#leather jackets shouldn’t be as difficult to draw and color as they are what the heck??

[kartsie]

Going back through art I never finished/posted and finding some gems

[3mmafr0st]

Remember Me Part 3

Previous Part <-------> Next Part

Bucky Barnes x Reader Summary: Y/N has escaped, but where does she go from here?  Word Count: 1.5k (Sorry this ones a little short)

Warnings: Homelessness, a striking lack of Bucky, but soon my friends, soon, ANGST, reader not understanding computers very well A/N: Im apologizing for the lack of smut in this part, but I really like following the canon

I was woken up abruptly by a quick jab to the ribs, quickly waking up and going into action. I grabbed the object and twisted it away.

“Hey, I’m not looking for a fight here, just wanted to make sure that you didn’t overdose on whatever you were on last night.” I looked up to see the older man that had talked to me the night before. He was in his forties and dirty looking, but had kind eyes, shielded by a pair of small glasses. “Can’t have the cops pokin’ around here, bad for everyone.” I got up from the wet grass, wiping myself off from anything that may have gotten on me. 

“For the record, I wasn’t high.”

“Could have fooled me.” I shook my head, rolling my eyes. He couldn’t have understood the intensity of the situation that I was in. Hydra was probably after me, and I had no idea where to go or what to do about it.

I couldn’t help but think about Bucky, what happened to him and where he was right now. He had to have gotten out, right? He was a better agent than I was, simply in physicality. He had the capability to escape, we would find each other. But how had they found us out? There must have been some sort of suspicion, something that tipped the higher ups off about what we were going to do. How could I have been so careless to allow someone to find out the plan. But that was the past now, I had to focus on what happens next. 

“Where’s the closest library?”

I walked down the sidewalk toward the library, trying my best to blend in, looking inconspicuous against the crowd. I was lucky enough that the closest library was only two blocks away, I was already a little tired from last night with everything that happened. 

I looked to my left, and sure enough, there was a quaint little library that looked cozy. I shook the handle and pushed at the door, thankful that it was open earlier than most places. 

The walls were covered in children’s drawings. I knew I shouldn’t be wasting time, but the entire thing was so uncanny, so unabashedly civilian, something I hadn’t experienced in who knows how long.  At the small front desk sat a woman, maybe in her thirties with a small name tag.

“Hello miss, anything I could help you with today?” She smiled sweetly at me, welcoming me into the library. 

“Actually, do you guys have computers that the public can use?”

“Yes, they’re right over in the corner.”

“Thank you, also, do you happen to have some paper and something to write with?” She turned around, picking some paper and a pen up and handing it to me. I returned her smile and headed over to the out of date computers sitting at the back of the room. 

I turned the old thing on, a sound a little bit like music coming out of the speakers as it booted up. It was then that I remembered that although I’ve shoved a flash drive in one of these and let things happen until it said “COMPLETE,” I wasn’t too familiar with computers .  Sure I had wanted to work with those beautiful machines, simply being left alone with one for an hour with a manual and figuring out all of it’s secrets. I had no idea what in me was pushing me so much towards them, but it was there.

Once the machine turned on, I looked at the display. Luckily, it wasn’t too difficult to figure out, there were only two little icons on the screen, and the one that looked like a little trash can was probably not what I wanted. The other was a little colorful circle called “Chrome.” Personally, I didn't see what was chrome about it but I clicked it, and a screen popped up. The word “Google'' was written across the middle of the screen along with a small bar with a picture of a magnifying glass at the left side. 

It took me a minute, but I figured out what I needed to do. The first thing that I could think of to search for was Bucky. I typed his name into the search bar and pressed enter, and tons of results flooded the screen.

The problem was that I didn’t know any of the concrete facts about him. I knew that his name was Bucky, and how he was sweet and funny even though we’ve both been through so much, but I didn’t know his last name, or when he was born, or even how old he was. 

There was a little tab called images that made the most sense to me. If I could find a picture of him in the pool of “Bucky”s that existed in the world, I could find out who he was, and then hopefully, figure out who I was from there. There were many pictures, at first it was overwhelming, but as I scrolled slightly, I found it, found him. 

He looked younger, more innocent, with a short haircut and a blue leather jacket that made me swoon a little bit. He looked different, but I couldn’t mistake those beautiful blue eyes. I clicked on the picture, which led me to a sight called Wikipedia, with his photo in the corner. 

“James Buchanan Barnes, born on March 10th, 1917, was a member of the Howling commandos and best friend to Steve Rogers (Captain America).”

I continued reading, writing down the important bits , how he was tested on by HYDRA way back in 1943, and how he was supposedly killed after falling from a train. But he couldn’t have died, I didn’t know him back then, I knew him now. 

The name Steve Rogers continuously popped up, so I clicked on it, and was flooded with even more information. Once I had everything I had to know written down after the rabbit hole I had been down, I turned to the librarian to ask her one last question.

“Do you think you could give me directions to Avengers Tower?”

I would have preferred to take a cab but I couldn't without money, so walking 20 blocks was my only option. The tower was huge, and I found it much too easy to walk right in. There were people walking and sitting at tables in the lobby, working at filling out paperwork. I went up to the desk, not allowing them to get a word in before I could say what I needed to. 

“I need to speak with Steve Rogers.”

“Ma’am, if you just give us a moment, we can help you.”

“No, you don’t understand, everyone here is in danger, Bucky is in danger.” A man in the back stood up, walking towards me to get a better look at me. His hair was graying and his glasses filled up most of his face. He looked pale, as if he had just seen a ghost. 

“Y/N?”

“Get this shit away from me! I told you, I need to talk to Steve Rogers, he’s the only one who will understand.”

“Y/N, I know you don’t remember but we need to do some tests.”

“Please, just get me in touch with him!”

The lab, I’ll admit, was friendlier than most that I had been in. The room was filled with computers and scientific equipment that I really wanted to go and play with for some Rita’s on. There were nodes stuck to my forehead that were oddly gentle, but I still didn’t like the feeling.There was a small TV connected to the ceiling showing the news. A woman’s voice was heard over the mess that was being filmed. 

“In breaking news today, wanted fugitive from S.H.I.E.L.D., Captain America, has been spotted in Washington D.C. battling with a masked stranger in the middle of the highway. “

I  looked to the screen and immediately recognized him, It was Bucky, my Bucky, fighting it out with Steve Rogers. He had taken off his goggles, the two of them fighting with an intensity that I had never seen before. The only person that could match Bucky in a fight like that was me, so this was damn impressive. 

“There! There he is, you need to get me to Washington D.C!”

“Y/N, you need to calm down, we need to help you first.” A second man began to get near me, pulling the leg of my pants up, exposing the metallic nature of my left leg. I panicked and kicked the man away, sending him across the room. 

“I don’t need help, I need to get to Washington D.C., and how the hell do you know my name?” I pushed the man off of me and got up, trying to get out of the lab. I had almost made it out of the door when I felt a sharp pain in my neck. I immediately felt woozy, falling back into the chair closest to me.

“It’s gonna be ok, Stats, I’m gonna take care of you,” The graying man from earlier said, helping me back into the lab chair from earlier with music less resistance than before. My vision got spotty, as his wistful, almost bittersweet facial expression was the last thing I saw before total blackness.

[alixanonymous]

How A Demon Commissions An Angel ~ A Daminette FanFic ~ Chapter 8: A Review Of Friendships

From the phone of Marinette Dupain-Cheng:

Chat Name: Mr. Postscript

Me: We’re getting nowhere with this!!!

Mr. Postscript: You don’t say…

Me: Your sarcasm isn’t helping.

Mr. Postscript: Well, it certainly can’t be hurting our progress seeing as we aren’t making any.

Me: Ughhhhh, Damian!!! 

Mr. Postscript: What do you want me to do? It’s not my fault Todd isn’t exactly the sentimental type! Our only “inside jokes” are our attempts on the other’s life.

Me: Right. 

Me: I just don’t see how we can get Grayson’s piece planned out so quickly and yet still not have even a single detail for Jasons besides knowing it needs to be a leather jacket!

Mr. Postscript: And that it won’t have any pockets.

Me: Not. Helping.

Me: Or happening. 

Mr. Postscript: I don’t know what to say then.

Mr. Postscript: Grayson is quite possibly the easiest person on the planet to please alright? He’s the most emotional in the family and would probably always have been the easiest to design for.

Mr. Postscript: Todd, on the other hand, is difficult, in all meanings of the words.

Me: What do you mean by that?

Mr. Postscript: If you knew them, you’d see what I mean.

Mr. Postscript: It’s like this, if Grayson is the most annoyingly cheery and friendly person, then Todd would be his opposite: frustratingly angry and antagonistic.

Me: Huh, he didn’t seem like it when we talked.

Mr. Postscript: Need I remind you that you had a short exchange on a stolen phone?

Me: Right, sorry.

Me: But I get the comparison!

Me: Grayson = Brightly colored Xmas sweater Jason = Leather biker jacket worn by someone with a chip on his shoulder

Mr. Postscript: An apt description.

Me: He did seem to care about you though… 

Me: He wants you to stay, they all do.

Mr. Postscript: I assure you that was news to me.

Me: Did you think they didn’t?

Mr. Postscript: I don’t know what I thought. Our family has never been particularly open with our feelings.

Me: Even Grayson? You say he’s emotional right?

Mr. Postscript: It’s hard to explain.

Me: Wanna try?

Mr. Postscript: Didn’t we just have a conversation about my complicated relationships? Do you really want to do this again so soon?

Me: I’m good to go. It’s really about if you want to.  

Me: I’m not going to push, Damian. That’s not what I’m trying to do.

Mr. Postscript: What are you trying to do?

Me: I don’t know, understand? Listen? Like I told your brother, I do think of you as a friend. 

Me: This doesn’t all have to be one long give and take exchange.

Mr. Postscript: Right.  

Mr. Postscript: So we’re doing this.

Me: Not if you don’t want to!

Mr. Postscript: Stop the indecisiveness and concern, I’ve agreed alright!

Me: If you’re sure… 

Mr. Postscript: Unlike you, I’m not in the habit of doing things I don’t want to.

Me: Whoa! 

Me: Low blow! Foul!

Me: Foul I say!

Mr. Postscript: Sorry? 

Mr. Postscript: I can’t tell if you’re kidding….

Me: I am! :)

Mr. Postscript: … 

Mr. Postscript: You’re a dork.

Me: No, I’m an angel. You said so yourself!

Mr. Postscript: I’m regretting that now… 

Me: Mhmmm, sure….

Mr. Postscript: Can we get back to my complicated family now?

Me: Great idea.

Mr. Postscript: Wait a moment.

Mr. Postscript: Was this all an attempt at reverse psychology?

Me: Well…

Me: If it was, I’d say it worked, wouldn’t you?

Mr. Postscript: … 

Mr. Postscript: You unnerve me sometimes.

Me: Really, why?

Mr. Postscript: You always seem to have the upperhand. I find myself often saying things I normally never would around you.

Me: I feel the same most of the time.

Me: I wish I could talk to my classmates the way I talk to you. 

Mr. Postscript: Right, well I’m glad to see the feeling is mutual.

Mr. Postscript: Now as for my family…

Me: Okay, I’m listening.

Mr. Postscript: Right, well.

Mr. Postscript: Like I said, feelings aren’t addressed much in our family.

Mr. Postscript: It wasn’t like that in my mother’s family either I suppose.

Mr. Postscript: It’s hard to explain but I assume it’s because they’ve all been together longer.

Mr. Postscript: I don’t know. It’s like my family is talking and I’ll be right there and it’s like I’m only getting half the conversation. My brothers, they understand each other in a way I can’t seem to. 

Mr. Postscript: I suppose it’s because they know each other’s histories or maybe it’s just because they’re better at understanding people than I am. What do people call it, reading between the lines?

Mr. Postscript: They may not get along together all the time but they can communicate well enough. I can’t seem to figure out when something’s a joke or not. 

Mr. Postscript: It’s difficult to describe.

Mr. Postscript: Like you pointed out before, I also have trouble refraining from making assumptions and those do tend to lead me to the wrong conclusions a lot of the time as well. 

Mr. Postscript: Grayson is the best at explaining things. I suppose it wouldn’t be wrong to say he is the most emotionally equipped of all of us.

Mr. Postscript: Except Alfred. Alfred surpasses all of us.

Me: Who’s Alfred?

Mr. Postscript: Our butler, but don’t let the title fool you. He’s family. He helped me apologize to you actually.

Me: Oh, that’s great. It seems like you have some allies at least, not to make it sound like a war or anything.

Mr. Postscript: That’s the problem: I shouldn’t need help. I hate feeling like a child who can’t understand when the adults are talking. I’m still on the outside even though that’s exactly where I started.

Me: Besides the communication issue, is there anything else that makes you feel like an outsider? Anything they do? Is that why you call by their last names?

Mr. Postscript: None of it’s intentional mind you. I am an outsider and all of their inside jokes and how they understand each other so well simply serves to remind me of that. I bet if I did start calling them their first names they would make a big deal about it, so no point in starting now.

Mr. Postscript: I mean all of it is one big reminder that even if I’m his only real son, he chose them and they chose this life. They’re his family and I’m the son he never knew existed that got dumped at his feet when I was ten. Neither of us had a choice in the matter. 

Me: What about now? Does he choose to acknowledge you as a son now?

Mr. Postscript: Yes, although I keep proving to be more difficult than his other children despite my best efforts.

Me: That wasn’t your choice right? It’s cultural differences, not to mention that they’re all older.

Mr. Postscript: No but it’s my fault I haven’t managed the distance yet.

Me: It sounds like you didn’t have much of a choice in that matter either, how much you could change.

Mr. Postscript: Where are you going with all of this?

Me: What choices do you get to make, Damian? What do you want?

Mr. Postscript: I already told you, I want my father to be proud of me.

Me: So to do that you have to change? Be more like your brothers?

Mr. Postscript: I mean I must get better, grow, improve.

Me: Because you want your father to be proud of you, so you can be part of the family he had before you joined?

Me: Or because you want that for yourself?

Mr. Postscript: Can it not be all of the above?

Me: What’s the main reason? What drives you?

Mr. Postscript: Look, I don’t think you understand the situation, not everything relates to your own unfortunate situation okay? Can we just get back to Todd’s jacket?

Me: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push.

Me: I know I can be a bit preoccupied with my own situation but the thing is, Damian, I know what it’s like to need other people's validation okay? It’s not good and it’s not healthy.

Mr. Postscript: My father is nothing like your pathetic peers. He only wants what’s best for me.

Me: I think that’s true, but how can he know what that is when all you want is to please him?

Me: Look, it’s not my place to tell you what you want and should want but it seems like you haven’t had a lot of choices in your life and I’d hate to see you only continue to do what other people expect you to.

Mr. Postscript: I don’t feel like talking more about this right now. I need some time to think on the situation. 

Mr. Postscript: Now can we get back to work on Todd’s jacket seeing as we’ve been talking for hours and have managed practically zero progress?

Me: Right, okay..

Me: Let’s start back at the simple stuff then: What does he like to do?

Mr. Postscript: Besides piss people off?

Me: … 

Me: Yes, Damian, besides that.

Mr. Postscript: Nothing comes to mind.

Me: Any hobbies? Interests?

Mr. Postscript: Well, he likes guns.

Me: Guns?!

Mr. Postscript: Yes.

Me: … 

Me: Like collecting guns?

Mr. Postscript: You could say that.

Me: Okay, well that’s a start.

Me: I could embroider some guns onto the front of the jacket or on the labels as a smaller detail? Would that work? I think it’d be pretty cool.

Mr. Postscript: It’s a bit difficult for me to picture but it sounds like a good idea, fitting at the very least. It might help seeing it drawn out first.

Me: Okay, well there we go. Somewhere to begin at least. Now, you said he likes the colors red and black right? Do you want the jacket to be one of those?

Mr. Postscript: Yes, that would be preferable.

Me: Give me a minute to think… 

Me: So how about this? I think gold thread would be best for the stitching and then I’d recommend using black for the body so the designs will show up better. If you want, I could also use red fabric to line the inside of the jacket and wait, you wanted this to have a hood too right? I could use red fabric for the inside of that too.

Mr. Postscript: … 

Mr. Postscript: All of that sounds fitting, especially the red lining in the hood. I definitely approve the color placement..

Me: Great!

Me: I think that’s actually enough for me to draw up some designs with a few different styles of the jacket itself. 

Me: Is there any way you could send me a picture of the kind of gun you’d want me to use as a model? I have no clue about that kind of thing… 

Mr. Postscript: I can do that. He has two favorites so perhaps one on each side?

Me: Right, two favorite guns…  sounds good. Symmetrical too.

Me: So, do you want to add any wording? I could make it subtle if he’s not the sentimental type, add it on with the embroidery.

