#its been so muddied for me from when my friend in middle school was telling me about her culture

[woso-dreamzzz]

Injured (Alexia's Version) II

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Summary: Alexia comes home from work

Alexia comes in from a long day of coaching to find carnage in the house but no more than usual.

Jaume's muddy football boots are scattered in the entrance hall along with his school bag and his training bag. His jacket is thrown callously on the ground and she can just make out the dishes he hasn't cleaned up from his afternoon snack on the kitchen counters.

Her son is found in the living room, whirred into a game of FIFA and talking into his headset to his friends.

Your own ballet bag sits at the bottom of the stairs and Alexia can hear rhythmic thumping from your bedroom. She pops the door open and throws your bag onto the bed.

You're sitting at your desk, breaking in your pointe shoe by thwacking it against the corner of your study space. You're attacking the shank of your shoe viciously while your other one lays perfectly broken in next to you.

You've raided the sewing box too, a needle already threaded so you can sew on your ribbons as soon as you're done breaking in your second shoe.

"Did that one do something to you?" Alexia says and you jolt in shock, not having realised she came in.

"Yeah," You reply with a wry smile," It didn't come broken in." You whack it one final time against your desk and test its flexibility, finally content and get to work sewing your ribbons onto the shoes.

"You left your bag by the stairs," Alexia says and you roll your eyes.

"Jaume left his stuff all over the house," You reply," He's so messy."

"He's a boy. Boys are messy."

"Have you made him clean it up yet?"

"I'm letting him finish his FIFA match. It might embarrass him in front of his friends."

You roll your eyes again, tying off your first ribbons before moving onto the second. "They're so annoying."

"They're hormonal," Alexia replies. She takes your other shoe and starts sewing a set of ribbons on. "They'll grow out of it."

"Can they grow out of it now?" You mutter," I'm sick of them watching me."

Alexia freezes, like a pail of icy water has been thrown on top of her. Her mouth goes dry. "What?"

You give her a look. "Huh?"

"What do you mean they're watching you?"

You shrug. "I don't know. They're hormonal boys. I'm Jaume's older sister." You wrinkle your nose. "They say gross things sometimes. It's not a big deal."

Alexia hates that aspect of you. You're so resigned to the concept that it is what it is. You had problems like this when you were younger too, merely accepting bullying and rude words at you because you didn't think it would matter if you tried to fight it.

It's something that Alexia's never managed to snap you out of but she never thought that she would see it in a situation like this.

"What kinds of things?"

You frown at her. "I thought you knew."

"No! Is that why you didn't tell me?"

You shrug. "I thought if you were fine with it happening then I should be fine with it happening."

"No...Bambi...You should never think that those kinds of things are okay. They're not and if it happens again, you come to me right away."

You nod, not fully convinced. "Okay, Mami."

"Hey," She says," Put on your shoes. We're overdue a catch up."

Alexia's busy coaching at Barcelona most days. She's almost always working but she tries to find the time for you and Jaume both together and alone. It used to be a tradition that she would take you out once a week by yourself to 'catch up' but work has been so busy these past few weeks so you're long overdue some one-on-one time together.

"I'm sewing my ribbons!" You complain and Alexia fondly ruffles your hair.

"And you can take a break. You've just come from a full day of dancing. Go put on comfortable shoes. You can sew your ribbons tonight."

You huff but do what you're told.

Alexia goes back downstairs, switching the tv off.

"Mami!" Jaume complains, pulling down his headset," I was in the middle of a match!"

She gives him a pointed look. "And your stuff is in the middle of my house."

"I'll pick it up later."

"You'll pick it up now," Alexia says," This isn't your room, Jaume. I like my house to be tidy."

He huffs and moves to get up.

"And tell your friends to stop saying foul things to your sister."

He freezes, every muscle in his body going rigid and stiff. "What?"

"I know what teenage boys are like, Jaume, and I understand peer pressure and not saying anything so you can fit in but this isn't school. Your sister deserves to come home and feel safe."

"It...It was just jokes, Mami."

"Was it? You may think they were joking but were they actually?"

Jaume's face grows a little confused. "But they had to be! There's...There's no way they'd come to our house and...and say those things to her and actually mean them! Right? Mami, right?"

"Jaume..." Alexia sighs. It's clear to her now that Jaume genuinely had no idea that his friends could actually mean what they said. Alexia takes some comfort in knowing that, at least, Jaume hadn't done this out of spite or any other malicious feeling towards you. "Even if they were jokes, your sister doesn't need to be made fun of in her own house. If you let them get away with stuff now then they're just going to keep building and building and building on it until it's too late to stop them."

"Mami..." Jaume looks heartbroken now, glancing up the stairs where he knows you're doing something in your room. "They...She...Is she okay?"

"I'm taking your sister out," Alexia says," She's had a long day at practice and she needs some time to decompress, okay? Can I trust you to clean up your stuff and get started on your homework?"

He nods.

"Good boy." Alexia kisses his forehead. "Your Mama should be home soon. No tv until your work is done."

"Okay, Mami."

Jaume sits himself at the kitchen table, going through a mind-numbingly boring Physics worksheet when you come down.

"Ready to go?" Alexia asks and you nod.

"Hey, wait!" Jaume calls out and you stop, turning to look at you. "I love you."

You frown in confusion. "I love you too."

"Good," He says," I mean, it's good that you know that I love you." He nods several times and a small bubble of laughter erupts from you.

Jaume grins like he just won the lottery and Alexia trusts in her son to lay down the law with his friends.

She guides you out the door and to the car, driving down to some quaint café that's opened up nearby.

"A milkshake?" Alexia offers after you've found a table," I heard from Mapi that they do those big monster ones with a cupcake stabbed through the straw."

"Mami," You admonish," I still have dance tomorrow."

"Hmm," Alexia says," You're right. It's probably too big for one each. We can share."

"Mami!" You laugh," I'm trying to stay healthy. The Spring Season starts soon. We have performances to do."

Alexia reaches over to pinch your cheek and you roll your eyes. "Well, I'm your Mami and I say it's okay. You know, I'm quite wise."

"Fine," You say," But if we're getting a milkshake then let's get the red velvet one."

"Whatever you want, bambi."

Alexia orders some cupcakes and a cookie with it and rolls her eyes as you mock complain with no actual annoyance in your tone.

"Now," She says," I've spoken to your brother and he's going to sort his friends out or else."

You roll your eyes, poking at your food. "It's fine. I can deal with it."

"You shouldn't have to deal with it." Alexia reaches across the table for your hand. "Boys will be boys but that doesn't mean they should be saying those things to you. I...I just...Bambi why didn't you tell me?"

You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes darting to the side.

"Bambi," Alexia says again," Come on. You can tell me things, you know that, right?"

You nod. "I just...I was worried that I was being silly. That..." You shrug. "You know, you would think I was overreacting. It shouldn't bother me as much as it is. They're just stupid boys."

"Boys are always stupid," Alexia says decisively," And I don't think you're overreacting. It's going to be sorted out. If Jaume doesn't then I will."

She speaks so firmly that you can't help but agree, saved from replying by your mouth full of cake.

You still look a little awkward talking about it though so Alexia pivots the conversation away.

"So," She asks," What ballet is it this season?"

You're not usually talkative about the ballets you're practising, preferring it to be a surprise when you gift the family tickets to opening night but with the season approaching, you don't mind as much.

"First half of the season is La Sylphide," You say, sipping on the straw of the milkshake," Second half is Giselle."

Those words mean nothing to Alexia but you look excited so she decides to be excited for you.

Your cheeks go a little red and you pick at your cake. "Actually...I...er..."

"Is something wrong?"

"No...I...Do you remember when I told you that a few of our soloists got injured?"

Alexia racks her brain. "I think so. You said it was after the Nutcracker performances, right?"

You nod. "Well, they're still not back and the balletmaster decided to start doing understudies in case of injuries and sickness."

Alexia nods along. It's a smart choice, like rotating the players in a team.

You don't look at her, staring down at your plate.

"They're guaranteed one night though, you know, as the lead."

"Okay?"

"Mami, I'm playing Giselle."

Alexia chokes. "What?"

You finally look up at her. "I'm playing the lead, Mami."

"I..." Alexia whips out her phone. "What day is it? I need to check I'm not busy. No, I'll rearrange my meetings if I am. Oh, we'll have to call your Abuela and your Tia. Oh! And Mapi too! Jenni, as well." She starts typing away at her phone. "Wait, let me just text Olga. We'll have to get Jaume a proper outfit if you're going to play lead. And-"

"Mami," You cut her off though your voice is soft and quiet," It's not that big of a deal."

"Not that big of a deal?!" Alexia scoffs," You're seventeen years old, playing the lead in a professional ballet company! How could you keep this a secret?! Oh, bambi, we have to sort out tickets. What day did you say it was?"

You laugh. "I didn't, Mami."

Alexia crams the rest of her cake into her mouth. "We have to get home. We have to tell Jaume and Olga!" She looks at you for a moment. "So grown up! My little baby, playing the lead!"

You slouch in your seat. "Mami, calm down. It's for one night. People are staring."

"Up! Up!" Alexia insists," Come on! What do you want for dinner?"

"Mami-"

"You choose. Anything! Anything you want!"

"Mami-"

"What about that fancy place near Alba's house? I think I can get us a reservation."

"Mami!"

"Sorry, bambi. What did you want?"

"Can I just have a hug?"

Alexia pulls you into a hug, cradling the back of your head with her hand. "You make me so proud, bambi. I love you so much."

[jqngkooz]

'tis the damn season (1) | jjk

pairing: jungkook x reader

rating: 18+ (no smut in this chapter though!)

genre: f2l? more like idiots to lovers, mutual pining, angst, fluff, eventual smut

warnings: the miscommunication in this is so frustrating (sorry 🙃), previous love confessions, unrequited love (not for long), crying, rejection, very pg sexual tension, alcohol

w/c: 2.8k words

a/n: hiii omg okay so this is my first time ever posting something i've written. i've always been a silent reader but i really want to start posting because i love writing. hopefully this is good, hope you enjoy!

summary: When Jimin convinces you to spend christmas in a cabin in the middle of nowhere with your entire friend group, you’re forced to face the feelings that you’ve been suppressing for your best friend Jungkook after all these years.

Your parents had never gone away for the holidays. Every year without fail they pull out the itchy christmas jumpers that you and your brother hate so much and cook a ridiculous amount of food. So when they told you they were planning on spending this christmas on a cruise ship around the Caribbean, you were left with nowhere to spend the holidays. Sure, your brother had his wife and kids to spend it with, but you? No one. And now it’s five days before christmas and still with no plans you’re not left with many options. 

“Jimin,” you groan, “I’m looking for serious suggestions here.”

He doesn’t look up from behind the kitchen island as he chops onions.

“I am being serious. You’re not spending christmas alone with your cat and your vibrator, come with us”

You slump further down into the couch, weighing up your options. Spending christmas alone at your age is embarrassing. The fact that you don’t have a boyfriend and haven’t had one in months is embarrassing enough on its own. But having to see Jungkook again was by far the worst-case scenario. 

Jimin puts the knife down, wipes his hands on his apron and comes behind the couch, gently massaging your shoulders. 

“Please come. It’ll be so nice. Tae’s aunt has the nicest cabin in the mountains. We can get shitfaced, roast marshmallows, hell I’ll even watch one of those crappy Hallmark movies you love”

He leans down, forehead on your shoulder and puts on his sweetest voice as you sigh.

“Pleaseeee, you won’t even notice he’s there” 

The last time you saw Jungkook he had turned up at your door, shaking from the rain. 

“Jungkook? What are you doing here? It’s freezing”

You drag him out of the September chill as he steps into your apartment, big black boots treading muddy water on your floor tiles. 

He sighs, “Don’t marry him.”

His eyes are big and glossy, staring down at you in the twinkly way they always do.

“Jimin told me he proposed. Don’t say yes. Well I mean obviously you already said yes,” He rambles, glancing down at the ring on your finger as he nervously bounces on the balls of his feet, “but take it back.”

You must look absolutely dumbfounded, watching in confusion as he stands in your hallway soaking wet and pleading. 

You shake your head, “No, you can’t do this right now. Are you seriously doing this right now?”

You laugh dryly.

“I can’t believe you. I thought you liked Mark I don’t- I don’t understand”

He takes his bottom lip between his teeth. His nerves running rampant. He knows he has no right at all to spring this on you but he can’t watch you get engaged to this guy that he knows isn’t right for you. He knows that he should have confessed earlier, years earlier. He’s had the chance to tell you since high school and he never did, he was always so afraid that you didn’t feel the same way.

“I do like him, he’s fine. But I can’t- fuck I can’t let you get married to him without you knowing how I feel. You know I’ve always had a thing for you, you’re not stupid. And god, I know this is a bad time but if I don’t say this now I’ll never get the chance to”

No, no, no. 

“Please don’t say it” You practically beg. 

“I love you. I always have.”

He’s utterly desperate, he’s sure he looks foolish, but he doesn’t care right now. 

“I’m in love with you” He repeats.

That night you had turned him away, back into the cold. Jungkook wasn’t much of a crier but his bottom lip wobbled as he stood staring at your front door. It’s not that he expected you to just drop everything, drop Mark, and fall into his arms, but he hadn’t exactly expected you to turn him away either. He stopped hanging out with Jimin and Yoongi after that, too afraid to see you again. He wouldn’t know what to say if he did, ‘Sorry for telling you I love you the day you got engaged’? 

“He won’t want me there, Jimin. He hasn’t spoken to me in months, it’ll be awkward.” You groan, resting your head against his.

He chuckles, “You two have got to just get over it. You’re adults for god’s sake. You bickered all the time in high school but you always made up. Please, I really want you there, it won’t be fun without you”

Goddamn Jimin and his persuasiveness. 

Somehow, you find yourself piling into Tae’s car. Yoongi slings all of your bags into the trunk before sliding into the backseat next to you. 

“Namjoon is bringing Seokjin, Hobi and Jungkook. He said they should arrive around 5 ish so, just a little after us” Tae says. Your stomach turns, what do you even say to him? If you attempt to make conversation you’re certain he won’t reciprocate but if you ignore him that’s even worse. And unfortunately, you love your friends and there’s no way you’ll be the one to ruin this trip for them by making things awkward.

“God I’m so ready for some actual fun. I’m surprised work even let me have christmas off, it’s a nice change not being treated like a slave for once.”

He lays his head back and closes his eyes. 

“Nice to know at least one of us is gonna be having a nice time. This is gonna be hell.” You retort.

Tae adjusts the rearview mirror as Jimin hops into the passenger seat before he speaks, “You’ll be fine. You’ll make up, hold hands, maybe fuck it out. Stop worrying” 

“Hey,” he adds “If Jungkook’s not willing to, I will”

Jimin grimaces, “You’re sick."

When you arrive, the cabin is huge, a mix of wood and sleek whiteness. Fairy lights twinkle around the outside of the house, reflecting off of the snow. 

“Holy shit,” Yoongi squints out of the car window, “This place is amazing, what the hell does your aunt do for work?”

Tae shrugs as he parks up and the engine turns off, “I don’t know, something for the government. She’s not allowed to tell us or some shit”

The boys begin taking the bags into the cabin and dumping them in the hallway. 

“Someone needs to get us some food. My aunt said she left some cans and stuff but nothing perishable so.” Tae shouts from the kitchen as he rummages through the cupboards.

You take in the cabin. It’s impeccably clean, with a fireplace below the ridiculously huge TV and a cream couch in front of it. The walls in the living room are painted a forest green and littered with mismatching photo frames filled with old pictures of Taehyung’s cousins and family. 

“You were so cute Tae,” You shout back, leaning closer to a baby picture of him standing on the beach, cheesing at the camera, “What happened?”

“You’re going to the supermarket for that.” He quips.

But you don’t mind, you want to see the town anyway. You love the snow and have always dreamed of living way off the grid in a place like this. Sure, the city is great, all busy and fast and full of light but there’s something about a place like this in the middle of nowhere that you love. Maybe one day when you have kids of your own you’ll move out of the city and into somewhere like this. God knows you don’t want to raise them in the city. 

You feel like your fingers are going to fall off. Your nose is probably an embarrassing shade of red and you feel like your eyes might actually get iced shut soon. The supermarket is warm, thank god, and you glance down at the shopping list. 

Don’t forget wine!!! Is scribbled at the bottom, with a small smiley face. 

You have no idea what wine everyone likes, or if they even all like the same wine so you grab a few red and white, along with some chocolate that you’re ready to stash in your room for yourself.

“Sorry, can I just get to the-”

A figure squeezes in front of you, reaching up to grab a bottle of wine. You’d recognise that tattooed hand anywhere. You step back, squeaking out a “sure” that has his head whipping around at the sound of your voice. 

“Sorry, I- I didn’t recognise you. Your hair it’s um, shorter” He’s biting his lip. It’s a nervous habit he has, like how he fiddles with his fingers when he’s sad or grins with those bunny teeth when he’s really happy. 

On the contrary, his hair is longer, falling down in dark waves that frame his face and partially cover his ears. His lip shimmers with a silver ring, that’s new. 

“Oh yeah that’s okay, it is.” You reply, looking down at your shoes like an idiot. 

A beat passes. The supermarket isn’t busy and there’s no other shoppers to help cushion the awkward silence. No one comes down the aisle. 

He clears his throat, “It’s really nice to see you. How have you been?”

You had thought about this moment a million times over in your head, wondering if he’d be cold, mad, anything. But he’s not. Of course he’s not because he’s Jungkook. The same shy, 15-year-old you met in math class, who whispered the answer to you when he saw the panicked look on your face. He’s probably the kindest guy you know, you’re certain there's not a bad bone in his body. 

“Um, I’ve been good yeah. What about you?” 

There’s an unfamiliar space between you as you both stand a few feet away. It’s weird. He’s always been a touchy guy, never hesitating to hug you or stand close to you. Seeing him for the first time in months makes you realise how much you miss it all. Even his annoying inability to walk in a straight line, always leaning into you and accidentally pushing you into the road doesn’t seem so annoying right now. 

He takes a sharp breath in as you look up at him.

“Yeah I’ve been okay” He starts, “I’m guessing they sent you out for food too?”

He glances down at your basket. 

“Yeah, I’m on turkey, veg and wine duty.” You say with a small laugh. He can’t believe how much he’s missed that sound, his stomach turning. Of course he had to ruin what you had by telling you he loved you. He must have replayed that scene every night in his head, cursing himself for being such a selfish idiot. 

“Ah I’m on snack duty, just thought I should pick up some wine but I see you’ve got that covered.” He smiles. That damn smile.

Another awkward silence. 

“You never called.” You blurt out.

He seems a little taken aback, not expecting you to talk about it so soon. He thought maybe you’d pretend that it never happened. He shifts his weight onto his other leg. The basket feels heavy and he swears he’s sweating under the bright lights. 

“I didn’t know what to say. You didn’t exactly wanna talk to me that night. I thought it was better to give you space”

You purse your lips into a fine line, nodding. 

“I’m sorry,” You might as well lay it all out on the table now, “about everything. I should have called too. I just want this christmas to be nice and I don’t wanna make It awkward for the rest of the guys. I just um, I just wanna be normal again. With you”

You screw one of your eyes shut, bracing for his response. He nods.

“Agreed. And I’m sorry too. Really fucking sorry.” He laughs shyly, “Say the word and it’s forgotten.” 

It’s almost completely dark when you get back, pushing the cabin’s door open. The fireplace is on and the house is loud with laughter. Jimin and Namjoon are standing in the kitchen, the rest in the living room watching a football game. 

“Namjoon’s car’s here!” Jimin says happily as you step inside, shaking off the snow. Jungkook follows behind you, closing the door. 

“I know.” You shoot Jimin a look as his eyes flicker between you and Jungkook both holding shopping bags. He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Sorry, I didn’t know we sent both of you…miscommunication I guess” Jimin says sheepishly. 

Once the shopping is put away and the fireplace has finally defrosted you, Hobi brings out the board games. You munch on some pretzels as you all sit on the floor huddled around a Monopoly board. 

“You’re totally cheating- he’s totally cheating!” Seokjin sighs out of frustration. 

“No, I’m fucking not,” Hobi’s eyes go wide at the accusation. “I had a get out of jail free card.” 

“You already used it!” Jimin and Tae say in unison, bursting out laughing. It’s nice, being together as a group again. Yours and Jungkook's fight, if you could even call it that, meant that the whole group hadn’t been together in a while. Even now as everyone argues it’s nice, it’s familiar. As if he can hear your thoughts, Jungkook leans towards you and says quietly, 

“This is nice. Reminds me of when we all used to play uno during our lunch periods. You always used to peek at my cards.”

You look at him in shock, “You knew about that? I thought I was sneaky.”

He chuckles, his shoulders bouncing up and down in the fitted black shirt he’s wearing. He’s gotten buffer in those three months you haven’t seen him and you’re wondering how his sleeves aren’t bursting at the seams. 

“Of course I knew, I just always let you win because it made you happy.”

You laugh at that. To him, you’ve gotten impossibly prettier since the last time he saw you. It’s like your eyes have gotten bigger and rounder and your smile even wider. If he’s gonna be honest with himself, he’s still in love with you. How could he not be? He has been since he was 16, but something always got in the way. A college boyfriend of yours or his job or a girlfriend of his or your fiancé. Every time he felt like you two might be getting close something came in the way. Library study sessions where your hands would brush against each other and neither of you would pull away, or nights where you’d turn up at his dorm in tears over a stupid boy that hadn’t treated you right, and he’d gotten so close to just kissing you. He was afraid to ruin the friendship you had, always pulling back before it got too real and turning to flings and hook-ups to try and dull the ache in his chest that only you could relieve. 

“I really missed you,” he says before correcting himself, “missed being friends with you. I’m sorry that I messed everything up. I wish I could go back and just, not turn up that night.” He runs a hand through his hair, “I shouldn’t have interfered with your relationship, no matter how I felt. I just really want you to know that I’m sorry.”

Your chest warms but his use of the word ‘felt’ isn’t lost on you. You hadn’t expected him to still feel the same way but it still stings.  “I missed you too Jungkook. I felt so stupid after I closed the door on you, I should have just heard you out and listened. Mark and I were never going to work out anyway.” You laugh awkwardly and take a sip of your wine. 

He nods, “I know but it still wasn’t right. I was an idiot. No feelings are worth losing a friendship over. At least that’s all in the past now right?”

Right, definitely in the past. Your stomach’s definitely not in a knot right now, twisting and turning at the smell of his aftershave as he leans next to you so close that you can feel his body heat. Those feelings are definitely in the past as you look into his big eyes, illuminated by the orange glow of the fire behind you. 

You gulp, “Yeah.”

The doorbell rings, stopping your conversation with Jungkook and the ridiculous argument about whether or not Hoseok is cheating. Jungkook stands up, jogging towards the door. 

Jimin looks at you confused as if you have the answer. You shrug, everyone’s attention is on the door. 

“Guys this is Isabelle. I thought it’d be cool if she stayed for a few days.”

The girl stands in the hallway, pretty and well put together as she sends you all a small wave. Jungkook looks down at her with a smile, squeezing her shoulder. There’s an awkward silence, no one really knowing what to say.

You feel like your heart has dropped so far that it might be in your ass. 

[oriocookie]

orion can i hear more about the satanic cult that you discovered ?? /nf

ok disclaimer: idk if they actually worship satan. they were probably a cult tho

where to begin?

this was like 3 years ago? we were allowed to go outside and run around for gym. our school backs up to a forest with a couple cool paths and some wreckage (cars, houses, etc.) scattered around in there and i had no friends in that class so i was out by myself in the middle of the woods.

i was climbing around a leftover chimney when i heard smth break out in the woods. like any good white person who doesn't realize they're the new star of a horror movie, i followed the sound. i think i thought it was a deer and wanted to take pictures.

anyway i couldn't find anything so i went back to continue making terrible decisions about height and my ability to climb things.

then there was a man in a white and gold shirt. staring at me. as i'm sitting on top of a broken down 60s car.

i wave, assuming he works for the school OR hes from the nearby neighborhood.

he doesn't move.

i get nervous and take my phone out of my pocket so i can call the cops if necessary.

he waves back (its weird looking. stilted.) and then turns to leave

i shrug it off, assuming he was a dude who wasn't expecting to see a 5'2 gremlin in the woods at like 10am. i start walking the way he came, not wanting to follow him and risk looking creepier.

thing is: its misty out. just misty enough to make the dirt path muddy and sticky. i get to the creekside and notice a trail of footprints across the old bridge (we were told as elementary schoolers not to go on the bridge bc it was dangerous).

i, Certified Idiot, follow the footprints across the bridge. gravity falls trained me well and by well i mean horribly.

the footprints kinda disappeared when i got to the other side of the bridge, so i was just poking around. the entrance to the spot i'm in atm is known for being flooded because the creek basically surrounds it, so no cars are ever here, and no one else ever goes here.

at least that's what i thought.

there wasn't anyone there when i crawled through unripe blackberry bushes and stood up in the middle of a stone clearing, but it was creepy as all hell.

it looks like a building fell down but people kept showing up. was very weird. i turned the hell around and left, deciding id like to live, actually, and booked it back to the main paths.

when i went to english, i couldn't stop thinking abt it, so i was telling my friends about it, and i pulled out my phone's maps app to show them where i had been.

it was labeled. with a little church emoji and the words [FIRST NAME] [LAST NAME]'s Secret. i didn't know who that person was, and googling it had no clear results at all, but my friends reaction to something called secret was loud enough that the teacher came over to look.

i showed her the map and explained what had happened. she said she hadn't heard of that place in 27 years of teaching, and she didn't like my story bc it creeped her out.

i shrugged it off.

within the next week, all anyone could talk about was the busted cult in the woods. according to lex (name omitted, but the best way to find something out is through them), my english teacher had called the cops on the place, saying someone was trespassing on the school grounds. the cops, having nothing better to do, staked out the place and arrested a group of older, white, middle-aged men.

all wearing the same white and gold shirt.

[izzy-writes]

A snippet from today's writing. I'm making steady progress on my first draft now, and soon I can get to writing the really plot heavy parts :]

Sebastian

I've never had the best relationship with mirrors. It's not like I hate looking at myself but, as I adjust my jumper so it covers the curve of my hips, that strange hollow sense of disconnect becomes just that little bit more noticeable. A tuft of hair flops over my forehead as I turn to check whether my binder is doing its job, and I stop what I'm doing to finger-comb it back into place. And as I do, I catch the time on my watch – almost six o'clock. I'd better get going.

My camera is nestled in a pile of clutter on my bedside table, next to a slightly droopy looking succulent. I keep meaning to clean up, to water the dying plants scattered around the room, but it feels like there's some invisible barrier, something like a thick fog, stopping me from getting it done. I try to ignore the pang of guilt at the mess as I sling my camera around my neck.

My socks sink into the carpet as I emerge onto the landing. As I head downstairs, I watch Mama and Pa and Ethan and me grow older in the years' worth of photos on the wall. I try to recognise myself in that smiling child with dark pigtails and deep dimples. Over the years, the photos become newer, my hair shorter, my fashion sense more boyish. It was no surprise to my parents when I finally came out – and Ethan couldn't be happier to have the big brother he'd always wanted.

I find my walking boots in the shoe rack by the front door and call for Jack. He comes bolting down the hallway while I'm still hopping around with one shoe on and he tackles me to the ground. There's no time to recover as he greets me with an incredibly wet kiss, but it's worth it to bury my face in his fur. He stinks, but it's a comforting stink.

“Sebastian, are you going out?” Pa calls from the living room. He's in there with Mama and Ethan, watching something on the TV.

“I'm taking Jack for a walk,” I call back.

“Can we talk for a moment?”

“Sorry, Jack,” I mutter, and push open the living room door.

