ain’t gonna reward no bad behavior  Knocked on the wrong door If you came searching for a savior  Warned you I’d only drag you down Why’d you try to fly with me Now that we’ve both crashed and burned  Think it’s funny how these tables turned 

I’m a mad man  A fucking lunatic Baby I’m sick  I’m a mad man  A fucking lunatic Baby I’m sick 

FLY HIGH

Heart hijacked by the rhythm of the drum Bodies all over soaked in whiskey and rum Outsiders thinkin’ we're all dumb  They need some green, aye, come and get some Guitar strumming Planes are humming  We’re all on something  Heeeey! Thanks for coming!

Got a million hands raised to the sky  Come on, angel, teach me to fly  Smoke touches the clouds as we all get high Come on, angel, teach me to fly  Fly! Fly! Fly! Flyyyyy! High. High. High.