Mr. Postscript: Hm, how about “Carpe Diem”? One word on the barrel of each gun.

Me: “Seize the day”? I love it. 

Me: Oh, I can just picture it, it’ll look so good in gold thread on the black leather!

Mr. Postscript: Just to clarify, you won’t be using real leather, right?

Me: Of course not! I would never!

Mr. Postscript: Good, that’s good to hear. 

Mr. Postscript: I’m actually vegan.

Me: Oh cool!

Mr. Postscript: Have you ever considered the lifestyle? It has many benefits, especially environmental.

Me: No, but I do try to limit my meat intake. Dairy is a little harder since we live in a bakery.

Mr. Postscript: Ah, I see.

Me: What made you decide to go vegan? Environmental reasons?

Mr. Postscript: Actually, I acquired a pet cow.

Me: You have a pet cow?!!!

Mr. Postscript: Yes. 

Mr. Postscript: Would you like to see pictures?

Me: Yes!

Mr. Postscript: They’re on my computer so I’ll email them later.

Me: Cool! What’s their name?

Mr. Postscript: … 

Mr. Postscript: It’s B.C.

Me: Damian, please tell me you did not just give your cow an alias!

Mr. Postscript: Of course not, we call her that for short.

Me: Then what’s B.C. stand for?

Mr. Postscript: …  

Mr. Postscript: Before Christmas

Me: Before Christmas? Really? Why???

Mr. Postscript: She was an early Christmas present.

Me: So you decided to name her Before Christmas?

Mr. Postscript: I was a child and uncreative.

Me: Well, as long as you admit it… 

Mr. Postscript: Shouldn’t we get back to the commission? We’re almost out of time.

Me: Okay, I still don’t buy that name though so don’t think you got away with anything.

Mr. Postscript: I never do around you.

Me: So, back to the commission. As soon as you send me those pictures of the guns, I’ll have enough to do the first sketches. Then all we’ll have left will be Drake’s sweater, right?

Mr. Postscript: Yes, everything seems on track. Do you want to tackle Drake’s sweater tomorrow, same time?

Me: Sorry, I’m not able to tomorrow.

Mr. Postscript: Oh?

Me: Yeah, I’m meeting my class for an outing at the park after school.

Mr. Postscript: You still do those kinds of things?

Me: When I can.

Mr. Postscript: Why would you do that?

Me: I don’t know maybe because I don’t like being alone all the time if I can help it?

Mr. Postscript: It’s better to be alone than unappreciated.

Me: Can you honestly say you believe that, after everything you told me about your family?

Mr. Postscript: That’s different and you know it.

Me: Of course it is.

Me: Look, all I know is I’m trying my best to make things work. Sometimes things aren’t as simple as cutting all ties. Is it so wrong of me to try and salvage what I can of my friendships?

Mr. Postscript: No, it’s not. I didn’t mean to judge. 

Mr. Postscript: I just hate seeing you having to crawl after them. It doesn’t seem like they're doing much to try and salvage anything.

Me: Look, Damian, I know I asked you to help me not be taken advantage of but I don’t want to completely lose faith in everyone okay? I don’t want to live like that, to always be so pessimistic. So just this once, can you let me look on the brightside? Please?

Mr. Postscript: Very well. We can message the day after tomorrow.

Me: Thank you.

Me: Oh and I’m almost done with the sketches for Grayson’s sweater so check your email sometime tomorrow okay and let me know which one you like best!

Mr. Postscript: I will.

Me: Great! Goodnight, Damian!

Mr. Postscript: Night, angel.

Google Search History 

Tacky Christmas Sweaters

Who started making tacky xmas sweaters?

Audrey Bourgeois on tacky christmas sweaters

Gotham

Robin Robin Batman

Gotham Superheroes

Gotham Vigilantes

Gotham Villains

Does it mean anything if a boy calls you angel?

How to not read too much into things

How to spot red flags

Where’s the barrel of a gun?

Gotham Gun Laws

Gotham Crime Rate

Chat Name: Alya

Me: Hey, I’m here! Where are you guys?

Alya: We’re in line getting popcorn.

Me: At the park?

Alya: No, at the movie theater… 

Me: What?

Me: No, let me guess: Lila decided at the last minute that she wanted to see a movie and no one thought to tell me.

Alya: That’s not what happened! You always jump to blame Lila!

Me: No, then I guess Lila said she was going to let me know and conveniently forgot?

Alya: It’s not her fault Marinette. She gets memory lapses.

Me: Then why did she offer to be the one to tell me? Or rather why did you let her?

Alya: I’m sorry, okay! I forgot for a second. 

Alya: Look, the movie’s going to start soon but we can hang out this weekend! Just the two of us if you want.

Me: I’m busy.

Alya: You’re always busy these days. 

Me: Well, I wasn’t today or at least I made sure not to be.

Me: You should go. The movie’s starting. 

Chat Name: Mr. Postscript

Me: Well, it turns out I am free to talk today after all.

Mr. Postscript: What happened?

Me: Why should I say? I don’t need you to me “I told you so.” I got it, okay? 

Me: You were right.

Mr. Postscript: I wish I wasn’t.

Me: Really? 

Me: You love being right.

Mr. Postscript: No, I merely detest being wrong.

Me: … really?

Mr. Postscript: Okay, I admit I do find some satisfaction in being acknowledged for my superior intellect, but I find none in this case, not when it comes at my friend's expense.

Me: Damian, I think that might be the nicest thing I’ve ever heard!

Mr. Postscript: Yes, well it’s painfully obvious your standards for that would be very low. 

Mr. Postscript: Now, tell me what they did.

Me: Apparently Lila decided she wanted to see a movie at the last minute and forgot to tell me because of a “memory lapse”.

Mr. Postscript: That’s sick. 

Mr. Postscript: How has no one thought to confirm anything she says? I mean faking illnesses like that, she can’t be mentally stable, Marinette. She could be dangerous.

Me: I know, especially considering we have a villain that preys on negative emotions to worry about but what else can I do? All the teachers and the principal believe her without proof.

Mr. Postscript: Haven’t you considered legal action? There’s proof of her numerous lies all over your classmate’s blog, not the least of which being her claim that you committed theft of intellectual property! That’s grounds for slander! 

Me: I don’t like the idea of a lawsuit Damian. That would be so messy and with practically everyone believing her, not to mention that her mother is a diplomat, it wouldn’t be worth it. I’m not sure I’d win.

Mr. Postscript: You’d win. You’d be the only side with proof. 

Mr. Postscript: Also, I’ve mentioned before that I have resources that would make failure unthinkable.

Me: Right, resources… 

Me: Damian, you’re not into anything illegal right?

Mr. Postscript: What? Of course not! Where is this coming from?

Me: Well, you see… 

Me: You live in the crime capital of the world, you mentioned before that you’re not like my usual clientele but still have the means to afford my services, you just told me that brother collects guns, and offered to use “resources” that would guarantee I’d win in court. 

Me: So, um, yeah, I was getting kind of concerned.

Mr. Postscript: … 

Mr. Postscript: Right, well when you put it like that, I can see how you might jump to that conclusion so allow me to put your mind at ease.

Mr. Postscript: When I said I wasn't like your normal clientele, I meant that I’m not a performer of any kind. My family’s fortune comes from a completely legal business owned by my father and old money he inherited when his parents died. The resources I refer to are our family’s lawyers and legal teams who would never stoop so low as to lose a lawsuit against a pathological liar whose claims are outrageous and well documented. 

Me: Ohhh

Mr. Postscript: Other than that, Gotham, while crime infested, is a large city and many law-abiding citizens live here too. Todd is also one of them for the most part and he only uses his guns with rubber bullets for self defense because Gotham is still a dangerous place to live.

Me: I see, well that makes sense. 

Me: He does have permits for his guns though right?

Mr. Postscript: Angel, no one has gun permits in Gotham, not even the police. 

Me: Right, well… 

Me: Sorry about that!

Mr. Postscript: It’s okay. I can see how it looked. 

Mr. Postscript: Frankly, I’m more than a little relieved that you’re at least being somewhat careful considering we’re still friends that only talk online and who met when I tried to blackmail you.

Me: You know, I don’t hold that against you anymore.

Mr. Postscript: You should.

Me: I mean I could…

Me: but I don’t!

Mr. Postscript: You know… 

Mr. Postscript: Your ability to forgive is commendable. I don’t think you’re wrong to practice it. I just hate that it allows people to hurt you like they did today.

Me: I’m not hurt, Damian. 

Me: I mean sure I’m disappointed but honestly I don’t care that much anymore. I just thought it was worth a try.

Me: And anyways I find I enjoy talking to you more than any of the interactions I’ve had with my class of late. So I guess it all worked out for the better.

Mr. Postscript: I see. 

Mr. Postscript: Is this that brightside you were talking about?

Me: Why, yes. 

Me: Yes, it is.

Mr. Postscript: It’s nice.

Me: Isn’t it?

Mr. Postscript: They don’t know what they’re missing.

Me: They don’t need to.

Me: More for us.

Mr. Postscript: I find your reasoning sound.

Me: Hey, Damian? Thank you.

Mr. Postscript: For what? 

Mr. Postscript: Not being a criminal?

Me: Haha, no!

Me: For making me feel better, for being my friend.

Mr. Postscript: Angel, if apologies were necessary, I’d owed you a thousand.

Me: Nooooo

Me: Maybe just a couple hundred?

Mr. Postscript: Funny. 

Me: Oh, hey! Did you get a chance to look at the designs I sent?

Mr. Postscript: I did. Your talent really shows in your drawings. They all looked very good. 

Mr. Postscript: I can just picture Grayson crying on Christmas morning.

Me: So, did you make a decision? 

Me: Did you? Did you?

Mr. Postscript: I did.

Me: Sooooo, don’t hold your breath! Tell me!

Mr. Postscript: I’m partial to the one where the robin’s wearing sunglasses. I don’t why but it seems like it would fit Grayson.

Me: Yay! I was kind of hoping you’d choose that one too!

Me: One design done, two to go!

Me: Oh and got your pictures and have already started on the jacket! So now we just have to meet to go over Drake’s piece.

Mr. Postscript: We’re still on for tomorrow, right?

Me: Yes, sounds good!

Me: Oh, and Before Christmas is a beauty!

Mr. Postscript: What?

Mr. Postscript: Oh, right. 

Mr. Postscript: Yes. 

Mr. Postscript: Yes, she is.

Me: … 

Me: Damian, you’re really bad with aliases.

Mr. Postscript: I took the “use the initials” idea from you.

Me: Fine. I guess that makes us both bad at aliases.

Mr. Postscript: I suppose, if it makes you feel better.

Me: I’m not the one who needs to feel better, Before Christmas.

Mr. Postscript: … 

Mr. Postscript: Tell no one of this.

Me: Your secret’s safe with me, B.C.

Chat Name: The Child Prodigies (If you don’t look closely)

Me: Kagami, I saw the match online! You did so well! I’m sure even your mother couldn’t find anything to critique.

Gami: I’m afraid you severely underestimate her, Mari. It’s even worse now that I’m finally old enough to qualify for the Olympics, even if they are still three years away.

Me: Don’t listen to her! Well, not too much anyway. You were amazing!

Luka: She’s right. You did great, Kagami.

Gami: Enough about me, how did it go today?

Me: Well… 

Luka: Oh no. What happened, melody?

Me: Nothing. They didn’t show up but it’s fine, really. I’m not even surprised anymore.

Gami: That doesn’t make it any better, Marinette.

Me: No really guys, I’m good. It all worked out in the end.

Luka: So what’d you end up doing?

Me: Just sat in the park and worked on a commision.

Gami: I suppose it was the one for the blackmailer then?

Me: Not this again! 

Me: We’re way past that now, Kagami. He’s actually way better at friendship than blackmailing.

Gami: So you say, but if you would just give me a few moments to talk with him and verify that I’d be less concerned.

Me: I don’t want you scaring him off!

Luka: From what you’ve said, it sounds like he doesn’t scare easily.

Me: No, Luka, not you too!

Luka: We just care about you, Marinette and we’ve seen you hurt too many times. Besides, if he really is your friend like we are, wouldn’t it be good for us all to get along?

Me: … 

Me: You’re going to guilt trip me into this, aren’t you?

Luka: No… 

Gami: If we must.

Me: … 

Me: You and him have so much in common.

Gami: I’d like to see that for myself.

Luka: So?

Me: Fine… I’ll ask but I make no promises okay? He might not agree.

Gami: He will if he knows what’s good for him.

Me: And no threats!

Luka: We’ll see.

Gami: No promises.

Chat Name: Mr. Postscript

Me: Hey Damian! So I know you’re probably really busy so I really don’t want to bother you or anything… 

Mr. Postscript: No, it’s fine. I have about thirty minutes before my father expects me. What do you need?

Me: Need? Oh, nothing! It’s just my friends wanted to talk to you and I promised I’d ask but since you have to do something soon, it’s fine.

Mr. Postscript: Friends? What kinds of friends? 

Mr. Postscript: Are they reading over your shoulder right now?

Me: What?! Oh, no! 

Me: They aren’t a part of Lila’s posse or whatever. In fact, they’re not even in my class. I guess I just haven’t mentioned them yet because they have super busy careers and travel a lot now but we still talk all the time. 

Me: I told them about you (nothing personal though) and uh how we met so they just wanted to make sure I was safe. I tried to tell them they have nothing to worry about but after everything with Lila… let’s just say they’re a little protective!

Mr. Postscript: Good. 

Mr. Postscript: I’m glad you have some decent friends on your side.

Me: Me too! Well, since you’re busy I don’t want to make you late!

Mr. Postscript: Oh, it’s fine. I’m sure I have enough time to meet them. Did you want to do it over a group text?

Me: Oh, it’s okay! You don’t have to or anything!

Mr. Postscript: Seriously, angel, it’s fine. I mean it’s only fair since you had to put up with Todd for a conversation. I’m interested in meeting some of your other friends too.

Me: Right…

Me: Just give me a second to make the group chat.

Chat Name: The Child Prodigies (If you don’t look closely)

Me: You guys get ten questions max okay? He only has like twenty minutes.

Gami: Each?

Me: Total!

Luka: Hurry, melody, you said we only have a little time right?

Me: Fine.

Chat Name: All My Favorite People

Me: Okay, can you guys introduce yourselves?

Luka: Hey, man. I’m Luka.

Gami: Hello, you may address me as Kagami.

Mr. Postscript: Damian, pleasure to meet you both.

Luka: Ah, a formal one I see.

Gami: How much time do you have left so we may act accordingly?

Mr. Postscript: Actually, my father agreed to give me the night off from my duties so I could meet you and there’s still hours until dinner so I’m available till then.

Luka: Formal and a controlling father? Marinette, I think you have a type.

Me: LUKA!

Mr. Postscript: My father isn’t controlling, I merely have responsibilities that can’t be put off sometimes.

Me: Of course, Damian. They should be thankful you were able to get the night off at all especially since it’s only to satisfy their curiosity.

Luka: Right then, shall we begin? You ready? 

Mr. Postscript: Of course.

Me: Remember, this isn’t an interrogation, you guys!

Gami: How old are you?

Mr. Postscript: Sixteen

Me: Huh, I figured something like that but I don’t think I ever asked before… 

Luka: So that would put you in what grade?

Mr. Postscript: In the American schooling system, I would normally be in tenth grade and considered a junior but I skipped a grade and am now in my second to last year of secondary school.

Luka: A little wordy but okay. 

Gami: Why’d you skip a grade?

Mr. Postscript: I was far ahead of my fellow classmates and found school boring and redundant so my father allowed me to knock a year off my plate.

Luka: Do you often resort to blackmailing to get your way?

Me: Luka! 

Me: I told you we’re over it!

Mr. Postscript: It’s fine, Marinette. They’re right to be concerned. They care about you, do they not?

Luka: Of course, we do.

Gami: It’s not our affections in question.

Me: Um, I think you guys are taking this wayyy too seriously.

Gami: Nonsense, now answer the question.

Mr. Postscript: I can’t say I’ve ever tried that tactic before. 

Mr. Postscript: Or ever will again.

Mr. Postscript: I did get a good friend out of it, however I doubt there are many people with Marinette’s ability to forgive so I wouldn’t take a chance on getting a result as favorable as this again.

Luka: Dang

Luka: That was a good answer

Gami: No, it wasn’t. It was satisfactory at best. Now, tell me, do you have any experience in fencing?

Me: Kagami, you can’t duel him.

Gami: We will see.

Mr. Postscript: Fencing? No. I’m more familiar with traditional swordplay.

Me: What? Really?!

Gami: Oh?

Gami: Weapon of choice?

Mr. Postscript: Katanna 

Me: WHAT?!

Gami: I see.

Gami: Now, that is a good answer.

Luka: Really? Cause I don’t think Marinette needs any more weapon-wielding friends.

Gami: With that class of hers, the more the better.