Pa switches off the TV and gestures for me to sit.

“What's up?” I say, perching on the edge of the sofa next to Ethan.

“We're worried about you.” Pa sighs.

I get the feeling I know what this is about.

“You haven't made any friends at your new school, have you?” Mama interludes, shuffling forward on her portion of sofa so she can look at me.

“I don't need friends. I have you guys.” I say, and ruffle Ethan's hair. He dips his head, giggling, and I grab his arm instinctively to stop him tousling my hair.

“I know you find it hard since Abbi-”

“I'm fine.”

I let go of Ethan's wrist and he shuffles towards me a little, leaning into my side. I place an arm around him and try to smile. But all I see now is Abbi and those cold eyes. That look of utter disgust. I'd never be Sebastian, she spat. I'll always be... I'll always...

“I'm heading out now.” I tell them and stand up, not looking at any of them.

I head back down the hall to Jack, who, as soon as he realises I've returned, makes a dramatic show of clawing at the door like he's not been out in years. I sweep his lead from the floor, zip up my coat and step out the door.

Outside, a mist has descended on the orange glow of the early evening. The garden gate swings closed behind Jack and I as we head down the pavement. It's not a long walk to the lake – one of the few perks of living in the middle of nowhere – and soon enough Jack and I are pushing through the overgrown bushes along the muddy path to the shore.

In spring, the lake is dominated by local fishers in their tents and in summer, it's full of kids trampling the plants as they run around. But in autumn, it's empty. Just me and my camera. And the furball who keeps trying to lick my hand as I stoop down to snap a photo of a dandelion in the rapidly fading light.

I lift the camera to my eye, and through the lens is a world that I get to shape. My fingers dance across the buttons, almost instinctively now. Nothing more satisfying than the click of the shutter. A tiny bug creeps up the dandelion's stem as it blows in the breeze. I zoom; slowly, precisely, and capture it just before it takes flight and disappears against the canvas of the darkening sky.

As I stand, I'm hit by a gust of wind that slaps my cheeks raw. Above me, the clouds are churning dangerously, and a fat wet raindrop hits my nose. Why didn't I bring an umbrella? Jack hops around at my feet, snapping his jaws in an attempt to catch a droplet in his teeth.

“Come on, Jackie!” I gently tug at the lead to get Jack's attention and, after he's pulled me around a few laps of the lake, I'm so soaked that my clothes are stuck to me like a second layer of skin. A shiver runs through me as my body gets a moment to realise how cold I am. Time to go.

Jack and I make our way back across the branch-littered bridge that sits over the stream, now rushing with renewed energy from the rain. A roll of thunder booms out behind us and I scoop up a petrified Jack to rush home in the hope of avoiding getting struck by lightning.

[bitchapalooza]

Gonna conquor my weird fear of making a Mexico oc 👀

[sadlysoulx]

Haikyuu characters thinking you want to break up with them

part 1 (Atsumu& Sakusa)

Heyyyoo~ I'm sorry I haven't post in a while school's bad and it managed to get into my nerves without me going to the place itself plus i have now wifi so I have to connect to my dad's data☹️ Thanks for 33 followers😭💖!! Especially to my friend Mocha berry who supported me :)

Would be doing Tsukishima and Ushijima in part 2 ;)

⚠️Warning⚠️: swearing, not proofread

ATSUMU

"I really have enough!" Atsumu banged his fist down the table, making you flinch and take a step backwards.

"You are so fucking dramatic," he pointed at your shivering figure.

"I'm dramatic?" You asked hysterically. "I'm the ones who's dramatic?" You asked again, glaring back at Atsumu. "Open your eyes, 'tsumu! You're the one who made this into a bigger issue!"

"Me?!" Atsumu screamed back, finally making your tears fall down. "Y/N! If you weren't do clingy, this wouldn't happen!"

"Its not my fault that my boyfriend doesn't have time for me!" You fisted your hands.

"And this is fucking why I regretted to ask you to be my s/o!"

You stopped. Brain stopped functioning as you slowly let his words sink in, and to your despair, he didnt stop there.

"If you weren't my s/o, I would have a free life without you whining around like a kid," Atsumu was still shaking from anger.

"I would have the best life without you," he muttered.

More tears flowed down on your face.

"Fine!" You walked out the kitchen and into your shared bedroom, making sure you bang the door open.

You grabbed your bag and began stuffing down your clothes.

You heard loud and fast footsteps and in the corner of your eye, you saw Atsumu standing and peeking in the door, regret filled his eyes.

"Y/N—"

"If your not contented with me," you began as you take another bag and filled it with toiletries. "Then find another s/o, I wouldn't mind,"

You swung your bag over your shoulder and quickly breezed past him out the door.

"Y-Y/N!" 

Tears prick your eye since again as you quickly fumbled with your house keys and shakily tried to shove the the keys into the keyhole.

Atsumu grabbed your arm, trying to pull you to his chest.

"Y/N! Babe—"

"Don't fucking call me Babe!" You turned to him, new fresh batch of angry tears flowing down your cheeks. "Save that for your new s/o!"

You could see Atsumu's eyes turn glassy, his bottom lip trembling.

You successfully unlock the main door and you walked out of your apartment, striding down the hallway and waiting for the elevator.

Atsumu quickly followed you to turn annoyance, sniffles escaping his trembling lips constantly.

You hated seeing him hurt, especially if your the one who cause it. Imagining him with another person left a sour taste in your mouth.

But now that Atsumu said that he wished he wasn't your s/o, you knew that it wouldn't be long for him to find a new someone— if ever the both of you really make things over.

You distracted yourself by looking up the escalating red digital numbers that was labeled up the elevator doors.

In the corner of your eye, you see Atsumu opening and closing his mouth as if he wanted to say something but he couldn't. His hands hesitantly trying to reach out for you, his head hung low, tears dripping out of his red eyes pitifully.

The elevator doors finally opened and that's when Atsumu find his courage to talk to you.

"Y-you're really gonna leave me, aren't you?" He whispered softly, only loud enough for you to hear.

You stopped your attempt to walk in the elevator and stare aimlessly somewhere.

His sniffles and hiccups were getting worst. He was obviously trying to stop himself for crying.

You watch as the elevator doors close infront of you.

Turning to him, you saw his huge mascular figure shaking violently and his head still hung low.

"You are, aren't you?" He asked shakily again.

You dropped your bags and threw yourself to him, hugging him tightly.

He finally broke down, loud sobs echoing the empty hallway and hugging you back tightly.

"I'm never gonna leave you, 'Tsumu," You sobbed into his chest. "Never. . . I can't do that, I love you so much,"

"I'm so sorry, baby. . ." Atsumu sobbed into your hair. "Shit. . . I'm so sorry. . . I- I didn't mean what I said, I would never replace you– Fuck! Please forgive me baby. . ."

You let out a watery sob.

"H-hey, it's fine 'Tsumu." You looked up at his slightly swollen and wet but dreamy eyes. "I'm sorry for being dramatic," you giggled slightly.

He wiped your tears.

"It's fine baby," He smiled at you through his teary eyes, pressing a chaste kiss on your forehead. "I love you. . ."

"I love you more,"

He smiled, his eyes suddenly lighten up more.

"Hey, I found a really good movie in Netflix! It's a horror movie, let's watch it together!" He smiled down at you, gripping your hands.

"Okay! Let's watch it tonight!" you smiled up at him.

He smiled wider and cupped your cheeks, leaning down to kiss you.

Sakusa

Sakusa groaned. He stood up straight and made the mop lean towards the wall.

He scanned the living room all sparkling clean. Walking towards the couch, he plopped himself down, sighing in relief.

Sakusa having a bad day is an understatement.

The weather is bad, rainy and muddy outside, making their volleyball practice get cancelled for their own safety. Just today, when he woke up, he found that you weren't around. Sakusa had no idea where you went and it angers him that you didn't let him know. He waited for you and he spent his time cleaning the house and yet it has been an hour since you left.

And he hadn't have his breakfast and it made him more grumpier and more icy than ever.

Sakusa stood up and was about to go to the kitchen to eat on his own when the door opened, revealing you in muddy clothes.

"Hi babe!" You softly chuckled before breaking out in to a harsh and loud cough.

Sakusa flinched at that.

He observed you as you drop the plastic bags filled with what he assumed groceries.

He watched as you slowly walk into the living room, leaving a disgusting trail of wet puddles and mud.

Sakusa clicked his tounge.

"Y/N!" He frowned as you stopped in the middle of the living room, looking up at him. "I just mopped up the floor!"

"Oh, I'm sorry—"

"Save it Y/N. . ." He clicked his tongue in annoyance once more, picking up the mop again. You knew he was mad, and you tried not to worsen the mood more. "Look what you did!"

"Babe. . . I'm really—"

"I said save it!" He raised his voice higher making you shut up. "Where are you from?"

"I went to the grocery—"

"We still had a lot of food!" Sakusa pointed the way to the kitchen, eyebrows deeply furrowed.

"No, there isn't—"

"Shut up okay?!" Sakusa banged the mop on the floor harshly, you flinched. Tears threatened you.

He wasn't always like this and if he ever is, it wouldn't be a pleasant sight.

Sakusa run his hands through hair, tugging it stressfully.

"Go to the bathroom and clean yourself!"

You slowly slumped across the living room in the way to the bath.

"If you want to be part of this household, then make yourself useful. . ."

You turned around just as he finished whispering those words.

"What?"

Sakusa turned to you.

"I said 'If you—'"

You laughed, humorlessly.

"So you're saying I'm not useful?" You voice cracked with sadness.

Sakusa only stared at you with his stoic expression.

"That I'm worthless?" You pointed to yourself.

Sakusa frowned. "I didn't say that—"

"But you're making it sound like that!" You raised your voice, running your hands through your damp hair angrily and in stress.

"You're the one who's making it mean like that!" Sakusa exclaimed, slightly shaking from anger.

"I am your fucking s/o! And you have the audacity to insult me!"

Both of you argued on and on, the clock ticking away, voices getting louder than the last. You don't know when would this end and how.

Both of you were stubborn, both doesn't want to lose from the other.

Until, Sakusa had enough. He swiped the things away from the coffee table, making the fragile things on it shatter loudly, triggering the tears that sat on the edge of your eyes and fall down your cheeks.

"Would you shut it?!" Sakusa's cheeks glowed red.

"You're not telling me what to do!" You shouted back.

"You are so fucking stubborn!" His voice trembled. "You know what? I regretted to be with you!" He screamed shakily, pointing at your smaller figure.

Tears flowed down your cheeks more. You stepped up to him, you didn't care if you're still damp with rain.

"And you know what? I did too," you spat the words with venom and you saw Sakusa softened, guilt immediately swan in his eyes.

You immediately walked to the main door and Sakusa immediately followed, trying to string his sentence but it all ended up with a stutter mess.

"Y/N!" He called as you banged the main door close, you walked out the glass doors and you were immediately met with heavy rain pouring down your back harshly.

You didn't know where to go and you panicked when you hear Sakusa running to you from behind.

"Y/N!"

You tried to run away but he gripped your wrist, making you turn to him.

"Y/N. . . Please. . . please. . ." He grabbed your hands and clasped his huge hands around yours, looking at you with pleading eyes. "I didn't mean—"

You sobbed.

"Maybe it's better if you find someone new. . ." You tried to pry your hands away from his, in which you successfully did due to him staring at you in shock.

"What? No! I won't replace you!" He shook his head, making his now curly hair sway along with him.

He paused, guilt swimming at the pit of his stomach and his lungs, making it hard to think and breath.

"Are you breaking up with me?"

You looked up at him and you immediately spoke.

"I—"

"No,no,no,no," he chanted, tears swelling his own eyes. He held your hand as he let out a sob that he tried to keep in.

He knelt down still clasping your hands, looking up at you. Sakusa broke down, sniffles, hiccups and sobs escaping his trembling lips.

"No,no,no, please don't break up with me," he cried.

You cried with him as you knelt down beside your lovely boyfriend.

"Please don't, Y/N. . . I- I can do anything! Just forgive and stay with me—"

You peck his lips, making him shut up.

"I won't break up with you, silly boy," you went to his chest as he hugged you right, both of you crying hard and not really caring of you're out in the rain.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed.

"I'm sorry too," he sobbed back.

You pulled back and wiped his tears, and he did the same, which was useless since the rain was still drenching you both.

"Let's dance in the rain?" you wiggled your eyebrows at him as you let out a distorted laugh since your throat is still sore.

"That only happened in cringy romantic movies," he let out a watery laugh of his own.

Nevertheless, you both stood back on your feet and danced in the rain.

Whew! That was a trip, my finger really said ✨No✨ when I wanted to make another angst for an another character.

Thanks for reading this blog and likes and reblogs are appreciated ;)

I hope my likes won't go down for not posting in a while :(

FOLLOW FOR MORE

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Follow @xmochaberryx too😊

[teacup-set]

Paperhearted

Summary: ‘Tch. Who says ‘I love you’ to someone they just met?’ he thinks, frowning all the way home. ‘Annoying.’

But his heart feels caught in quicksand, slowly sinking to his stomach.

She never did tell him her name.

[ModernAU, for @disquieted]

Read on: FFN, AO3

x

A chill cuts through the autumn air as Sasuke waits for his brother to pick him up. The kindergarten playground is quiet except for the creaking of the swing that he sits on as he waits. With every passing second his mood grows sour. All the other kids had already been picked up long ago, he is the only one still waiting. He wonders if Itachi nii-san will make up for his delay by playing with him when they get home, and suddenly perks up at the thought. In his mind he devises how he will pout and look disappointed to really drive home the guilt, when the silence of the playground is interrupted by a scream.

Startled, Sasuke whips in the direction of the sound. It came from the adjacent woods, and nii-san had told him strictly to never leave the kindergarten campus. Besides, he is only a kid. He will just get in the way, he reasons.

‘Then why am I doing it?’ he wonders as his legs move on their own accord, tugging him across some invisible string to where the sound came from.

As he draws closer, he regains enough control to slow down, and quietly pulls to a stop behind a tree. In the clearing ahead he sees two boys snickering, peering down at something obscured from his view, and he vaguely registers seeing them before around town. They look a year or two older and seem to wear the same school uniform Itachi wears, though mother would throw a fit if she ever saw Itachi’s clothes so rumpled and untucked.

“Boo-hoo, look at little strawberry shortcake crying.” one of them mocks.

“Ooh! Leave the cat alone!” the other squeals in a high-pitched imitation, “Well how do you like being in its place then?” he finishes in his normal voice, aiming a kick forwards.

He sees her then, as she falls sideways from the blow, into his line of sight.

Pink hair (pink! ) falling out from her red ribbon, teeth biting her lower lip to keep from crying out, and the brightest green eyes he has ever seen brimming with tears and the determination to not let them fall.

The first boy, egged on, aims another kick at her stomach. She closes her eyes shut tightly and gasps when his foot connects. Sasuke feels his heart clench. He wants to help, but there are two of them and only one of him. They’re older too. It would be stupid to engage.

‘I’m not stupid.’ he thinks. ‘I’m not stupid!’ he repeats.

Her eyes open and they are glassy and unfocussed. He watches as her gaze travels dimly across the landscape around her till she spots him and stills. All of a sudden the clarity of the world around him shifts, and Sasuke feels like he is waking into a dream. She holds his gaze, and then a single tear falls down her swollen cheek.

“I’m not stupid!” his mind echoes again. Only this time he isn’t thinking it, he is screaming it from his lungs as he charges across the clearing into one of the bullies.

By the time he has regained his sense of time and place, his fist has already connected with the face of the boy who kicked her the second time. Sasuke isn’t sure where he mustered the strength because the boy flies back a full two feet, planting face first into the ground. Around him, the boy’s accomplice and the girl both stare at the scene that just unfolded in shocked silence. Then the stillness of the moment is shattered as both the bullies scream, and scramble to get away.

Sasuke is heaving from the rush of what has just transpired, and watches as the boys make their escape. Behind him, the girl lifts herself off the ground and sits up. He turns to face her.

She is looking at him quizzically and he can’t say he blames her, he himself is unsure of what possessed him. But looking at her, eyes and cheeks swollen, hair and clothes in disarray, a tear-trail cutting across a muddied cheek, he can’t bring himself to regret it.

“Your hand...it’s bleeding.” she says, softly.

Sasuke frowns and looks down, and indeed she is right. There is a gash across his knuckles, angry and red.

Slowly she gets up, and limps towards him. Reaching out, she gingerly takes his bleeding hand into her own and looks at it thoughtfully. Then she retreats one hand to pull out the ribbon in her hair, and ties it around his knuckles. She releases his hand and immediately he feels bereft, though he isn’t sure why.

“Um, thank you.” she says shyly.

Before he can open his mouth to respond, they hear commotion in the distance.

They turn towards the sound to see the two boys from earlier staggering back towards them...with three other friends in tow. Sasuke doesn’t know where his strength came from earlier, but he is doubtful he can summon it again. Especially against five older opponents.

They look at each other. There is an understanding.

And then they run.

They race through the woods with reckless abandon, hair flying in the wind. Beside him he hears her laugh as they are running, and he has half a mind to ask her what exactly she finds funny about this, but he is laughing along too. There is something so freeing and young about the whole situation. They run without thinking, giggling every time they glance back at the group giving chase. Every few moments they are drenched in sunlight breaking past the canopy, before plunging into the shade again. Despite her beating, the girl manages to keep up pace, never falling more than two steps behind him. From the corner of his eye, Sasuke spots the kindergarten playground in the distance, and a lone figure standing in the center.

‘Nii-san!’

Swiftly he grabs her hand and breaks perpendicular to their trajectory, pulling her along with him. They run until they make it out of the woods, and Sasuke grins at the sight of Itachi looking confused to see his brother racing out of the woods with a girl in tow. The boys chasing them exit the woods not long after, hot in pursuit, before halting at the sight of Itachi.

Sasuke pulls the girl with him to stand behind his brother. Itachi glances at the pair, then at the pursuers, and quickly catches on. He stares at the boys and quirks an eyebrow, and that is enough. Itachi may be a gentle soul, but everyone knows better than to mess with him. In an instant they are scrambling to disperse from the playground, mumbling hurried apologies to Itachi. From behind him, Sasuke and the girl look at each other, and then break into full-bellied laughter.

Amused, Itachi bends down on his knee, “Care to explain what’s going on, little brother?”

Sasuke turns to him to answer but notices Itachi is looking downwards. He follows his brother’s gaze to where his hand is still wrapped around the girl’s.

Immediately he drops it and jumps a foot away.

Blushing and embarrassed, he explains to his brother what happened. Itachi listens patiently and then turns his attention to the grl. “Are you okay?” He asks. Mutely, she nods.

Before anything else can be said and done, a woman bursts onto the playground.

“Oh my god, there you are!” she exclaims, and runs to take the girl in her arms, “We’ve been looking all over for you!”

Moving back from the hug to take a look at her state, the woman gasps. “Sweetie, what happened?”

“Some boys were picking on me. He helped.” she says in a small voice, pointing her finger at Sasuke.

“Oh dear, thank you so much.” says the older woman as she pats him on the head. “She just wandered off. We were worried sick!”

“Come along now, sweetheart, we have to be on our way.” says the woman that Sasuke assumes is her mother, as she gently tugs her along in the direction of a car waiting by the roadside, a man standing by its side and waving.

“Wait!” the girl cries, and then turns to him, “What’s your name?” she asks, a desperate urgency ringing in her voice.

Sasuke knows because he feels it too.

“Sasuke!” he yells after her, because she is already halfway across the playground, “What’s yours?”

She breaks into the widest grin.

“Thank you, Sasuke-kun!” she yells back, “I love you!”

Her mother laughs loudly, and beside him Itachi huffs in amusement too. Sasuke is stunned, and can only stare as she gets into the car and drives away.

She has already disappeared over the horizon before his senses return.

‘Tch. Who says ‘I love you’ to someone they just met?’ he thinks, frowning all the way home. ‘Annoying.’

But his heart feels caught in quicksand, slowly sinking to his stomach.

She never did tell him her name.

x

There is a rumor spreading across their middle school that Sasuke likes girls with long hair, and he knows exactly what prompted it.

He jogs back from the track to the sidelines, breathing heavily, and then runs through his stretches. A brief cool-down later, he returns to the locker-room, trading in his sweaty track clothes for his standard school uniform. He finishes buttoning up his shirt, puts on his tie, and then reaches into his locker for one last thing.

He pulls out a red ribbon, and ties it around his hand.

Beside him, Naruto quips—

“Are you ever going to tell me why you wear that thing?” he asks, gesturing to the ribbon.

“Hn.” Sasuke grunts in the way of an answer.

“You know all your fangirls think that ribbon is reserved for your one true love , and if they make you fall in love with them you will tie that ribbon to their hair?” he questions, clasping his hands together in a decidedly feminine gesture for dramatic effect.

Sasuke rolls his eyes as he strolls out of the locker-room, with Naruto following behind him.

“I’m serious!” he insists, “I’ve seen them role-playing it after school!”

They settle into their seats for their next class, and Naruto pesters him again.

“Well? Is it true?” he wiggles his eyebrows, “Is this about a girl?”

Sasuke lets the question slide as he turns his attention out of the window. The horizon is endlessly far and there is a pang in his chest. If it’s about a girl, then it’s a girl he has never met again.

He never saw her again after that day, and figured she had only been visiting. As distinctive as her hair was, he was only a kid and the world was just too big to go looking. He doesn’t even know why he is looking, why even after all this time there is a feeling that something has been lost.

‘I’m a fool.’ he thinks, staring off into the distance.

“Or maybe it’s auntie Mikoto’s? Does leedul Sasu-cakes miss his mwommy?” Naruto continues to speculate.

Sasuke promptly smacks his best friend’s face into his desk.

x

Sakura watches Ito walk out from the classroom. He pauses briefly at the door, and turns around to flash her a forced smile that she returns with just as much strain. As soon as he is gone, she sinks into her seat. The love letter he wrote sits unopened in front of her. She is grateful, at the very least, that he chose to approach her after class when they had been alone. Others had not been so courteous, and her heart had lurched with each shake of her head in front of an audience of merciless classmates.

Not long after he is gone, Ino pokes her head into the room. Finding it bereft of anyone except her friend, she invites herself in.

“Well? What did he say? Actually nevermind that, what did you say?” her best friend interrogates her, and Sakura has no doubt she had been lurking just outside the classroom. She simply looks at the blonde and frowns.

“Seriously, forehead? Again?” exasperated, Ino plops down on the chair in front of her. “How many hearts do you intend to break, huh?”

“Why don’t you at least give someone a shot? What are you waiting for?” she eggs on.

Heaving a deep sigh, Sakura stares up at the ceiling. ‘What am I waiting for?’

“Earth to forehead? Hello? Anyway, since you’ve declined everyone who asked, you can be my date to the festival. Sai-kun will understand, he doesn’t care much for this stuff anyway.” Ino declares while inspecting her nails.

Sakura smiles at her friend.

“No, pig, you and Sai should go,” Sakura says, “I don’t think I am going anyway, I have to prepare for the university entrance exams.”

“Are you kidding me? Sakura, this is our final year of school. How can you miss the spring festival?” Ino is appalled.

Leaning back on her chair, Sakura scoffs. “It’s our final year, that’s why we need to study. We’ll have fun in college, okay?”

“You take this way too seriously, forehead. Are you that eager to leave us and run away to some big city?”

Sakura falters. A memory resurfaces. Being five years old, visiting her aunt in Tokyo, running through the woods, and then leaving much, much too soon.

To her relief, Ino isn’t waiting for a response.

“Well, let’s at least get some ice-cream on the way home.” she says, getting up. Smiling, Sakura joins her as they walk out of the empty classroom. “Just be careful Sak, the rate at which you’re going, you’ll end up passing right by your soulmate.” Ino says jokingly.

Sakura laughs along and tries to smother the voice inside her that says she might already have.

x

Sasuke finishes his last class for the day and unhurriedly strolls to his academic supervisor's office. He pauses in front of the office door and glances down at his watch. Two minutes late, not that it made a difference considering his supervisor. He knocks.

“Come in,” a lazy drawl beckons.

Sasuke walks into the office. “You asked to see me?” he inquires.

Hatake Kakashi leans back in his chair. “I did, have a seat.” he motions, “So Sasuke, have you given any thought to what you want to do after university?”

Sasuke shrugs.

Kakashi sighs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “Sasuke. You’re an excellent student, your grades are flawless, and you have so much potential. But all of that is lost if you have no ambition.” Kakashi looks at him with the slightest hint of frustration in his bored eyes, “You have a year of university left. Give it some thought. Ask yourself what gives you purpose.”

Sasuke nods, agreeing simply to end the meeting faster. Anticipating that he won’t get through to him, Kakashi dismisses him, promising to have another catch up after his mid-terms.

Sasuke walks out of the office, his book bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. Despite himself, he is pondering over the brief lecture he just received.

Ask yourself what gives you purpose.

“Tch.” Sasuke scowls in annoyance, and then halts his stride.

Though the scene itself plays in his mind like a vignette, blurry and faded at the seams, he still remembers the feeling of throwing his body forward on instinct, pushing off the bully from the girl fallen on the ground. He remembers standing between them and knowing with unflinching clarity that he had done the right thing. He sighs in disbelief at himself, even after all these years, living his life based on a stupid childhood memory.

On the way back to his dorm, he picks up a form for the police academy.

x

The announcer’s voice calls over the PA system, alerting the passengers on the train of the upcoming station.

Closing her book and stashing it in her bag, Sakura prepares to disembark. She glances at the door nearest to her, but finds it already packed with the rush-hour crowd, each one eager to be the first one out the doors when they open.

Instead of swimming through the hoard of people, she chooses to cross over to the only slightly less crowded adjacent compartment, hoping to deboard from there. Rubbing shoulders with the others that had the same idea, she traverses the narrow section that bridged the two coaches. Instantly, she feels a shift.

Anticipation coils in her stomach and all her nerve endings are firing in an urgent panic. It feels like crossing into a different world. ‘What is it?’ she thinks, trying to pinpoint the cause of her alarm. And then she spots it. On the far end of the compartment, peering into his phone, eighteen years older than the last time she saw him but nonetheless unmistakable, him .

She feels the urge to scream, but his name is caught somewhere between her lungs and her mouth. In the background, the speakers announce the opening of the doors.

Sakura feels the push from the people around her, and she feels like she is caught in the current of the sea, being sucked under again and again with nothing to hold on to, the water swallowing her voice. All of a sudden time slows to a standstill, and she watches as he lifts his head and looks in her direction. Their eyes meet.

There is a quiet murmur in her heart that she has carried with her most of her life. The one that piques up each time she thinks of him. The one that tells her it is all in her head, that he has already forgotten, that she has been building castles in the air all along. She feels that voice surface again, but then she sees his eyes widen, mirroring the alarm in her own.

He lifts his hand, and she catches a glimpse of an old familiar ribbon. The treacherous voice in her heart is silenced.

But the current around her persists, and she feels the tug of the crowd pull her along through the doors. One again she is five years old, watching helplessly as the distance between them grows.

She watches as he tries to wade through the crowd to reach her, but she has one foot on the train and one foot on the platform, and she knows he won’t make it. So, she decides to take this chance to answer a question she left unanswered many years ago.

She cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “Sakura!”

In the next moment, she is on the platform and the doors are closing. Rooted in place, she watches as the train begins to move and another chance slips away. An overwhelming sense of grief washes over her, but in the midst of her heartache is a small bud beginning to bloom.

‘He remembers.’

x

The day has not been going well for Sasuke. It started with being roped into attending a celebration with his batchmates to commemorate their passing out from the police academy. His social battery had long since run out, but the day wasn’t over. His parents had invited him to their home to celebrate his graduation with their extended family. Unfortunately, the celebration with his classmates dragged on longer than anticipated, and he had ended up missing the train that would have taken him to his parents home. Now he was forced to board a different train instead, one that required him to deboard and connect to a different line midway, and he had to do it during the evening rush hour.