Me: Kagami, no!

Mr. Postscript: Should you ever decide to launch an attack on those heathens, I would be happy to lend my sword.

Me: No no no! There will be no attacking with swords!

Luka: For now, let’s get back to the questions.

Luka: You’re going to pay Marinette in full for her services, right?

Mr. Postscript: Of course! What do you take me for, a thief?

Luka: It’s best to be certain, to make sure you know there are people who will hold you accountable.

Me: Luka, I said no threats!

Gami: Her class has taken advantage of her talents too many times to not be cautious. I can only imagine how much time and materials they’ve cost her over the years, thinking they shouldn’t have to pay because she was their friend.

Mr. Postscript: You didn’t mention this, Marinette.

Me: I mean I kind of did. Remember when I said I was done designing for people who didn’t deserve it? That’s what I meant.

Mr. Postscript: That’s criminal!

Me: It’s in the past, Damian. It’s my fault I let it go on too long.

Gami: Nonsense!

Luka: You know that’s not true Mari.

Me: Right, well, let’s just move on.

Mr. Postscript: Marinette, remember all those times you’ve told me it wasn’t my fault?

Me: Of course.

Mr. Postscript: Could see how your words might apply to this?

Me: …

Me: I guess. 

Mr. Postscript: We can talk about it later. Next question?

Luka: What’s your favorite thing about Marinette?

Me: Why ask that?

Gami: Wait, it was my turn to ask a question.

Luka: Well, you went twice in a row before so I’m doing it now.

Mr. Postscript: How her kindness is another form of strength.

Me: What?

Mr. Postscript: I was raised to see kindness as a weakness, as a vulnerability. Nothing since then has done much to change my mind. 

Mr. Postscript: Marinette’s kindness is unlike any I’ve encountered before although that isn’t saying much. I only wish people wouldn’t see it as a weakness and try to use it against her like I once did but they will find as I did that is not the case.

Me: … 

Me: Thank you, Damian.

Me: That was really nice.

Luka: He said nothing but the truth, my melody.

Mr. Postscript: Melody?

Luka: Yes, it’s what I like to call Marinette.

Mr. Postscript: Oh, I see.

Mr. Postscript: How nice.

Mr. Postscript: I prefer to call her angel myself.

Luka: That’s very fitting. Marinette’s like a ray of sunshine.

Me: Stop, you guys. You’re embarrassing me.

Gami: Why? It’s all true.

Me: … 

Me: I liked it better when you were interrogating each other!

Gami: Very well, we still have a question each left.

Mr. Postscript: A question each?

Luka: Marinette didn’t want us to scare you away so we were given a limit of ten questions each.

Mr. Postscript: Well, Marinette should know I don’t scare easily but as it happens I only have twenty minutes left till dinner, so fire away.

Gami: What are your intentions towards our Marinette?

Me: Gami!!! 

Me: What the heck!

Mr. Postscript: I intend to be a good friend to her, to listen and respect her choices, to offer advice if it’s wanted, to pay her generously for her services and to support her however I can.

Luka: Is that all?

Mr. Postscript: For now, however I’m looking forward to building our relationship and to learning more about her.

Me: I am too. 

Me: I mean learning more about you.

Me: I’m looking forward to learning more about you too!

Me: Right, so that was the last question! 

Me: Thank you for putting up with this, Damian.

Luka: Wait, I don’t think that last one should count!

Gami: Agreed.

Me: Well, then you should’ve been more careful!

Mr. Postscript: I should get ready for dinner. It was interesting meeting you both, perhaps Marinette will one day let us talk again.

Luka: Here’s hoping.

Gami: I would not object to that.

Me: We’ll see. No promises.

Gami: Very well, goodnight everyone.

Luka: night!

Mr. Postscript: Goodnight. 

Mr. Postscript: Go to sleep, Marinette.

Me: Okay, goodnight!

From the phone of Luka Couffaine:

Chat Name: Sempre piu

Me: You know, I think he just might be good enough for her.

Sempre piu: We will see.

Me: Come on.

Me: Admit that you like him, and that you like him for her.

Sempre piu: Well… 

Sempre piu: He seems like someone who would not hesitate.

Me: She deserves that much. And more.

Me: It just seems like neither of them sees it yet.

Sempre piu: It will make it all the more stronger when they do. 

Sempre piu: Already she talks to him in a way she never did to Adrien.

Me: We both know that was puppy love.

Sempre piu: Even so, she’s never felt so comfortable around a potential suitor before.

Me: Could she just not see him like that?

Sempre piu: You saw how she acted around him, how unsettled she was when we talked of her to him.

Me: No, you’re right. 

Me: It’s just going to be hard waiting for them to figure it out.

Sempre piu: It’ll be worth it. 

Sempre piu: Her happiness is worth it.

Me: Yes, it is.

From the phone of Lila Rossi:

Chat Name: My Agent

My Agent: Mister Agreste has been very pleased with your work so far. He would like to set up a meeting to go over your contract and continue your excellent relationship with the Agreste brand.

Me: I’m ready whenever.

My Agent: He will see you after your photoshoot this afternoon.

Me: I’ll be there!

My Agent: Good work, Miss Rossi. He’s very pleased.

Woo! We’re almost caught up to what I’ve already posted to AO3! Yay! Now, in case anyone actually reads these and wants to know: I’m working on chapter ten and is breaking practically all the patterns my chapters usual follow but I’m not mad at yet? You might be but we’ll see! One thing I think I can give away is that so far, I don’t think Damian and Marinette will be in at all... That’s all I’ll say for now. Till next time!

Master List

[philicheesecake]

(U.L.) The Last Hunt

Synopsis: Three hunters seek out the trace of an unknown monster, only for the hunt to take a dangerous turn.

Warnings: THIS STORY CONTAINS FATAL VORE. IF YOU DO NOT LIKE FATAL VORE, TURN BACK NOW. 

((Phili’s note: Though Wendigos are mentioned in this story, the adaption mentioned here are not the ones from folklore. The Unseen Legion discovered creatures with similar appearance and behavior that resembles the wendigo folklore and nicknamed these creatures after them, not having a better name for them)) ((Also sorry it took forever to get this posted! I was super nervous about posting fatal, but y’all have been warned anyways, so hopefully it should be fine))

---

There was a click as the magazine slid into place. The trunk of the big red van slammed shut. Footsteps tracked away from the gravel earth. A wind bristled through the canopy above, shifting the flecks of warm evening light that fell across the untrodden trail. Branches and dead foliage crunched over the three pairs of boots as the small hunting party began to search. 

The mid-autumn air was crisp and chilly in contrast with the sun’s dull warm glow, and the fiery colors of the foliage that shifted at the change of season. The three figures were equipped with boots and jackets, and the tallest held a pack full of spare hunting gear to make sure all approaches to some unknown threat were covered. 

“They’re more active at dawn and dusk, so we’ll have to watch our backs more as the sun sets,” the oldest of them, Josiah spoke to his trainee. He had dark baggy eyes and salt and pepper hair. While his features were much older and weathered, she was much shorter and younger, barely out of high school, with curly black hair pulled back into a big ponytail. 

“How many wendigos have you killed?” The girl, Ruth pondered. 

“Gah, lost count. Maybe seven?” The older man shrugged. “What about you, Rubin?” He glanced at the other hunter joining them. He was short for her age, but had a good build and curly brown hair and a goatee. 

“Haven’t met one yet. This one would be my first. I tend to stick around the rowdy moon puppies mostly,” Rubin responded. 

“I’ve always wanted to hunt a werewolf, I just have too unsteady hands to pierce their heart,” Ruth said. “I’m just sticking to the bigger targets until I can get a better skill with my gun handling.”

“Good idea. I don’t think it would be fun to come back from a hunt with puppy ears,” Rubin chuckled. “I bet werewolf bites don’t tickle.”

“I’ll bet,” Ruth said with a grin. 

“Hey, wait here,” Josiah stopped ahead, holding out a hand as he crouched down to the forest floor, seeming to inspect a mark on the earth. The soil was unruly, but a faint mark could be made out. A footprint? But it was too large, even for a wendigo. Even then, it was difficult to make out whether it actually was a footprint, and not just some uneven ground. 

“What do you think, Rubin?” Josiah glanced at the tracking expert of the hunting party. 

Rubin bent down near the print, taking a good look at it as he took in a deep breath. “Don’t recognize what it came from, but it couldn’t have been here more than a day ago. This ain’t like anything I’ve seen before.”

Ruth glanced at her father pensively, taking a few steps ahead to try to see more tracks. Sure enough, about six or seven feet apart from the other print was another. “Guys, over here. There’s more.” 

Josiah paced over to where she stood, glancing down at the new track. He could see it a bit more clearly. A left footprint. It was strikingly similar to a human’s own footprint, though there were indentations at the front of the toes that tore up the ground, distorting the front of the footprint by the disturbed earth. It was nearly a meter long from heel to toe. 

“Rubin, is the one over there a right foot?”

Rubin glanced up from the track after a moment, nodding. “Yuuup.”

Josiah shook his head in awe. “Two meter strides. Damn. This thing must be huge.”

“Do you think we should head back?” Ruth asked. “If we don’t know what it is, it might be dangerous.”

Josiah frowned, picking at a mole on the back of his neck as he always did when he was deep in thought. Maybe nervous. Calculating their odds. 

“We’ve been following these hunting patterns like a wendigo. Been twelve years since the last round of victims in this town, and three towns over, staggered at similar intervals. If we lose this chance, it might hibernate again and our chance will be lost. Chances are if it isn’t a wendigo, it’s still a close relative, and we can still kill it. We can follow the prints to at least learn about it, and if we get in over our heads, you can retreat.”

“Probably shouldn’t be relying on horror movies to predict the outcome for this, but...” Ruth looked at her father cautiously. “Going in over our heads is probably what’s going to happen if we don’t know what this is.”

The three hunters continued through the woods, finding the messy footprints leading in a rough direction deeper into the forest. The sun was beginning to set, overshadowed by the looming mountain range before them. On the mountainside, there were rocky cliffs and crevices looking over a small frothy stream that flowed noisily throughout the forest like a winding white serpent. The stream was shallow enough to wade through easily, though the mountain water must be very chilly. With a careful footing, one could cross by hopping from the slippery stones. 

“I can check out the cave first and call you over if the coast is clear. Watch out for each other, ‘aight?” Josiah dug through Ruth’s backpack briefly before drawing out the flame thrower. He began to wade through the stream, shivering as the cold water soaked through his trousers and chilled him to the bone.

“Be careful, dad,” Ruth said in a low voice. 

Josiah crossed over onto the opposing bank and stepped past the underbrush, making his way along the rocky wall against the bank. He passed further along towards the cave. At first, there seemed to be no trace of anything there. He began to move deeper into the dark crevice of stone, holding out his flame thrower warily. His boot bumped across a large leather sack, at first thinking it was a boulder. It was as big as he was. It had a long leather strap and leather buckles. It was weathered and looked as though it had been patched together over a dozen times. 

He looked down at it, frowning slightly in thought. He crouched down to get a better look. 

WHOOSH-

A massive hunched figure dashed out of the darkness. A clawed hand swept over, smothering his face to suppress the hunter’s shout of surprise. The flame thrower clattered to the ground and was quickly crunched beyond usage by an unseen force. It was completely silent and instantaneous. Josiah was dragged backward into the darkness by the cruel grip. He struggled, slipping his knife off of his belt and tried to jab it at the thing that held him. Large clawed fingers pinned his arms to his sides, rendering his attempts useless. His knife was quickly snatched and tossed aside. 

He tried to shout for the others, but the pressure over his face silenced him, rendering it difficult to even breathe. A warm breath puffed on the back of his neck, making his hairs stand up. The wendigo. He felt something hot and slimy drip onto his shoulders and shuddered. What was that? He struggled harder to slip free from the grip. just hoping he could get free before this thing killed him or stored him in some dark tunnel to snack on later. 

The warm air grew closer until he grew aware of a glistening thread of liquid drip down from in front of him. Something began to descend across his vision. Fangs. He choked in a startled gasp as the pressure loosened around his face, only allowing him to make a brief shout before his head was enveloped into the dark maw. 

Drool soaked through his skin as the tongue roughly rubbed against his face and hair. The grip shifted around him, holding him firmly as it pushed him in deeper combined with a strong gulp. Josiah felt dread settle into his chest. This creature was going to swallow him whole?! He tried to shout for Ruth and Rubin, but that only got that disgusting slime into his mouth. The smothering tight walls of the throat made it impossible to even breathe! He felt more and more of him dragged within the suffocating passage as he heard the creature begin to gulp and swallow him the rest of the way down. The creature’s head tilted back, changing gravity to a disorienting angle as Josiah was completely upside down. He distantly felt his shoes being yanked off and let out a muffled yelp of pain, being some heavy duty hiking boots that couldn’t really be removed easily. He thought the creature must have broken his feet or something, because he definitely felt something snap in there. 

His head soon pressed through a crushingly tight ring of muscle and passed into a slightly more open space. He immediately gasped for air, but the air burned his lungs immediately from the intense heat. He choked and coughed, feeling like he could never really catch his breath with how much each one hurt, and how the throat crushed his rib cage too tightly to really draw a full breath. 

The rest of him soon followed into the tight chamber. At first, it seemed too tight, almost impossible for him to fit entirely, though it somehow stretched and groaned as it managed to engulf him entirely with relative ease. As soon as he was down, he could hear his captor’s loud breaths from its cleared airway. He gasped, kicking against the tight confines. He reached for his knife, only to remember the beast had taken it from him. He was trapped.

The air was so hot in here. It was difficult to even breathe. It was so tight and slimy. The puddle of fluids that would soon be his demise was already a few inches deep in the pit of the stomach. He could feel a strange numb sensation from mere contact. He sucked in nervous gasps. “Ruth! Rubi--” his voice was muted as the walls seemed to clench tighter around him, additionally with a foreign pressure from the outside that pressed down harshly over him. It was impossible to shout, or even breathe! He struggled to try to fight the walls off of him just enough to battle for weak gasps of air. 

***

Ruth sighed anxiously as she looked down, checking the area while keeping her gun close. Her dad wasn’t gone for long, and she trusted his level of experience, though a part of her was still nervous about how unusually large this wendigo was perceived to be. 

Rubin was sitting against one of the logs, messing around with their supplies and making sure everything was ready in case of emergency. He suddenly stood up with an alert expression. “Your dad. Something happened.”

Ruth gave him a confused expression. “What? I didn’t hear any—”

“Stay here. I’ll go ahead. If I’m not back in ten, get the dickens outta here.”

Ruth’s brow furrowed and she opened her mouth to protest, but the older hunter was already heading across the stream and towards the cave. She waited behind, holding her shotgun at the ready. Although she was more of a cautious person when it came to hunting, there was no way she was leaving here without her dad and Rubin. 

Rubin approached the mouth of the cave with his gun in hand. He listened out carefully. Josiah’s voice was gone, but he could hear breathing. 

There was a sudden dash of movement from the side and a huge hand rammed into him, pinning him against the cave wall. The wind was knocked out of him and he gasped, looking up at the monster. It looked almost human with its features, though something was off about it. The dark markings around the eyes, slit pupils, long, pointed ears, sharp fangs and claws. It towered at easily forteen feet tall. What the hell was this thing?!

Rubin snapped out of his stupor, struggling against the grip. Until now, his eyes had been focused on the thing’s face, then he glanced down for a moment and his blood froze. There was a squirming bulge in its gut. It just ate somew--

Josiah’s voice. Josiah’s voice was coming from in there--

The hunter’s eyes widened in dread. The creature’s snarling lips were drawn back to bare its teeth as drool hungrily poured over its lips, dripping onto his face. Rubin panted and grimaced. His heart raced as the creature brought him closer… He could feel his friend past the wall of flesh, squirming for his life… trapped. “J-Josiah--” Rubin stammered. The creature bent down, opening its jaws wide and its gross slimy tongue dragged across the hunter’s face, getting a good taste. Rubin shuddered, gritting his teeth. He had to get out of here. He had to get that machete and cut his friend out of this. Things were going far too south far too quickly, and he didn’t even know how long Josiah would last in there. The thought made him nauseous with dread.

“Do you miss your friend?” The giant’s voice rumbled, vibrating to its core. It could talk? Well-- it looked human enough… “Let him go, Goliath! S-seriously, mate--” “No thanks. I have a better way of reuniting you.” The giant’s jaws opened wider, beginning to descend over Rubin’s line of sight. His breaths hissed frantically through his throat and he struggled harder. 

BANG!

A deafening gunshot cracked through the echoing chamber of the cave, skittering off the rocky walls. Ruth appeared at the cave entrance with her shotgun. Her fearful eyes were narrowed, trying to mask the emotion with confidence, but there was a shakiness in her figure. She had missed. 

In a swift motion, the giant’s grip readjusted around Rubin. He was now practically pinned against the squirming bulge of his friend, and a claw was held at his throat, barely pricking the skin. He froze.

“L-let them go.” Ruth stammered threateningly.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, little treat. I think my claw might slip before you pull the trigger.” The giant’s voice was unphased by her threat. She seemed too afraid to pull the trigger with Rubin that close anyways. He was practically a meat shield. “Put the gun down and we can chat about this over lunch. Deal?” 

Ruth grit her teeth, her face paling. She was shaking badly. She probably couldn’t hit the giant if she tried. 

“Ruth, j-just get out of here.” Rubin pleaded. “I’m not leaving my dad.”

“I’m not giving you many options. Unless you want to join him.” The giant grinned through his fangs. “Be my guest.”

Rubin clenched his jaw nervously, watching Ruth’s expression as she glanced around the environment, trying to find some other way or loophole, or trick she could use to get them all out of there. For a split second, her vision was directed away just long enough for Rubin to act. 

It went by in a blur, but suddenly the giant’s fingers were bleeding, he was free from the giant’s grip, and he was running straight towards Ruth. Ruth gasped, lowering her shotgun to the side for a moment before his hand grabbed hers and he tried to get her to run. “No!” She jerked back, firing the shotgun. The giant leaped after them, tackling her to the floor and snapped the shotgun clean in half. The squirming bulge of her father could be seen in clear view, practically above where she was pinned. Rubin gasped, ramming himself against the giant’s arm to shove him out of the way. He drew out a knife and jammed it into the giant’s shoulder, just missing the throat. He didn’t waste another moment before grabbing Ruth’s arm again and took off running. He didn’t realize until and that she was bleeding from her head. The impact must have concussed her. 

The giant roared in pain, grabbing the knife out of his shoulder and pressed his hand against the wound. He could only glare daggers at them as they fled. He didn’t need to pursue them. He already had his meal. 

Ruth was out of it, swimming in and out of consciousness as she was vaguely aware of a sizzling sound in her head. Trees passed over her blackening vision. The darkened sky. Then the back seat of the car. The low rumble of the engine was lulling to her foggy mind. Tears bit at the corners of her vision. She was too tired to think though… Must sleep…

***

Josiah was faintly aware of what was going on during the fight. Feeling Rubin’s form pressed against where he was captive. It was impossible to breath. The goopy, slimy fluids that smothered him threatened to suffocate him with each pulsating clench of the living chamber. He curled up tighter, feeling a heaviness in his chest. At least Ruth had escaped. 

The heat was incredible. Every bit of the harsh environment was sapping him of his energy. He couldn’t keep fighting. He had stopped struggling after the first half hour. It was too exhausting to go on. The deep puddle of fluids wasn’t stinging at least. It was numbing at most. He couldn’t feel his fingers. He didn’t even know if they were still there. He didn’t want to know. 

His body fell limp against the rhythmic pulsing of the walls as the puddle grew deeper. His breaths were heavy. The burning air felt like it weighed a ton on his lungs. His consciousness grew further and further away. The loud gurgles, breathing, and heartbeat of the monster were the last sounds that met his ears before they became muffled. His head sank beneath the pool. A final breath choked out, gagging on the fluids that invaded his lungs before life fled his twitching limbs. 

***

Ruth opened her eyes. Her head hurt. She could see the plain white ceiling above her. She closed her eyes again. She just wanted to sleep. 

“Ruth,”

There was movement next to her. The ground she was on shifted slightly. It was a couch. Someone just sat down next to her. 

“Dad…” Her voice came out quietly. She didn’t want any of that to be real. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

She sniffled. Her eyes opened again. Rubin was sitting next to her. He was disheveled. Blood was on his fingertips. His scarf was lopsided, barely concealing an old scar on the side of his neck. She sat up. The small movement gave her a headache. Whatever the giant did to her had really hit her bad. She could feel bandages wrapped around her head. 

“N-no. We… we can still save-“

An arm wrapped around her shoulder and pulled her into a hug. She froze. Her voice choked off. She stared numbly ahead, not knowing how to believe it. 

He let her take a while to process this and go through the emotions while offering what comfort he could give. “Your dad told us to watch out for each other, so that’s what I’m going to do.”

She leaned her head into his shoulder and sobbed.

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

Link to the rest of the series can be found here.

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Core Drive - Clean 1.01

A/N: I decided that this story is best told in three stages, each with multiple parts (the same way that Jigsaw was structured). So this is the first stage, and the true beginning of Logan’s journey. If you missed it, catch up with the series intro. 

Warning: this series will deal with drug use, depression, addiction, violence and other such topics. *please read responsibly*  

Word Count: 5,087

The vast expanse of orange desert stretched out beyond the horizon, nothing but the twisted trunks of shriveled, lifeless trees and scrubby bushes full of brambles dotting the landscape. Crisp husks of dried grasses poked up from the fiery sand as if to remind anyone who wandered this far that it was no place for living things, hostile territory. Without a single cloud in the sky there were no shadows, no relief from the sun, no way to track time. There’s gotta be… this isn’t… He rolled his head back against the knotty stump he’d managed to prop himself up on, splintered strips of bark digging into his back causing him to cry out, a mangled sound that matched the desolation of his surroundings. An illusion. This is an illusion, all of it there’s…A single tear dropped from his eye and onto his shoulder. Where’s the door? 

Reckless. Impetuous. 

The wind hissed cruelly, carrying William’s words with it. They echoed in the valley, taunting him as if they hadn’t been rattling around like tumbleweeds in his mind since they’d been spoken. 

I’ll be right here. 

Another pitiful sob clawed its way past his chapped lips. Squeezing his eyes shut against the sun’s glare, he saw your smile, saw your hair spread out on his sheets, saw his fingers tangled in it. No, she can’t be… she can’t be here… Eyes flying open and chest heaving with sudden panic, he saw that he was right- you weren’t there. No one was. This is wrong, I…

His thoughts were interrupted as the wind howled back, whipping up ribbons of sand and sending it swirling into the air to pelt the side of his body. Each infinitesimal grain hitting his raw, exposed, sun ravaged skin stung like a swarm of hornets, pain sweeping over him like a chemical fire. He tried to take cover by drawing his knees up and ducking into them, but the blistered soles of his feet only slid in the sand, legs too heavy and muscles too dehydrated to move them. Barely able to lift his arm, the most he could do was tuck his chin into his shoulder and wait for the dust devil to pass. 

Failure. Worthless. Junkie. 

The wispy funnel of hot wind and dry sand swirled around him, tossing his father’s accusations like rocks. No, I...not anymore I...I just gotta get out of here, there’s gotta be…

There is no damn door. You’re fucked. 

Logan weakly picked up his head as the devil spun away and vanished. Sand slipped from his hair and stuck to the bloody scrapes and gashes on his thigh and side from where he’d stumbled and fallen. Who said that? Grains of sand had penetrated his clamped eyelids, and they stung his eyes like miniscule shards of glass as he blinked to regain his vision. Heat rose from the ground in shimmering waves as a pair of shiny leather shoes stepped through the mirage. They were topped by long legs encased in black suit pants, the midnight color only getting deeper as the figure came closer. A dark blue button down shirt was tucked into the waistband beneath an expertly tailored jacket. What the… 

Did you hear me? I said- The man stooped down, creases forming in the material of his pants as he lowered himself to Logan’s level. Who… the stranger had one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a cut crystal glass filled with amber liquid. A solid gold ring caught the sunlight, blinding Logan as the man raised the glass to his lips to take a sip. -There is no door. Pulling the glass back down, he rested his elbow on his knee and set his sharp, umber eyes on Logan, who gasped in confused terror as he recognized the stranger; two buttons open at the collar, neatly trimmed beard the same chestnut color as his longish, loosely styled hair, and a small but undeniably identical birthmark hovering between his eye and cheekbone. It’s...me, it’s who I… He heaved a dry sob that came out as maniacal laughter. Who I used to be. There is no door, Logan, no one’s coming for you. He sucked air through his teeth and narrowed his eyes. You’re gonna die out here, Delos. Taking another swig of his drink, he raised his eyebrows and gestured in a toast. Might as well get it over with. 

No. Logan watched himself stand back up to his full height, brushing sand from his knee. “No, please you...please, help me…” 

Retreating back into the abyss, he shrugged at the dying man. I can’t. Another gust of wind kicked up and swept him away, leaving Logan alone again. No! No, no…

..  .. ..  .. .. ..  .. ..

“No!” He thrashed awake, sweat soaked sheets stuck around his legs as he kicked at them. Eyes opening wide, he bolted upright, shaking and gasping for air. The sudden plunge into the waking world sent his head spinning and set every one of his joints on fire. Chills erupted all over his body as a violent wave of nausea rose in his stomach. Lurching over the edge of the bed, he gripped the night stand and was sick into the wastebasket beside it. He groaned in pain as he shriveled back into the twin size mattress. Fuck! Another rush of agony pulsed through his bones, pulling a broken whimper from his throat. “No, no, no,” he mumbled into his pillow as the light in the room flicked on and he clamped his eyes shut against the searing light.  

His roommate’s mattress springs creaked as he sat up and cleared his throat. “Yo man, you good over there?” The other man’s voice was thick with sleep but tinted with concern. Miguel was at least ten years younger, but this wasn’t his first rodeo and he knew exactly what Logan was going through. The only response was another groan, so Miguel pressed on. “Hey, man, come on, you good?” 

“The fuck do you think?” His voice, muffled by the pillow and weakened by the effects of the dream and the aggressive withdrawal, came out blunt but pathetic. “Can you turn the goddamn light off? Fuck…” He grumbled miserably.

Miguel clicked the light off and sat back against his headboard, a small, knowing chuckle leaving his lips. “I don’t have to think. I know you feel like you’re fuckin’ dying.” Logan crossed his arms over his abdomen as another bout of nausea seized him. Then why the fuck- “But you’re not fuckin’ dying, you’re gonna be alright, man, just gotta get through detox then you’ll see it ain’t bad.” 

I can’t. The two words followed him from the desert and into the dark room, echoing in his mind in the rich tone of his own voice. “Yeah? Well…” he groaned again, hugging his thin arms tightly around himself and grimacing  through gritted teeth. “Well maybe I should.” 

Will it help? 

Your tear tainted question overtook the cruelty of the words from his dream as the muscles in his aching arms remembered what it was like to hold you. 

“Nah man,” Miguel answered your question. “You shouldn’t.” The mattress creaked again as he laid back down, pressing his head into his pillow. “Look, you already did the hardest part. You’re here. Day One’s the worst and you got through it.” 

Logan slowly opened his eyes as Miguel closed his and went back to sleep. Is he right? Logan thought back on the previous 24 hours: waking up without you, a hole in his chest the size and shape of you that kept expanding at a steady rate, the emotional bottoming out, the inability to feel and then the fire as he felt every cell in his body start to ignite- this all before boarding a five hour flight to cross the country. By the time he landed his head was throbbing, the thin material of his tee shirt felt like a weighted vest, and he could hardly keep his eyes open even behind dark sunglasses. It was another couple hours from the airport to the facility, and had been exactly 3 days- down to the minute- since he’d been brought into the ER in cardiac arrest from an overdose of opiates and benzodiazepines. He spent two nights in the hospital before you brought him back to his empty apartment and he’d made it even emptier by telling you to leave, and one restless night in his own bed before getting to where he was now, the lesser symptoms giving way to the buckling joint pain, sharp sensitivity to light and finally staggering nausea. Dying would be easier.  

Logan? Is that… will it help? 

He stood on the sidewalk in front of the building, the sliding doors opening in a whoosh of compressed air, hitting his skin in a cool burst before automatically closing again. It would help not to feel like this… But the question and the way that you’d asked it had been so clear and honest that he knew it deserved an honest answer, no matter how hard it was to give. No. Dying wouldn’t help, and he wasn’t sure if this would either. He wasn’t sure if anything would help. But I have to try…  When the doors slid open again, he stepped through them. 

The intake process took longer than he thought it would despite not having a frame of reference to go on, and by the time he was seated in the exam room he was agitated, sore, sweaty and dizzy. Underweight. Brachycardia. Decreased oxygen levels. That had been the conclusion- common side effects, he’d been told, most of the words hitting and bouncing off instead of sticking. There was a hum in his head that made comprehension difficult, and his spine was on fire. He wanted nothing more than to turn it off; block all the pain receptors in his brain and fade to black. But the door opened and a young woman with tattoos running behind her ear and down one side of her neck appeared to take him to meet with his counselor to finish his intake. She smiled, spoke softly, walked slowly, and told Logan that she was happy to help him in any way that she could, nodding once before knocking on the office door that she’d led him to. 

“Come in!” a voice called from the other side and the woman placed her hand on the door knob. 

Before opening the door, she turned to Logan and looked up at him. “Zeke’s the best, you’re in good hands, Logan.” He didn’t say anything, in part because he was afraid that opening his mouth would lead to getting sick. She seemed to understand, opening the door and gesturing for him to enter the office before shutting it again. 

The room was small, one corner eclipsed by a desk and a shelf overflowing with books stacked both vertically and horizontally in order to maximize the capacity. Another corner had been completely taken over by a ficus and two hanging plants, their leafy vines curving and stretching for the light coming in through the window. Two mismatched chairs were placed in front of the desk which was lined with photo frames turned towards the man who was rising to greet him. “Logan.” The tall, lean man extended a hand out to Logan who took it, his clammy, pale hand in stark contrast to the man’s firm grip, his dark brown skin making Logan’s look translucent. He didn’t flinch as he shook hands with death, simply introduced himself. “Ezekiel Abrams. Call me Zeke.” He smiled and released Logan’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please, take a seat and we’ll get started. I know you had a long morning so I’m sure you’re looking forward to getting some rest.” 

Logan lowered himself into the purple armchair on the right, leaning back against the cushions, depending on them to keep him upright. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “I just wanna sleep.” 

Ezekiel circled back around to sit behind his desk. “Sleep will help, for sure.” He nodded as he pushed his chair closer and plucked a red and orange striped pen from a cup, clicking it with his thumb as he opened a file and took out a few pages. “Just need to ask you a few questions as a baseline, or like an inventory. Helps us figure out a direction for your treatment.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Everyone’s different, what works for me might not work for you, and there’s no point in any of this if we’re not looking for the best path for you. So yeah, I know this is the last thing you want to do right now-” Yup. “-but it’s the first step to getting you out of here so bear with me, okay?” 

There was no bullshit, no cheerleader pep-talk in his tone, just a sense of efficiency and purpose that Logan, even in the state he was in, couldn’t help but recognize. He had long well-groomed dreadlocks corralled in a loose rubber band that hung down his back, and a short, neatly trimmed beard. His greenish brown eyes were patient and kind, framed in rectangular black glasses that highlighted the spark in them that told Logan that while he was there to help, he also took no shit. He was a well educated man, that was clear from his title and from the titles of the books that lined his shelves. But he also had an air of realism about him, the kind of knowledge that you only gain through experience. Logan nodded, despite the way it made his teeth hurt to move his head. 

“Alright. First one. How are you feeling today Logan?” 

Logan actually made a sound that could be interpreted as a laugh. “Like shit, Zeke.” 

Ezekiel made notes in his file and prompted Logan to go into more detail, separating physical descriptors like pain and exhaustion from how he was feeling about being there, about his substance abuse, about what he was going through. Doubtful. Ashamed. Out of control. Those had been his answers, and instead of trying to get him to answer differently, Ezekiel recorded Logan’s feelings word for word. 

He asked next about Logan’s health history. “I know that you had a pretty serious medical event a few months back.” He flipped through his paperwork to fact check. “Dehydration and sunburn, hypothermia.” Logan swallowed a lump, the dry heat of the desert coming back to him in excruciating realism. “Aside from that, any health problems?” 

He gave a minute shake of his head. “No.” The slight motion made him dizzy and he clamped his eyes shut. God fuckin’ damnit. He brought a shaking hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, dragging it over his forehead and through his hair as he exhaled slowly. 

“That’s great, that helps.” Sure. He had a few follow up questions that Logan answered in as few words as possible before moving on to the next topic- Substance abuse history. 

Logan revealed that this was his second shot at getting clean, having wrestled with addiction shortly after his mother’s death. “And was that also opiates and prescription drugs?” Logan nodded. “And how did you deal with that last time?” 

Deal with it? I didn’t. Logan shrugged. “I just...I locked myself in my room for a week and…” and waited. 

“You didn’t get professional help?” Ezekiel asked the question without judgement, seeking only answers. 

“Help’s not an option when you’re James Delos’ son.” His lip curled on his father’s name. “Not if you don’t wanna be written off.”  

“But it was an option this time?” Logan nodded, mouth watering as his stomach swam uneasily. “Why’s that?” 

“Because I’m done trying to be in his good graces.” 