‘Just great.’

Standing cramped against the back of the compartment, Sasuke distracts himself on his phone and hopes for the journey to end as quickly as possible. Twenty minutes into the ride, he has drowned out all the nearby chatter, the announcements over the speakers, the screech of the train wheels slowing down to a stop. Then he feels it, the shift in the air.

As if his body already knows what his mind is yet to discover, his gaze lifts from his phone to the other end of the compartment where the people planning to deboard are crowding. And there she is, bright green eyes, looking at him.

He hears his heart thumping in his ears.

He sees the surprise in her eyes, along with the slightest tinge of hesitation. On instinct, Sasuke lifts his hand over the bobbing heads in the crowd, to show her the faded red fabric that he has held on to for the last eighteen years, and watches as the doubt in her eyes dissolves. But all too soon the crowd begins to move, pulling her along. He sees the panic building in her eyes, and he is already pushing through the crowd to reach her. The divide between them is just too wide though, and he can feel time slipping through his fingers like sand. He has felt this feeling before, though he was too young then to understand its gravity. The weight of watching the course of your life change before your very eyes, like a train shifting tracks, moving away from what could have been.

She must know he wasn’t going to make it too, because just as she is being swept through the doors, she turns around and shouts—

“Sakura!” —the answer to a question long unforgotten.

In the next moment, she has bled out with the crowd, the doors have closed, and all the air in the cabin has left with her.

Sasuke watches in agony as she gets further and further away, unmindful of the people around him staring at his crazed state. He races out of the train at the following stop and catches the next one headed in the opposite direction back to where he lost her. He steps foot on the platform and is overwhelmed with the desire to run in every direction at once, but despite all his searching, he doesn’t find her.

Exhausted, he plops down on a station bench. Despite everything, in his defeat there is a sliver of redemption.

‘She remembers.’

x

A chill cuts through the autumn air as Sasuke crouches behind the boxes piled in the warehouse, waiting for backup. What started as a low-stakes inspection of a tip-off evolved into a drug bust gone very wrong. Beside him, Juugo coordinated with the en-route backup while Sasuke kept lookout, monitoring the movements of the cartel as well as searching for Suigetsu and Karin, their two other officers who had splintered off early into their inspection.

"Ten minutes." Juugo confirms the status of the backup's arrival and Sasuke nods.

Just then there is a commotion, and Sasuke feels a chill run down his spine as one of the cartel members drags Karin out to the center of the room.

"Found her hiding behind the loading dock!" he announces. There is a brief pause of contemplation before a man, that Sasuke assumes is the kingpin, announces—

"Pack everything up, we're clearing out."

There is a flurry of activity as the men follow what they have been instructed. Sasuke grinds his teeth, but keeps his eyes trained on Karin.

"What do we do with her?" asks the man who dragged her in and is still keeping her arms pinned behind her.

The leader gestures to the man on his right, "Kill her. Put the body in one of the crates."

'Shit.'

The man nods, and Sasuke stiffens at the sound of the gun cocking.

He watches as tears stream down Karin’s face as she looks into the barrel of the gun. This time around, his feet want to remain rooted to the ground. There is no tug, no reckless abandon from his youth. But there is a sense of duty, and so, Sasuke leaves the sanctuary of his hiding spot and tackles the armed man to the ground. In no time at all, the entire warehouse springs into action, and multiple men launch themselves at him. Sasuke parries a blow from one, and maneuvers to throw the goon over his shoulder, while Juugo provides cover by firing from his spot behind the crates. In the distance, Sasuke can hear the sirens of police cars nearby, but each passing moment has slowed down to be an eternity long. From the corner of his eye, he sees Suigetsu use the cover of the chaos to pull Karin away from the action and he breathes a sigh of relief.

In the next instant there is a searing pain in his side, and whatever little relief he felt is replaced by agony. Though he is aware of exactly what has conspired, Sasuke doesn’t look down, because seeing where the bullet went through him would make everything a little too permanent. His knees hit the floor just as the warehouse fills up with an influx of police officers. The call of duty that pushed him this far finally eases up, and Sasuke ceases his struggle against his body and mind. Lying on the cold concrete floor, Sasuke offers a quiet apology to his family for the pain he is going to cause them, and in the final moments of his consciousness, he wonders if the afterlife will be small enough to go searching for green eyes.

x

“Paging all Emergency Medicine staff. Please report immediately to Trauma Bay One, I repeat—”

Sakura pauses mid-signature as the announcement blares over the speakers, right as her pager begins to beep. Quickly closing the chart she was working on, she sprints off in the direction of the trauma department.

Arriving on the scene, she runs up to the attending surgeon, “What’s going on?” she asks, out of breath.

“There was an encounter between the police and a drug cartel downtown. We are receiving multiple gunshot victims.” answers Tsunade, “Kenji take the first one, Sakura you’re in charge of the second, I’ll take the third.” she orders, just as the paramedics pull up to the bay.

The first gurney rolls in carrying a man bleeding from his leg, with his hand tied to the side of the stretcher with handcuffs. Sakura guesses he is one of the cartel members as Kenji breaks off to inspect his patient. The second gurney brings in Sakura’s patient, also in handcuffs, with a bullet in his shoulder and a deep gash across his forehead. Sakura runs to his side as they roll him towards the operating theater. Behind her she hears the third patient being rolled in.

“He is one of ours, he was shot during the encounter.” an accompanying police officer tells Tsunade.

She feels a familiar tug at her heart.

Turning around, she catches the briefest glimpse as the nurses roll him away, but it is enough. She is always looking for that face, after all.

Her heart sinks to her stomach.

x

As wakefulness slowly seeps into his consciousness, Sasuke struggles to remember where he is and what happened. Then the pain kicks in and all his memories resurface. Slowly blinking his eyes open, he takes in the harsh, clinical white of his hospital room ceiling, tethered to consciousness by the routine beeping of the machines he is hooked up to.

Near his abdomen is a lopsided sensation. On the side he was shot is a searing pain, the sensation of an open wound replaced by that of his skin being uncomfortably stretched and sown. On the other side is a dull, weighted pressure.

He looks down to see a figure in blue scrubs sitting by his bedside, head resting on his side, and a waterfall of pink across his middle. The pace of the heart monitor picks up.

Slowly, the slumbering form rouses, awakened by the broken rhythm of the beeping. Sasuke watches as her brows furrow, trying to hang on to the fading traces of sleep. Her eyelids take their time to open, and the wait as they flutter is utter agony. Then she glances up at him, and her eyes widen as realization dawns upon her. There it is, he thinks, that brilliant green.

“You’re awake.” she says, breathlessly.

Without waiting for a response, she lifts her head from his side and immediately he misses the pressure. She pushes back the chair she has been sitting in and jogs out of the room. His heart panics like a caged animal and he wants to call after her, but his throat is parched and no sound comes out. In a few moments she returns, and in her hands is a familiar red ribbon.

“They had to cut you out of your clothes to operate, but I thought you might want this back so I kept it.” she tells him as she places the ribbon at his bedside table and pours a glass of water. She brings it up to his lips and he hungrily drinks it up, relishing how it drowned the thorns in his throat.

“Thank you.” he says, voice still hoarse. She smiles lightly in response as she sets the glass back on the table, then settles back into the chair she had been occupying before.

There is a pause.

Much of him is still suspended in disbelief. All these years he spent looking, only to wake up to her suddenly by his side. He can see the turmoil in her eyes too, as she stares at him with a frown, biting her lip as she searches for something to say. What do you even say to someone you have spent your whole life searching for but know nothing about, he wonders.

“I waited,” she says abruptly, and then shrinks just a little, like she surprised herself by the confession, “at the train station, I mean” she adds, as if trying to lighten the intensity of what she said. They are still strangers after all. In his mind, the memory of an ‘Iloveyou’ screamed across a playground echoes back.

“Aa.” he nods in agreement, “I did too.”

‘At the station, at the playground, at every turn and intersection, in every crowd’ , but he leaves that part out.

She smiles the sweetest, softest smile, and he decides it was all worth it for this alone.

“I should go now, I have rounds.” she glances at the door, “I’ll let Tsunade know you’re awake, she’ll want to check on you.”

“But after my shift I could swing by with some dinner, if you’d like?” she asks bashfully, “It’s only hospital food, but I have some seasoning packets I keep in my locker that make it a little bearable. But if you want to rest instead that’s totally okay, you’ve been through a lot and—”

“Sakura” he interrupts her rambling, “Dinner sounds good.”

She beams, and it’s a brand new start.

x

“Who says ‘I love you’ to someone they just met?” he asks out of the blue.

They’re on the couch in the living room, in the apartment they’ve been sharing for the past two years. He is turned towards the TV while she is deep into a book, sitting with her back pressed into his side, legs thrown over the arm of the sofa.

She scoffs at his question.

“What kind of a battle-cry is ‘I’m not stupid’?” she challenges back.

When he doesn’t respond to her jab she cranes her neck to look back at him, and finds there is no mischief in his eyes, only a solemn intensity. She closes her book and sits up, turning around to face him fully.

“Hm.” she says as she ponders, “I’m not sure.”

“I just...felt something big.” she says, “It felt like you were slipping away before I even had a chance to hold on and I was desperate to make you understand what I was feeling— and love was the only thing that seemed big enough.”

He nods like he knows exactly what she means, and she smiles.

“Besides,” she says, throwing her arms around his neck and leaning in close enough to brush her nose against his, “I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Hn.” he gives her a sideways smile, and closes the distance between them.

Fin.

AN: A mediocre execution of the extraordinary @disquieted‘s beautiful story idea. Thanks my love! And happy SS month to everyone! I love this community so much and I am so excited to see what’s in store.

[embrassemoi]

No Body, No Crime ✁ 1

AU - Y/N L/N is a second-year law student attending Stanford and studying under Professor Aaron Hotchner. Along with his associate attorneys, Ms. L/N is alongside some of the most ambitious and cutthroat law students in the nation. However, her life gets flipped upside down as she’s thrust into a life of murder, sex and lies.

Main Pairing: Spencer Reid x [F]Reader

Content — Mature themes, blood, major and minor character death, violence, angst, triggering themes, bad coping mechanisms, drugs, mental health shit, alcoholism, lots of smut, language, fluff, mystery, thriller, mentions of cheating, canonical typical themes , dark academia vibes, explicit content - read with caution

DISCLAIMER: This story will contain MATURE content. It will include themes such as smut, violence, etc (see content). If you are not 18+ and unable to handle such themes, respectfully, please exit this story. It is not my intention to make readers uncomfortable or trigger them in any way. If you continue to read the story despite the multiple warnings, I am not responsible for any triggers that may pop up.

Also, based off this blurb! 

I am also not a law student, so there is bound to be misinformation!

【 ao3 | Masterlist | Playlist 】

CHAPTER 1: Death and All His Friends

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Blood, she thinks, you never really know how much blood is in a person. Logically, she did know; she had to learn how many pints there were in the human body from med school and the mass amount of profile study cases. From looking at crime scenes, reading textbooks, medical journals and fake charts; blood has never bothered her, if anything, she got used to seeing and being around it.

There are roughly about ten gallons of blood in the average adult, but typically, losing more than forty percent will result in death. That was about two thousand millilitres.

But, you never realize just how much blood a person can hold, not until a human is slaughtered like an animal, eyes glossed over, body turned cold and stiff — splayed out in front of you. It seems like a lot more than what was described.

There’s a saying, bleed like a pig. Well, she understood what it meant now.

God, she sounded like Spencer.

“What are we going to do with the body?”

“Let’s leave it. We need to go back and clean!”

“No, let’s bury it.”

A chuckle of utter disbelief forces its way out of Derek’s mouth in a rush. It’s both strained and ragged and sounds as if he’s about to burst into tears, but the shock and anger seem to immerse deep in his bones and control his actions. His head shakes subconsciously, “You’re — you’re fucking joking, right? It’s the middle of winter! Tell me how the fuck we’re going to bury a body when the soil’s hard?!”  

There’s a collective panicked sigh that goes through the group as the implications finally start to settle in.

“Be any louder!” Emily half-shouts. She paces back and forth, the freshly fallen snow crunches under her shoes as they leave footprints in their wake. Her hands make extravagant hand movements, almost in an attempt to speak with her actions. But, the only thing that has Y/N somewhat grounded is the rusty blood on Emily’s hands. The stark contrast of her pale skin against the deep red does nothing but make bile rush to her throat.

“The body is what gets us caught!” JJ cuts in through her half-sobs.

“The one time it snows in California! Since when do we get snow?!”

Sticky, cold, dry, flakey blood. It brings too much attention to the blood painting her body in a cruel, evil painting. Y/N lifts a shaky hand as she turns to observe the way the pads of her fingers were stained red. Underneath her fingernails, she can see the blood caking, dried underneath and can feel the heavy liquid travelling up her sleeve.

Her fingers pressed together before a hand shoots up, trying to pick off the blood in a hasty attempt.

Everything was uncomfortable — too uncomfortable and it was sticky and disgusting and there was too much happening. Her brain was overstimulated and all she wanted to do was yell or cry or strip herself clean from these heavy clothes, hiding the blood drenching her underneath. A hand went to claw at the fabric — she needed to breathe — she needed air and it was too tight and —

The falling snow had finally come to a stop, the ground becomes muddy, wet snow being tracked all around but aside from that, it’s dry out. Panic is slow seep within her body, only just registering the dull, prickling ache that travels up the side of her right arm. Not to mention the pounding in her skull felt like someone had taken a power tool, drilling a burl hole into the side of her head in hopes of creating a make-shift lobotomy. On instinct, her hand reaches up to her temples, massaging small circles in hopes to find relief.

But then she catches sight of her hand again from her peripheral vision, or rather, it’s as if she can feel it laminating her skin. Blood.

Now there must be smeared streaks of dried blood coating her face. Fuck, now she really feels like throwing up.

A soft wail can be heard in the background somewhere, but it sounds distant and underwater. She thinks it’s JJ. Her high-pitched cries are loud and she thinks that’s Derek’s voice yelling at her and god… it only amplifies her headache.

She needed an aspirin, Advil — maybe Spencer had some.

Her mind wanders back to the group. Emily… Emily — she’s — Y/N doesn’t know where Emily went actually. She could have sworn she was by the trees…

She continued to pick at her skin absentmindedly, and now she couldn’t tell where her blood started and the one that was sprayed onto her ended.

And Spencer, he’s pacing and hadn’t muttered a word since they left Hotch’s house. His body language is closed off, his hand rubbing up and down his arms in either a self-soothing method or because it’s cold out. She assumes it’s the former.

The one time — the one fucking time the asshole is supposed to be smart, his IQ magically drops below zero.

Everyone is arguing and they all hear the faint cheers, laughter, early fireworks and music blaring in the background. The sound of the bonfire crackles in the distance and all she can do is drown it out. She was supposed to be having fun. She should’ve been visiting home, or maybe studying of fucking Spencer, not wearing shoes twice her size, gloves to cover up her fingerprints; not trying to come up with an alibi and there definitely shouldn’t be someone else’s blood clinging to her. She should’ve been anywhere but here. It’s too much.

Lightheaded, Y/N stumbles backwards, supporting herself against a nearby tree. The shadows and black coat camouflaged her, engulfing her into the night and she feels an odd sense of comfort by it. But, it does anything but calms her down as her chest begins to rise rapidly up and down.

Oh god, oh shit, shit, shit! They’re all fucked — she’s fucked. Her DNA is all over the crime scene. The crime scene is on her and probably under the body’s fingernails. There was no way she was getting out of this. It wasn’t even her fault and look where she is.

She should’ve listened to her Grandparents; don’t go to law school, it’ll turn her into something she’s not. Y/N smiles twistedly thinking about it, they were right.

You can’t get away with murder.

Shit, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

“We need to stop wasting time,” Emily announces, appearing remarkably calm.

“W-we should call the police,” Y/N mumbles in a shaky voice. Her voice hitches and she sucks in a cry.

All of their heads, besides Spencer’s, whip over to her; she’s on the verge of breaking — possibly even running off and going straight to the local police station. Her phone suddenly feels heavy in her pocket.

“What we’re not going to do is that! Do you want to spend the rest of your life in jail?!” Derek exclaims. His mouth goes to open again before he suddenly halts, looking over to Spencer and shouting. “Ayo, kid-fucking-genius, could you, I don’t know — think?!”

The yelling makes her shrink in on herself. Yes, call the police, turn yourself in. Obstruction of justice; tampering with evidence, manslaughter, attempting to hide a body, invasion of privacy, possible perjury — all this leads to incarceration and more time. Maybe she could even get a deal, say that she was in shock, dealing with PTSD. Immunity! Maybe she could strike herself and Spencer an immunity deal.

God — they killed her. They murdered someone.

Immense guilt bubbles its way through her before she turns to gag on air. Her hands clutches her stomach as she heaves, distantly hearing the arguing background.

“— about Hotch?”

“What about him? He’s going to put us in jail himself. If we’re lucky, he’ll kill us so we can skip a life sentence!”

JJ cries louder. God was she fucking annoying.

“He doesn’t give two shits about her —” “Could everyone just stop for a fucking moment,” a new, irritated voice cuts in. It sounds like it’s been pushed through gritted teeth, muddled by straining and holding back tears. It’s Spencer.

His eyes shut, the palm of his hands pressed harshly on them before rubbing them hard. But, they travel up to his forehead and through his hair, pulling down so hard that Y/N would be surprised if he didn’t already lose a chunk. But within a swift motion, he crouches to the ground in a fetal-like position; the balls of his feet roll back and forth, making his entire body bounce in small rhythms.

He’s having a panic attack, judging by the way his breathing cuts in and out in large volumes, hyperventilation bound to happen soon.

The entire group stays silent before Derek has enough. He walks up to Spencer, a hand clutching his jacket which forces him to stare straight into his eyes.

“Don’t treat him like that,” Emily tries to cut in.

“If you don’t give us something good within the next few seconds, you better pray to god —”

With newfound determination, Spencer meets his eyes with a fiery look, his chest puffed out a bit and his voice is even.

“We burn it.”

━━━━━━━━━༻✈︎༺━━━━━━━━━

Friday, August 29th, 2003

Palo Alto, California. Apartment 7

Four months before

A clanging sound reverberates throughout the empty hallway for the third time within the last five minutes. Her keys.

An annoyed sigh involuntarily leaves her lips as she struggles to lift the stacks of heavy boxes in her arms. Her attention was drawn to a bulletin board near her door. A missing person’s photo was plastered, marked with an eye-catching red border. Printed underneath a photo of a man in bold letters: George Floyet, twenty-five-year-old student at Palo Alto University. Last seen on July 30th, 2003.

When Y/N L/N was fourteen, she vaguely remembered people asking her where she saw herself in the next ten years. Now standing outside her newly rented apartment, sweating as she juggled a stack of large boxes without tripping — well, she certainly hadn’t thought this.

Life had many ups and downs, as cliche as that sounded. She hadn’t expected to graduate university with an English and Human Physiology degree, nor had she expected into medical school before ultimately deciding to take the LSATs, pursuing a career in law.

Truly, had Y/N used one word to describe her career ambitions at the moment, she’d say she’s pretty fucked and clueless. Although, she’d liked to consider herself fairly motivated, resilient, perhaps even strong-willed and quick on her feet. Scratch that, if anything, the one thing she did pride herself on was her ability to compose herself quickly and the want to overcome fear. It was a motto, of sorts, which she’d been sticking close to: going with the flow.

If anything, those were the attributes that built the foundation of what anyone needed to become a successful lawyer. Yes, that made her situation sound a lot less… pathetic.

But certainly, standing in the middle of a corridor in a shitty apartment with walls too thin to save money on rent, she’d consider herself pretty pathetic.

Oh, the joys of moving.

Just as she felt one of the boxes tipping, the sound of shuffling fills the hallway. A pair of large pale hands come out of nowhere, swiftly catching the stacked cardboard boxes with ease.

When she looked up, she hadn’t quite caught a look at the man in front of her as he bent down to pick up her keys. But when he finally stood straight, eyes locking, she took note of his features

He was tall, much taller than herself and dressed in black slacks and a light lilac dress shirt which was pushed up by the sleeves. He was young, probably the same age as her or younger. He was wide-eyed, almost doe-like and wore a nervous yet seemingly gentle expression.

“Hello,” said the stranger. His hair was rumpled as if he’d just woken up as darken eyebags accentuated his face. His face was sharp, features dark — but in a soft sharp way that made the shape of his nose and lips the most noticeable. Pink lips, a tired look, pretty face.

This stranger was friendly and very attractive. That was her first impression of him.

“Hi,” she replied, a bit breathless from the weight of juggling the boxes. But still, she smiled and her head tilted to the side slightly.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were my new neighbour, I hope you don’t mind me helping, you looked like you needed it,” he says nervously, his extra free hand goes back to rub the back of his neck.

Y/N’s eyes shoot over to the door at the end of the hallway, conveniently next to hers: apartment 8. He must've heard the banging against the doors and walls, and suddenly, she felt guilty. She must’ve woken him up.

“Haha, yeah! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so loud.”

“No! It’s fine.”

Now, both stand there a bit awkwardly before she coughs, which has him nodding and fumbling with her keys in his hand, “Er — I have a couple of minutes before I leave for work, do you still need help?”

“Right, yes!”

Y/N hands him over her other box, her hand taking the keys back as she clicks open her door. The smell of cleaning products filled her nose along with the smell of old books. It’s spacious, considering what she’s paying for it. It’s a flat, aside from the bathroom and kitchen and there’s a small balcony that’s connected with another set of railings outside. The view of green trees and flowers could be seen and suddenly, Y/N considers herself lucky when she’s realized the place she’s snagged.

The man trails behind her, setting the boxes down on the kitchen counter before dusting off any non-existent lint off his pants. His eyes quickly scan the area, in an analytical fashion.

He clears his throat, “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

She nods too, walking back up to her door to lead him out. “Likewise, neighbour.”

This time, a real smile crosses his face before looking down sheepishly, a small tint covering his cheeks. “Please, I’m Doctor Reid — but please, call me Spencer.”

“Doctor?” Her face lights up with curiosity. This man looks as young as her, younger — and she’s only twenty-four.

“Oh, I don’t practice medicine,” he quickly adds. His hands go to fiddle with each other, “I have three PhDs and an IQ of 187,” he explains. However, it’s not in a blatantly rude manner — like he’s trying to flaunt it. If anything, he looks embarrassed. His head drops to look down at his shoes, trying to make himself appear smaller, seeming uncomfortable. But like she said, Y/N likes to believe she’s quick on her feet.

“Well then, Doctor,” she teases, which has him going a deeper shade of pink, “I’m Y/N L/N, I have no PhDs, I used to practice medicine and I have an IQ of — probably a hundred or less.

At this, Spencer visibly relaxes as a deep chuckle makes its way out. He nods again, making his way out the door and does a small wave before disappearing back into his apartment. Y/N leaves her door open, but her back is faced towards it as she hears his door click back open and she feels the vibrations of his door closing before the tapping of his feet becomes more and more distant.

There are a dozen other boxes she ends up hauling in, but she’s noticed that Spencer must have somehow carried a few of the boxes to the top of the stairs rather than just leaving them in the lobby.

As she wipes down the surfaces, music blasting through her earbuds before unboxing her new bed frame, a smirk crosses her face; cheap rent, enrolled at one of the top law schools in the country, has enough money saved for the next few months and a cute, tall, polite and a fucking doctor that just so happens to be her neighbour — damn, Y/N doesn’t mind this at all.

【 Next Chapter 】

[lizzie-saltzman]

I’LL CRAWL HOME TO YOU

A Hizzie fanfiction / update

Pairing: Hope Mikaelson/Lizzie Saltzman Fandom: Legacies Rating: M Chapters: 2/? Summary:  In many ways, meeting Hope in a different reality had helped Lizzie put things in perspective, and perhaps even understand her in ways she hadn’t before. Understand them, their connection, the palpable animosity that had turned into a reluctant friendship and now something far more tangible. The rest, well, she doesn’t tell Josie. Not about waking up after three weeks away from her real home, tucked under the covers of Hope’s bed with their clothes discarded around the dormitory, with a light sheen of sweat on her forehead and her hair sticking to her cheekbones. There were some things better left unsaid. (Upon her return from an alternate timeline a Malivore monster teleported her to, Lizzie must deal with the aftermath of her time spent away, and her newly doormat feelings for Hope Mikaelson.)

chapter 1 here

READ CH. 2 HERE ON AO3 or under the read more 

[ 3 WEEKS AGO ]

A muddy splash sends speckles of murky water coating a pair of white boots. Under the full moon, an owl hoots, as Lizzie Saltzman breaks through the branches that leave a bloody mark on her left cheek. She reaches for it, with a mumbled expletive as her breathing grows heavier and her knees start to give. Behind her, a black wolf with yellow tinted eyes that shine through the darkness of the woods gives chase, snarling as it draws closer to her. 

She’s been sprinting for a while; Lizzie’s exhausted, pushing past the burn on her thighs as she rounds a corner and leaps over a log dangerously set on the ground, almost losing her balance as her boot skids through the mud. Its drizzling, her clothes are weighing her down, her hair is ruined – if she had the mind to complain about the other terrible but insignificant, personal circumstances, she’d be holding an ice pack to her cheek and ranting over a Strawberry Smoothie. Instead, she finds herself here, in the outskirts of the woods in Mystic Falls, barely managing to get on her feet before the wolf catches up to her. 

“Lecutio!” She’s all out of magic after –– the ball of energy flies ahead of the wolf and crashes against the tree behind it, effectively snapping off the branches and watching as they fall near the wolf long enough to distract it. It wasn’t her intention, really – she was aiming for it’s head. Soon enough, the wolf turns it’s head (and it’s disorienting eyes) in her direction, growling.

“Crap…” And she takes off again, her boots splash, splash, splashing rapidly on the wet floor. This is not how she pictured spending a Sunday night. 

Her lungs are giving out, her body begs her to stop running; she might pass out from exhaustion alone, and her vision – on top of that – blurs as the light drizzle of rain washes over her face. She wipes it away with the palm of her hand, but it obstructs her already impaired vision in the dark, and trips over a boulder on the ground. Lizzie groans, her body rolling through the mud, and the wolf slows it’s approach. She’s cornered. She’s screwed. She’s dead.

The wolf stalks forward. Lizzie raises her hands to her face, and it launches itself through the air. 

Lizzie screams, anticipating the powerful impact, the bite, but instead another wolf collides in the air with her attacker. White, with speckles of grey. They roll around in the mud, snarling at each other, growling, taking bites anywhere their teeth can sink into until they’re both back on their feet. Lizzie watches, covering her mouth as she gasps, pushing herself back until her shoulders meet one of the trees behind her. 

Then, the white wolf attacks the black one again. They begin their vicious snarling, and as Lizzie finds the force to pick herself off the ground, she hears one of them whimper. When she looks back, the black wolf is retreating, disappearing through the trees, and the white one turns, even slower in its approach. Lizzie’s eyes widen, out of magic, and out of breath, but she turns around in an attempt to try and run away again. 

Except she spins out, when she feels her black hoodie being yanked away from her body, leaving her in a tank top under the rain that starts to pick up. She turns around angrily, but instead of finding a white wolf stalking back, she finds –

“Hope?” 

Hope is sporting her too-big-for-her hoodie over her naked body and watching her with her arms crossed over her chest. It covers just enough. Not everything. Just enough. 

“Oh, thank God!” Lizzie exclaims, throwing her arms around Hope in sweet, sweet relief as she tries to catch her breath. “I thought I was dead. Dead, dead.” 

But she knows Hope Mikaelson. Always coming through with her last minute heroics. 