“Doing this for yourself is the only real way to succeed, so that’s good to hear. So what about the rest of your family?” 

Logan flinched. “Jul...my sister, Juliet. We…” a sudden sting behind his eyes interrupted his words as he felt tears roll down his cheeks. “We used to be close but...shit happens, you know?” Zeke raised his eyebrows and muttered a ‘yeah’ under his breath. “She… her new husband he… he and I don’t see eye to eye, let’s put it that way.” That’s the lightest fucking way to put it. “And it...that and all this, it’s…” he sighed, shoulders slumping as low as his heart. “It fucked up our relationship and I...if I can fix it I want to.” I miss her. He wondered if Juliet missed him, too. She’d have come to visit if she did, and she hadn’t. 

“Mending, or trying to mend the relationships that got broken through addiction is part of the healing process. It helps you to come to terms with what you’ve lost or set aside while you’re in active addiction. How about any partners? Are you seeing anyone? Married or?” 

Your face filled his mind and the tears that had started when he mentioned Juliet’s name came back in full force when he spoke yours. “We weren’t...we’re not together or… but she’s…” he took a shuddering breath as a chill spread through his veins. “She’s the only person I can trust...the only one who believes in me and I…” The room melted as he recalled the last happy memory he had with you… 

..  .. ..  .. .. ..  ..

“Oh, shit,” There was a surprised note to your voice, the second word coming out almost as muffled laughter. His lips twitched up into a tired smile.You were stretched out across Logan’s body, his eyes drawn to the movement of your shoulder blade as you extended one arm to reach for your phone on the bedside table. “You know what time it is?” I have an idea… but I don’t care. His fingers traced the outline of your scapula as you drew your arm back onto the mattress. Hair cascading over your back, you turned slightly, your profile backlit by the low light of the lamp across the room. Palm settling in the curve of your spine, his lips parted as a breath slipped out. She’s beautiful. He’d known that from the moment he laid eyes on you, mesmerized by your movements, by the angles that your body made, the arch of your brow and the pillow of your lips. But it’s more than that now. You wrinkled your nose and turned onto your hip, still draped over him but propped up on your elbow. He raised his hand so that you could move, then let it drop to your bicep. “Logan?” His eyes were heavy but he kept them on you as you raked the hair away from them. “Did you hear me? It’s 3 am, I should,” you gave him a sleepy smile to match the one he was wearing. “I should get going.” 

“Stay.” His eyes narrowed as he spoke the word, almost shocked that it had come out of his mouth. Both hands found their way to your body, fingers flexing quickly, as though expressing their own unwillingness to let you go. You were clearly just as taken aback by his request as he was, and he understood. Logan Delos didn’t ask anyone to spend the night. Typically, he didn’t even ask his partners into his bedroom, instead using the pool house or one of the empty guest rooms. His space was his own, and he didn’t want it to become haunted by the misconstrued imaginings of the men and women that he took to bed. But with her it’s different. He suddenly realized that it had been for a while. 

For a few seconds you didn’t say anything, wide eyes searching his questioningly as though trying to make sure you’d heard him correctly. “Logan, you don’t…” you gave a small shake of your head, another tousled strand of hair falling into your eyes that you swept back into place, his eyes following the movement of your fingers. 

“I don’t what?” He tilted his head as he waited for you to finish your sentence. Don’t say I don’t want that. I do. He swallowed, hoping that you could feel the naked truth of how much he wanted you. 

“I-” You let out another near laugh, a look of guarded skepticism furrowing your forehead. You sighed. “You’re leaving early for your trip and I-” 

“Not leaving until ten,” he cut you off, not wanting to give you time to build your case. His touch trailed down your body until his hands found your waist, gripping you by the hips to turn you parallel to himself. Your thigh fell between his legs, forearms landing on either side of his ribs. “And the thing about owning your own jet is that it doesn’t take off until you’re ready to leave.” I don’t give a shit about being on time for this trip. He spoke your name, dragging his fingers up and down your back lazily. “Stay.”  

You laughed again, but he could see the questions still lingering in your eyes. “Logan,” you said his name softly then, your right hand curving around the slope of his neck where it met his shoulder. “That’s not…” His grip tightened on you again, but before he could say anything else you continued, voice small and vulnerable. “Are you sure?”

He knew why you were asking. You were protecting yourself, and he understood that. He knew he couldn’t promise you anything, not yet anyway. But she’s not asking me to. He reached for you, fingers curling under your chin and thumb brushing your lips. They opened beneath his touch, your breath warming his skin. Logan slid his palm up to cup your cheek, bringing your face closer to his own. “I’m sure.” The hand on your back pressed you the few inches closer that he needed to close the distance until his lips could cover yours. You sighed into the kiss and he felt you relax against him, felt the tension leave your muscles as you responded. I’m so fucking sure. His arms wound around you and he willed time to slow, to stop. I’ve never wanted to board a flight less than I do right now. If this trip wasn’t important to Juliet he’d blow it off without a second thought. If you stayed, he’d have a few hours of this, of you resting next to him, your quiet breathing syncing with his, your arm draped over his chest, limbs heavy as you slept. If you stayed, he could wake up to you in his arms and know what it was like to spend the first few minutes of morning with someone. Not with someone. With her.    

There were still questions in your eyes as you pulled back, and he knew that he’d put them there. Usually he wanted his partners to maintain their reservations about things becoming more serious. He wanted there to be obstacles and reasons to keep things meaningless. Trust was the last thing he needed from any of them, and he wasn’t looking for it when he first met you, either. But now… He’d told you that he’d made you his emergency contact at the park, but he hadn’t told you that it was because you were the only person who he felt completely comfortable with. Logan hadn’t told you, but it had been a month since he’d been with anyone but you. And since he hadn’t told you those things, you couldn’t possibly know that he was asking you to stay because for the first time in his life, he thought that maybe it was possible that someone could love him. Not someone… He kept his eyes on yours as he watched the questions ebb and flow until finally you answered. 

“Alright, Delos,” you leaned in to lay a soft kiss to his cheek, a light feeling filling his chest as he smiled. “But you better not snore,” you whispered against his skin. 

He laughed, a dizzy, sleepy happiness buzzing in his brain as he turned his face to capture your lips again. No problem. He took your bottom lip between his teeth, fueled by the little sigh you let out and the way that you tightened your grip on him. “No snoring, promise.” 

Logan didn’t make promises. He didn’t like being bound to anyone or anything because he knew that no matter how much effort he put into something, there were always going to be variables that were beyond his control, and he didn’t want to be responsible for mitigating them. But he had no problem making this promise, because he doubted he’d actually be doing much sleeping. He lifted his arm to let you situate yourself against his side, then dropped it down to tuck you even closer, reaching for the sheet with his free hand. You trailed your fingers through the thin smattering of hair that covered his chest as you slid one of your legs between his. He inhaled through his nose, the scent of your perfume and the tingling from your touch overwhelming him. “G’night, Logan,” you yawned as you pressed your palm over his heart. 

Almost automatically, he brought his hand up to cover yours on his sternum, keeping it in place as he buried his lips in your hair. “Night.” She stayed...she… He tilted his chin down, taking in the sight of you curled next to him. You closed your eyes and the second that you did he was caught off guard by the way it felt to have your trust in this way, to have you this way. As your breathing slowed, your weight settled and you gave yourself over to sleep, he nestled his lips in your hair once more, wispy strands getting caught in his beard as he kissed you again. “Thank you for saying yes,” he whispered, too quiet for you to ever hear. Thank you for saying yes to me.      

..  .. ..  .. .. ..  ..  

“Logan?” He snapped his head up too quickly, setting it spinning again, taking the walls with it. She’s the only one who ever said yes to me. “Logan?” He blinked and when the room came back into view, he met Ezekiel’s eyes, yours fading from his mind. “If you need to take a break, we can.” 

Will it help? 

“No, it’s-” he wiped at his eyes and sniffed, that hole in his heart, the one that he’d carved to look like you, filling with ice. “It’s...I wanna finish.” He blinked again and again, bleary eyes burning from the tears and the migraine and the lights in the room.

“Alright, good.” Zeke cleared his throat. “Listen, I’m sorry that it didn’t...that things with this woman didn’t-” he sighed. “If she’s a good friend she’ll be there for you.” He left it at that, not making any wild promises or suggestions that Logan should reach back out to you, that the two of you could have a chance at happily ever after again. 

I’ll be here when you get back. 

That’s what you’d said. And I told her no. I- the pain behind his eyes reached a new high and he winced, gripping the top of his head and gritting his teeth.   

Zeke noticed Logan’s distress. He stood, clipboard in hand as he crossed to the door.  “Just a few more of these, Logan, almost done.” Flicking one set of light switches with the end of his pen, he turned and crossed back to his desk. The change in brightness helped immediately, the jackhammer behind his eyes easing to a dull throb. Fuck, that’s better. Logan swallowed and took a deep breath as Zeke sat back down, the nausea subsiding at least for the moment. The man flipped to the next page of questions without acknowledging the lights or the noticeable relief that his action had brought. His face showed no signs of pity; no sympathetic yet reassuring smile, no sad, pathetic furrowing of his brow- just understanding. He lifted his chin to look back up at Logan. “Two more, yeah?” 

Logan pushed his sweat dampened hair back with the bony fingers of his left hand meeting Ezekiel’s hazel eyes. Make ‘em quick. “Yeah.” 

“What would you say is your motivation for seeking treatment?”  

“I…” He felt something break inside himself then, which was odd because he didn’t know that there was anything left to break. “I don’t want to die.” Not really. “I don’t wanna feel like this. But I don’t want… I don’t want this to kill me.” 

Ezekiel had heard every answer imaginable to that question, Logan was sure, so he didn’t react with more than a nod and the scratch of his pen on paper. “Alright, Logan, you’ve done great. Last one.” He set his pen down and rested both forearms on his desk, reaching up to adjust the rim of his glasses. “What is your treatment goal?” 

Logan’s head was pounding, his nervous system overloaded with pain signals. Didn’t I just answer that? “I… I just said…” 

“No, you said you don’t want to die. That’s a motivation, not a goal. What do you want for yourself after this? What do you hope to change or learn about yourself?” 

After. Logan hadn’t thought that far, only making the decision to check into a treatment center two days prior to sitting where he sat now. “I… what do I want to change?” Ezekiel nodded, face set in an expression that showed that he wouldn’t budge on expecting an answer. “Everything.” 

Zeke shook his head, a quirk to his lips. “Nah, Logan, you don’t want to change everything. You’re a smart man, you got a lot of good in you. You don’t need to change everything. What do you want?” 

For the longest time all Logan could remember wanting was a spot in the Delos boardroom. If not that, then a hit of pleasure, an escape. But now? “I… I want to get better.” 

Ezekiel took a slow breath in through his nose, letting it out just as slowly, eyes on Logan the whole time. “That’s a good start, Logan.” Start? No that’s- “But I know you can do better than that. So I’m gonna ask you every day until you figure it out.” 

“What if I don’t?” Why isn’t that good enough? 

Zeke stood and came around to stand next to Logan as he slowly rose as well. “You will.” He clapped Logan gently on the shoulder. “I know you will.”

.

.

.

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[kyberphilosopher]

Chapter Nine

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.☆.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Hondo wasn’t wrong. I did look like I’d been straight to hell. The dark bags under my eyes, hollowed cheeks, pale dry skin, brunette hair feeling like straw… it was all very hellish. Still, I would end up looking worse.

“Land this damned ship you idiot!” Hondo called out. Within a minute, his freighter gun ship would plant itself into the sand firmly. Once this happens, the light from the inside that blinds me so doesn’t seem as harsh, and the wind has disappeared. Both my hands lower slowly, curiously.

Hondo was (still is, to my knowledge) a Weequay. Dark dreadlocks fell over his shoulders, laced with beads and bands galore. The goggles over his eyes distracted from the thorns sprouting from his jaw and chin, which I hear is a sign of age for the species. Still, the pirate dawns a long coat and belt, paired with a stylish hat. Certainly more fashionable than anything I’ve ever worn, even though the only thing I’d wear on him is the jacket.

The man spreads his arms as if we’re lifelong friends, and a charismatic smile crosses his clever face. “Don’t be a stranger, ah! Why don’t you come in, and we’ll have a chat?”

Absolutely not.

There are several reasons why I should not and do not want to get onto a ship with a random pirate. You don’t survive in the Outer Rim by being stupid.

For starters, he’s a man. I don’t like the thought of being alone with men much. There’s been very few men in my life that didn’t make me feel uncomfortable in one way or another. Jarvers and Mur were different though… somehow. I guess maybe I saw them as fathers. No. I’m too busy losing my mind to have these thoughts right now.

It’s not that I’m terrible at disguising my tensing up, it’s just that I’m so stressed and exhausted, I can’t help but let my shoulders square themselves naturally. The pirate sees it. I watch his eyes flutter into a gentle roll under his goggles.

“My friend, I am no threat to you. On this, you have my word.”

Then I watch his eyes shift down to my hips. Not to the attribute that lies in the center, but at the sides. More specifically, at the metal cylinders attached at the waist. Instinctively, I take a defensive step back.

“Are you… Jedi?” the Weequay observantly asks with wide eyes.

You have to understand… I have a lot of anger. Anger at myself, anger at the world, anger at others I feel I shouldn’t have even though it’s deserved. Anger at the Jedi, for being too busy being corrupt and ignorant to give me shelter and warmth. Because even though I’m more than happy being independent, I wish I could’ve been dependent just once. I have anger at the Empire, for oppressing and taking as they please. Ironically, I have little anger for the Sith. I understand them.

But when the pirate said ‘Jedi’, I just… I snap.

I throw both my palms out towards him. The Force fills me up like a tingling wave, starting from my toes. The second it touches my brain, it touches the tips of all ten fingers. The man shoots backwards sharply. For a quick moment, he’s flying. Then his back slams into the wall behind him, and he slinks down.

I seize the opportunity to jump onto the ramp. I climb up it in sprinting strides until I too am inside the ship, standing above Ohnaka’s slumped body. The man groans out weakly, letting me know he’s still alive. It almost sounds like a meek, but genuine, laugh.

It’s the witness that catches my eye. On the right side, another Weequay with wide eyes and a surprised stance watches me. His cracked, dry colored features shift when I meet his eyes, and his hand reaches down to pull a blaster from his sling.

I’m faster, however. This will be, and is, the witnesses fatal error.

I reach my right arm out, opening my long, nimble fingers towards him. In my fiery, passionate fury, the Weequay chokes. His ugly face scrunches up as he struggles to breathe, in a way that I think I might like. Both hands begin raking at his throat furiously, as if puncturing a hole will give him some oxygen. The blaster clambers to the metal floor.

I let my fingers tighten a little. The Weequay almost skips into the air, just off his toes as he strangles. When I grip my fingers together in a fist, he floats closer towards me. Now, I can smell his stench, see the glimmer of fear in his eyes. It’s squirming around, twisting and turning and churning as if it itself was alive. I watch it dance, mesmerized.

There was a time where I felt an immense amount of fear, and a while after. I wanted to put all the anguish I was feeling into words for nobody but myself, but nothing could satisfy it. It was like an insatiable dragon. It would claw at me day and night. Dancing around vehemently, telling me to just spit it out. I never could. But now, looking at a man who is on the verge of death by my hand, I feel I could define it perfectly.

For some reason, I let my fist clench itself finally. There’s a sickening, admirable pop that crunches through his neck muscles. His pipes crush in on themselves. I let the pirates essence slip through my fingers like sand as he slips to the floor limply.

“You… killed him…” Hondo groans. His left hand goes to rub his chest soothingly.

My eyebrows furrow momentarily as I look down at him. “I know you,” I say. “You’re Hondo Ohnaka.”

There’s a deep growl, as if he’s revving himself up to speak. “You… come in here… kill my men…”

“I’ve seen a painting of you. On Takodano.”

Hondo looks up at me. At first, his eyes are wide with disbelief and aggression, but then it fades away. Like an outer later, the moment the pirate rolls his eyes, a charismatic twinkle returns to them. “It appears I have a fan.” He pauses. I can see the intelligence in his eyes, raking me in observantly. Not sexually. “Did Kenobi put you up to this?”

I narrow my eyes. The only person I’ve ever heard of named ‘Kenobi’ was a legend on Tatooine called Old Ben. Never sought him out. Never cared to. “Who the hell is Kenobi?”

Ohnaka watches me a moment further, before finally decided to let it go. A tamed smile washes over his face, which reminds me of the desert. He rolls his head to the side. “You’re no Jedi, are you?”

I swallow once before responding. “I never claimed to be.”

There’s a sigh. “So I suppose you’ll be no business partner.”

I glance at the corpse beside him. The guilt is already sinking into my stomach, though it’s muted by the adrenaline and the rush that comes from a murder. “Why don’t you make me an offer.”

Hondo has a lot of spice. That’s what I notice first.