Except this time, Hope pushes her away, hands on her shoulders, taking a step back to get a good look at her. They look at each other, almost comically; Hope with an eyebrow quirked and Lizzie, with her mouth agape. Then, Hope’s strange behavior is perfectly clear –

“Who the hell are you?” 

------

[ PRESENT DAY ]

“Lizzie!”

Hope’s tired voice carries down the hallway. Behind her, Lizzie can hear her footsteps approaching – faster, faster – until they stop at her side, walking in tandem with her into the vast, otherwise dusty library at the end of the hall, where students gather quietly over a pile of books raging from anything about the occult to the mundane – European History and an old, thick Gaelic book about Magical Portals that thuds on the ground as it falls sloppily from the top of the bookshelf and almost takes Lizzie out. Talk about head trauma.

“Hey, watch it!” Lizzie looks up as dust gathers below her. Alyssa Chang stands on the top of the rolling ladder, shrugging nonchalantly. Whoops.

Lizzie picks up the book, coughs, swatting the dust away and piling it on top of Hope’s already busy hands. Hope says nothing, only blinks away the speckles of dust as she trails behind Lizzie with concern.

“I haven’t seen you all day. Is everything okay?” 

She shouldn’t be taken aback, but she is, by the genuine worried inflection in Hope Mikaelson’s voice. Hope is tired, the evidence marked clearly on her face, vaguely darkened circles under her eyes that Hope barely had mind to conceal this morning with even the smallest layer of makeup. No one would be able to tell, not really, but Lizzie can. She knows that look Hope carries around like a weight on her back when something’s been keeping her up at night. 

In front of the tinted window sill, Lizzie turns. The yellow light reflects off Hope’s exhausted, blue eyes, and Lizzie almost stutters, opting to instead, snatch the book back from the pile already gathered on Hope’s arms and toss it onto the nearest unoccupied table. 

No, Hope. I’ve been avoiding you all morning until this very unfortunate meeting where we’ll be subjected to a torturous hour of incessant nerd rambling on how to kill the very same monster that sent me through a hell portal into another dimension where I hooked up with you and your unforgettable muscles and now I can’t even look at you in the eyes without thinking about it, so–

“I’m fine”. Lizzie says, saccharine sweet. Too sweet. Enough to make Hope suspicious, as she looks at the book Lizzie tossed on the table with an eyebrow raised. “I was having a perfectly fine morning until MG interrupted my strictly scheduled morning meditation and after reluctantly agreeing to meet here in exactly five minutes, the kitchen was out of Belgian Waffles, so I had to settle for a non-fat Greek yogurt. So yes, I’ve been severely inconvenienced, but it has nothing to do with you”.

“I never said it has –” Hope starts. “Shouldn’t we talk about it? About what happened…” 

Lizzie stiffens. 

“With the monster…”

She deflates.

“We still don’t know if there are any side effects to any of this. Doctor Saltzman said you refused to talk to Emma about what happened –”

“And now you’re giving me advice about what I should and shouldn’t talk to our school therapist about?” Lizzie scoffs, on the defensive, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “That’s rich, Hope”. 

“That’s not what I meant –”

“Everyone at this school is so prolific at internalizing every shitty thing that happens to us on a weekly basis but since this one particular thing happened to me, then of course I’m the one who has to have the damage control, witchy therapy sessions with Emma despite the fact that I’ve already told everyone who’s asked that I’m fine!” 

“Lizzie –”

“Is that why you were looking for me this morning? You wanted to check up on me?” 

“Yes”. Hope says sincerely. Its her version of an olive branch – honesty. Lizze frowns, but Hope touches her wrist and she stays frozen in place, like she’s been jolted and immobilized by an invisible force. “The same night you found your way back to us you rushed into the woods on a near suicide mission to help me fight a monster we’re still not sure how to kill. Of course I wanted to check up on you. I was worried. You left my bedroom so suddenly last night that I didn’t even have time to ask how you were feeling. I wasn’t sure if you were ever going to come back. I wasn’t sure if we were ever going to see you again.”

Lizzie takes a breath, defeated. We, we, we – she has no right to be stung by the plurality of the word, but it gives her that feeling in the middle of her throat, like it runs dry, like one wrong word from Hope and she might break down in tears. 

“I want to make sure you’re okay”. Hope continues. “You’re my best friend”. 

And that’s the tragedy of it. She’s Hope’s best friend. Anything beyond that is nothing but something she could only clearly wish for in another timeline. One where Hope doesn’t know about her baggage, one where they got a clean slate to restart their history, no rumors, no backhanded comments…

“Me too”. Lizzie whispers. She brings her thumb up to brush over the side of Hope’s hand. 

She thinks about holding it. She almost does, until –

“Yo, guys. We should get this show on the road”. Jed interjects, seemingly out of nowhere, picking up the book Lizzie had discarded on the table earlier and hopping over the banister towards the center table in the now empty library, where the rest of the squad has now gathered around one of Wade’s Dungeons and Dragons books. 

By the time Lizzie pulls her hand back and they both gather around the table, Wade’s already settled in with the group.

“– That’s the thing though. Dimensional Warpers don’t usually engage in combat, but they do like learning about their enemies and their battle tactics. They’re not usually ones to initiate but they’ll fight if they sense that their life is in danger.”

“That explains why it disappeared last night and didn’t come back”. Hope pushes her way in between MG and Jed at the front and center of the table. “Do you think it’s after something?”

“Maybe. I can’t imagine another reason why Malivore would’ve spit that particular monster out. They’re elusive, hard to kill, and they only come out at night. Their night vision is impeccable”. 

“How do we kill it?” 

“Well, they are giant, bipedal, flying snakes, but they’re still snakes. I think we all know what the easiest way to kill one is –”

“Cut off it’s head”. Lizzie deadpans. Everyone turns, and Lizzie stands on the other side of the table, looking intently at the picture of the creature on Wade’s book. 

And Hope, looking at the magical artifacts on the far side display, slumps her shoulders. 

“We’re gonna need a very big sword”. 

------

[ 3 WEEKS AGO ]

“Is your name Lizzie Saltzman?” 

“Yes”. Between two slender and shaky hands, an orb flashes blue. 

Across the antique, expensive looking desk in front of her, and a family portrait in the space where a tinted window used to sit, Klaus Mikaelson looks at Hope with concern and curiosity. Hope, looking taller and prouder as her hand rests upon Klaus’ leather chair, gives him a side eye. 

She remembers Klaus from when she was younger, just as intimidating and commanding as he had been the day he’d sought out their help to save Hope from the Hollow all those years ago. She also remembers the Klaus she’s read about, in the books tucked away in the very same library a couple of doors down the hallway; the tales about The Great Evil. The boogeyman to end them all. The man who had terrorized Mystic Falls and claimed New Orleans like a dynasty, the man who had courted her mother until the day he died — but she also remembers the Klaus Mikaelson that Hope had told her about. The father. The man weighed down by the consequences of his choices and the drive to ensure his family’s survival, their safety, no matter the cost. In one universe, it had already cost him his life. In this one, the story seems to have been painted differently. 

In this story, Hope is different. She’s prouder, she wears a scowl like armor but not with the purpose of pushing everyone away. This Hope reminds her of an heiress. Someone destined to inherit something bigger and greater than herself. Maybe it’s all this, Lizzie thinks. The Mikaelson School. Maybe it’s another kingdom entirely. 

She looks… Good. Really good. 

“Are you Alaric Saltzman’s daughter?” Hope continues. 

“Yes”. Blue again. 

“That doesn’t make any sense”. Klaus moves to take the orb from her hands, but Hope is faster — much faster — grabs his father’s arm before he can snatch it. 

“Dad, you can’t fool the magical lie detector. They’re simple yeses or no's”.

Klaus respects her, she can tell, because he backs off and opens a drawer in his desk, takes out a heavy looking file — and pulls out a picture of her dad. He puts it in front of her. 

“This man is your father?” He asks her again. 

“Yes”. 

And like clockwork, the orb shines blue again. 

“That doesn’t make any sense —” Lizzie goes to interject but Klaus holds his finger up, standing from his chair with his hands behind his back, circling around the office like a man with a decision to make. Technically he is… a man with a decision to make. About her. 

Which really, really gives her the chills. The bad kind. 

“— You see, Alaric is a slobber of a drunk man who unfortunately lost his wife on his wedding day. He was supposed to father two children, twins actually, and his psychopathic to-be brother-in-law murdered his fiancé at the altar. His daughters perished with her. He lost his Tenure at Mystic Falls High, now teaches a second-rate-history class at a local college, and he let the rest of his dreams die in the bottom of a bottle of stale whiskey and fatty liver disease. That man never got to father any children. He’s barely a man at all. No purpose. No drive”.

“Apparently not in this life —” Lizzie mutters. The orb flashes blue and Hope’s eyes immediately snap to Lizzie’s. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” She’s the one taking the orb from her hands in a blink of an eye. She’s fast. Really fast. It takes her a second to realize, as Hope holds it between her fingertips and looks at her with blind distrust, that the Hope in this universe might not be jaded by the loss of her family, but this one might be jaded by something else.

Like her own death.

Oh. 

“You’re gonna want to sit down for this one”.

------

The Mikaelson School library is even bigger than The Salvatore School’s. The Stallions were branded as the rich, spoiled, and troubled children of Mystic Falls, but the Mikaelson school rivals the self-made stereotype by a tenfold. Lizzie’s staring at a row of books about magic she could have only ever dreamed of reading — it’s obvious to her that Klaus Mikaelson’s vision for a school for the Supernatural was slightly different than her father’s. Somewhere witches, vampires, werewolves and others could live their powers to their full potential. 

She picks a book from the rack, takes another one down with it, but Hope catches it before it can fully fall off the shelf — Necromancy: The Art of the Undead — and pushes it back in its place. 

“If what you told me is true then your father built a school with the same purpose my father did”. She offers. This Hope, now a little less guarded and lit by the light of the full moon by the library window, is much softer, willing to momentarily let her guard down around the pretty stranger with the wavy blonde hair. “He wanted a place where I felt like I belonged. Somewhere he could offer a safe haven not only for me, but for all the witches, all the vampires, and all the werewolves who are forced to do all of this all on their own. The world is cruel and unrepentant. My dad knows that. So he and my mom bought this mansion, expanded it, and made it into a school for the Supernatural. It’s taken off since; we have a branch in Belgium and another one in development in South America. Argentina. Something about the wine…”

For the first time since she’d been blindly dropped into this dimension, Lizzie smiles. But after a much noticeable glance at Lizzie’s lips, Hope continues. “We thought all the Gemini witches were dead. They’re rare. Powerful —” Hope says. It takes a second for Lizzie to notice she’s sizing her down. 

She doesn’t want to talk about how that makes her feel. 

“You have to take someone’s magic to use it, right?” 

And Hope offers her hand. Lizzie’s brows furrow, but she takes it anyway. She’s siphoned magic from Hope before, but not a fully triggered Tribrid Hope. When she drains her power Lizzie feels an adrenaline rush like no other, like sticking her hand directly into a fuse box and taking all the energy in Mystic Falls with it. She watches Hope carefully for any sign of pain, but Hope doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t move, only watches their joined hands. 

Then Lizzie raises her wrist, flicks it, and closes all the doors of The Mikaelson school in simultaneous fashion, making the building tremble. 

“Something like that”. Lizzie grins and Hope lets her hand go. She’s grinning back and Lizzie doesn’t know why that makes her feel drunker than taking all that power from her. “The stronger the source the stronger and the magic we can do, but we can take from anything that’s come in contact with magic. This building, for example. A vampire, a werewolf — miscellaneous…” 

“Well, here at the Mikaelson school we’re always looking for other powerful witches. I know you want to go back home eventually, once we figure out how to send you back, but if you want to stay, we can make room for you.”

They walk past the archway, to a display case with magical artifacts and weapons of all kinds. Some she recognizes, like the dagger that had started it all that brutally eventful day when Rafael joined the school, the urn, an enchanted compass, Papa Tunde’s blade…

“We’ve collected those over the years”. Hope motions to the display case. “Some of them were already in my dad’s possession before we put them here. The display case was enchanted by my aunt, so it’s practically impenetrable and impossible to open unless you’re a Mikaelson, but my mom thinks it’s important to teach these kids everything we can about magic and everything that could hurt them. Some of them —” She continues, sliding her finger over a display case of weapons. “— are just purely decorative though”. 

Lizzie watches Hope’s finger land on the glass over a large broadsword. 

“What exactly do you know about my family?” Hope asks. When she looks at the display again, Lizzie can see her own reflection next to Hope’s on the glass, and when she looks closer at the weapon, their faces on the side of the broadsword. 

“Oh, you have no idea”. 

------

[ PRESENT DAY]

Sparks cloud Lizzie’s vision. At the old mill, in the dead of night, Hope sharpens a sword Lizzie thinks is larger than her standing up. She’d poke fun at her, for wielding such a big weapon for such a small person, but if the past few weeks — days — weeks — whatever, had taught her anything, is how immeasurable the power Hope wields at her fingertips is. Maybe she could provide them both with a quip, if she wasn’t so busy staring at her, agape. 

God, get it together, Lizzie. 

She clears her throat and Hope stops. 

“Hey! I thought we could get a head start with this old thing. Your dad kept it downstairs but I think it’ll give us the firepower we need. It’s a shame though, it’d make for a nice decoration”. 

Lizzie wants to laugh. No, it would make for an awful piece of decoration. She’d seen it displayed neatly on a case, but ancient artifacts and old swords make her think of ancient cursed castles and the ghosts within them. 

“So asks-too-many-questions Hope has now become knight-in-shining-armor Hope. I gotta say, I think I like this version a little bit better”. 

“Because I’m not asking questions?” Hope challenges. 

“That’s part of it”. 

They both laugh, look at each other as Lizzie takes her place beside Hope, until Hope goes stoic again. She puts the blade down, wipes her hands on her dark jeans. 

“Lizzie, I know this isn’t by far the most threatening monster we’ve ever faced but, I think you should stay inside the school. Kaleb and I designed a foolproof plan to kill the —”

“Why are you sidelining me?” Lizzie frowns. “I was of perfectly good help last time you almost got sucked into a portal too, remember?”

“That’s not what I meant —”

“Then what do you mean Hope? I know this isn’t about glory. So what is it? Martyrdom? Pushing people who care about you away?” 

And Hope is surprisingly calm, despite the tension in Lizzie’s voice, despite the way she raises it, despite the way it cuts through the sound of the chirping crickets in the woods. “No. It’s the opposite, actually. It’s about trying to keep the people I care about safe. I don’t want you to end up somewhere you won’t be able to come back to us if we risk it”. 

“What about Kaleb, then? Surely you care about him”. 

A beat.

“Not the way I care about you”. 

They stand there, in the cold of the Old Mill, looking at each other as Hope picks up the sword on the table, and Lizzie realizes for the first time, Hope is making an entirely selfish decision… And it’s all about her. 

[todoscript]

𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬

@grow-a-smile-for-a-while​ requested: i request 7 fluff + 10 angst please? With either Bakugou or Shinsou. (With 10 angst being them worried about the readers mental health) Thank you so much love ur writing!!1! 💗💗

anonymous requested: 7 fluff soulmate au for shinsou please!! Love your work 💛

prompt for milestone event: “I think you might be my soulmate.” + “I’m worried about you.” genre: soulmate au. angst with a bit of fluff. pairing: shinsou hitoshi x fem!reader word count: 3.1k+ warnings: implications of mental health issues.

author’s note: I combined the two requests since they both share the same prompt! This is actually my first time writing a soulmate au so I hope it’s alright. Special thank you to my lovely beta readers @tamasoft​ & @etegomanere​!

Throughout his entire life, Shinsou has only ever known the colors white, black, and gray.

They’re colors that prevent him from fully embracing the world as he walks through life each day peering through muddy lenses. Some say beyond the glass that obscures them all lies a realm painted in beautiful hues, teeming with an euphoria of colors outside the monochrome of perpetual black and white.

If such a paradise exists, Shinsou has yet to see or meet anyone that has ever set foot in that world. In fact, he honestly doubts such a thing is real, and has long adapted into his endless days stuck between the grays filtering through his vision.

However, today, he experiences something entirely new.

Today, he sees the color red.

It starts early in the morning, from the very moment he lifts himself up from his bed at the white sunlight trickling into his dorm room. There, with unlidded eyes, he glimpses into a vibrant, spontaneous pigment that lines itself on the outside.

Shinsou blinks twice, squinting, unsure if the grisly stain invading his vision is really there. But after consecutively rubbing his eyes in an attempt to brush it away, he groans when the angry color has yet to leave. The crimson that surrounds him is very much real.

With an average person, they’d be ecstatic, absolutely joyful at the change happening before—no, within their very eyes. What they’re seeing now is only a step forward toward that rumored world of infinite hues—a whole artist’s palette of colors waiting for them. Sadly, that isn’t the case for Shinsou as he realizes he’ll have to go about his day lugging such… severity surrounding him.

The extremity of the hue that covers the corner of his sight reminds him of fires setting ablaze in the thick of a forest. It hurts to look at, hurts to stride through his day with such an intense color following his every move like it’s tormenting him. If this is what the other colors are like, he’d rather keep to his monochromatic existence, please. Just even looking up and darting his head around is enough to give him a headache.

“Whoa, my man Shinsou, you okay?” Shinsou’s classmate, Kaminari, asks him while the upbeat boy takes his seat to his right, noticing the grim expression on his classmate’s face that likely isn’t due to any lack of sleep this time, considering its austerity.

“Yeah… I’m fine,” Shinsou assures, managing to suppress the extra strain leaking out when he turns his head. With the red intensifying at his movements, he wills himself just to look straight ahead for now. That’s all he needs to get through the school day anyway—directing his eyes to the front of the classroom where their homeroom teacher, Aizawa, enters to give them the news for the day. And yet, he can’t help but allow himself drift to your empty desk lying to his left, located one seat down the column from his.

He grumbles. That makes it three days now—three days since you last attended class.

Shinsou knows you haven’t been going to class because you “weren’t feeling well”—the answer you gave him when he approached you last night as you were walking down the hallway to your room.

He knew something was wrong. Your demeanor in that moment felt off, it was strange and unlike you.

You were rubbing your hands up and down your skin, acting like just being in his presence was nerve-wracking, and you never once met his eyes during the conversation. No matter how often he craned his head to see you, you made a point to turn away each time. And much to Shinsou’s concern, he also caught onto the heavy bags afflicted beneath your eyes. You looked like you haven’t had much of an ounce of sleep, despite taking time off from classes to recover. It only seemed that you were only getting worse at that point, and he grew worried every second in front of you.

But before Shinsou could pry further, you hastily ended the exchange with a sputtered good night and retreated back to your dorm room, slamming the door shut as if to reinforce a barrier that would keep him away. The next thing he knew, he headed to sleep, and woke up seeing the color red.

Staring at the vacant desk instills something in him that makes the red glow brighter, consuming more of his grayscale almost angrily. He winces as the throb courses through his head with growing intensity.

“Shinsou, you alright?”

Aizawa directs his concern toward him in the middle of his lecture when he notices Shinsou shrink in his seat at the pain. From the very moment he turns to answer his teacher, the pulses bleeding into his head subside, and the fiery hues return to a tamer tinge.

He answers Aizawa with a small nod, though it isn’t enough to dispel the teacher’s doubt right away. Aizawa, in turn, raises a brow, discreetly gauging his student’s condition. Luckily for Shinsou, it isn’t long until he brushes it off and resumes the lecture, gathering the students’ attention again, aside from the boy on Shinsou’s right.

Kaminari flattens his hand next to his mouth, words coming out in a whisper only audible enough for his friend to hear, “Dude, I don’t think you’re okay… You looked like you were going through some severe migraine when I got into the classroom.”

“I told you, it’s nothing, okay?” Shinsou replies, not diverting his eyes from the front of the room and putting Kaminari’s concern to rest for now as he shrugs in return.

However, his words aren’t enough to impede his headaches from coming back during the day. They grow more potent than ever as the crimson ignites across his vision.

What the hell is going on? Shinsou questions at this point when Midnight, their instructor for today’s hero course, advises him to head to the nurse’s office after he stumbles across the training field one too many times to be healthy for him. Begrudgingly following her order, he lugs himself to Recovery Girl’s office, who advises him to have a seat before she assesses his condition.

“So, you’ve been having headaches, have you?” the old woman asks, voice coming out like sandpaper while she scans across a page on her clipboard. “Tell me, when did they start?”

Shinsou rubs the back of his neck. “Just this morning, when I woke up,” he answers, “and they’ve only been getting worse.” He leans forward on his elbows settled atop his thighs, grumbling under his breath over the mess of his day so far. The red surrounding him swells relentlessly in waves. He narrows his brows tightly at the vermillion adjoining his hands, delving into the crevices of his palms as they pulse like a heartbeat.

Recovery Girl hums between those thin, balmy lips of hers, gloved finger beneath her chin before she decides to hop off her seat and head toward the cabinets.

“Well, this isn’t a wound or physical injury of some sort, so I can’t use my quirk to heal you. However, I can prescribe you a drug used to relieve migraines if that’s fine.”

He nods and Recovery Girl rummages through the shelves and pulls out a transparent container. With her small steps slowly approaching toward him, Shinsou gets up to meet her in the middle, hand held out to retrieve the medicine.

“I also suggest you head back to your dorm for now and rest up. You’re in no condition to train at the moment.”

“Right, thanks,” Shinsou says, burying the container in the pocket of his pants. He gets up from his seat, steps proceeding to the exit of her office. When he makes it to the doorway, a thought finds its way at the forefront of his mind, and he pauses for a minuscule moment.

“Recovery Girl,” he decides to call out, head tilted in the small woman’s direction.

“Yes?”

“Has Y/n been seeing you recently? About her… unwellness?” He words carefully, unsure of how to put your condition to light when he was still kept in the dark from you.

Recovery Girl shows her confusion between the small, wrinkled features on her face. She shakes her head. “No, I haven’t heard or seen much of her recently. Why? Is something wrong?”

Shinsou’s lips purse together, an uneasy feeling creeping on him that the stain on his vision reacts to instantly. He feigns a stoic expression over the backlash not to worry the lady, his right hand clutching over the shape formed on his pocket from the container underneath.

“It’s fine. I’ll check on her when I get back to the dorms,” he tells her, and the old lady simply blinks, her aged, dull senses unaware.

“Very well. Make sure to get your rest and take your painkillers, alright?”

“Yeah, I know.”

With that, Shinsou makes his leave. Unusual to him, however, his steps begin to pick up for some reason at every stride down the hallways of the building. He’s not sure where this urgency is coming from, but he can’t find it within himself to stop moving, and in fact, quickens his pace until he’s making his way back to the Heights Alliance dormitories.

The gray in his eyes is now gone. Red is what consumes his sight, vividly turning every shade around him into crimson. Whatever crosses his path bleeds and quivers in jagged red edges, from wooden floorboards to the sunlight filtering through the windows. He’s not sure what this could mean, but the one thing Shinsou is certain about is that something is wrong. And he needs to go to you.

True to his word, the first thing he does is jab the button on the elevator to the building’s highest floor, walking out after his ascent with eyes aimed at your dorm room. What comes next is three firm knocks against the wood of your door, making a point to let his presence be known on the off chance you can’t hear him.

“Y/n?” he voices, your name echoing in the empty expanse of the hallway on his side, “It’s me, Shinsou. Please open up. I just want to check on you.”

There’s approximately three seconds of pause before Shinsou leans into the door, ear pressing against it to catch any sign of movements on the other side. He hears a rustle or two until it’s replaced by the padding of feet on the floor. Standing back, he prepares for the door to open as the golden doorknob rattles into a turn.

“Shinsou,” you greet quietly with the entrance’s slow swing, where he sees you peer at him from a crack between the door. Your tired eyes find him, and he immediately notes the bagginess still persisting underneath. They give his own dark eye bags a run for their money.

Though his edginess remains, the red dissipates back into grays, blacks, and whites. His head is now absent of those headaches that plagued him as he gazes through those muddy, monochromatic lenses again.

“What are you doing here? Isn’t class going on right now?”

“It is, but I was sent back,” Shinsou tells you, eyes never leaving yours as he observes you attentively. “wasn’t feeling well.”

You cross your arms on your chest, looking down while you squeeze a bit of your skin to busy your hands. There’s a significant silence between you two that Shinsou wishes didn’t drag on for so long. Before he can come up with anything to resolve the tension, you’re already a step ahead, beating him in breaking the silence.

“Well… if that’s all then I’m going to head back to my room,” you say. Your hand clutches the doorknob to pull it back in, but Shinsou’s quick to act.

“No, wait—!”

He braces his foot between the gap just in time to stop the door’s movement, the hinges creaking due to the sudden halt. Staring at him, you’re dazed by his actions as he pries the crack open further.

“Y/n, I know there’s something wrong,” he states, hoping his usual keen intuition is enough for you not question this. He doubts you’d believe him if he ever told you the very color red led him to this moment.

You deny his claims, fingers firm on the knob. “I told you yesterday that it was nothing.”

“No. You’re not alright, Y/n.” His calloused hands cup your face, tilting up to guide you to his eyes—eyes that appear just as gray to you as they are to him. You stare into them, unable to reply at how unyielding he is toward your condition.

Despite the homologous grayscale of colors, Shinsou can see it all. He sees the stress carried in your eyes, down to the tension in your face that tires from feigning smiles every day. He knows you’re hurting just keeping up the withering cracks of your fortitude. Yet you can’t stop yourself from picking up your porcelain again, trying to mend them with the cruddy glue that is your mentality. If you continue this, you’d surely fall apart into too many pieces to put back together.

“Please, talk to me. I’m worried about you.”

You have no idea how much those words have an effect on you. Not until you’re suddenly weeping in front of him, tears spilling down your eyes as your throat begins to sunder into sobs. All he can do is offer you the solace of his warm embrace as he tugs your arm so your form is drawn into his body. He feels the tears prickle into his shirt, wetness seeping into his skin, but he doesn’t care. Shinsou holds you in his arms and pats against your hair gently, treating you like you are delicate earthenware bound to break as you tremble.

“I-I’m just s-so tired, and stressed, and I-I don’t know w-what to do s-s-sometimes,” you sob between words, voice muffled into his chest. Shinsou hushes you softly, unwavering in warmth.

“It’s okay. I know. You can let it all out, I’m here for you,” he assures firmly. The two of you stay there in that position for some time, your cries isolated in the empty expanse of the hallway with the dormitory vacant except for yourselves. When they begin to die down, Shinsou perceives his vision changing again.

This time, what greets him is a muted blue. The shade is not far off from the steely grays he’s accustomed to, but distinguishable enough for him to notice the change. It’s a sad color that reminds him of tears and lonely clouds.

Shinsou glimpses down at you, your body finally still against him, yet he can tell your aches are far from healed.

You sniffle, backing away when you realize you’re still nuzzled into his chest, now stained with damp patches on his white button-up. He gives you your space, smoothing the strands of your hair one last time before he parts. Though he makes an effort to hold your hand as your other rubs the hot wetness away from your puffy eyes.

“You… alright?” he asks, lightly squeezing your fingertips. You don’t give him much, just a slow, descending nod that is enough for him to continue gingerly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Your initial hesitance almost makes him retract his question, afraid that he may have poked further than was comfortable, but you mitigate that thought with another nod, allowing him inside your dorm room.

When your door clicks to a close, you lean against it and watch as the taller boy stands aimlessly in the middle of the room.

“Shinsou?” you call, and he perks up.

“Yeah?”

“How did you know... what was going on?” you ask, voice drawing out across your room quietly.

For once, Shinsou doesn’t have an answer. He stands there, silent, unable to approach your question with a clear response. But there’s a lingering voice in his head telling him that he knows what led him to you deep down.