Crates of it, all stacked together and close by among the rooms. It’s mostly about the main area, by booths and tables and holograms. There’s a shift in the air, full of dust and a kind of golden glow. There are a few other men about, all Weequay with bandanas and slings on them. A few stare at me, but Hondo waves them all away.

I slide into a leather booth easily. My eyes glance around, looking for the exits if necessary. I can break open the cockpit if I really have to. Escape into the ventilation system. Take out my lightsabers and just start hacking it all up. But then I would have no way off this planet, which is what I really want.

I could steal the ship. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to say that I killed Hondo Ohnaka, the pirate who roamed the galaxy. I’d get a lot of credit for it- maybe there’s even a bounty on his head. Then I would also be set with all the spice I could ever fathom. It would be, in theory, the perfect situation.

You know, aside from the lack of destination. Maker… I feel so jittery.

“So,” Hondo begins. He saunters up to the table I sit in, his orbs glimmering with the intelligence that all criminals  possess. “A force user, all the way out here.”

My eyes narrow subtly, without me even making them. It would be funny if it happened on command now, if not for the situations that call for it. Under the table, my hands ball into fists against the dry fabric on my legs.

“I can see you’re an intelligent person,” the pirate continues. His accent makes his voice seem to draw out. “So what would you bring you to a planet such as this one? Are you… running from something?”

I take my hands from my lap, and bend my elbows against the table. My arms fold, my back hunching forward as my fingers tap against the wrapping on my limbs. Once my braid falls over my right shoulder, I look relaxed.

“Does it matter?” I counter. “What does it matter what I am, so long as I get the job done?”

Hondo rolls his eyes dramatically, moving his hands around to accentuate his words. “Ah, a means to an end type. Finally! Of course it matters what you are.” Hondo pauses, then leers closer with a hint of a smile, which seems to be permanently attached to his features. “Afterall, what we are, always reflects who we are.”

His words bother me. It’s such an… insightful and personal thing to say, and the way Hondo says it makes me feel like his eyes are piercing into my soul. Like he can see the guilt I feel inside, the contempt I have for things that are good. But I don’t let him see this. For one, my emotions tend to brew around inside of me slowly, and when I try to communicate them, they become solids that refuse to leave me, and I don’t trust anyone with being as honest as I could be. On the second hand, I don’t think it to be wise to show an outburst of emotions in front of an infamous pirate.

“That’s one way of putting it,” I answer.

Hondo nods once. “So it is.”

I try not to let my eyes flutter to the side of the ship, to the large crates of spice. Maker, it’s been so long since I’ve had spice. I’m not addicted by any means, but the rush it gives me would be welcome right about now.

“The job should not be difficult for a force user such as yourself, eh?” Hondo continues. “We’ll just be stealing some certain trinkets from the Imperial bases.”

I look down at the table, letting out a dry exhale through my nose.

Don’t get me wrong, I love pissing people off. Especially big and important people, who run big and important things. Companies, governments… Empires. But I don’t want to have to keep inconveniencing myself. I don’t want to have to keep messing with the people who are hunting me just to stay alive. I hate to say it, but I think I need to stabilize myself before I think of going out of my way. At this point in my life, the only thing I know for sure is that looking out for number one is the most important thing.

The answer is solidifying in the depths of my chest as Hondo looks at me proudly, ready to continue explaining his plan. He does so momentarily, though truthfully I’m not listening. I can only see his lips move up and down, back and forth as I think about the Clone with the yellow stripe. The way he loomed over me as my head broke the surface of the water. The way I could feel his malice at me from so far away. He’s the one who gave me the long scar on my left arm, right by my elbow.

“… I mean, we’d need Imperial documentation of it, but we can figure that out, eh? We’ve already got everything good to go-”

“I can’t go with you,” I interrupt suddenly.

Hondo’s face pulls into a frown. I look into his eyes as I continue, allowing the slightest bit of honesty to creep out of my throat.

“I’m not with the Empire,” I begin. “But I can’t be against them. Not yet.”

“Are they what you’re running from?” Hondo questions further, crossing his arms.

I shrug my shoulders slightly. “Something like that.”

Hondo sighs. “Well… I suppose I can understand…”

“There’s some men down the way who might help you. Maybe a click from the way you found me. Stationed out in an old Republic walker.”

“Could be worth a try.”

Another idea pops into my head. Perking up, I push my left hand into the pocket and feel around the depths. After a second of shuffling, I grasp the object and reveal it- Garreth’s little black book.

“What do you have there?” Hondo asks curiously.

“This,” I say, flipping the cover open, “could be of use to you.”

The first few pages are all in Galactic Basic. A few rantings that mean nothing to me, until a few pages in. Imperial information begins to flood the paper- names of ships, maps, orders, codes, plans. All within the pages of a dead man’s book.

“It’s filled with Imperial documentations,” I say.

Hondo’s stance changes from relaxed, to almost overly interested. He takes a step forward, eyes widening. “Where did you get that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly. My eyes skim the pages, absorbing the fortune in my palms. Garreth, on top of being a vigilant soldier, was also a bit of an artist. There are multiple sketches of a Twi’Lek women laced into his words. She’s sultry, but somewhat sad at the same time.

These next few pieces of information are important. You might want to remember them.

One page in particular catches my eye. Set up in bullet points along the page, is a list of ships. Next to the names of the ships is their stationed coordinates, functions, and purpose.

They all seem to be Star Destroyers, valued at over a hundred million credits. I take in all the command ships, raking in the information begging me to absorb it.

The Executor has fluctuating coordinates, according the Garreth. It’s overseen by someone referred to as ‘General V’. Star’s Ally tends to hang around Scarif, but that could be changing soon. Punisher is supposed to possess the second highest amount of guns out of the entire Imperial fleet. The Maker’s Thrall is rumored to have access to controlling several bases throughout the galaxy, and stays outside a little planet called Mustafar.

“Have you heard of someone called ‘General V’?” I question aloud. “His name is written all over this thing.”

“I’ve heard only rumors, but nothing more,” Hondo sighs. “When the Empire came, my own was crushed.”

I nod in understanding. “You said you needed documentation. What of?”

Hondo remains quiet. I glace between his eyes, feeling the tension build.

He’s thinking of all the ways to kill me. To shoot me with a blaster, to pry the book from my fingers. He will use it, maybe sell it for the profit he sees fit. Then he will take my sabers and sell those too. Dealing with my body won’t be difficult- simply throw it out the hatch and let me float into nothingness.

I’m thinking of all the ways to kill him too, then. Jump from my seat and decapitate him with a blade before he can make a move. His little horde of weak minded men will be easier to take care of after. Then I can take this ship and the spice, use the book to find a planet the Empire hasn’t yet touched, and live a peaceful life of hunting and not talking to people until I die of an overdose.

“Well, if you won’t help us with a mission, then you should help us in another way, right? How about a trade?” Hondo says sweetly. “That journal, for as many credits as the lady desires.”

Slowly, I push the cover of the book to a close. “I can think of a lot of credits to desire,” I tell him. “But credits are no match for information.”

Hondo breaks into a laugh, as if we were long time friends. “Oh, a smart one too! I knew there was something clever about you.”

I give a weak, fake smile in response. It lasts only a second. “Did you?”

“But of course,” Hondo continues. The tone of his voice shifts into something nearly condescending. Something overly sweet, that I can’t quite describe unless you were hearing it. It’s the tone of voice that people use when you’re both playing at a game, but you would never openly admit it. That would be breaking the rules.

“And I trust you are a… reasonable person as well.”

“You flatter me.”

“Yes well... everyone’s good at something.”

I hold Hondo’s stare for a full minute, daring him to continue. I know I can take him easily. In a way, I want him to make a move. I want to kill him. It would be so easy- so satisfying. And as I watch him die, I can relish in the knowledge that I will then possess a ship, and crates upon crates of spice. Whatever credits or further treasures he has aboard will be mine too. It’s all becoming more and more tantalizing…

“How about I make you a counteroffer,” I begin lowly. “I keep the book, and then I let you live.”

Hondo scoffs humorously. “Is that supposed to be a threat? I am a pirate! I can’t even spell threat!”

One hand leaves the book and falls to my hips. On the right side, my fingers begin to grip around the hilt of the saber, keeping it at the ready. “I’m sure.”

“What did you say your name was again?” Hondo inquires. A hand of his own comes to rest a little to close to his blaster for my liking.

I press the switch of the lightsaber. Slowly, the blue light extends from under the table. Though dangerously close to my face, it floods the area like a threat. “I never gave it to you. But I can give you something else.”

Hondo takes a step back. His eyes widen as his men jump in front of him blasters at the ready. “We can’t let you touch our Captain, missy,” one of them growls aggressively. His spit clashes with the floor through his gritted teeth.

I bite my bottom lip at this, trying not to let the laugh building escape past my mouth. My knees curl up and my feet position themselves on the seat, so I am now crouching. I keep my eyes on the group as I beckon the book come up into the air and restore itself in my jacket pocket. Safe and snug, my free hand reaches for the second saber. “But who will protect him, if you are all dead?”

“Fire!” Hondo exclaims. “Fire! Fire now!”

Bolts of heat come towards me. My other lightsaber comes to light in a green glow. I spring from the seat and towards the men. I bring my blades into an X, and then extend them out. Two of the Weequay fall to the floor, orange lines burned into their throats.

Hondo turns to run down a hallway, with three of the men following him. With two remaining to take care of me, I pick who to deal with first.

It’s the one on the right. I quickly elbow him in the face, discombobulating him. I turn around and let my saber drive through his stomach. Now facing the other one, I block a few shots with the second saber. Either he’s not very good aim, or I’m very good at blocking, because I am unhurt and full of breath. To finish him, I bring him closer to me with a quick extending of my fingers, then slash at him.

As he lay at my feet, I look down the hallway that Hondo escaped to, before starting towards it.

The Dark side of the Force is far more powerful than the Light, if you ask me. It fills you with a sense of purpose, a sense of power. A new, inviting feeling runs through you that promises it’s okay to be selfish- you deserve it. You can feel everything in the galaxy, even things that have already happened, and things that have not yet come to pass. The Dark side feels… good. When I use it, especially now, I feel like no one has touched me. I feel like pure, raw power, unscathed and unclaimable. I want more.

When you’re that enthralled with the Dark side, you’ll do anything to get more of it. The best way to obtain this, is murder. The more innocent, the more power. The more guilt it will bring you, the more kingly you will become. And the more kingly you become… the more you gain.

I find Hondo and his goons easy enough. They stumble down the way, while Ohnaka constantly screams “Where’s the pilot?! Where’s the pilot?!”

I clench my hand in a fist. One of his men shoots into the air and drops his blaster. His back presses against the ceiling as he squirms around, his arms at either side of him. With a twist of my blade, it slices against his abdomen.

The next pirate widens his eyes. Seeing he’s too close to me, he attempts to jump back. Smoothly, I bring the green saber up and across to cut the end of his blaster off. With the momentum, I kick him in the stomach with a pop and separate his head from his neck with the blue saber.

The last lackey of Hondo’s lowers his blaster. His expression startled, he begins flattening himself against the wall in an attempt to keep away from me. Hondo does the same on the opposite side.

I watch Hondo’s face for a long time. I don’t feel out of breath, nor do I feel worried. I’m focused on the dancing glimmer in his eyes, because they remind me of a panicked scarab beetle. His chest heaves. The coat swishes around in the nonexistent wind before finally stilling.

It’s funny. Hondo is supposed to be one of the most cutthroat, ambitious pirates in the galaxy. But now, with my lightsaber at his throat, he doesn’t seem so bad at all. He could’ve shot at me with his blaster but he didn’t. He’s still not. In fact, one could argue that the man is trembling at the sight of me.

So, this begs the question: is something wrong with him? Or is something wrong with me?

I lower my blades. Something feels like it’s draining out of my chest like a poisonous ooze. Part of me misses it as I feel it leave, but another part of me feels far less heavy. What was I thinking? What was I blinded by exactly? What possessed me to… no. It doesn’t matter.

And, in a lowly voice, I order, “Get out of here.”

And that’s the story of how I stole from Hondo Ohnaka, and lived. Keep in mind, this was all over a disagreement about the book that would end up ruining more lives than just my own. I guess it seems almost silly now, in the grand scheme of things.

But if you’re worried about Hondo and his ship- don’t worry. He’d get it back, though most of that spice would be long gone...

[blessed-but-distressed]

Basket Case: A @cssecretsanta2k18 AU

For @lifeinahole27, with my apologies for the delay. Happy New Year!

also on ff.net and ao3

Basket Weaving for Beginners.

It wasn’t exactly Emma Swan’s idea of a wild Thursday night. Spending an evening cooped up in an elementary school classroom, taking instruction from an aging hippie about how to craft ugly home furnishings from twigs. But it was on the list. And this year, Emma was sticking to her list.

New Year’s Resolution #3: Take up a new hobby.

Okay, so maybe it hadn’t exactly specified that she take up basket weaving, but it had to be something. It wasn’t Emma’s fault that by the time she’d fished the Adult Education brochure out from the random assortment of junk mail she had piling up, it was the only class left in the course catalog that still had available spaces.

Not unless she felt like taking up Fly Fishing for Beginners, and frankly, she didn’t.

New Year’s Resolution #9: Stop leaving junk mail piled up on the hall table.

So. Basket Weaving. For Beginners. How bad could it be?

Her first impressions weren’t bad. It was just it had been years since she’d been in a proper classroom, and she’d forgotten how colorful they could be. Laminated charts and drawings covering every wall, each eye-wateringly brighter than the next. The papier-mâché solar system strung from the ceiling. Even the list of kids who made detention this week was scrawled in a vivid purple.

She tried to conjure up the memories from her own elementary school days, but they were flat, muted. She couldn’t dredge up anything with half of this… effervescence. Maybe it was just the 90s. Maybe it was just her, and her crappy childhood.

She was relieved to find that rather than the Woodstock Wannabe she’d imagined, the instructor was actually young, perhaps even younger than her. A pretty, dark haired woman in a fitted tweed jacket, and heels so high Emma winced reflexively just at the sight of them.

“You must be Emma,” the woman said warmly, reaching across the table to shake her hand. She was Australian, maybe. Or possibly South African. Emma never really had an ear for accents. “I’m Belle. I’ll be leading the class. Glad you found your way. We’re just about to start, so if you could find somewhere to sit…”

A quick scan revealed that every table was already occupied, everyone paired up like it was Noah’s Ark or something. All except the table at the back, its sole occupant leaning back on his comically small chair, a sardonic smile curling his lips as Emma turned his way.

New Year’s Resolution #1: STAY AWAY FROM KILLIAN JONES!

Fuck.

Her first instinct was to flee. The natural response, when confronted with a predator. And mark her words, everything about Killian Jones in that instant was entirely predatory. The leather jacket. The devil-may-care slouch. And above all, the familiarity sparking in those dangerous blue eyes, that threatened to swallow her whole.

She did turn to go, but by then Belle already had her by the elbow, and was practically manhandling her down the aisle of desks. “Oh, look,” she said, her blithe tone a contrast to her iron grip. “It seems like Mr Jones is in need of a partner.”

Everyone was looking at her now. The retirees in their matching jogging suits. The J.Crew moms chugging down their mineral waters. The new age waifs in their tie-dyed T-shirts. Every beady eye, turned in her direction.

“Great,” she said, rescuing her arm from Belle’s vice-like grasp. And took a seat.

He didn’t speak immediately, just watched as Belle trailed back down to the front of the room, taking the attention of the class with her. But she could tell he already had an opening volley prepared. Could practically feel it vibrating inside him, as his elbow oh-so-accidentally brushed her own.

“So who was it?” Emma asked, keeping her voice low and emotionless. “Ruby? Mary Margaret? I bet it was Mary Margaret, wasn’t it?”

She chanced a sideways glance at his expression, trying to catch him out, but his face was inscrutable, if kind of smug.

“I have no idea what you mean, Swan. I’m just as surprised as you. I’m just a simple man, going about his day, eager to learn the ancient and noble art of basket weaving.”

“You have one hand!” Her voice rose a little higher than she intended, drawing a few odd looks their way.

“Well,” he shrugged, turning her way properly at last. “You know that’s never really been an obstacle when it counts.”

The look he shot her was knowing. The same look he’d worn the morning after, before she’d thrown his jeans at his chest, and told him to lose her number.

God, her list was going straight to hell.

It wasn’t even February yet.

It hadn’t mattered. The one-handed thing. He wore a prosthetic, usually. And when it was cold like this, he wore gloves so you could barely even tell that much. Not unless he wanted you to. He hadn’t worn the prosthetic with her. Hadn’t bothered to hide what he was. Who he was.

He was struggling now though, tool poised to create a split in the willow reeds, per Belle’s instructions, but slipping every time without the proper leverage.

“Hey,” she said, her touch on his shoulder enough to still him. “Hand me the screwdriver.”

“It’s a bodkin, Swan,” he corrected, but gauging Emma’s unimpressed face, handed it over anyway.

Emma had never tried to split a willow reed before, but a quick glance at the neighboring tables showed that no one else seemed to be finding it all that difficult. How hard could it be?

“Now remember what Belle said. You’ve got t- Careful!” he warned, but it was already too late, Emma’s first attempt had already snapped the reed clean in half.

“Shit.”

“And that’s why there are spares,” Killian sighed, dropping another near identical reed onto the tabletop.

“Maybe I should be the one holding it?” Emma offered.

But Killian shook his head, his weight already braced at either end, waiting. “You can do it, Swan. Just remember not to push it through right away.”

A beat. The flicker of a smile. The innuendo shimmering silently between them, before he coughed, and nudged her hand. “Again.”

This cut was more centered, and as she lifted the reed, the bodkin, or whatever it was, poked through the other side. A perfect split, to feed the other reed through.

Killian leaned close, inspecting her handiwork. “Not bad, love. And only two more to go.”

He shouldn’t be smiling at her like that. Encouraging her. Sneaking in his accidental terms of endearment.

She set down the tool.

“Why are you here?” It caught him by surprise, a little, the shift in her tone. “And don’t give me any bullshit about the ancient and noble art of basket weaving. We both know you set this up... somehow.”

He didn’t speak right away, as if weighing his words carefully. “I set it up a little,” he admitted. “Though there was a certain amount of providence involved.”

 He paused again, considered something, eyes shining with some unnamed emotion. “You were so quick to reject me, I thought I would give you an opportunity to reconsider.”

Hurt. That was the emotion.

She’d hurt him. The knowledge of it was a cool knife inside her chest, quelling her indignation. Not just because she’d rejected him, but because she hadn’t even given it a second thought before doing so.

Not because she didn’t like him. Not because he wasn’t a good man. Not because he wasn’t pretty damn spectacular in bed.

But because it was safe.

New Year’s Resolution #2: Go see a therapist for your stupid abandonment issues.

She felt the tear fall, but was powerless to stop it. A single escapee trailing down her cheek before she could get herself completely under control.

The sight of it unnerved Killian, and so well it might. Emma was not a crier.

“Christ, Swan,” he said, his good hand coming up to wipe her chin. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just-”

“No,” she said, a hand closing over his wrist, plastering on a watery smile. “I’m fine. You’re right. I was… callous. And that wasn’t fair to you.”

Releasing his wrist, and at a loss for what to do with her hands, she picked up the bodkin again, and lined up the next reed.

“I don’t mean to trap you, love,” Killian said softly, leaning across to hold the reed steady. “Or force you into saying something you don’t mean. I just wanted you to know you have a choice. And that I’m prepared to be patient…” Their eyes met briefly. “...if you need time to make that choice.”

It was all she could do to nod, when she had more tears threatening to spill over.

Steadying her hand, Emma punctured the reed, a perfect perforation. She held it up for Killian to inspect.

“Not bad, that,” he whistled.

“Only one more to go.”

The third reed snapped. The fourth was a success. She let Killian thread the others through, until they formed a perfect cross slath.

“Great!” Belle clapped from nearby, making a close circuit to assess their progress. “Now grab your two longest rods. They are going to be your weavers. Today we are going to be doing a pairing weave…”

She was barely out of earshot before Emma dissolved into sniggers.

“Longest… rod…” Emma spluttered, her emotions already all over the place. “Sorry. I just- I’m fine now. I’m mature. I can hear the word rod without dissolving into teenage giggling.”

“You sure about that, Swan?” Killian asked with an amused look, before one of the J.Crew crowd turned around to shush them.

Chastened, he passed her the rods in question, and let her take care of the more finicky task of securing the slath.

It wasn’t long before they had a rhythm going. Her weaving clockwise. Him holding the spokes apart as he slowly rotated the disk anti-clockwise. It wasn’t really a two person job, but it worked as one.

And it did kind of look like a basket. Or the base of one. A bit like a laundry hamper Emma used to have. The beginnings of something not too bad.

“Great work, guys!” Belle said admiringly, as she passed by their table. “Now that’s about all we have time for this week, but next week we’ll move onto the sides, where we’ll use a randing weave...”

Killian rose a suggestive brow.

“I swear she’s doing it on purpose…” Emma grumbled, packing away their tools and brushing away the debris. After a while, it became clear she was stalling more than anything.

“It was Graham,” Killian said, smiling at her confused frown. “Who ratted you out. In case you were wondering.”

Graham. That traitor. She should’ve known.

“Same time next week?” he asked, rising to his feet. The tone was light, but the question was not.

A choice.

“Yeah,” she said, rapping her knuckles against the table, trying to play it cool, even as she saw the grin spread wide across his face. “Sure. Next week.”

[haughtbreaker]

Pour Me More - Chapter 1: Slow Time

Summary:  Nicole Haught had the perfect life in California. Surfing before school and parties on the weekend, a beautiful girlfriend, and friends she would die for. That is, until her girlfriend dies. With Nicole plagued by depression, grief, and a failed suicide attempt, Nicole's father sends her to live with family in Purgatory, Canada. Sharing a house with the orphaned Earp sisters, Nicole must learn to adjust to a whole new life of snow, rodeo jocks, and a girl with the smile of an angel that brings up the question of whether she can ever love again.

TW: Mention of past suicide attempt, depression, grief

Available on AO3

I'm going to apologize in advance. When I started writing this fic, I was writing it for myself. Writing has always been my solace in life and once I started writing this, I couldn't stop. It grew into a monster and now I'm unleashing it upon you the readers. Please do not feel like you have to read this. While the suicide attempt is in the past, it does come up often in the story. Thank you to @jaybear1701 for being the primary beta and my other writing buddies including @trylonandperisphere and a bunch of others my brain isn't working right now.

(**the song mentioned in this chapter is called Slow Time by Go Jimmy Go and is available HERE on Spotify**)

 It was early morning, the sun just breaking over the horizon and illuminating the long stretch of beach in tones of yellows and oranges. The soft hiss of the sea filled the air, the tide moving out bit by bit with each rush of water and foam.

Nicole stumbled onto the shore, water dripping from shoulder length auburn hair and down slightly tanned skin. She swallowed loudly, her chest heaving from the exertion of her morning surf as she took one slow step after the other, the whites of her brown eyes stained red. It wasn't hard to find the spot she'd marked for herself, a small green and white cabana towel tousled slightly by the wind in the sand near the grassline.

To anyone who didn't know her, she looked like a wayward teen, trying to get a few waves in before school started. She was as wayward as they came, and maybe six months ago the situation would have applied to her, but not anymore.

Six months ago, Nicole would have been far more careful with her board, placing it on the sand with calculated intent, but at that moment, she dropped it on the ground, kicking it mindlessly to at least face the top towards the rising sun. Less than carefully, she yanked at the velcro securing the leash to her ankle before dropping to the towel, struggling against her emotions. A bottle laid tilted in the soft sand and she reached for it, taking a quick pull of the clear liquid that burned all the way down her throat to her belly.

"You shouldn't surf drunk," Shae's voice whispered in her ear, dancing on the seabreeze and testing the limits of her resolve.

Nicole sniffled, feeling the warmth of a tear slipping down her cheek in stark contrast to her chilled skin. At her hip, she untied the net bag that had one object in it, a small metal canister that slid easily into her hand. Unscrewing the airtight container, she expected empty space, but still her eyes filled with more tears, her lip trembling uncontrollably as she let the cap fall from one hand, reaching again for the bottle and messily filling her mouth with vodka before gulping it down with a gag.

"This is what she would want," she told herself as she capped the bottle, setting it aside. She couldn't bear to think of the canister being empty when what remained of her love was now spread between the waves, to become a part of the beach and coral. With a heavy heart, she filled it half with sand before she connected the two parts of the canister once more, setting it aside as she took a minute to look over the beach. Her fingers trembled as she pushed her wet hair behind her ear.

The shoreline was the same as it had been since she was a child, from the time she'd caught her first wave to the time she'd captured her first kiss. But, looking over the light sand and the greenish blue water, it was no longer the paradise it had always been. The cove hadn't changed, but she had. While the tide came in and headed out on schedule, washing away any marred surfaces and leaving behind a fresh shore, she hadn't been so lucky.

Nicole remembered sitting near the shore-break, long tapered fingers drawing hearts in the wet sand as she pressed kisses along dark skin. She remembered whispered words of love and promises of the future that were to be whisked away like the crash of waves washed away the ridiculous hearts.

And now, the water couldn't remove the scars that had been left behind, emotional or physical. Nicole's eyes drifted over the barely healed marks, remembering how the vodka had tasted on her lips as her hands trembled. She didn't remember feeling the physical pain as flesh parted, or maybe it just couldn't combat the hopelessness she felt. Instead, she remembered the beat of music that poured from her speakers, the reggae-soul song that had once brought a smile to her face now bringing nothing but tears. She remembered somehow hearing the familiar singing voice that death had taken from her months before, one that was as real as the sound of her father pounding on her bedroom door.

When you are here, it's the right time. When you're around, it's a nice time. When you are gone, it's a rough time. When you stay away, it's the toughest time. So come back home, Miss Wonderful So time and time and time, time can slow down.

Nicole blinked away another wave of tears as she shook her head, taking a deep breath. Pulling over her board, she tested the surface, finding the wax soft and pliant before covering it with sand, beginning to scrub away the coat with experienced fingers. She tried not to think about this being the last time in a while, how the beach that had held so many treasures in the past would only be a memory in the days to come.

Another tear fell, splashing against the sandy surface that Nicole worked with her hands, making sure to clear away as much wax as possible. She lost herself in the work, feeling like layers of herself were being scrubbed away with the layers of wax. Despite her earlier negligence, the board had been good to her. She couldn't dream of leaving it in storage in poor condition, not when she didn't know when she would pick it up again, or if she ever would. For now, this was the least she could do for the part of her that had been so important.

When she felt she'd done all she could, Nicole gathered her things into her small bag and stood. She picked up the now sand-filled canister once again. It was strange to think about how much heavier sand was than ashes as she moved to the nearby grass. She set it on the ground beneath the familiar coconut tree before pulling out the new blade she'd purchased that morning.

Slowly, she began to scar the bark, being far more careful than she had been three months ago with her own skin. She didn't wipe away the tears that fell as she worked, cuts turning into carefully formed letters. Her own initials were easier, nothing but straight lines, but Shae's were curved, difficult, just like Shae. Nicole finished relatively quickly, running her fingers over the NH + SP in one of those ridiculous hearts that Shae had loved so much before tucking the knife away.

"I'm sorry, Baby." She whispered, pressing her forehead to the rough bark. "I'm sorry I couldn't join you," she added before hefting up her board and turning her back on the beach and the soft hiss of waves breaking on the shore.

This time tomorrow, she would be in Canada, trading sunny beaches for harsh winters to live with an aunt she barely knew, far away from a life she had barely survived.

 The rising sun slowly peaked through the patterned curtains as Waverly Earp huddled further under the blanket, trying to block out the light. She was given another two minutes before the alarm went off. With a huff, she let the alarm ring for a bit before she pushed back the blanket and quickly rolled out of bed. She snatched the hoodie from her bedpost and slipped it on as she sleepily headed towards the bathroom. Waverly had never really been a morning person, but was anyone really? She was almost to the door when a flash of color dashed in before her, the bathroom door closing just as she got there. "God damn it, Wynonna," she cursed, hitting the door with a quick punch before rubbing her eyes. She was glad her sister was back, but sometimes... "You're such an asshole."

"Gotta move faster than that, Waves." Wynonna called from the other side of the door as the toilet flushed and she heard the sink running.

"You don't even go to school anymore." Waverly's voice was a defeated whine as she leaned against the wall beside the door, her foot tapping on the floor to distract herself from the screaming of her bladder.

The door opened suddenly and Wynonna straightened her leather jacket, running a hand through her long brunette waves. "I'm taking your Jeep today, remember?"

It took a minute before Waverly recalled, realization dawning on her face. "Shit buckets. Right." How could she forget? She looked over at the room that had only recently been cleaned out. It had been a storage room for as long as she could remember, since the morning they moved in after their father had died… since Wynonna had accidentally killed him. She smiled at her sister who had only been back in town for a month now. "Give me a few minutes and I'll be ready."

"Take your time. Gus made pancakes." Wynonna was a little too giddy as she pushed past her, heading down the stairs.

Waverly shook her head. She knew by the time she got downstairs, her sister would have worked her way through most of the food. She settled for skipping breakfast as she splashed cold water on her face. Whatever kept Wynonna even close to happy, she was okay with it.

She couldn't bear to think of spending another three years without seeing her only close relative. Gus was great and all, but having her sister under the same roof almost reminded her of… before. She tried not to think about it, that night on the homestead when men had broken into their house. She'd only been six, but she understood the screams as her sister was killed, and her father was being dragged out of the house. Wynonna had shoved her in a closet, told her to cover her ears and close her eyes, not to cry, try not to breathe too loudly. But she hadn't listened. She remembered opening the door to watch Wynonna take their father's gun and…

Well, Wynonna had never been the best shot. Not like their sister Willa.

Another splash of freezing water from the faucet against her face and Waverly brought herself back to the present."Stop being so darn morose," she sighed heavily, looking at her reflection. She forced a smile onto her face, taking a deep breath. "Ok, Waverly Earp. Get your hiney in gear." She took another breath before nodding and starting her daily regimen. "You are surrounded by a sphere of positivity," she told her reflection, beginning to apply makeup as she repeated her daily mantra. "Negativity cannot touch you but your positivity can flow out and affect the world around you." She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, imagining herself breathing in the light of goodness. She held her breath, willing herself to absorb the positivity until her body was too full, her lungs screaming with the strain. Slowly she exhaled, expelling the darkness and negativity from her body before continuing. "There are blessings everywhere, you just have to open your eyes to see them."

By the time Waverly was ready, her hair pulled up into twin buns and makeup freshly applied, she escaped the bathroom and the negativity she had left behind to quickly dress and grab her book bag, a small skip in her step that hadn't been there moments before. She was flipping through her folder as she entered the kitchen to find Wynonna eating a whole pancake speared on a fork. "It's easier to eat if you cut it," she commented as Gus handed her a glass of orange juice. "Thanks, Gus."

"I saved you some fruit." Gus set the bowl down on the table as she accepted a sheet of paper. "What's this?"

"Emergency contact and doctor info for cheerleading." Waverly smiled before picking a few blueberries out of the bowl.

Gus slipped her glasses on, eyeing the document. "As if there were more than one doctor in Purgatory." She pulled out a pen and began to fill in the boxes and lines before pausing, her eyes narrowing. "When did you join the varsity squad?"

"They let pipsqueaks on the varsity squad?" Wynonna mumbled around a mouthful of pancake.

"Don't be rude." Waverly felt a flare of anger at her sister. "I'll have you know I have the perfect stature for cheerleading."

"Tiny Amazon: perfect stature to get railed by every jock that..."

"Wynonna!" Gus's hand smacked the back of Wynonna's head as she gave her a look of distaste.

Waverly didn't let it phase her as she chewed on a strawberry. Considering just a few months ago she'd been dating Champ, one of the school's best cattle wranglers in the last Purgatory Rodeo, she didn't really have much room to argue. At least she'd come to her senses when he tried to convince her not to take the college course she had enrolled in, saying she didn't need to be so smart because she was pretty enough.

"I've sworn off of all jocks, thank you very much." She stuck her tongue out at her sister. "Besides, I don't really have time for dating. I'm taking that extra class in ancient history and I'm going to be swamped if I'm going to graduate this year." Well, that and she was self aware enough to notice that lately it wasn't just the boys she'd been watching at school. She needed to take some time to figure things out and overanalyze everything as she normally did.

Wynonna shook her head as she pushed up from her chair. "I don't know why you're in such a hurry to graduate."

"Someone in this family should graduate high school." Waverly sniped. She knew it was mean, but still the words slipped out before she could stop them.

To her credit, Wynonna just raised an eyebrow before slinging an arm over her shoulder. "Well… then let's get you to school, Nerd."

Bundled up and prepared for the day, Waverly slipped into the passenger side of her red Jeep. She'd worked at the local pub, Shorty's, all summer, sweeping floors and washing dishes, not only because employment looked great on a college application, but it also allowed her to scrape up enough money to buy what she considered her own bit of freedom. Wynonna didn't drive it often, but after she dinged up Gus's truck something fierce, Gus had been more likely to having Wynonna ask Waverly first.

Wynonna hopped into the Jeep with a grin. "You know, for someone who gets cold easy, you sure picked the worst vehicle possible."

"She may be cold at times, but she's got heart…" Waverly commented, not following up with the silent kinda like you she thought instantly.