The colors.

He realizes the red enveloping his vision this entire time was connected to you. From waking up, glimpsing at your desk, to mentioning any thought of you, the color only ever intensified. And it calmed down at the very moment you opened your door, turning blue from your sadness washing in waves before him.

Shinsou draws in a breath of air. He’s not sure how to relay this notion in any other way than the words that cross his mind.

I think you might be my soulmate.

His heart suddenly flutters at the mere inkling of the words spoken in his head. It sounds almost far-fetched, reminding him of romantic fairy tales narrated in storybooks. Still, he can’t conjure any other resolution than this—can’t find any explanation for these connections of colors that bind your consciousness to him.

A small, inner part in him desires to blurt this out to you, let it be known of the fate stringing your pinkies together through the pigments painted on his canvas. But staring back into your swollen, tired eyes, he knows he can’t do that right now. What you need is for him to be by your side and help you recollect your thoughts. Learning about the possibility that you’re his soulmate is likely the last thing you want to hear in your condition.

He shakes his head, brows knitting together. “I’m not entirely sure about it myself,” he starts warily, coming closer to reach out for your hand again, “but all I know is that whatever happened led me here to you. Told me when you were at your weakest.” Shinsou twines your fingers together, lightly pulling you away from the door and toward the middle of the room. “And that was enough for me to come.”

When the comforting words depart his mouth, he swears that in an infinitesimal moment, those grays of his canvas spatter with droplets of color as he gazes down at you with only compassion in his eyes. That his black and white world transforms into that rumored paradise of beautiful hues for just a second until in the next blink, they’re gone.

He doesn’t know what to make of it, but it’s sufficient for him that whenever he glimmers into your eyes, colors are lying in wake underneath the monochrome. So he clutches your hand in his, allowing you to spill your thoughts out to relieve them off your shoulders as he hopes that one day, you and him can walk in tandem together into the color.

[nomanwalksalone]

MY RALPH OUTLET

by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans

A recent conversation with Ivy revisionist Berkeley Breathes led to me a revelation. The relationship between Prep and Ivy, I ejaculated, is that of birds and dinosaurs. Just as my mom’s evil African Grey who used to eye me balefully was the collateral heir to the thunderous hundred-foot-long Ninjatitan zapatai (they did it, they really gave an animal the scientific name Ninjatitan, so prep is the existing offshoot of a look that otherwise died in the 1970s, or 65 million years ago in fashion years. Existing Ivy exponents are no dead clade walking, but as authentic as rumored plesiosaurs subsisting in Loch Ness: impossible, ridiculous and fascinating latter-day inventions. What actually and organically has continued to evolve following the death of Ivy is messier, sloppier and more casual, less precise and thus more adaptable… and may even owe its survival to its adoption and adaptation by American’s most important designer, Ralph Lauren.

There’s a lot to unpack from the free-with-purchase-at-these-fine stores Polo-branded baggage of the above paragraph. As I’ve written in earlier pieces, reading Richard Press’s Threading the Needle and the interesting if misbegotten Ivy Style museum exhibition monograph helped sharpen the picture of what Ivy style is perceived to be now (the old Take Ivy book helped provide a more contemporary picture of it at the time that Ivy was on its last legs). Youthful as it purported to be (its very name localized it to college years at privileged college campuses), Ivy still included aspirations to a kind of maturity: grown-up clothes in the form of tailored jackets, and sobriety’s leash itself, the necktie. Even if decades ago such clothes could exist in more casual registers by nature of their materials or patterns (J. Press’s famous tweeds, for instance), they existed as prescribed forms of uniform at prep schools and (at least as a de facto uniform) universities at midcentury. From the 1960s, student rebellions of various forms threw off such uniforms among young people. At my own prep school, legend had it that protestors against the old coat-and-tie uniform even came to school naked (this was several years before it also went co-ed). Legend? I suppose if I had wanted to investigate, I could have asked teachers who had been at the school since shortly after graduating from it in 1952, or the octogenarian who had taught there 60 years straight since 1929.

The death of a frankly prosaic tailored uniform opened up two planes of possibility: one for the more casual sorts of Ivy play clothes that younger students had worn that were less restrictive and less costly than tailored clothes; and another plane of imaginary romance and dash for myths to write themselves. Ralph strode in and straddled them both, and preps welcomed him. No more did the privileged student have to order jackets from LL Bean or Barbour, piqué shirts from Lacoste and loafers from Bass or Brooks Brothers in New York. Instead, Ralph’s shop-in-shops in better department stores across the country offered a one-stop experience for an entire look immersed in the sort of generalized Anglophilia and muddy horsiness (from the brand name Polo on down) that put America’s aspirational middle classes at ease in their social insecurities.

1980’s The Preppy Handbook gave us an informative snapshot of its time and this attitude: Polo items infiltrated the various shots of preppy accoutrements, as do the various carefree, confident corner-cutting that began to mark its difference from dead Ivy: moccasins held together with duct tape and a lack of any care about fit, and later, provenance: the book points out to us to notice the sloppy hemming job on a grown-up Prep’s suit pants, and tells us the credentials of former Prep hall-of-famer Lisa Halaby are now in question for marrying a man “whose blazers fit perfectly”: the incredibly elegant, Camps de Luca-clad King Hussein of Jordan. Preps were happy to wear Izod’s licensed Lacoste shirts instead of the original, and over the decades to wear Ralph as he expanded into a brand supported (according to biographer Michael Gross) by its outlets, and later Ralph pastiches like Tommy Hilfiger. The populations wearing prep changed in appearance: prep schools themselves became somewhat more inclusive, at least in appearance, and other populations appropriated aspects of the look that Ralph popularized, even if old curmudgeons like Lewis Lapham missed no opportunity to sneer at Ralph for now making expensive copies of traditional garments in cheap factories.

I used to share that rather snobbish sentiment, before realizing that for better or worse Ralph captured all the problematic romance of nostalgia without the boredom of latter-day Ivy irredentists, arguing over details of collar roll and shoulder construction irrelevant to everyone but themselves. One writer in the Ivy Style monograph suggested that Ralph started his business in reaction to seeing Brooks Brothers (where he had sold ties) losing its way. Rather, both Ralph and Brooks Brothers were reacting to changing times that killed Ivy as anything but a historical look. Ralph moved into fantasy, bringing elements of 1930s English dandyism (too flamboyant for Ivy to have espoused even in an abdicated, morganatic manner) and of other senses of loss: lost colonial empires through exotic and safari imagery and lost WASP fortunes and heritage in the decoration and presentation of his boutiques, most infamously in the conversion of Manhattan’s Rhinelander Mansion into his New York flagship. His boutiques around the world followed its inspiration. Even if their décor was ersatz copies of its old wood, the Ralph Lauren staff knew how to trigger that strange sense of transport which is momentary acceptance in prep enclaves, like when a beblazered boys’ chorus began singing carols in the gallery of one boutique during our holiday browsing.

He made prep more interesting, more visible and accessible, and more new than its traditional retailers had. In the beginning, at least, he probably kept some in business, too. Such is the case with an amazing vintage handmade Fair Isle sweater, made in Britain for Ralph Lauren in traditional wool with traditional heathered colors… and metallic lurex, more commonly associated with punks, giving it gold highlights. A deep dive looking for handmade Fair Isle sweaters turned up this example (a Scottish knitter friend told me that if I wanted a new handknit sweater, I had better pick up “a pair of pins” myself, since even one of the famous handknitters was photographed using Shima knitting machines). It made one of the staples of prep (as the distant, extant vestige of Ivy) novel, arresting, yet coherent. Even if, 35 years on, the Ralph Lauren empire has retrenched, its brand and manufacturing approaches called into question, what he does today is still the heir to the best, or most redeemable, of what prep was.

[belovedbangtan]

Dive | Part 5 | jjk

<Part 4>

<Masterlist>

Pairings: Jungkook x y/n, Yoongi x oc

Word Count: 2.5k

Description:  Camping with your ex, sounds horrible right? The camping trip was   planned and payed for long before y/n’s shitty boyfriend broke up with   her. Her best friend Abby, Yoongi, Taehyung, Jimin, and Jungkook are there to make sure she has an amazing time. However, sharing a tent with  a smoke show like Jungkook is bound to lead to some complications.

Warnings:Language, just a leetle angst :( I hate it as much as you do.

✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️

You wake up to the sound of the campsite around you being dismantled. The familiar smell of post-thunderstorm filling your nose. Breathing deeply you reach out for your phone that lays next to the air mattress. 11:45am. You’re eyes widen knowing that you slept in way longer than you should have. His arm was like a weight around your waist, you smiled wondering if his arm was secure around you the entire night. Lightly setting his arm to the side, you sit up and begin to stretch.

Within seconds his arms are wrapping around you again, attempting you pull you back to him. Your heart skips a beat when you see his disheveled hair covering his puffy eyes, his lips forming a kissable pout. You chuckle smiling down at him, “Its almost noon, Jungkook. We have to get going.”

He groans loud enough to vibrate the mattress. Throwing himself onto his back in the most melodramatic fashion, “Don’t wanna get up yet.” He whines.

“Well we have to take showers and pack up the tent,” You reach back running your fingers through is bed head. He quickly grabs onto your arm, pressing his lips to your knuckles before working them up to your shoulder.

He sits up kissing your neck, “You had me at shower.”

You scoff pulling your arm away from him, “Mhm, yeah were not showering together.”

A full grimace takes over his features, “Awe, you’re no fun.”

You laugh leaning into him, connecting your lips to his pouting ones, “Maybe when we get home.”

You slide away from him and off of the air mattress to sit next to your suitcase. You reach for all of your belongings deciding to shove everything in and take care of the mess when you get home. You turn, feeling his gaze on you. He’s smiling but something he’s not saying is hidden behind it. You scrunch your face up, wordlessly telling him that you can tell he’s up to something.

“I just really like hearing you say ‘home’,” He sits up in the bed bringing his feet to each side of you so your sitting in the middle of his legs. He leans in wrapping his arms around your shoulders.

“You know what I meant, like our homes.” You start to blush trying to explain yourself. Even though you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the thought of your home being wherever he was.

“I know what you mean, It’s just a nice thought, yeah?” He asks nuzzling my ear and the hair around it, “Just thinking about coming home from a really rough day to you. Or you coming home to me. Me making dinner for the both of us, you can make breakfast in the morning. Not to mention,” His voice is warm by your ear, “All of the places I can make you cum. In the shower, the kitchen table, the couch.”

You close your eyes picturing it yourself. It makes your heart flutter thinking about having him to call home. The thought of him interrupting your daily activities, just as he’s doing right now. Feeling his strong arms around you and his lips kissing places you didn’t even know existed. Of course you loved the thought of that, you’d be crazy not to. His kisses become needier and needier with every move, “Doesn’t that sound amazing?”

You hum in agreement, not sure of the way your voice will sound right now. You have to remind yourself to breathe. It was actually impressive how easily he could distract you. You inhale, bringing yourself back to reality. You’ve known this man 3 days, push the moving date to the back of your head.

“Kookie, we have to get ready to go.” You groan taking his hands in yours.

He laughs pulling back, kissing the crown of your head before he does, “If you say so.” He sings.

Once your bags are packed, you start to deflate the air mattress helping him pack it away. Then you start to break down the tent. Once everything is packed in the car, you and Jungkook head to the Washroom that the camping grounds provided. It definitely wasn’t like the hotel bathrooms you were accustomed to but, anything would work right now. You were desperate to be under the hot stream of water.

He holds your hand until you get to the dilapidated building, one side for the women and the other for the men. Once you walk in you thank the heavens Abby suggested bringing old flip flops to wear. The poorly laid concrete was muddy in all of the places beside the shower itself. It was loud too, you wondered why a bathroom this small would be so noisy. You looked towards the ceiling and you realized that the wall that connected the women’s to the men’s side wasn’t fully closed off.

You turn your shower head, the water was actually hot which surprised you. You’ve just finished washing your hair when you’re scrubbing your body. You stop your movement when you hear him nearly yelling.

His voice, arrogant and ear-splitting, you would know that voice anywhere. He had to speak that way, it was his way of appearing confident. You groan as you hear him laughing with his friends. Then you hear another familiar voice, but it doesn’t sound the way it usually does. He sounds angry, he sounds cocky too. You quickly rinse the soap from your body and turn the nozzle on the shower so that the water isn’t on anymore. You can hear a little better.

“Kookie, that’s what she calls you right? Her wittle kookie.” He erupts into a fit of laughter, and his minions follow suit.

“What’s the actual fucking problem here Ben? Are you jealous? Hmm?”

“We all know that you’re only entertaining her because you want to get back at me for stealing your chicks.”

“Is that right? Or maybe you’re upset because I was able to make her fall for me in a matter of days versus your months of trying.”

Ben scoffs loud, “Oh she has feelings? That’s cute, have fun with that while she refuses to put out.”

“Oh that’s interesting considering I had her pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock last night.”

“Whatever,” Ben’s voice gets quieter

Jungkook starts to say something but you force yourself to stop listening. It feels as if your stomach is in your throat. Breathe. You have to remind yourself to breathe. Who the fuck was that. There was no way that was the same man that took care of you while you were sick. He couldn’t be the guy that, less than and hour ago, was talking about living with you.

You gather your things and you sprint back to the campsite. Shoving past Abby and the boys who were waiting outside the SUV. Confusion lacing their features, Abby knows better and follows you into the SUV.

“What the fuck is going on?” She’s serious, as she leans over the middle seat to get a good look at you in the back.

You sigh, knowing that the only way to get her off your back was to tell her what was happening.

“I heard Ben and Jungkook in the shower. Ben said something about him and I, and Jungkook basically bragged about how easy it was to get me to fall for him, and how easy it was to get me to blow him.” You swallow hard.

Abby’s eyes widen and she instantly starts to gnaw on the inside of her cheek, she’s pissed.

“Are you sure it was him?” She looks out of the SUV and we both see Jungkook nearing the boys.

“I’m positive Abby, please, I don’t care what you have to say to him but I can’t talk to him right now. I just need some space.”

She nods and jumps to beat him to the boys. Once she gets close to him she presses him backwards.

“No, you fucked up Jungkook. She heard what you said in the bathroom during your little pissing contest with Ben.”

“No…” His face drops, all the color drains from it, “Abby I didn’t mean anything I said. I was just over his bullshit! Please! Let me talk to her!”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you right now, you need to respect that.”

He looks at you in the back of the SUV his eyes are glossy with tears, and that’s all it takes for you to start to sob. You turn away, and he does the same. You bury yourself in your hoodie, hoping to be left alone the entire ride home. The sobs are uncontrollable now, shaking your shoulders and leaving you breathless. How could he say that he didn’t mean it? Who tells someone that they’ve never felt feelings like this, then uses it against them. You wanted to believe that he didn’t mean it, and a part of you did believe it. The other part of you, the pissed off part, knew that there was no actual reason to say anything like that about someone you care for. If he actually felt the way he claimed he did, why would he say something so hurtful. Everything was so confusing and you were lost in your thoughts. You don’t if or when you would speak to him again, but you did know that you needed some time.

✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️

Jungkook’s perspective:

It had been two weeks since the camping trip. Each day the message is different. One day I’m begging for forgiveness, the next I’m telling her that I understand why should would never want to speak to me. One thing they all have in common is that they never get sent. They sit in my drafts, because I feel like no matter what it is I’m saying ; she’s not ready to hear from me.

Everything feels off balance since that weekend. Like we were destined to meet and fall for each other. I had to go and fuck it up all over some stupid grade school feud. To this day I still can’t figure out why I felt the need to say what I said to Ben. I didn’t mean any of it, I knew better than to let him get to me.

I cant stop thinking about what she thinks of me now. How she thinks I was using her. When in reality every word I said to her I meant, with my whole heart. I meant it when I told her I had never had feelings for anyone the way I had them for her. I meant it when I talked about moving in with her. If were being honest, that was me holding back. Everything in my body was screaming love. I would look at her and I could feel myself heating up, just knowing she could be mine. Every fiber of my being knows that she’s the one soul out there that is perfect match for my own.

It sounds shallow to think about it, but I cant remember ever feeling this way for any of my ex’s. Good sex, sure. Fun to hang out with, I guess. Never once did I think about getting down on one knee and asking one of them to be mine forever. With her it’s all I thought about. It’s all I keep thinking about. The thought of her loving someone else is enough to make me sick to my stomach.

I sound crazy. I feel like the characters on sitcoms that annoy the shit out of me. There’s no way you can fall for someone that fast. Well, I’m here to tell you that it’s one hundred percent possible. I had to talk to her. If she needs more space after that, that’s fine. She deserves to know how I feel. There’s no way I’ll be able to get my mind off of it until I talk to her.

Message to Jimin:

Hey, throw a party. *send*

Jimin: uhh… for what?

I really don’t care, but y/n has to come. *send*

Jimin: Bro, she needs space.

Jimin, If I don’t talk to her I’m going to lose my mind. Please. *send*

Jimin: Fine. But if shit hits the fan, I’m throwing you under the bus.

It really cant get worse than it already is.

 I lean back on my couch, and instantly all of the most horrific outcomes crash into my brain. What if she tells him she refuses to see me ever again. I groan realizing that I might need to prepare for the potential heartbreak. The slight chance that it might go well is all I’m choosing to think about right now.

Jimin: She’ll be there. You owe me.

Fuck this was happening. I have approximately three days figure out the perfect apology. I had to make sure she knows everything.

✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️

The message back to Jimin is short and sweet, you would never know the complexity behind the decision to go. The last thing you wanted right now was to talk to Jungkook, but you know that you have to. For you to move past all of this you need to face it head on.

The last two weeks have been busy, thankfully. Only leaving the late hours of the night for you to overthink everything. The only conclusion you’ve come to is that you weren’t ready for any kind of relationship. Despite being the president of Ben’s hate club, you were and you still are healing from that relationship ending. Of course, it was for the best that things ended. Regardless you still needed time to process the fact that you gave love to someone for over a year, and he didn’t reciprocate. It was time for you to process that.

You’re feelings for Jungkook are complex, hopefully seeing him will bring some form of clarity. You could lie and say that everything that happened between the two of you was the result of you wanting a rebound. Or that you subconsciously wanted revenge on Ben. That just wasn’t true, and everyone knows it. You developed feelings for him, and deep down a part of you still felt that he showed his true colors up until Ben interfered. You take a deep breath, praying that this party helps you move on.

✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️✨✨⭐️

Taglist:

@cainami @carolsummerlove @zeharilisharaban @jikooksgirl19 @fallen-for-luke @madygswich @sugalarity @itboykook @ggukkieeee @peachy-bhun @megs58298 @kawaiiayasan​

A/n: Sorry for the late upload! Im like less than 20 hours away from getting my esthetics license, so I’m Busssyyyy. :( Let me know what you think, or what you see happening!

[leland-chapman-the-bounty-hunter]

Murder Under The Cold Moon

So, I wrote a short story for my creative writing class. Underneath the cut is like the third (?) draft of it. It sits at about 4.8k words at the moment and I think that there might be some more content that I could add to it. Other than that, I think that is it.

TW for depictions of violence-none of it graphic & mentions of underage drug use.

Duke was never one to find his place with the other children on the street. It not like he couldn't just go up to them and ask them to play. They would easily bring him into his group. But he never felt connected to any of them, honestly. The kids were a few years younger than him. Just starting first grade or kindergarten while he was nearing middle school. They were just other kids that his mom forced him to play with whenever she was in sight. But since she wasn't, he wasn't about to pretend to play with these children. The ones who really only played with him because their parents forced them to do so.

Rather, his pants were rolled up to his ankles and his sleeves pulled up to his elbows. His shoes were half a mile down the creek and his jacket a mere quarter of a mile downstream. The water neared body temperature and if you were already in the water by the time its temperature started rising, you didn't feel it at all. Duke's hands finished in the water for tadpoles. Each time he dipped them in, his hands came out as red as a tomato but only a few degrees warmer than his skin. Not too hot but just warm enough to feel a difference.

Duke rummaged around in the water for a few more minutes before he came up empty-handed again. He had heard the frogs at night, so why were there no tadpoles? Were they just too far away for him to get to them? The calls of the other children neared. His cue to pack up and leave even though he wanted to wade in the water alone for a bit more. Duke rushed back to his clothing. The mud clinging to his feet with every step he took until the mud-caked on his feet was nearly a pound of extra weight.

Duke pulled himself up the bank and to the top of the drop-off. His church jacket-a light beige in color and too thick for the weather outside-was in the place he last put it, hanging on a small oak tree branch that still had some bend to it. He stomped off the mud as best as he could, wiping what little was left of the mud onto the grass. Duke only had to walk a bit before his dress shoes came into view. Then, his house which lay on the right side of the creek a mile and a half from where Duke had been before the kids had come. Even from all the way back where he was, he could see the smiles on their still chubby cheeks. No more than four years younger than Duke right now.

"Duke," His mother chastised as he walked through the door and into the mudroom where he began stepping down to his underwear. "I thought I told you not to play in the creek today."

"No, you said not to play in the creek tomorrow. That's when Charlie is coming."

"I said Sunday, Duke. Sunday. Not Monday." His mother let out a sigh. "I'll go put out some more Sunday clothes for you but no more playing outside, do you hear me? I want you to look nice when your cousin gets here."

It wasn't like Duke needed to make a good first impression on Charlie. He had already made the first impression when the whole family had a reunion at Kings Island and he threw up on Charlie after one of those tilt-a-whirl rides. Even though he barely remembered the memory, only the stories, Charlie had still been old enough at the time that he would remember the incident with more clarity than he did.

Duke placed his dirty clothes into the washer with the rest of the clothes that waited to be washed. From there, he headed to the bathroom to wash what little mud remained on his body. His own room connected to the bathroom much like his mother and father's room was. Soon, the number of toothbrushes would go from three to four with the arrival of his cousin. He wasn't all too sure about how he felt. On one hand, he was excited to see the cousin that he had seen so long ago. On the other, he wondered if Charlie would even feel the need to come out of his room. That he really only needed to come out for mealtimes and that Duke wouldn't see him for the year that he stayed at their house. Like a ghost that they couldn't get rid of.

His father said he was a troublemaker. That he had been sent here to straighten up as a last resort before he was off to military school. Charlie could not have been that bad. The last time Duke saw him, he was still blonde-haired and blue-eyed. The spitting image of Captain America. They only really saw each other at family reunions and those stopped back when Charlie was around eight or nine. His mother and father wouldn't tell him why How bad could he have messed up in the year or two since he had last seen him? Duke knew he had been raised in nearly the same God-fearing household as Duke did.

Duke wandered into his room. His eyes fixated on the small suit that had been laid out in front of him on his bed. Duke didn't struggle with putting it on. He had spent too many Sundays he now spent putting one on for church. Ever since he could dress, he had been tasked with doing it himself. His parents are too busy to help him anymore. Even if he wanted help, he wouldn't be able to get it since there was going to be a new arrival coming to the house was so soon. His mom was portably putting

"Duke!" His mother called from somewhere in the house. "Charlie and his family just pulled up. Get to the door!"

Duke hurried to the front door. Did he look okay? He checked himself in the mirror that hung above the bench one last time before he turned to the front door. His hair did not have a single strand out of place. His hair was still gelled back from that morning's service. Would his aunt and uncle recognize him if he opened the door? They had to, right? He didn't think he had changed all that much between when they last saw him and now. The car doors slammed shut. A rush of adrenaline ran through Duke's body. Three shadows appeared in front of the frosted glass. Duke rushed to place his hand on the cool metal of the doorknob before they did. Duke flung open the door with a little more ferocity than he would have liked.

Charlie now sported long, black hair. His jeans ripped and his eyeliner muddied. The leather jacket he wore looked new as if he had just bought it. Long gone were the days of a weirdly patriotic love for America that his blue eyes and blonde hair once said. It looked like he would end up kicking a kitten while it was down instead of picking it up off of the ground and carrying it five miles to the vet as Duke had once heard about him. Charlie looked like the kind of man that Duke's mom told him to stay far away from when they walked through the city. A far cry from the stories his mother would tell him when His face hardened with the rebellious teen years that Duke was only a few years away from.

"Well hello there Duke." His aunt smiled down at him. Her hair was just as blonde as Charlie's once was. "We haven't seen you in a while, it's been what? Two years?"

Duke's mom and dad rushed in before he could answer and ushered his aunt and uncle into the living room which left only Charlie and Duke to ponder in silence while awaiting further instruction. Charlie didn't look all too rebellious. Nor did he look like he was worried about the possibility of being shipped off to military school next summer if he didn't shape up. His face was stone cold. Tired, almost. Even though the drive from his aunt and uncle's house wasn't that far. Duke's mother soon came back with a smile on her face still. Her smile was surely more painted on than real.

"Please show Charlie to the guest room. We'll have dinner at five."

Duke began his walk in the opposite direction as his parents. Charlie's footsteps followed a bit later. The guest room was right across from Duke's and had stood empty aside from a bed for as long as he could remember. Only a few months ago had there been additions of a bookshelf and a dresser. Duke flung open the door to the room with a smile painted over his face and gestured for Charlie to take a few steps inside. His suitcase landed on the bed as he passed it. His hands rested on it for a few seconds before he began flinging the clothes across the room towards the dresser.

"So you're going to be my new roommate for a while." Charlie turned towards Duke. "Or I am going to be your new roommate."

Duke forced a smile as he continued to watch Charlie unpack his only suitcase. His backpack was just as thick as his suitcase and filled with books and records. Though, he had no record player to play them on. Everything from Prince to Guns N Roses. Charlie placed them onto the desk with a smile as if they were his best friends and he hadn't seen them in a while. It was odd but Duke wasn't about to call Charlie weird for it. Duke was the one who didn't talk to the local children because he'd rather find tadpoles that were 'too icky' for him. Charlie turned back to Duke and gestured to them for Duke to flip through a few of them.

"You can take one and listen to them if you'd like." Charlie seemed so nonchalant about it. He flung the last of his clothes-all of them black in color-towards the dresser.

"Mom wouldn't like it if I listened to these. She says they're of the devil."

"So I bet she doesn't let you play one of these then, either." Duke turned to see what Charlie was talking about. He held up a Gameboy. Duke shook his head. "Well then, your parents really are no fun."

"Dinner!"

His mother's voice echoed down the hallway and towards the pair. He had lifted one to inspect it even further. Duke nearly dropped the record in that he had in his hands to the ground. Charlie jumped from his spot at the edge of the bed and crossed the room in a matter of milliseconds. He turned from the window with a speed that Duke had never seen. What? How did he move that fast? Duke had never seen someone move that fast before in his life. He didn't even think that it was possible.

"Come on, dinner is ready. Don't be late."

Duke moved towards his mother's voice. But Charlie wasn't behind him. Charlie did not leave his room. Duke didn't hear his footsteps behind him as Duke made his way into the dining room. He shrugged. Charlie would have to come out eventually since he would eventually get hungry. He would have to get hungry sometimes. Duke's mother sat down at the table after putting the finishing touches on the dinner table. The ham steamed as did the mashed potatoes and gravy. Duke didn't even think he heard his mother heat up the asparagus in the microwave. He guessed he was too busy talking to Charlie to hear anything else. He was just ready to eat but his mom outstretched his hand towards him. Duke took her hand without thinking. Now the real praying could begin. They all bowed their heads down in silent prayer.

"I knew he'd want to unpack." Duke's aunt rolled her eyes. "You'll have to excuse him. His manners have seemed to have evaded him as he's gotten older."

"He seems like a sweet enough kid. I wouldn't put it past him to just want to unpack and decompress from the car ride here."

Charlie's dad bowed his head over the food once more. His hands folded in front of him. His lips moved fast. Too fast for any

"He's definitely not sweet," Charlie's dad lifted his head from bowing it to pray over his meal since none of Duke's family had said the prayer out loud. They had all been distracted by conversation to do it. "You wanna know what the final straw was?"

"What was it?" Duke's father scooted towards the table and bowed his own head over his meal for a moment before digging in. "What are we getting into?"

"What?" Charlie's dad smiled. "The old ball and chain didn't tell you all about her nephew?"

Her nephew? Charlie was their nephew, his cousin. If his uncle was joking then Charlie certainly didn't pick up on it.

"So what did he do?" Duke's dad let out a sigh as he dug into the food and began passing it out to everyone. "What are we in for?

"He tried burning down the high school. He kept rambling on about how the students there were worthless and needed to die."

"Well, that doesn't seem so bad." Duke's mom chimed in.

"It's arson, Susan." Charlie's dad turned towards her. "He's also been investigated for kidnapping."

"Kidnapping too?" Duke's mom lifted her head. "You didn't tell me that he was being investigated for kidnapping!"

Duke wasn't as worried as his mother. Charlie was a good kid from what Duke had seen over the years. When it rained at King's Island the summer before Duke turned six, he had given Duke his jacket. He helped a young girl find her mother after she lost sight of her when she got off of the ride. There was no way that he had even been a person of interest in kidnapping cases.

"He was never charged and he was only a person of interest. You still have to take him. We're not bringing him back to town after he kicked up so much trouble there."

Charlie's father let his head fall and began making good on his food. The rest of dinner was silent. None of them spoke and the only noises were the forks and knives on the plates. Duke wasn't going to make much noise. He was ready to finish dinner and do whatever he wanted. His suit was now fitting too tight around his neck. Like it was strangling him. Charlie was a good person, he reminded himself. Charlie is a good person. He is not the reason those kids went missing.

Duke wandered back to the closed door about a dozen times between the end of dinner and now, as he walked to his bedroom. He had cleaned up the dishes and put them into the dishwasher for further cleaning. His parents and aunt and uncle had gone into the living to talk. He didn't care for his mother's gloating. He didn't care for his father's pride in his work. His aunt and uncle boasted about their own achievements as well as if none of them were proud of each other.

"Alright, I think we're going to head out. We don't want to be too tired when we go into work tomorrow." Duke's uncle's voice echoed down the hall. His figure appeared a few seconds later and waved at Duke in the hallway. "See you at Thanksgiving, Duke."

Did they make plans for Thanksgiving already? Duke waved back to his uncle with a smile. "See you then, Uncle Jim."

"See you at Thanksgiving, Charlie." Duke's aunt called down the hall.

Duke waved back at the two figures at the end of the hall before they disappeared into the front room near the front door. Charlie's own parents were now gone. Charlie would only have Duke's parents for the next few months. Duke's parents came back to the bathroom a few moments later and spent the next twenty minutes cleaning up before both their room and the bathroom light went dark. Duke went to his room but didn't feel the need to change just yet. He wanted to stay up a bit longer and changing into pajamas now meant that the day was over.

Duke turned around in his bedroom for a few moments. He waited until the snores of his parents echoed off of the bathroom walls back towards Duke's room. That's when Duke made his way to Charlie's room. He needed to know if Charlie was the one who had kidnapped those kids. If someone dangerous was living in his house. Duke raised a hand, ready to knock but the door swung open before he could even have the chance to open it himself. It was almost as if Charlie had known that he was there.

"What are you doing up so late?" Charlie asked as he leaned against the doorframe. His hair was now tied back into a ponytail and only his jeans remained. He smelled of something that Charlie could not place but had smelled many times before when passing by the bathroom stalls at school. Duke had immediately forgotten the questions he was going to ask Charlie. "Your parents went to bed like half an hour ago."

Even though it was later than Duke had stayed up on most nights reading books by flashlight or waiting long enough to sneak out of the house and look at the stars. Especially on the night before going back to school. It was only seven at night the light had faded more than Duke would have hoped. He was too scared to admit to anyone that he was still scared of the dark even though he was ten. Charlie's face was hidden mostly in shadows but Duke could still see the contours of his face. Here, he looked like one of the monsters that Duke had imagined crawling through his windows at night.

When Charlie stepped into the light of the hallway, Duke noticed how pale Charlie's skin had gotten. So pale that his white skin had seemed to turn grey. His lips had crusted over. His blue eyes had turned a deep shade of blue.

"I could ask you the same thing." Duke straightened his back as if that would make him taller.

"I was just about to go out for a walk. Do you want to come?"

Duke pondered on it for a minute. "Wouldn't mom and dad be mad at us? We're not supposed to be out past sunset."

"Well I'm going out," Charlie pushed past Duke and towards the front door. "Don't feel like you have to lie for me either."

~

Millie Report had been told to go straight home after Sunday school. That her babysitter would be waiting for her when she got home. Her parents left on a business trip Instead of picking her up all the way across town, they would just meet in the middle back at her house. After that, they would end up going to the local diner for a late dinner. Then she would be sent off to bed. She had told her parents that she was old enough to make it home. After all, she was nearly twelve years old. The town was small enough that she had eyes on her every time she passed a house and even a little bit past that.

Millie checked her County road J would soon turn into county road K. As soon as it became K, she would take an immediate right. That's what the piece of paper she had in her hands said. Even though she and her family walked to church and back every Sunday, she had never really paid attention to what kind of turns they made. She was always picking up rocks or sticks alongside the road and messing up her pastel-colored dresses. Don't you dare mess up another dress, Millie. Her mother's voice rang out in her head as she spotted another pretty rock on the ground. No. She would keep her dress clean. She would make sure that she could be seen as someone who could walk back home on her own.

The sun had already set behind Millie and the roads were getting darker behind her. The fall air whipped around her and she chastised herself for not bringing a jacket. Each footstep crunched underneath her. The gravel that her parents had told her had once made these roads had turned into dust after years and years of wear. But that was long before she had been born and long before her family had been born.

Millie kept walking on county road J for at least half a mile before someone else appeared in front of her. A dark figure that she had never seen before. She squinted into the distance and tried to make sense of what was right in front of her eyes. She paused in the middle of the road. Her eyes scanned the shadow for a moment before it eventually got close enough for her to see who it was. A young man who she had never seen before. Even in her twelve years of life, she had been introduced to every family that lived in the town. Every face had been burned into her nearly photogenic memory. Though, her way home evaded her every single time she tried to make the walk home alone. What a terrible memory she had then, she assumed.

The man-made his way towards her as if he were going to the church. Millie checked her watch. It was nearing seven at night and in the hour that it had taken her to get this close to home, she knew that it would be closed down by now. She cursed herself for staying back to help out the pastor clean up from the Sunday evening mass. Even if there weren't many children for her to help with Sunday school. A lot of people had already come and gone that morning when most of the town had service. But a lot of people came back just for the fun of it. Even if it was the same service as before.

His body was only lit up by a few lights that the townspeople had put out onto the road so that no one would end up in a ditch. His feet crunched the bits and pieces of old and dried-out wood that had covered the ground. Where could he have been going? He turned his attention to her, his face lit up in flickers by fire that had come out of his lighter. He turned his attention to Millie. His long, gangly face lit up just as much as the light that appeared to come from a lighter. She didn't get a good look at what he was wearing which wouldn't help her if he did anything suspicious.

"Well hello there." His smile had grown inhumanly large. He moved closer to her. His eyes flashed dangerously dark as he flicked the lighter off. "What's your name?"

"M-my name is Millie." Her name felt odd on her lips. She had rarely ever spoken it. Fear flushed her face. She shouldn't have given her name to a stranger."W-who are you?"

"Millie. I like that name."

The man flicked on the lighter once more.

"I asked you what your name was."

The lighter flicked off.

"The name is Charlie. But I ask the questions here."

"What do you...what do you want to ask me?" Millie's voice caught in her throat as she tried to keep her composure.

"Where you're going," Charlie said that in a more matter-of-fact tone than the tone of someone who was asking a question. "What you're doing out alone this late at night."

"I'm-I don't think I should answer any of your questions. My parents said not to speak to strangers."

"But we're not strangers." Charlie flicked on the lighter to show off his inhuman smile, now adorned with rows upon rows of sharpened teeth. Saliva dripped off of his teeth and onto his bottom lip. "We're friends."

"We-we're not friends." Millie took a few steps back. "I should get home."

"Oh no," Charlie dropped the lighter down to the ground. "You should come with me."

Millie tried going around him but he had wrapped around her quicker than she could get away. Her whole body shook as he held her close to his chest. His breath-warm, hot, and sticky-brushed against her neck. Each breath was deep and heavy. He hadn't even said a word before Millie decided that she needed to put up a fight. She kicked and screamed until her voice was raw and her legs were tired. Each kick only brought her closer to him and each scream only came to crush her lungs. Her screams echoed across the trees.

Finally, she dropped her attention down to the arms that restrained her. Her mouth opened and laid a bit down onto his arm. Charlie let out a roar. Millie sprinted off into the darkness. Her heart pounded in her chest as she made her way down to her house. The sound of her heart echoed down to her bones. Her whole body ached. Charlie's footsteps weren't far behind her.

"Don't you dare run from a friend." Charlie's voice was louder than thunder on a rainy night. "Don't you dare run from me."

The footsteps came closer and closer to Millie. Millie had nowhere to turn. Nowhere to hide. The open road is what faced both of them. Her attention was on the road ahead of her and not the road behind her. Nor the road below her. Her foot caught on a stick and she tumbled down into the earth. The dirt kicked up into her mouth. Charlie's hands wrapped around her and flipped her over. His teeth flashed in the moonlight. His face was long and garish. Millie's screams echoed throughout the night. His teeth sank into her neck.

~

"This morning is a sad day for Archbold Township as we are looking for one of our own. Millie Report has come up missing." The newscaster's perma-smile had faded. "She was last seen walking home from Sunday school at six last night. She took country road J home. She was seen in a yellow dress and a pair of white converse, freshly bought. The police have no main suspects right now but if you have any information on the whereabouts of Millie Report, please contact the police at the number below."

Duke's family always watched the morning news before they headed out for the day. During the week-only in the summer-Duke had to follow one of his parents to work. This week, he was going with his mom to her secretary job it was still too early for Duke to comprehend most of it. His backpack rested on the bench where his mom had put it the night previous. Duke flattened out his jeans a bit as he tried to wipe the sweat that had pooled on his hands. He knew Millie. She went to middle school but her younger sister was in the same class as Duke.

Charlie had been outside that night. Duke had seen him head out but he had never heard him come back inside so he had no idea how long Charlie had been out the previous night. He couldn't be the one who kidnapped Millie. He hadn't even been there a whole day. There is no way he would cause trouble that soon.

Charlie stumbled out of his room and into the living room. He wiped the sleep from his eyes. His jeans were covered in a maroon substance that only Duke noticed before Charlie rushed back to his room to change. His mother and father turned their faces towards the noise but didn't catch Charlie's form. Charlie came out a few moments later with a fresh set of clothes and a smile on his face.

"Neither of you are to leave this house until Millie Report is found, do you hear me?"

Charlie and Duke frantically nodded. Duke's mother turned back to the TV and wrung her hands in worry. Charlie turned towards Duke as he flashed him a deadly smile.

He bowed down to Duke's ear, "Maybe if you took the opportunity to come with me last night, Millie wouldn't have had to run away from me."

[kneamet]

Delusion (5/5)

Trigger Warning: alcohol, obsession

Summary: she was the only girl in his band whose singing he loved so much. She was the person he truly respected. Andy Miles was someone Hank Williams had an unrelenting obsession with.

Chapter five: Lovesick Blues

POV Hank

He was glad to breathe a sigh of relief in his free chest, feeling as if he were the freest man in the world. Hank was finally able to remove this unpleasant burden that weighed on him in the bonds of an unloved marriage. A marriage that literally drowned him down.

He was glad that he was able to go through everything in court through the proceedings and slander in his direction, written and claimed from Audrey. As if she knew anything about him and understood him at all. And now, Hank, being completely free, can do whatever he wants and can show the love of the girl he loves.

The guy smiled, closing his eyes for a couple of seconds and stopping moving. The beloved girl who will soon become his wife. She would be someone he would cherish and protect beyond measure. Andy will be everything to him, after he finally gets the recognition from the public.

"Why are you frozen, Hank?" There was a sneer from his right, and he turned his head in the direction of the intended speech, realizing that he could have listened to that voice for years without interrupting. He wouldn't care what she said. The main thing is the sound.

Williams was sure that once he and Andy were finally a couple, exchanging light formalities and vows to keep, he would definitely have her humming to him and reading aloud, just enjoying herself.

It was a joy to Hank to hear her voice, soft but slightly hoarse and tired, after a lot of rehearsals, from which he was very tired, but always enjoyed it. He was always so soothing. So gentle and, you might even say, caring, unlike Audrey, a voice that always made him mad.

He knew that he had invited her to the studio just so that she wouldn't yell and make him lose his temper, or else he might have flared up like a match and wouldn't have stopped in his anger, which would have continued to eat at him from the inside out.

Audrey's voice was really terrible. Unpleasant, eating into the brain and piercing it into a million small particles.

Blinking a couple of times, Hank turned his attention to his beloved, who was sitting a foot away from him, looking at him with a puzzled look, slightly raising an eyebrow, which caused small, barely noticeable wrinkles to form on the bridge of her nose. It was very cute.

"It's fine," he says, grabbing the ketchup and quickly unscrewing the white cap. His gaze reluctantly shifts to Don, who just grins. "Here's what, I'm not buying," the guy finally says, pressing down on the middle of the plastic bottle with his fingers.

"A ketchup burger?" Helms asks, adjusting the gold-plated watch on his left hand and nodding at his friend's food.

"Ha, ha, yeah," Hank smiles, tossing the top of the bun on top of the rest and thinking that he probably wouldn't be able to eat the burger without the extra extra. It was sad that no one shared his taste in this kind of food. Although in his opinion, it was deliciously delicious.

"Sammy," he calls out to the guy who was sitting at the opposite table, carefully reading the list of songs listed in the ratings. "Well, have you finished reading?"

"No, I didn't start from the end," he doesn't miss the opportunity to mock, grinning slightly, to which Hank just smiles and continues the banter, in which they measure their sense of humor and ability to tease the other person.

"So they still teach you to read at school," Williams doesn't even look at him, watching out of the corner of his eye as Andy tries to choose where to start eating. The smile on the guy's face does not come off, but only becomes more noticeable.

There's nothing to be heard from the side, and Hank just raises an eyebrow. Just gave up? This is not like him and their usual conversations.

"Funny, Hank," Sammy nods and turns to face his friend, still clutching the small magazine that is important to the musician's fate. "You're not much older than me."

"I was older than you when I was born," Hank says, taking a sip of the scalding coffee, setting the cup down next to him. His attention is completely focused on saying something ironic to Pruett.

However, instead of continuing, the latter gets up from his chair and pushes it back to the table, going over to the others and tossing the publication with the open page, on which the latter has found something that will really attract the attention of the group.

"Look at this," Hank dusts off the small crumbs on his palm and picks up the magazine he's offered. "Take a look," everyone looks at Williams.

The guy's eyes widen. He can't believe it. I don't want to believe it. It seems that this is just a hoax. A lie that will be revealed later. No, it's not possible.

His palms trembled and began to sweat. His mouth fell open. My breath was knocked out, and my heart began to give a loud rhythm, interrupting any sounds and actions from the environment.

First place in popular. First place in sales. His song. His.

He covers his mouth with his hand, trying to hide his smile and the naive look that doubts what he sees. It's too much for him. It's not real and he's sure of it, handing the magazine to Andy, who accepts it happily and with some suspicion.

Hank finally got what he wanted. He was finally able to get at least something that he had worked so hard for for so long. His dream to get into the charts came true.

It remains to implement another one...

"Hank, this... God, congratulations, " Andy says, putting his left arm around him and hitting him on the shoulder with his right, trying to show support. Hank only sends a grateful smile to his beloved, but his gaze is still detached from what is happening.

"I'll tell you what," interrupting his thoughts and disbelief, he leans closer to the table, in the middle of which Miles has placed the magazine. Everyone moves towards him, starting to listen carefully. "And it's not all bullshit. If, after that, I don't get to the Opry," he points a finger at the publication and turns his head towards the girl, starting to laugh. "I'll give up the music," there's laughter, at which Hank slams his hand on the table and rocks back in his chair. "Honestly. Let them then look for me then for me and beg me to sing for them. And they'll have to beg me."

And he wasn't lying. Lying wasn't his style, especially when it came to something he'd devoted his entire adult life to. He can really give up music, even though he will have to listen to his mother's loud talk about how she spent a lot of time driving him around the states in his youth and showing his talent. He'll quit the music. The truth will leave if he does not achieve what he wants, but with him will be his beloved wife, whom he has been trying to get for so long.

***

It's raining. The gray ground seems to droop, and small puddles form on the old black asphalt. Countless splashes of raindrops can be heard in the muddy puddles. Steady noise. The impact of raindrops on the window pane causes unpleasant thoughts.

Andy exhales cigarette smoke, enjoying the weather. Its cloudy mood and the state of nature. She dusts off a bittersweet cheap cigarette and the weightless ash falls on her starched white shirt, which she rarely changes.

Taking another long drag, wanting to enjoy the bright aftertaste. Hank knows this feeling, and he often does it, even though he knows how disgusting it is sometimes. However, this taste of cheap tobacco was always poetic, which he certainly liked. But the guy himself preferred more expensive cigarettes and at some points did not quite understand how Miles even smokes them. The throat after them hurts, and they do not last long, because after the taste disappears altogether, forcing people to think about buying more expensive.

Williams was sure that as soon as he and the girl finally lived together, he would forbid her to buy cheap tobacco.

"You know, Andy..." Pausing for a moment and taking a deep drag on his own cigarette, he waited for her to look at him. "I just realized that inspiration is literally chasing me," he heard a small grin from the side, to which he only smiled, shaking his head and lowering it down, pursing his lips. A small habit that he couldn't get rid of and that showed up in moments of doubt or embarrassment.

"Has the muse finally visited?" Miles joked, and the tobacco smoke filled the small space around them again.

He liked to be near the girl he loved, to whom, if he could, he would dedicate all the odes and songs of the world. He liked to stand with her under the awning of the cafe, smoking the cheap cigarettes he smoked just for her, and watch the restless rain, wishing it would never end and they would enjoy each other's company.

"Yes..." sighed Hank, biting his lower lip with his front teeth and lowering his hand to brush off the ash.

The Muse he was talking about was literally everything to him, and he didn't know why Andy didn't take the hint. He was torn between telling his beloved what he had wanted for so long and remaining silent until the right time came. I didn't want to ruin the established idyll between them, but I didn't want to be silent either. Doubts tormented him for quite a long time and he simply could not properly settle his obsessive thoughts.

***

Hank wandered through the little-known streets, trying to calm down and come to his senses. In his relationship with Audrey, he was always disturbed by quarrels, which he literally hated. They were terrible and very annoying, literally infuriating. What difference does it make if she sings well or poorly? They would have achieved nothing anyway, knowing her not-so-simple nature, expressing defiance and defiance.

His head was down, and his hands were in his pockets, pulling down the trousers that were held at the old belt. His thoughts were currently occupied only with obsessions.

The light wind didn't bother him. Her hair was already disheveled, so there was nothing wrong with it becoming even more messy.

"...I got a feeling called the blues, oh Lord... " a young female voice was heard nearby. Hank raised his head, trying to catch the pleasant and melodious sound coming from. This aroused a genuine interest in him.

He liked that unusual voice. It clearly belonged to a woman, although no, most likely a girl, and a very young one at that. He sounded a little hoarse and tired. As if the person doing this was just trying to calm down and avoid boredom.

"...Since my baby said goodbye.. " came again, and Hank tried to find out where it was coming from. He had never heard a better voice in his life than this girl's.

Williams quickened his pace, straining his ears. It wasn't that far away, so it was safe to say that he wasn't far from the unknown with the amazing voice.

Hank's eyes widened and his lips parted slightly. He looked at her with awe and admiration. She was beautiful. But no, not even that, because she was so damn beautiful.

He had never seen anyone more beautiful than her. Even Audrey, his beloved wife, was terrible compared to this songbird. God, she was beautiful.

He knew that at this moment, in this second of his life, he didn't give a damn about anyone around him. He doesn't care about the problems, the world in general. All that matters is that he has seen the most beautiful stranger.

Her melodious voice caressed his ears. He closed his eyes for a couple of seconds and took a few sharp breaths, saying flattering words to the girl who was sitting on the bench right in front of him.

"Do you want to join my group?"

***

June 11, 1949

Grand Ole Opry, Nashville

He hadn't felt this kind of excitement in a very long time. This jitters that literally enveloped him from head to toe. A sense of fear, uncertainty, and nervousness filled his mind, making it difficult to think rationally.

His hands were sweating, and he began to shake in a slight tremor. He pressed his lips together, trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart.

The only thing that gave him hope and comfort was the belief in what their celebration with Andy would be like today. He thought for a long time and finally realized in his life that the most important step in his life was to marry the girl he loved, which aroused in him the most beautiful and wonderful feelings on earth, expressing love and care. He would protect her.

He took a few sharp breaths, giving his heart time to calm down and stop pounding in his head. On his chest, on the suit, was sewn a small pocket, which at the moment was the most intimate and most sensual thing in the world. Ring. A ring that men give when they get engaged.

The guy exhaled sharply, turning to face his beloved, who was looking at him with an encouraging and encouraging look, as if calling for him to calm down and begin to cope with his difficult feelings. Squeezing his shoulder tightly, as if to show support, Andy smiled at him, and he just nodded at her.

"Hank, Andy!" A gruff voice is suddenly heard calling out to Williams. It doesn't take him long to realize that it's Fred. Smiling a tight smile, showing that he is supposedly not afraid of anything, the guy shifts the guitar case to the other hand and shakes the producer's offered hand. "How are you?"

"Not bad," Andy replies with a shrug, to which Hank is surprised, not understanding why she remains calm and not overwhelmed by excitement. Rose just chuckles at the comment.

"Don't worry, they may kill you, but they won't eat you," the man tries to defuse the tension by straightening his dark tie.

"It's comforting," Hank smiles, looking toward the stage. The stage on which he will perform. The stage on which his whole future uncertain fate will be decided.

"I'm very proud of you, Hank. I'm saying this as your friend, " Fred looks at his friend again, trying to express his support. Hank just looks at Miles, who is looking around the backstage area with a certain calmness and intensity. However, there is also a small, barely noticeable difference in her gaze... was it contempt?

"You can handle it, Hank," Andy looks around at the ceiling and turns his attention back to his dear friend with a slight grin. Williams pursed his lip again, feeling his palms begin to shake again with a slight tremor. She supports him. He exhaled. How nice to hear the support and dear words from a loved one.

"Thank you."

Everything that was happening was a blur to him. His brain still could not accept the information that he was worthy of and finally in his life got what he so ardently and long desired. He will finally get the recognition that he was striving for and then he will have one desire, or more correctly, it will be called a goal that he will need to achieve.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a guest of honor today and this is his first appearance on the Grand Ole Opry show," were the words of the announcer introducing Hank, and he knew that a lump had settled in his throat. He was afraid to sing. It was scary to get censured by people. It was scary to hear their arguments and opinions that he was a bad singer. "Let's welcome the guy who performed Lovesick Blues-Mr. Hank Williams!" He was not impressed by the joyful intonation of his voice and at the moment when he went on stage with a guitar that his mother gave him for his birthday, he was only interested in seeing Andy.

It was important for him to see her and understand that there was no need to worry. That she would be happy to support him and reassure him. That she would just be there to warm and protect his thoughts.

The applause was unexpected.

Williams was aware of the fact that the greeting of a new member of the show was always accompanied by applause, but it was still very pleasant and made him fall into confusion and let his head think that he was worth something.

The instant light blinded him. His lips trembled, and his knees buckled. Williams ' gaze darted to Andy, who only nodded at him, giving him a hopeful look at his moment of doubt in front of an audience that expected a great performance from him.

He gave her a soft smile of gratitude.

"Hi, I'm Hank Williams," he mumbled into the microphone that reverberated through the room, and he reached down to his guitar, running his fingers over it, caressing the strings, and wanting to draw the audience's attention to him. "Guys, turn it on," referring to the band with whom he had previously played the song.

His forehead was sweating and a drop of sweat ran down it. He swallowed and took a rare breath, touched the string again, and closed his eyes, hoping only that he would be received appropriately.

"I got a feelin' called the blues, oh Lords,

Since my baby said goodbye."

The only thing that warmed him with hope and calmed him down was his beloved, who was always ready to show support.

***

He just couldn't believe it. His brain couldn't process everything that had happened a few minutes ago. People took it well and were really inspired and enthusiastic. It was so unreal that he didn't want to think of it as real. It was probably just a dream that wouldn't happen again, but that he would remember for the rest of his life.

Hank couldn't stop smiling. He was so impressed that he felt over the moon when he heard the audience applauding and shouting the words he wanted.

Standing in the backstage area, which was lit by small lights, he just kept his eyes closed, arriving in voluptuous bliss.

"You were amazing, Hank," said a voice he'd known and loved for a long time. He glanced at Andy, who was standing next to him, watching him with a smile that was very often seen on her face.

Williams took a deep breath, grabbing the girl's hand and squeezing it lightly. He looked straight into her eyes, feeling that this was the moment that should have been years ago. The moment when they finally admit to each other in immeasurable love and live "happily ever after". No quarrels, no bickering, no problems. They will be a real family.

His free hand reached into his sewn-on pocket, taking out the small ring he had been searching for for a long time, but which at the moment was the most secret for him and his future wife.

He didn't care that people were looking at them. I don't give a damn. The main thing is that they will finally be reunited.

"You..." He really didn't know what to say, even apart from the fact that he had been preparing for this event for a long time, constantly rehearsing how he would confess. He wanted to express his love in an unimaginable confession, but words just weren't enough. My heart began to beat even faster. "Will you share the burden of life with me? Will you let me be your legal husband by putting this ring on your finger?"

His eyes full of hope were reflected in her eyes, which were full of incomprehension and fear.

[cherrysha]

May I please ask for a meleoron x female reader?

Girl this took on a life of its own kjfajfda but here ya go

A/N: My rules have been updated since writing this and I DO NOT answer requests from ageless blogs. (Also my writing style has definitely changed, but I still think this is worth posting again)

Summary: Meleoron heads back to NGL in hopes to recover some of his memories. What he finds instead is something unexpected.

Word Count: 2.5k

My requests are open atm

Warnings: Some angst even tho i said id give yall sum fluff i guess i lied

 “I wish you wouldn’t go out there y/n.” and it’s followed by the same speech she gives you every time. What will people think about you? You always come back so filthy, like a little boy playing in the dirt for the first time. Do you want the miller’s son to see you as a little boy?

“Mom” you sigh, offering her a sideways glance “I’m just collecting berries”

Before you can even get the excuse out she’s shaking her head in disbelief “Don’t use that line y/n. you don’t need to be out all day to harvest berries. And you never come back with that many anyway.” she grumbles as you pinch the bridge of your nose. Leaning yourself against the door frame you try to stave off the headache she was giving you. “It’s because I eat them all before I can get back.”

She gives an exasperated wave of her hands, clearly saving it for another day. It was obvious that she was already exhausted with you.

“Just be back before it gets dark” she turns, focusing her attention back on the patch being sewn into one of her dresses.

You finally escape before she can continue the argument.

-

It started as a means escape the noise of the village. There was always people out, shouting about god knows what as they hurried about their days. Sometimes it was just overwhelming. 

Surprisingly, you had found this spot while hunting for berries. A tree stood a little off the muddy path you took with a stream located in front of it. The sound of running water was soothing, and the area provided excellent shade from the scorching heat that made clothing stick to you like glue. Naturally, you started reading there, and writing, and knitting. It was easier to focus in a place so calm.

But a few weeks ago you’d noticed it. Hairs prickling on the back of your neck, a brush rustling on it’s own here and there, sometimes you could even smell the lingering scent of cigarette smoke. As days passed, you came to the conclusion that someone was watching you.

If you were being honest, Their presence wasn’t altogether unpleasant, so you usually paid it no mind. Boys in the village were always like this. Too afraid to make the first move so they just watched from a distance until you noticed them. Quite frankly, it was embarrassing to deal with. The thought alone was enough to make you cringe away from the situation. 

Today when you heard the telltale rustle of a bush across the creek, you finally gathered enough energy to speak up.

“You know” you say blindly to the air around you, hoping the feeling in your gut was more than just a hunch.

“You don’t have to hide every time I come out here.”

It’s quiet for a moment before he replies.

“Maybe that’s not for you to decide.”

You let out a humph, furrowing your brow in frustration. That response wasn’t what you were expecting at all. Boys in the village were usually so quick to make excuses as to why they were following you.

“And why not?”

“Maybe I don’t want to be seen.”

“Fine.” You relent. “But then why do you keep following me around?”

It’s quiet as he thinks on the question he has no answer for.

“Well,” you interrupt “if you’re gunna be out here watching me can we at least have a conversation?”

He lets out a noise as if it’s something he has to give much thought to.

“I’ll think about it.”

You weren’t expecting that either.

-

Weeks pass as you lose track of time in the summer sun. You make your way there every day and every day he’s waiting for you. So secretive, it took almost a week of constant nagging to learn his name, even when you had offered yours up easily. Meleoron. You didn’t ask, but you’d figured he was an outsider. There wasn’t anyone with a name like that in the village.

“You gunna come out of hiding today Mel?” you call out

He makes his presence known with an audible sigh leaving his parted lips.

“Guess it’s about time I come clean” he says, watching as confusion blooms on your face.

“I’m not actually in the bushes.”

You look around, he sounded close but you still couldn’t figure out where he was exactly. “Where are you then? up in a tree or something?”

And he can’t help but to laugh, shaking his head at you. Sometimes he just couldn’t figure out how you managed to make every situation enjoyable. No matter the atmosphere or tension floating in the air.

“No ... no I’m right in front of you. You just can’t see me.”

He steps closer, unbeknownst to you, and taps the middle of your forehead with a finger.

“Jeez!” you gasp, taking a step back. 

it’s quiet for a moment while you try to process the situation at hand. It didn’t quite make sense, but nothing about this made sense. An invisible man you met with every day who watched you read and kept you company. No, it didn’t make much sense, but did it have to? As long as you were having fun what did it matter?

‘Are you always invisible?” you ask the open air in front of you.

You hear a shuffle and then watch in awe as his feet displace water in the stream.

“Nah” he says nonchalantly “It’s kind of like a switch. I can turn it on and off when I want.”

“Well then why don’t you turn it off so I can see who’s been stalking me for weeks?”

“Stalking?!”

He’s clearly embarrassed by your choice of words but you pay it no mind, moving to sit on the bank next to him. You stick your feet in beside his and lean towards his voice, aiming to nudge against his shoulder and succeeding. 

“What else would you call it Mel?”

He huffs in irritation, using his tail to splash water on your face. The coolness of it wrenches a squeal from your throat as Meleoron laughs at your expense.

“Don’t make it sound like that”

-

 A few weeks later your meetings have become routine. You leave earlier than your mother wakes, avoiding the confrontation you knew was near, and return home every night exhausted, day spent laughing and bickering with your imaginary friend.

Some days you would come home only to eat, sneaking out after everyone was fast asleep. On those days you’d lay next to Mel in a clearing near the creek and teach him the names of all the constellations you know. Centaurus, Ursa Major, Draco. There’s not enough time in the night to teach them all, you tell yourself as you sneak out for the third night in a row. In the morning you’d climb back through your open window and make breakfast before heading out again, making sure to leave a little mess so your mother wouldn’t grow suspicious. After, you’d go to your spot by the creek and he’d always be there. And every time you came back he’d moan about how long you’d been gone.

“You know how boring it is out here? What if I left you in the forest? You wouldn’t like that, huh?” you’d bicker back and forth before falling asleep under the same tree you’d met him at. After a while you even let him hold you. After a while, you started yearning for his warm body next to yours. After a while, he started to yearn for your warmth as well.

You never experienced this type of feeling before. Not with the boy who walked you home every day in school, not with the miller’s son who kissed you in the cornfields, or even the farmer who held you too tight and left hickies on your neck. No, you realized that this was something different. Something indiscriminate without the binding of your soul to match his. Nothing to lace up and look pretty, he wasn’t interested in that. But to be fair, you weren’t quite sure exactly what he was interested in. Was it just your company he was after? Or did he feel the same way you did. The answer was as big of a mystery as he was.

-

“Do you think you could love me?” You whisper to him one night.

The stars are out and you’re lying on what you assume to be his chest. You can feel the movement of his deep breaths, his heart thumping loudly.

“I-I don’t think ... it’s not that simple y/n.”

You feel your throat squeeze tight, lodging the sadness deep within your chest. That’s the answer you were expecting but the sting of it didn’t hurt any less.

“I get it.” You sigh, letting yourself close your eyes to stave off the moisture gathering in them. If you moved from his chest, he would be able to see the emotion you were trying so hard to hold back written clear as day on your face. So you stayed. The last thing you wanted was his pity.

“No, it’s not y- “

“It’s not you it’s me.” You laugh and finally move away. If he kept talking you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep the tears from brimming over and exposing you. It was best to get up while the emotion was still trapped within your chest.

It’s barely audible, but he can still hear it nonetheless “Can’t say I haven’t heard that before”

You reach the creek and dip your feet into the cool water, willing your mind to focus on the current flowing around you.

“Mom says I’m too wild... says I need to spend my time in the village. Being in the woods is very unbecoming of a lady.” And you can’t help the chuckle that leaves your throat. Maybe this man you only ever met in the forest was the same way. You were just some silly wild girl that could serve as a distraction until he grew bored.

“I guess she’s right.”

“I think that came out wrong” He’s scratching his head in thought, but you can’t see that.

“I ... I still want to be near you, but I just can’t- “

“Show yourself. Right.”

He comes over, seating himself next to you as you watch the current move around his legs.

“I just need some time. Can you give that to me y/n?”

He says it as if you hadn’t spent the past few months in each others company and the idea that it was meaningless to him makes the knot in your throat just a little bit tighter. He pulls you close and you can feel his breath fan across your face. He was always just so so close. So out of reach. And you loved him all the same.

“I can do that.” You relent. A beat passes before the emotion clears from your voice and you find your fire again.

“But if someone asks me out I’m giving them a chance! Don’t think I’m giving in so easily!”

“Yah! I get it!” He scoffs, splashing water in your direction.

He can see it clear as day even in the dark. You weren’t over it, but you were trying for him. All that mattered was that he had more time with you before this blew up in his face.

Leaning back, you let out a sigh. Maybe you asked too soon, maybe he didn’t like you at all. Maybe, maybe, maybe. You couldn’t let doubt ruin your night before it even began. Standing up, you left those thoughts behind and waded deeper into the clear water.

“The stones in the middle are the smoothest since the current is strongest there.” you dip your hand in and pull one out.

“They’re the best for skipping.”

He scoffs, “You wanna skip stones right now?”

Hands come to your hips as you level a glare in the direction of his voice.

“Yeah? And what about it?”

You can’t see it, but you know it’s there, the smile he keeps just for you.

“Don’t you think it’s a little too dark to be skipping stones? How can you even see where it hits the water?”

It gets quiet for a moment, arms dropping to your side as you lower your gaze to the rock in your hand.

“I know better than anyone that seeing it doesn’t matter.”

He gets up and slowly approaches to stand behind you, arms wrapping around your body as he pulls you close.

“Ah...then what does matter?” He whispers into the skin of your neck.

“What you hear... What you feel in the moment when it slides of out your hand. You don’t have to see it to know how many times it’s skipped.”

You look down, wishing desperately that you could see his arms around you, but knowing better than to get upset again.

“You don’t want to wait until morning?” He says softly.

With a shake of your head you reply

“No, it’s important to have fun while you can... Seeing it is nice and all but I can always do that later. There’s no need to deny myself the fun of it now.”

He presses a soft kiss to the back of your head, laying his own against it.

“I’m glad you understand.”

You both stay like that for quite some time. His arms around you and head resting against yours as you stare at the moon in front. It’s peaceful for a moment, and you let yourself bask in it. Maybe you did let fear get the best of you, but right now he was something tangible. You could feel his weight against you, hear the steady breaths he took, and you could hold tight against the arm around your waist. This could be enough.

The moment passes and you finally decide to enjoy your night, keeping your doubt pushed to the furthest corner of your mind.

“Hey!” You bark, startling the man behind you.

“You keep distracting me!” He can’t help but laugh. With little effort you were able to lift his spirits again.

He tightens his grip on you and, in one smooth motion, hoists you over his shoulder.

“Okay princess,” he laughs “let’s go find you some still water to throw your little stones then, huh?”

With a smile you wrap your arms around his body.

“Yeah and stop distracting me while you’re at it. I have important business to do!”

“Important business?” He scoffs “throwing rocks in the middle of the night is important business?”

“Yeah!” You shout, grin widening at the laugh you feel reverberate through his very core.

“Alright then... Well let’s get to it.”

The emotion he brought out of you was enough to make your chest ache at times, and tonight was no exception. What did it matter if you couldn’t see what he looked like? You felt his presence, his touch, his affection. And that was enough. If you had to, you’d wait forever for him.

[welllpthisishappening]

One Foot In (1/7)

The facts were these.

Killian Jones was dead. This much Emma knew, standing in the middle of the funeral parlor staring at him. What she didn’t know was why. Or how. Or what she would do when she touched him.

Because Emma Swan had a gift. Touch a dead thing once, bring it back to life. Touch it again, dead forever.

And the last thing Emma could do was bring Killian back to life, talk to him for the first time in years, only to watch him die all over again. Not when she’d spent the better part of those same years being in love with him.

-----

Rating: Teen, but with eventually kissing and magic-type magic Word Count: 9.3K this chapter.  AN: Approximately two years ago, seriously, I got a message asking if I would ever be interested in writing a Pushing Daises AU. I was! So I wrote a little blurb and some more very nice people were like this is good, you should write more. I did. And then did...nothing with it. Until now. I’ve been hoarding this for long enough and I’m actually pretty proud of it and it’s got a whole bunch of some of my favorite things. There will be a lot of banter and more kissing than you probably expect if you’ve seen the show, and a lot of magic and magical explanations. If I have any talent writing banter it comes directly from watching Pushing Daisies, so hopefully I’ve done them well here. Also shoutout to @distant-rose​ for the Fathership.

Updates every Wednesday going forward, and if you’d like to be tagged let me know: @shireness-says​ @optomisticgirl​ @nikkiemms, @teamhook, @dayo488​, @greymeetsblue​, @jennjenn615​, @heavenlyjoycastle​, @klynn-stormz​, @superchocovian​, @onepunintendid​, @jonesfandomfanatic​, @lfh1226-linda​

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

-----

Emma Swan is nine years, six months, twelve days and, approximately, fifteen hours old when she realizes she is hopelessly, painfully, deliriously in love. 

It’s not a particularly pleasant feeling. 

Mostly because it happens suddenly, without much prompting and the object of her affection is currently spraying her in the face with the hose in his front yard. 

She yelps, water catching on her eyelashes and strands of her hair, but he just grins at her, taking a step forward to make sure her clothes are drenched through. Ingrid is going to kill both of them. Emma can almost hear Liam laughing somewhere. 

This, of course, is why she’s so frustrated by her sudden realization. 

Emma has been standing on the Jones’ front lawn for as long as she can remember – directly opposite of her own front lawn and close enough that Ingrid can still yell for her to come home when dinner is ready. Or when there’s pie. There’s almost always pie. 

Emma’s friendship with Killian Jones is not much more than happenstance and convenience. He lives across the street, with his brother in a great, big house with stained glass windows that paint the inside of the living room different colors when the sun sets. They met by mistake, Emma drawing with chalk at the end of the driveway and he was watering the lawn and dared to disturb her masterpiece. 

She threw chalk at him. 

It went from there. They talked and yelled and Emma may have stomped her foot more than once regarding the destroyed drawings, but Killian picks up the broken pieces of chalk and offers her one and they come up with a rather stunning visual of a futuristic outer space world with some kind of monorail system. The engineering is very impressive. 

And they don’t ever really stop. They dart back and forth across the street for years, afternoons spent constructing spaceships out of cardboard boxes Liam brought home from work and evenings in the kitchen with Ingrid while she lets them test a new flavor of pie she’s experimenting with. They watch movies and celebrate birthdays and there’s a secret handshake because of course there’s a secret handshake, and Emma tells Killian she sometimes wonders what happened to her real parents and Killian tells Emma he’s scared Liam is going to disappear like his dad did. 

She shouldn’t love him. 

And yet, at nine years, six months, twelve days and, approximately, fifteen hours old, Killian Jones is quite possibly the most important person in Emma’s life. 

Except Ingrid. Because she makes all that pie. 

Killian is quiet – at least at first, soft-spoken words, but with a certainty that rings of clarity and confidence and it hadn’t taken long for him to grow a little bolder with Emma around. He laughs easier as the years go on, smile wide and, usually, only for her. His hair is almost always too long, dark strands that drift dangerously close to his eyebrows and a gaze that Emma also seems to covet. 

She doesn’t realize that yet, because she’s nine and she doesn’t know what covet means, but, eventually, it will all make sense. 

And eventually, she will regret not telling Killian Jones that he’s her best friend and she’s absolutely, positively in love with him. 

But Emma is nine and she believes she’s got the rest of her life and the rest of Killian’s life and she hasn’t allowed a little thing like death to even begin to enter the back corners of her mind. 

That will change soon. 

“Killian Jones, I am going to murder you,” she shouts, lunging forward. He laughs even louder when her feet skid on the slick grass, a flash of blue eyes and that smile that, even then, Emma considers hers and hers alone. 

“That’s not very nice, Swan. You’re the one who got in the way of all my work.” “Your work?” He nods seriously, as if he’s not directing the hose directly at her feet now and she’s going to have to throw these jeans away. They’ll never dry. “Did you not see that list of chores Liam left? Making sure the lawn wasn’t dry was one of them.” “It’s a lawn, how dry can it be?” “I didn’t ask.” “Didn’t you want to know?”

“Maybe,” Killian admits, flicking his wrist up to move the water so it hits Emma’s stomach and she gasps when some of the air gets knocked out of her. “But you came over here.” “And?” “And what? You’re here aren’t you?”

It’s impossible for Emma to realize what exactly that question means in the moment, but she’s also just realized she’s in love with Killian, so her heart does a fairly good job of attempting to beat its way out of her chest. 

He drops the hose. 

“You could have told me you had stuff to do.”

“But you were here,” he says again, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. It kind of is. She can’t remember a single time he told her to leave. 

Even when she was the new kid in school –  after she and Ingrid first moved to Storybrooke and Emma heard the whispers because she didn’t have real parents and no mom to make her lunch, but Killian just bumped his shoulder against hers and flashed her half a smile. He held her hand when they walked into school. 

Killian never cared about cooties. 

Or anything except Emma. 

“Yeah,” Emma mumbles. She digs her toes into the mud under her, the soft squelch of it almost matching up with the erratic rhythm of her pulse. “Well…”

He practically beams. 

And Emma isn’t sure what’s going to happen next because she’s never encountered a moment quite like this, but she can hear Liam’s footsteps and grumblings about the state of the lawn and— “Killian, if you’re just going to stand around all day...” he starts, but his eyes dart towards Emma as soon as she moves her foot again and the look on his face is unreadable. Particularly to a nine-year-old coming to terms with the idea of first love. “Oh,” Liam says. “Hey, Emma, I didn’t know you were here.” She shrugs. “I was going to ride my bike, but then Killian thought he was funny.” Liam’s expression changes again, more emotions Emma is not nearly old enough to understand or deal with, but it will, eventually, be that kind of day. At the moment, however, it’s sunny and there are a few clouds in the sky. The perfect day to race down the hill on the other side of town.

“How many times in a row have you beat Killian?” Liam asks knowingly, and Emma laughs before she can continue to consider whatever he’s doing with his face. 

“Forty seven.” “Oh, that’s not true, at all,” Killian shouts, ducking down to grab the hose again. Liam’s quicker than him, though grabbing him around the waist and pinning him against his chest. “God, Liam, let go of me!”

“Nah, little brother—” “—Younger brother!” “Semantics.” “Stop trying to show off!”

Emma is still laughing, her sides feeling as if they’ll split from the force of it. Killian scowls at her when she doesn’t come to his immediate aid, but her eyes dart back towards Liam. He nods. And it only takes a few moments for Killian to realize what’s going to happen, more flailing limbs and shouted protests. 

“Swan, Swan, Swan,” he chants, a nickname that isn’t really a nickname, but might be his in the way the smile is hers and Emma shakes her head when she grabs the water hose. “Don’t do that, that’s not even fair!” “I know it’s not,” she says. “But you were being a great, big giant jerk before and Ingrid’s going to be mad my jeans are all muddy.” “You should have dodged better then!” “Ah, c’mon now, little brother,” Liam chastises, still holding him around the waist and he’s probably bruised from Killian’s elbows. “That’s not hospitable at all. Emma’s a guest in our front lawn and you went and ruined her whole outfit.” Killian groans, but the sound turns into a yelp as soon as the water hits his feet and he realizes how cold it is. Emma widens her eyes. “Swan is not a guest,” he argues. 

Emma briefly wonders if her eyes can actually fall out of her face. It feels as if they’re about to, that particular proclamation ricocheting around her brain and her subconscious until she’s certain it’s the only words she’ll ever hear again. 

Killian blinks when Emma doesn’t say anything – or move the hose away from his feet. “You haven’t beaten me down the hill forty-seven times,” he mutters. “That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. 

And sprays him directly in the chest. 

There’s no way to really avoid Liam in this, but he doesn’t seem to mind, more laughter and tangled limbs, Killian’s hair sticking to his forehead and the shell of his left ear when Emma moves the water again. And for a few seconds Emma thinks she’s winning whatever unspoken battle they’ve staged here, but Killian’s always been a little shifty and and he turns quickly enough that he’s able to sneak out of Liam’s grasp. 

He moves towards her quicker than she’s ready for, tugging the hose out of her hands with an almost triumphant noise. 

“You’ve got to be faster than that, Swan,” Killian grins, waving the hose through the air until it feels as if Emma’s standing in a rainstorm. 

“You are the worst!” “Tell the truth about the hill!” “I am,” Emma yells, sniffling when the water threatens to find its way up her nose. “Oh, my God, I’m going to kill you!” Killian shakes his head, dodging what Emma thought was a particularly well-placed kick at his ankles. “No, you’re not. You like me way too much to kill me.” “That’s not true.” The words feel heavy on her tongue, despite the laughter still clinging to Killian’s voice and Liam’s rather pitiful attempts to get back on his feet after falling in the mud. Emma swallows, desperate to understand what is happening in the pit of her stomach, but Killian doesn’t look away from her. 

He keeps staring and the water keeps running, slowing slightly because they’re probably emptying the Storybrooke reservoir at this point. 

“I don’t know about that, Swan,” Killian says, leaning towards her. Emma gets the distinct impression he doesn’t mean to do that. 

“Liar, liar.” “I’m not the one lying. Forty seven? That’s impossible.” “If you think you’re winning, you should have been keeping better track.”

That catches him by surprise, a quick bark of laughter and water splashing on Emma’s shin when he jerks his hand to the side. “Sorry, sorry,” Killian mumbles when he notices the look on her face. “That one really wasn’t on purpose.” “Yuh huh.” “Swan.” Emma rolls her eyes, the sarcasm obvious in his voice and the half a smile on his face. Liam has finally stood up. “How many times do you think we’ve raced down the hill?” she presses, moving forward to push her finger into his water-soaked shirt. 

That gets him to blink. 

She takes that as another victory. 

“Way more than forty seven,” Killian answers. “And I win most of the time.” Emma stamps her foot – which gives Killian just enough time to wrap his own fingers around her wrist, pulling her hand away from him and pinning it against her side and the water is absolutely getting colder when he holds the hose directly above her head. 

“Say it’s not forty seven,” he laughs. Emma shakes her head, pressing her lips together tightly as if she’s refusing to give federal testimony. 

Liam appears to have given up on even trying to salvage the situation. 

“It’s not forty seven, Swan,” Killian continues. “I’ll give you...maybe thirty two, tops.” “Nope.” “Thirty five?” “I have beaten you down that hill forty seven times Killian Jones and that’s only in the last year since I started keeping track.” “You’ve only been keeping track for the last year?” “You never kept track to begin with!” “She’s got a point, little brother,” Liam muses. He’s sitting on the far side of the lawn now, doing something that may actually be pulling weeds and no one could have taken better care of that house than Liam did. 

“Oh, shut up,” Killian grumbles. He snaps his head back towards Emma, mouth twisted and eyes slightly narrowed. “Alright, so you started counting this year. I’ll give you that you’ve won most of the races, but I demand a recount for the rest of the summer.” Emma scoffs. “No way. You’re only mad because you didn’t know you were losing and—” “—And you were playing a game I didn’t know we were playing, Swan. So, either you agree to the terms or we keep up this...whatever we’re doing.” “You being a jerk,” she mumbles, and that time her kick lands on his ankle. Killian lets out a gasp of pain, expression shifting slightly and they’re both drenched, water falling from their clothes and their hair and everything feels slightly heavier than it had a few moments before.

It’s not a feeling that belongs in summer vacation. 

Killian hums, the tips of his ears going red and Emma learned that particular tell when she was seven and he tried to tell Liam he hadn’t gotten in trouble for fighting with that kid on the playground. The kid on the playground had been making fun of Emma’s distinct lack of parents. 

“Forty seven though?” he asks. “Really?” “Really, really,” Emma promises. “But I’m...we could start a new count. If you want.”

“Yeah?” “We’ve got all summer, right?” “And forever,” Killian says with a shrug, another string of words that seems to take up residence in every corner of Emma’s brain and she feels her lips part slightly. It’s her body’s natural reaction to try and keep breathing. 

She’s stopped breathing at some point. 

And someone else is calling her name. 

“Emma Swan,” Ingrid yells, leaning out the front door of the house across the street and the smell of lemon meringue is already obvious. “If you are done destroying all your clothes, then I think it’s time for you to come back over here and eat some lunch!”

Emma’s shoulders sag with the weight of her disappointment – an overreaction in the moment, but eventually it will seem like the most reasonable thing she’s ever done. “Do I have to?” “In twenty-four seconds or less.” “Fine,” Emma sighs. She glances back at Killian before she turns towards home, the smile still on his face and a piece of hair seemingly stuck to his forehead. He waves a dismissive hand through the air at the interruption, as if they do have all the time in the world. 

“I’ve got to help Liam anyway. But, uh...after? We could…” “There’s pie,” Emma finishes sharply. “I mean...it smells like pie? You could come over and then we could go.” “Ok.”

Liam makes a ridiculous noise a few feet away – disbelieving and adult and Emma ignores it because she’s nine and cutting into her twenty-four seconds of travel time across the street. “Emma,” Ingrid calls again. “Now!”

“Right, right, right, I’m coming. But…” She glances at Killian and she’s not sure why she feels like she has to make sure, but it feels important and—

“I’ll see you later, Swan,” he says. “I’m sorry about your jeans.”

“That’s ok.” Ingrid is shaking the screen door now. “Emma!”

“Ok, ok! I’ll see you later.”

Ingrid takes one look at the state of her as soon as she gets across the street, lets out a knowing laugh and mumbles something that sounds a lot like we should just buy new clothes every week under her breath. “Go upstairs and try and get some of the mud out of your toes before you drag it across the entire house, ok?” Emma nods, a blur of water-logged fabric and muddy footprints. She’s in the bathroom when she hears it, only a few moments later and nothing has really changed, but it suddenly feels as if everything has been flipped upside down, and Emma cannot possibly be expected to keep up with all of these emotions. Or sounds. 

It’s a crash — loud and jarring and then absolute, overwhelming silence. 

She freezes, heart sputtering in her chest and it’s impossible to know how she knows, but Emma knows and something is wrong. 

She hadn’t gotten around to doing anything about her jeans, sprinting back down the stairs and skidding into the kitchen and Ingrid is lying on the tiled ground, the pie splayed out around her when she dropped it. 

“Ingrid,” Emma whispers, knowing it’s pointless. She doesn’t know how she knows that either, but that appears to be the theme of the day and the step she takes forward is alarmingly shaky. “Ingrid,” she repeats. “Are you…”

She can’t bring herself to finish that sentence. 

It’s obvious anyway. 

Ingrid is dead. 

Emma exhales, tears in her eyes and disbelief churning in the pit of her stomach where, just a few moments ago, there were butterflies and the certainty that everything was going to be alright forever and ever. 

She tilts her head, as if that will change the scene in front of her and the combined scent of lemon and drying mud is particularly disgusting. 

“Ingrid?” Emma repeats, moving towards her as if there are magnets and supernatural forces involved. There are. It’ll just take a moment for her to realize that. 

Dropping to her knees, she ignores the pain that shoots up both her legs when she lands on the floor and Emma doesn’t ever actually cry. The tears are there, but they don’t spill over onto her cheeks. They stay in her eyes and, possibly, her soul and eventually that will feel like a very large sign. 

With neon lights and sound effects. 

In the moment though, it’s just another thing in an increasingly thing-filled situation and part of her wants to call for Killian. Most of her wants to call for Killian. 

But Emma’s mouth doesn’t appear to be working anymore, breathing a very particular challenge and Ingrid isn’t her mom. Ingrid isn’t even her officially adopted mom yet, that’s a work in progress and Emma’s fairly certain Liam did something that may help and there were suits involved and Killian stayed at their house that day while Ingrid baked something. 

Emma inhales sharply through her nose, Ingrid’s eyes already a little glazed over and staring at absolutely nothing and, if asked, she would have no idea why she does what she does next. Reaching out a finger, she pokes Ingrid in the shoulder, fingertip just barely skimming her skin.

Ingrid blinks, exactly, three times and sits up as normal as ever. 

She’s very clearly breathing. 

Emma might not be. And she’s worried about the state of her eyes again. 

“Did you get mud in here?” Ingrid asks, like that’s an entirely reasonable question and Emma is still frozen. Her mind can’t keep up with the moment or the feelings coursing through her veins, a mix of terror and surprise and happiness, plus whatever she may still be feeling for Killian and she still wishes Killian were in the kitchen with her. “Must have slipped,” Ingrid continues. She shakes her head, clearly unaware of what just happened and Emma is still doing her best to keep breathing. The pain in her side makes it clear it’s not working very well. 

“Emma,” Ingrid says lightly, leaning close enough that Emma jerks away out of instinct. That will eventually prove important. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong, sweetheart?” “Nothing,” Emma mumbles. The word comes out far too quickly though, less a word than just a jumble of syllables and—”I just...heard you fall.” “Because of the mud. Did you not even change your clothes yet?” Emma shakes her head. Her throat feels far too small and far too big, all at the same time. “No, I…” “Well, go back upstairs and make sure you wash behind your ears and—” Ingrid glances around, grabbing a handful of plastic bags and pushing them into Emma’s chest. Her fingers never touch Emma. “Just throw them in here. I think we’ve moved past salvageable on that front. I swear, the messes you and that Jones boy get into should be documented for—”

It annoys Emma that no one will finish their sentences. 

But the timer on the oven dings, wholly unnecessary given the pie that’s still on the kitchen floor and Emma’s annoyance ebbs as soon as she hears the first shout. That’s not the right word. It’s less of a shout and more like absolute and complete anguish. 

Her head snaps towards the open window, the same one that looks directly onto the Jones’ front lawn and she can barely make out the top of Killian’s hair. He’s kneeling on the ground, clearly not worried about the state of his jeans or the mud that’s likely working its way into the fibers, gripping something. 

It takes Emma exactly two seconds, one gasp and three blinks to realize what he’s holding — Liam, dead. 

The tears that land on her cheek feel like brands, hot and emotional and she’s moving before she realizes, dashing around Ingrid and across the street. A car honks at her when she runs in front of it, but Emma doesn’t slow down and Killian’s still yelling and Liam is very obviously dead.

He looks just like Ingrid. 

Or just like Ingrid did before Emma touched her. 

Because Emma touched Ingrid back to life. 

“I don’t know what happened,” Killian stammers, eyes already rimmed red and the shake in his voice seems to rattle down Emma’s spine. “He was there and it was fine and then I...he wasn’t and he just...he fell over and it was…”

He lets out another choked sob, falling towards Emma’s shoulders like those pesky magnets are involved again and the only thought in her head is to hold onto him, like she’s trying to keep him there. Permanently. 

She’s got no idea how long they stay there, and it’s impossible to tell Killian’s tears from the rest of the water in Emma’s shirt. She can hear Ingrid on the phone, quiet and slightly frantic and the ambulance arrives twenty minutes later. 

There’s no explanation. 

It makes no sense. Because Liam Jones was young and healthy and fully capable of keeping his brother pinned to his side so Emma could point the hose directly at his feet. A dead Liam Jones makes no sense.

And Emma doesn’t say much for the rest of the day, just keeps staring ahead and trying to breath, her fingers laced with Killian’s for however many hours it takes for his uncles to show up.

“Killian,” a man yells. He jogs up the front steps of the porch, an oversized coat hanging off his shoulders and something that may be several earrings glittering under the street lights. 

Emma dimly remembers Ingrid tearing through Liam’s paperwork that afternoon, trying to find someone to come watch Killian — and the result is two uncles, one named Nemo and the other Shakespeare, who’d spent most of their lives as part of a traveling acting troupe. They’re eccentric in a way that's fascinating at any time, let alone one that includes a dead Liam Jones, but Killian rushes towards the man who called his name. 

His whole body shakes with the force of his tears. 

And, for the first time since she moved to Storybrooke, Emma feels out of place sitting on that side of the street, not sure she understands the weight of wrong that seems intent on dragging her into the Earth. 

“It’s alright, my boy, it’s alright,” the man continues. He barely pays any attention to Emma when she moves, but the other one, wearing his own ridiculous coat that looks like it came directly from the Navy, casts her a speculative glance. 

She tries to smile. 

She does. But it’s been a seemingly endless day and they never rode their bikes down the hill. 

Emma can’t believe she’s worried about riding her bike down the hill. 

“I think it’s about time you got some rest, huh?” Ingrid asks. She’s standing in the doorframe, apron still tied around her waist from that afternoon, but it doesn’t smell like pie in the house. 

It smells like mud and ending and Emma is tired. That must be it. 

She nods, and for a few minutes it’s normal and almost good and the lingering taste of toothpaste in her mouth as she climbs into bed is almost comforting. But then it’s Ingrid stepping into her room and tugging the blankets up under her chin and the kiss she places on Emma’s forehead will linger for years. 

It’s the last thing she ever does.

Ingrid kisses Emma and her whole body goes taut, eyes getting that same glazed look as she falls directly onto her back. 

Emma doesn’t gasp. 

She blinks, opening her mouth and leaning over the side of the bed like this is one, long practical joke. Ingrid doesn’t move. And Emma has had enough experience with dead bodies in the last twelve hours to realize she’s facing her third. 

Or, well, second. Technically. 

“Ingrid,” Emma whispers, not expecting an answer, but frustrated all the same. She reaches her hand out, pushing and prodding and touching and none of it works. She uses two fingers and three, tries punching Ingrid’s shoulder, but nothing happens. 

Ingrid is dead. 

And Emma runs – directly across the street. 

The Navy man opens the door, a little starling with dark eyes and shaved head, but Emma can feel the tears on her cheeks again, shoulders shaking with the effort of running and figuring out what’s going on and he doesn’t object when she falls towards him. He wraps his arms around her middle and lets her cry. 

The rest is a whirlwind of phone calls and suitcases and arrangements that Emma is not capable of making. The state, however, is more than happy to do just that – a car set to pick her up after the funeral that will bring her to a group home in a different state and promises that everything will be fine, but Emma doesn’t trust much of anything anymore, particularly after Ingrid was alive. Again. 

And then dead. Again. 

None of it makes sense. 

But that’s for a different moment and a different day to understand and in this moment Emma can’t help but keep glancing across the cemetery towards Killian, fidgeting in a suit with splotchy cheeks and shoes she knows don’t fit. 

He nods towards the patch of grass in between the two services, hand stuffed in his pocket. His tie is slightly off center. 

The state had to buy Emma a black dress. 

“You’re leaving,” Killian whispers, not a question, but a statement of fact and Emma’s neck aches when she nods in response. 

“I’ll be back.” “I don’t want you to leave.” “I don’t want to either. I’m...I’m sorry.” Killian tilts his head, confusion settling into the space between his eyebrows. “Why?”

Emma doesn’t have an answer to that. She has suspicions. And she’ll figure them out later, but right then, nine years, six months, fifteen days and, approximately, ten hours old, Emma Swan only has the certainty that she loves Killian Jones more than anything in the world and she doesn’t want to walk away from him. 

So she takes a step forward. 

As first kisses go, it’s probably not the greatest. There are two funerals happening and those suspicions lingering in the back of Emma’s mind make the air around her feel heavy, but she’s only a little certain she won’t ever be back and the rest of the reasons don’t matter. 

She tilts her head up, a quick brush of her lips over Killian’s. He doesn’t pull back, but it’s nothing more than that, until his thumb brushes over the curve of Emma’s cheek, catching a tear on the pad and the smile he gives her when she pulls back echoes in her memories for the next twenty years. 

“Ms. Swan,” a state official says brusquely and it must be time. 

She nods another, still shaky and uncomfortable, but that may just be the state of her lungs and the ability of either one of her legs to hold up her weight. Killian hasn’t moved his thumb. He doesn’t appear to want to. 

“I’m going to see you again,” he says, a promise Emma tries desperately to believe. It doesn’t work, the guilt and the weight in the very center of her is too big and too much and nothing has made sense, so it only makes sense that she doesn’t respond. 

She will, eventually, regret that. 

Because Emma Swan doesn’t ever see Killian Jones again. 

At least not while they’re both alive. 

Emma wakes with a start, glancing around her room like she’ll see several different ghosts spying on her. It feels that way, has for the last three days when she first started having these dreams and really the whole thing can fuck right off. 

It hasn’t happened in years – nightmares about that day and that night and how cold Ingrid looked when the EMTs carried her out of the house, the same ones who’d showed up for Liam. 

The irony of that was not lost on a grown-up Emma. 

Because a grown-up Emma was also a vaguely jaded Emma and she stopped having nightmares about Killian Jones and death years ago. 

Her subconscious does not seem to care. 

Her subconscious seems intent on driving her insane. 

Emma never went back to Storybrooke. She left with that state worker, lips still tingling from a first kiss that in retrospect would have been adorable if there wasn’t so much goddamn death involved, but Emma barely had time to linger on that thought before she was shipped to the first of nearly a dozen group homes and foster homes and less-than-pleasant foster families. 

It went on that way for years nothing permanent and everything disappointing and Emma has kept a fairly wide berth between herself and lingering human contact. Because, well, here’s the thing; Emma Swan is not exactly normal. 

In that she’s decidedly unnormal. 

As unnormal as it is possible to be. 

Because Emma Swan can wake the dead. 

And kill them again. 

It takes Emma three houses and one birthday without anyone acknowledging it is her birthday to grow disillusioned enough that it somehow makes sense to start conducting a few macabre science experiments. She’d always had her suspicions after that night and things that timed up too well to be coincidence and Emma starts with a dead bird she finds on the side of the road. 

It’s gross. 

The whole thing is gross, but she can’t shake this feeling that something is wrong with her, some fundamental issue that makes her unlovable and unfixable and she’s got to do something or she’s positive she’s going to shake herself out of her own skin. 

So she starts with the bird and it flies away and something else falls out of a tree and it might be a raccoon, but Emma’s never seen a raccoon. So, she doesn’t spend too long thinking about it before she runs away. 

And the houses keep coming and the experiments keep being...gross and Emma realizes, when she’s twelve years, ten months, sixteen days and nine hours old, that there are some rules to all of this. 

They’re relatively simple, but they’re unbreakable. 

Touch a dead thing once, it comes back to life. Touch it again, dead, forever. Keep a dead thing alive for more than one minute and something else has to die in its place. 

It’s then that twelve-year-old Emma realizes magic never comes for free. There’s always some kind of price. And she never looks for Killian Jones. 

She never goes back home. 

She moves – house to house and family to family, in name at least, until she ages out of the system and scrapes together enough money waitressing to pay the rent on the shoebox of an apartment she can live in. She moves out of that apartment eventually too. 

The concept of roots kind of freaks Emma out. 

Everything kind of freaks Emma out. 

She assumes it’s because she’s wrong. 

At, like, the most basic level. 

She does a good job of hiding it. Most of the time. She’s grown up and the years have passed, as the years have a tendency to do, and she’d saved up enough from those first few waitressing jobs that it only makes sense to open up her own restaurant and Emma may hate roots, but she’s still kind of a sentimental loser and her restaurant is on the other side of the county from Storybrooke and only serves pie. 

Damn good pie, but only pie. 

It’s kitschy. It kind of balances out all the death in her life. 

Emma shakes her head, still sitting upright in bed and she’d left the TV in the corner of the room the night before. The news is on now, some perfectly coiffed broadcaster talking about a murder victim and reward for any information and Emma mutters a curse under her breath because she knows it’s only a matter of time until—

Her ringtone is loud enough that she’s momentarily concerned about the effect it will have on her wallpaper. 

Ruby is already talking by the time Emma swipes her thumb over the phone screen. 

“Em, Em, Em, Em, where are you? Are you home? Are you at work? Are you on your way to your very short commute from your home to your work?” “Are you breathing?” “No, this is more important than breathing.”

Emma slumps into the small mound of pillows behind her. There is only one thing Ruby would consider more important than breathing – money. 

The story of how Emma Swan meets Ruby Lucas is fraught with miscues and miscreants, but the important thing is that a perp Ruby was chasing over the goddamn top of buildings missed a step and suddenly fell directly into the alley behind Emma’s restaurant. 

Where she was taking the garbage out. 

He died rather instantly. And then...was less dead once he slammed his hand on Emma’s forearm. All of which Ruby saw. 

Emma managed to swat at his head before he took off back down the block, but the damage was done as they say. Not Ruby. Obviously. She claims it was fate and meant to be and, well, it’s much easier for a private investigator to figure out who killed murder victims when she’s got a partner who can wake them up and ask them. 

“What’s the gig?” Emma asks, mostly because sometimes she likes to use the wrong lingo on purpose if only to get Ruby to make that put-upon sigh. It works. 

“That doesn’t make any sense at all.” “Listen, Rubes, I’ve got, just like, a ton of mail order...orders waiting for me, so if this is going to take several thousand years then…” “Did you just call them mail order orders?” “That makes sense.” “Ehhhhh.” “Give me a break, I literally woke up five minutes before you called.” Ruby doesn’t sigh at that. She doesn’t say anything. That’s more concerning. “You just woke up?” she asks, a note of concern in her voice that probably shouldn’t feel as if it affects several of Emma’s internal organs. “Was...more weird dreams?” Emma makes a noncommittal noise – mostly to save face and partly because she’s been incredibly vague with Ruby about the dreams, only mentioning them when her partner pointed out how dead tired she looked during a trip to the morgue earlier this week. Ruby thought she was far funnier than she was. 

“Emma,” Ruby chides, drawing out her name until it feels like a reprimand and punishment. “C’mon, seriously. What are you even dreaming about?” “Nothing.” “Is your eye twitching?” “Excuse me?” “Your eye twitches when you lie,” Ruby says. “Like every single time. It may be your most giving tell, honestly.” “How many tells do you think I have?” “I know you have, at least, five. The eye twitch is the most obvious, but sometimes you play with your hair and you scrunch your nose. Plus that foot bobbing thing and, uh...that’s four, right?” Emma makes another noise, eyes flitting back towards the TV and she can’t shake the feeling she should know something about whatever the story is. “Damn,” Ruby huffs. “I can’t think of the last one. You know what, it doesn’t matter. You’re trying to distract me and it’s not working.” “Did it not?” Emma laughs. 

“No. Kind of. But no. Listen to me, do you want to get paid or not?” “I thought we already talked about all the mail order orders I have. There are just...a questionable number of rotten strawberries in my walk-in.” “It’s weird that you use rotten fruit.” Emma shrugs. And tugs her hair over her shoulder. “Cheaper that way,” she explains, not for the first time. “Plus, it’s not like I’m eating my own pie.” “Can’t have your pie and eat it too?”

“I don’t think that’s the colloquialism you were looking for. And you’re still getting sidetracked. Does this have something to do with the body they’re talking about on the news?”

“If the body on the news is offering a five-figure reward for any information regarding his untimely demise.” Emma doesn’t usually react to Ruby’s blunt viewpoint of the world and its numerous dead bodies, but she can’t suppress the shiver that moves her body when she hears his and something is wrong. 

“His? And did you say five figures?”

Ruby hums, sounding as if she’s already decided what to do with her share. “His. I promise that is the least interesting part. The interesting part is that he was found out by the old quarry on the other side of the county, you know right near the bottom of the—”

“Hill,” Emma finishes. “The bottom of the hill. That’s…” Her vision swims, memories and moments attacking from every angle until she has to glance at her arms to make sure she’s not sporting inexplicable bruises from the past. She’s not. 

Magic only goes so far, it seems. 

“Yeah,” Ruby says, confusion obvious in all four letters. “That’s exactly right. They say it looked pretty bad. Some kind of something gone wrong, but the town isn’t happy about it and they don’t like the limelight and the allusions that they’re a hotbed for murder so I guess the mayor’s offered up a bunch of money and—” “—What was the guy’s name?” “What?” “The guy,” Emma repeats, and her voice scratches on the words. “You said it was a guy right? At the bottom of the hill? In Storybrooke?” Silence. 

There’s silence on the other end of the phone. 

And Emma’s head snaps back towards the TV when they finish their report because services for the deceased are being held tomorrow and— “His name’s, well, it was, I guess, his name was Killian Jones,” Ruby says, and Emma doesn’t really hear the rest of it. 

She barely realizes she’s agreed to any of this until the local news ends, switches over to even crappier daytime programming and Emma has no idea how she gets through the day. She bakes. That’s kind of her thing. 

She bakes and comes up with ridiculous recipes and flavor combinations and the customers are happy and Ruby announces I’ll see you tomorrow when she slams the door closed behind her nearly ten hours after it feels as if the world has ended. 

Killian Jones is dead. 

And Emma can’t seem to catch her breath. 

Ruby’s standing outside her car the next morning, two cups of coffee in her hand and an expectant smile on her face. “Your eye is twitching,” she says conversationally, handing Emma what better be a latte. It’s not. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Sure I don’t. I’m just paid to observe and critique—” “—No one is paying you to critique.” “Whatever,” Ruby shrugs, swinging open the passenger side door of Emma’s car. “Why the face about this place?” “I will tell you it’s less threatening when you rhyme.” Ruby scowls. “That was not intentional and mostly the fault of the limits of the English language. You lived there at one point, didn’t you?”

“Were you looking me up last night?” Emma balks, and her hand is shaking so hard it’s difficult to move the gear shift. 

“Please, don’t insult me like that. I looked you up as soon as I met you.” Emma jerks her head around, only to find Ruby grinning at her like several metaphorical cats. “Then why the third degree?” “There are no degrees here. There’s friendly curiosity, particularly when it comes to the state of your body and your ability to do what we’re going here to do.” “I’m fine.” The lie is honestly almost offensive. Emma made sixteen pies the day before. One had five different kinds of berries in it. She tested a new crust recipe she’s been thinking about for years. 

Literally. Years. 

She’s so stressed out she’s not sure she even shut her eyes the night before. 

And that’s not the right word at all. 

She’s goodman terrified. 

She can’t believe Killian is dead. 

Ruby throws her whole head back when she laughs, the sound filling the entire car and lingering on air molecules. “God, that was horrible,” she mutters. “Ok, let’s try it again. You know this guy?” “Small town.” “Not an answer.” “I knew him.” “In a personal sense?”

“Oh my God, Ruby,” Emma groans, and she can’t slump down in the seat while she’s driving. It’s definitely the most unfortunate thing that’s happened to her all day. She can’t imagine that will stay the same going forward. “I left Storybrooke when I was nine!”

“Yuh huh, yuh huh, yuh huh. Ok. So...what is it, childhood sweetheart?” “You know me better than that.” “I thought I did until I saw the explosion in your kitchen yesterday and now I’m starting to think you and our body were a little—” “—Can we not call him a body,” Emma snaps, knuckles going white when she grips the steering wheel too tight. 

Ruby blinks. “Still sweet on him?”

“I was nine.” “That’s not an answer.” “No,” Emma says, and she doesn’t expect that to hurt nearly as much as it does. That’s insane. This whole thing is insane. She wrote down conversational ideas for her sixty seconds with Killian somewhere around four in the morning. 

Every one was worse than the last. 

“No?” Ruby echoes. “You should tell that to your right arm.” Emma groans, not taking her eyes off the road because she can feel her arm shaking against her side. Her elbow keeps digging into her rib. “This is going to be fine,” Emma mumbles. Ruby does not look convinced. 

That’s probably for the best since Emma can’t control her limbs – or her mind. 

And she might not be nine years old anymore, but she’s fairly certain part of her never really stopped loving Killian Jones and the rest of her never forgot Killian Jones and they don’t hit any traffic on their way to Storybrooke. 

She figures that’s some kind of sign. 

They come up with some excuse for the funeral director – a portly man Emma doesn’t recognize who doesn’t recognize Emma because she hasn’t been in Storybrooke in nearly twenty years – and he directs them towards the viewing parlor. 

The whole thing is sterile and unfeeling and Emma keeps exhaling dramatically. 

“They think he was into some shady stuff you know,” the man says, voice dropping low like he’s sharing secrets with them. Ruby arches an eyebrow. 

“That so?” “Oh yeah, yeah, very messy crime scene. Guess he came out on the short end.” Emma's stomach turns, mouth dropping open. “And no one else was found there? Just Kill—Mr. Jones? He was the only victim?” “You think the police are hiding more dead bodies?” “That’s not what I said.” “What she means,” Ruby says, stepping in between the two of them before Emma can throw the first punch, “is that it seems strange that there would be a sign of struggle and nothing else. No other evidence of other people around?” The funeral director does not look impressed. “That’s not my area,” he shrugs. “All I know is there’s a reward and the mayor’s going crazy trying to keep the cameras out of here and the kid’s uncles are besides themselves.” Emma has to count to ten in her head to make sure her exhale doesn’t fly out of her. Ruby’s gaze flashes her direction. “Right,” she says. “Well, if you don’t mind…”

There are a few more words exchanged – and possibly a few well-placed bills, but Emma ignores all of that, taking in the scene and there’s an actual sign at the far end of the room. 

In Loving Memory of Killian Jones. 

Emma drags her hand over her face, blinking back whatever has suddenly appeared in her eyes and she resolutely refuses to believe they’re tears. 

She can’t believe he’s dead. 

“Em,” Ruby calls. “We’re uh...we’ve only got a couple minutes here.”

Emma nods brusquely, avoiding the slightly accusatory stare of the funeral director and—”What if I did this on my own?” 

“What?” “My own. Just...there’s, you know, years and a familiarity there and he’s...well, it may be weird to wake him up and stun him like that.” Ruby’s eyebrows set several different records for height and movement. “You think we’re going to stun him? And did you say wake him up? He’s not asleep, Em.” “I know, I know, but...just...I think this is for the best.” “Yuh huh.” “You keep saying that.” “That’s because I can’t figure out another string of words to use in this situation. You know you can’t stay in there long.” “I know.” “You’ve got sixty seconds to figure out who killed this guy.”

Emma shivers. And Ruby notices. Always. Perpetually. Infuriatingly. “I know,” Emma says again. “Trust me, it’s...I’ll be in and out and we’ll be collecting money in no time.” “Announce that a little louder.” Emma sighs, Ruby staring at her like she’s taking stock or emotional inventory. It seems to last forever and Emma does her best to keep her breathing even when Ruby leans around her to open the viewing room door. 

“Sixty seconds,” she repeats. “That’s it.” “Aye aye.”

The door sounds impossibly loud when it closes behind Emma, another sound that makes her jump and sigh and she’s an absolute disaster. Or at least she thought she was until she turned and saw the coffin and then it feels a little like melting and a bit like freezing and it’s a strange combination, particularly when she’s also fairly certain her lungs have disappeared entirely. 

She squeezes her eyes closed, desperate for some trace of confidence or courage. It’s disappointing when she can’t find any. 

“C’mon, Swan,” she mumbles, half to herself and half to the person on the other side of the room because that’s exactly what the person on the other side of the room would say to her.

Emma takes a step forward, wobbly at best and petrified at worst, lifting the coffin lid, and her lungs reappear in a miracle of modern science as soon as her eyes land on him. 

“Oh,” Emma breathes, and that’s about all there is to it. 

He’s wearing a suit, hair even longer than it was when he was ten years old. It curls slightly, just behind his ears, and there’s a dusting of scruff on his face. His hand is folded over his chest, only one hand, making his jacket twist slightly and Emma feels as if her throat is closing. 

He’s got an earring in one ear. 

It makes her laugh. 

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles. “You look like a pirate.”

She closes her eyes again when he doesn’t answer – she refuses to acknowledge why he doesn’t answer, but she’s got a job and justice needs to be served or something. Ruby probably has several dozen new pairs of shoes she’s already preordered. 

Bobbing on her feet as soon as she’s within arms-length of the coffin, Emma shimmies her shoulders, like that will help shake free the nerves clinging to the base of her spine. Her lips feel far too dry, breathing far too erratic, but she’s on limited time and she’s got to touch him. 

She’s got no idea where to touch him. 

She scans his face, trying to find a spot that isn’t too forward or too weird and her eyes land on the scar on his cheek – a souvenir of a race down the hill and faulty brakes and Liam had been white as a sheet when they came home with Emma’s blood-stained sweatshirt pressed against Killian’s cheek. 

“Ok,” she nods, and talking to herself is definitely a sign of impending insanity, but she kind of hopes she’s already gone insane and—

He moves far quicker than she expected. 

Emma’s no more than brushed her fingertips over the curve of his cheek than he’s throwing his arm out in the minimal space between them, his wrist colliding painfully with her stomach. She stumbles backwards, barely keeping her balance and mumbling a string of curses under her breath and when she looks up he’s brandishing a chair at her. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Killian shouts, and Emma does her best to quiet him without taking a rogue chair to the side of her legs. 

“Listen, listen, listen. Do you remember when you were a kid there was a girl who lived across the street from you?” He doesn’t immediately put the chair down. He licks his lips instead. And the tips of his ears go red. “Swan?”

Emma nods, ignoring the lump of everything in the back of her throat at her sound of her own name. “Hi.” “Hi? Did you just say hi? What are you doing here?” “I’m uh...how much do you remember of, like, the last seventy-two hours?” Killian makes a face, an expression that does something particular to Emma’s heart and soul and whatever, tilting his head and his eyes widen when he notices the coffin he just leapt out of. “Oh, shit. Is that…” “Yeah,” Emma says. “So, uh. I don’t have a lot of time here.” “How much time is not a lot of time? God, are you some kind of angel? Is that what’s happening? Because if that’s what’s happening, then that’s a really twisted trick to show me you when I’m dead and—” “—No, no, I’m really here.” She ignores most of that sentence too. She’ll have the rest of her life to linger on what those words, maybe, mean. “But, um, we’re wasting time.” “To?” “Have you tell me who killed you.” Killian blinks – far too quickly to be anything except entirely distracting, and Emma wishes he wouldn’t because she’d really like to see his eyes and she’s almost pleased to realize her memories of his eyes have remained perfect for the last two decades. “Are you a cop?” 

“No, but, Killian, you’re really cutting into your time here. It’s like...twenty seconds now.” “What?” “Killian!” His answering smile is blinding. That’s the only word Emma can come up with. It makes her breath catch and her shoulders sag, as if all the worries and fears and anxieties of the world have disappeared. At least for a moment. 

“It’s really good to see you, Swan,” he says, taking a step towards her and Emma backs up on instinct. That gives him, visible, pause. “I don’t know who killed me.” “What?” “I have no idea who killed me. It was an arrangement and—that’s not important, but I don’t know how it happened. I think I had a dream about some kind of blade but—” He cuts himself off when he twists the wrong way, gritting his teeth when his gaze falls on the blunt end of his left arm. “Holy shit,” Killian mumbles. “That’s...shit did I bleed out somewhere?”

“I don’t know,” Emma admits. “That’s why I’m here.” “To find out why I died?” She nods. “And you’re not an angel?” She shakes her head. “Huh, well I’m sorry to disappoint, Swan, but I’ve got no idea. Does that send me directly to hell or something?” “I’m really not an angel.” Killian hums, rocking towards her and ignoring whatever Emma’s eyes do at that. “So, uh...what happens now? I was dead, wasn’t I?” “Yeah. Um...well, I have to touch you and you’ll be dead again.” “You have to touch me?” “Them’s the rules.” He chuckles, the smile on his face her smile and Emma’s a greedy jerk. She wrings her hands together. That’s probably the fifth tell. “You know,” she mutters. “When I was a kid...I was...you were my first kiss.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” “You were my first kiss too,” Killian says. “And you’ve got to touch me so I die again?” “Please don’t say it like that.” There’s more laughter and they’re definitely in the final seconds and Emma tilts her head up as soon as Killian’s incredibly shiny dress shoes threaten to brush against her flats. “No better way to go out then to go out kissing, huh?” “Oh my God.” “Admit it, Swan, that was funny.” “It was not.” “You’re arguing with a dead man.” She rolls her eyes, but her stomach doesn’t get the memo about jokes and humor and Killian mumbles hey under his breath. “Missed the mark, didn’t I? You don’t…” His ears are still tinged red, a hand reaching behind his back to tug at the hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s not a requirement, Swan. The kissing, I mean. Just felt...symmetrical.” “You were always way better at math than me.” Killian grins. “So?”

And for half a breath, Emma is going to do it. She’s going to kiss him and it’ll be something, in some kind of way that may result in a complete and total mental breakdown, because Killian’s already leaning towards her and she really can’t cope with the cut of that suit, but that seems a little morbid too and Emma pulls her lips back behind her teeth. 

“Ah,” Killian says, a note of disappointment in his voice that does not make sense for a man who’s standing a few feet away from his own coffin. “That’s fine, Swan.”

He’s called her Swan more in the last forty-five seconds than he did in the last forty-five days they saw each other. 

Emma’s not totally convinced he isn’t doing it on purpose. 

“What if...you didn’t have to be dead?” Killian scoffs. “That’d be ideal, honestly. Is that an option?”

The objection sits heavy on Emma’s tongue, the certainty that the rules are the rules and there’s no way to break them, but he’s standing there and smiling at her and she takes a step back before she can consider anything except how much she wants Killian Jones to be alive. 

With her. 

Emma hears the timer on her phone go off. Her sixty seconds are up. And Killian Jones is still alive, smiling at her.