"That has got to be," Wynonna started the jeep easily, "the lamest thing I've ever heard you say."

"Haha," Waverly buckled her seatbelt firmly. "Just be careful and keep it...Wynonna!" She screamed as her sister punched the gas and the jeep's tires spun in the snow for a good second before lurching into movement.

Wynonna only laughed.

[mackinmacki]

The Modern Art of Dating

Rating: K+

Word Count: 4681

Summary: Meeting on an online dating service, the two queens of evil have to get past their own worries in order to potentially find something desirable between them.

Pairing: Bowsette x Booette

Notes: The idea of writing anything like this came to me after talking about it with @the-canine-king. We’re both bad influences on each other.

Links: (AO3)

Sitting in front of a large, ornate mirror, Bowsette carefully brushed her hair with firm strokes. Staring at herself in the mirror was a regular occurrence for the vain queen, but tonight held a special purpose. She was getting ready for a date, so she had to look even more perfect than usual. Putting the brush down on her vanity, she grabbed a hair tie and worked her scarlet hair into a ponytail. She gently patted her hair as she gazed at herself, feeling pretty damn good about herself. Perhaps a second opinion was required, though.

"Kammy!" Her roar echoed through multiple rooms of the castle, no doubt reaching the right pair of ears. While she waited for her right-hand woman to get to the room, she busied herself with trying on accessories. She grabbed a spiked black collar and affixed it around her neck, twitching it until it felt perfect against her skin. Then she grabbed another one and wrapped it around her upper arm: one for the left and one for the right. This was a night where she needed to dress to impress, and she always looked pretty damn impressive in spikes and leather.

"Yes your Majesticness?" Kammy came into the room as Bowsette was putting a pair of spiked wristbands on. She flew over to the vanity on her broom, stopping in mid-air and fixing the purple witch's hat on her head. "Oh, you look wonderful, your highness! Ah yes, you're going on a date tonight, aren't you?"

"Yes, and that's why I need your opinion on something." She pushed back her chair and stood up, smoothing down her black dress and showing herself off to her elderly adviser. "Do you think this is too much? Or perhaps too little? Perhaps I should get a bigger ruby..." She tapped the jewel stitched into the her dress, resting comfortably against her chest. It matched her eyes, but maybe it wasn't impressive enough. "But where could I get a bigger jewel at this time of the night..."

"You worry too much, your Sexiness. Any denizen of the kingdom should be honored to go on a date with you." She flew close enough to where she could pat Bowsette on the shoulder. It wasn't hard to tell that this was a big deal for her. Though she was the baddest and toughest queen in all the land, Kammy was more privy to the scenes behind the tales of grandeur. She knew this was her first date since the kid had come into her life. It would make sense that she was a tad nervous.

"This is not just any date! I'm going on a date with a queen! The Queen of Scream! To treat this like an ordinary date would be folly." Fire burned from her mouth into the open air, nearly singing Kammy's broom as she started to pace around the room. "A queen deserves only the best from a prospective partner. That's what I would expect as well." She turned on her heel, facing Kammy again. Though she enjoyed wearing heels to accentuate her height even more among her minions, she worried that would be too intimidating for the much shorter queen. "You know she captured Mario in a painting, right? In a painting! I've seen him hop in and out of those things all the time! How did she even do that?"

"Your Vileness, take a deep breath and stop pacing. It's making me dizzy." Bowsette scowled as she stopped moving, reluctantly taking a deep breath. "You look wonderful, and even a queen would be cowed by the awesome might of your beauty and power. Remember, you're not just a queen. You're the queen. Think of all the minions you rule over, and all the times you've kidnapped the Princess. All while raising your son to follow in your footsteps. Shouldn't that be enough for even the Queen of Scream?"

This took Bowsette back. She'd gotten so caught up in being extra perfect for her date that she'd let all the great things about herself slip into the back of her mind. "You're right, Kammy. I have done all that. A date's no problem for someone like me!" Energized now, she tilted her head back and breathed out a stream of fire to the ceiling. "Alright! Let's finish this up!" She stomped confidently back to her vanity, sitting back down and putting the finishing touches on her looks.

"That's my queen!" Kammy smiled as she watched Bowsette put on red lipstick and her favorite ruby earrings. The lights from the vanity shined on her horns, showing that she had given them a thorough cleaning beforehand. This was a serious night for her, so it was important that she was feeling as confident as ever. Getting her there was a part of the job, and she was always happy to help.

With her looks on point and every hair in its proper place, she was ready to go. Grabbing her leather jacket off of the side of the vanity, she shrugged it on and took one last look at herself. She was really feeling herself there. Looking damn fine. Flashing her reflection a toothy grin, she shoved the chair out of the way and started to walk out of the room. "Knock 'em dead!" Kammy yelled after her.

"She already is!" Giving Kammy a thumbs up, she confidently strode to the garage, where her Flame Flyer awaited. She was going to knock Booette's ghostly socks off tonight!

The two of them knew of each other, of course. It was hard to not know the most powerful evil beings in the kingdom unless you lived under a rock. Their travels had never brought them together, though. Now they'd be getting together for the first time, and on a date too. The reason this was all happening was because of a dating website. Yes, even great and mighty royalty sometimes needed the assistance of the internet. Neither of them had expected the other to be on the site, though, so they were both rather surprised to have been matched up together. Turns out they both had a love of artwork, real estate, and being evil, of course.

Deep within the darkened forests on the outskirts of the Mushroom Kingdom was a large, decaying mansion. At least, it looked that way from the outside. On the inside was a dark and splendorous interior: the home of the Queen of Scream, Booette. Her preparations for tonight's date were a bit different than her counterpart. She'd gotten up early that morning, then spent about two hours phasing through every wall in the mansion, wailing and panicking like hell. After a break to play a game of hide and seek with some of her brothers and sisters, she resumed her complete panic session.

Dating wasn't something she had a lot of experience in. Her skills were more geared towards haunting and interior decorating. Going on dates, though? That wasn't exactly her forte. If her stupid brother Booberry hadn't set her up a dating profile without her knowledge, she never would've done something so outgoing. She also would've declined the date and deleted her profile if the woman she'd been matched with wasn't so attractive. It had seemed like it'd be okay at the time, but now she knew she'd been wrong. This was definitely not okay. It was terrifying. Even more terrifying than herself.

She was what she liked to call 'selectively anti-social'. In truth, though, she was just shy. At times it was to the point of ridiculousness. While she was perfectly capable of socializing with her family, or being super scary to any pesky plumbers that were skulking about, being around others in regular settings freaked her out. Having someone merely make eye contact with her was enough to make her hide her face and want to escape back to the comforts of her mansion. There was nothing she could design that was scarier than socializing. How was she going to go on a date - in public, no less - without making a fool of herself?

As the time for her to leave for her date approached, she was still shaking in her heels. She'd finally settled on a lacy white dress that went down to her ankles, covering her modesty in its entirety. Whether to wear something formal or more revealing had been a focal point of her panicking that afternoon, but in the end formal had won out. She couldn't imagine how difficult it'd be to hold a conversation if she felt everybody's eyes were on her. This was as close as she felt she could get to looking good without drawing attention to herself.

Some of her family members had flitted in and out of the rooms she would find herself, offering advice or trying to get her mind off of the worries. For the most part it didn't work, since fashion wasn't something most of them were all that knowledgeable of or into. That meant she needed to figure these things out on her own, and it wasn't helpful to her already-frayed nerves. She'd never felt this way before, but she'd never gone on a date before. Hell, she'd barely left the mansion, unless it was to break ground on her new gloomy mansions. With all the money and jewels she had lying around every nook and cranny of her mansion, she figured that she might as well invest it in property.

There was only so many beauty products a ghost needed to use. Her shock-white hair always tended to be set perfectly, and tonight was no different. Even in her darkest hour, at least her hair looked nice. The only makeup she used was some blush on her cheeks, since she wanted to at least have some color somewhere. She was pretty damn pale, as befitting someone who was, well, dead. Her skin was a ghostly - heh - white, and the sun did not do any favors for her. Blush was her best bet to put some color in her cheeks.

She fiddled with the shimmering ruby necklace she wore, as if trying to find the perfect angle for it to sit. It was all just an attempt to delay the inevitable, or maybe to distract herself from losing her nerve. She wasn't sure which, since both probabilities made sense. If she was on a date that involved a haunted house, that'd be great. Her date would have to enjoy her phasing out to haunt all the furniture and lights, though. That might be a bit too much for a first date. Well, for her, anything was a bit too much. She was liable to start crying if the sound of a large grandfather clock going off hadn't snapped her into focus.

"I'm going to be late!" Back to panicking, as she floated up through the ceiling of her underground chamber and ran through the walls of her mansion from the back to the front. The Boo Pipes were waiting out in a dilapidated shack she used to house the vehicle. She had all the money in the world to upgrade it, but this was a cheaper option that fit her aesthetic perfectly.

Getting in the car, she just hoped that she didn't mess this up. Bowsette was the ultimate queen. The woman of fire and fright, one whose rage burned as red as her hair. Getting to go on a date with her was the chance of a lifetime - deathtime? - and she got the feeling that there wouldn't be a second chance if she did something dumb or acted way too shy. She could only hope that things ended up okay.

Bowsette got to the art gallery first, about ten minutes before they'd agreed to meet. She got out of her car and waited at the entrance to the gallery, leaning on a pillar while popping her jacket collar up and down. There was nothing else she could do with her hands at the moment since she left her trusty stress Goomba at home. She only stopped because she didn't want to tear the leather. It was good-ass leather, for real. She rolled up her sleeves and checked her watch, wishing time would go faster.

Right on time, her date made it to the entrance. Bowsette was immediately floored by the translucent beauty heading her way. She'd seen pictures, but they paled in comparison to the real thing. Whether she was floating up the stairs because she was, well, a ghost, or because she was immediately smitten, she wasn't sure. All she knew was that this date instantly became much more important than it already had been.

"Booette!" She pushed off the pillar and walked over to her date, pushing down any stray sensations of nervousness and worry. Confidence was key here, and she had plenty to spare. Flashing a big grin, she took Booette's hand in her own and lifted it up, giving it a kiss. Classic romance. Looked like she hadn't lost her touch. "Glad you could make it."

"Th... Thank you." Considering how white she was, any embarrassment would become quite apparent. There was no hiding the blush that started to spread over her cheeks, though she tried all the same. Hiding her face with her free hand, she knew she'd already made a mistake. If she couldn't even take a simple kiss on the hand, how was she going to deal with anything else during the date? She was so embarrassed, due to her own actions more than anything Bowsette had done.

"So... Wanna go inside?" Bowsette frowned slightly, but she recovered quickly outwardly. Inwardly, she was feeling a bit of those nerves coming back. Was she not interested now that they met in person? Could it be her looks? She was sure that she'd made herself absolutely perfect tonight. No, she couldn't let those kinds of thoughts invade her mind. If there was any hesitation right now, she'd surely stomp it out once inside. It'd still be a date to remember, and in a good way.

Booette nodded, not trusting her vocal chords to work properly. Her hand slipped from Bowsette's, and presently she was following behind her into the museum. At least, that was the case until the door was held open for her. She blushed again at her date being such a gentlekoopa, her mumbled thanks almost too quiet to be heard. Once she was inside, she stood there and waited for Bowsette to take the lead again. She felt more comfortable following behind her, where she wouldn't be stared at.

With Bowsette in the lead, that allowed her to feel more comfortable staring without having to hide her face in embarrassment. She was glad she had that chance, because wow, her date was gorgeous. It seemed like she'd gone for the first turn kill on the first date, wearing the well-known 'little black number' that looked damn incredible on her. Hugging her body in all the right places, she could only wonder if the dress was backless. The leather jacket she was wearing obscured it, but she didn't mind too much. It made her look extra cool and badass.

The museum was having a special exhibit that day, something that both of them could enjoy. In an appropriately darkened area of the building was an exhibition on creepy and unsettling paintings. They both showed their tickets to the employee guarding the entrance, allowing them to pass by the curtains and be swallowed up by the darkness. Well, almost darkness. There were pale, low-energy lights lining the floor so that people could see where they were going. Probably to avoid lawsuits and all that.

Lights hung from the ceiling just to illuminate the artwork, two crossing beams per portrait. The two of them stopped in front of the first one they came across, which was a rather grotesque bat swooping down from the ceiling of the cave onto an unsuspecting spelunker. At least in the darkness, Booette felt more at ease. Besides being her element anyway, everyone was partially obscured by it. She could make believe it was just her in that gallery. Her and Bowsette.

Before they moved on to the next painting, Bowsette grabbed her hand and smiled at her, her teeth glimmering from the shine of the ceiling lights. "Wouldn't wanna lose you in the dark." She was rendered speechless, only able to squeeze Bowsette's hand tighter as she led them to the next painting. Surely the lights weren't needed to see her embarrassment now. Her cheeks burned bright enough to light up any room.

She became intimately aware of how warm Bowsette's hand was. It was almost like there was actual lava in her veins. That made sense, though. She was the fire queen, after all. Still, she couldn't help but find her focus being mainly attached to her date's warm hand. It was incredibly comforting, even making her feel less nervous about the date as a whole. She found herself no longer wanting to let go. Maybe they could just hold hands for a little while longer. Or forever.

Halfway down the gallery, she'd been mostly silent. Though holding hands had made her feel a bit more at ease, she still found it difficult to make conversation. Instead, Bowsette was the one who fueled the conversations, while she gave short responses. She was worried that she was coming off as cold, though. Those short answers could be seen as curt, which wasn't her intention at all. There had to be something she could say to break the ice.

"It's... chilly in here, isn't it?" When she said 'break the ice', she hadn't meant to make everything cold-related. This was what happened when she opened her mouth around people she didn't know. Now, if they had their backs to her, then that was all fine and good. She could sneak behind them and haunt them to her heart's content. This, though? This was what happened when she was out in the open: exposed. Metaphorically exposed, anyway.

"Hmm? I didn't notice." It was hard for Bowsette to get chilly. She was basically a walking heater, so she could move through most winters without a problem. Most of her jackets, like the one she was wearing, wasn't even for warmth, but for looks. She'd roll up the sleeves to avoid overheating, but leather jackets were always cool. It seemed like the prime opportunity to use it for something cooler, though. Rolling down the sleeves, she stopped and removed it, then put it on her date's shoulders.

"Huh?" Booette looked at her shoulder, barely able to see the jacket in the darkness. It could sure be felt, though. Like a warm weight on her shoulders. Her cheeks burned as she slowly slipped her arms into the jacket. She felt much warmer with it on, though she wasn't sure if it was because of the jacket itself or because of the person who had given it to her. "Thank you... I-I appreciate it." She popped up the collar to obscure her embarrassment, as well as the small smile on her face.

"No problem!" Bowsette gave her a thumbs up, grinning as they held hands again and continued through the gallery. She'd chosen to take Booette there because they both held a love of fine art. Despite her own terrifying castle and evil nature, she actually was more of a fan of scenic artistry. However, she was sure that her date would enjoy something darker, so she decided they'd go to this specific exhibit. Considering how Booette's eyes lit up at times over certain paintings when she didn't know Bowsette was looking, she'd consider her assumption to be correct as usual.

"Now this one I really like." Near the end was a painting that really caught Bowsette's interest. It was a darkened forest, with black, dead trees comprising all of the 'greenery'. Shadowy figures stood at the edges of the canvas, almost seeming to dance in and out of existence. This was the kind of artwork that she'd want hanging in her castle. She'd like to see Mario escape from that.

"Mm. It really shows a quiet despair of loss in a world dying around you." Was that the artist's intent? Their vision. Who knows. Honestly, she was just making all that up. Using a heightened vocabulary she'd gained from reading book after dusty book alone in her mansion, she was sure she could easily make up some pretentious meaning to any artwork they passed by. She hoped that was enough to impress her date. They'd been having a great time so far, but she wanted to make sure she was cultured enough for someone like Bowsette. Coming to an art gallery on the first date was a refined selection, and she didn't want to disappoint.

"Yeah, it... absolutely does. I couldn't agree more." She nodded, pretending that she had any idea what that meant. Damn, her date really was an art connoisseur. She'd figured as much going in, but she wasn't a huge art snob. Not that she thought Booette was a snob, of course. She didn't know much about the reasons behind art. As long as it was cool, that was fine with her. She was a... cool connoisseur.

When they reached the end of the exhibit, it still wasn't that late. Since they were allowed to see the rest of the museum, bar the other special exhibits, they decided to keep going and see more. Booette found herself loosening up a bit more with each room they went into, even laughing when Bowsette claimed that one of the portraits of a rather dashing looking Koopa was an ancestor of hers. She could even get the pose from the portrait down perfectly.

In a room full of statues, Bowsette got a bit too into making up stories for the chiseled beings. Putting some excitement into one of the stories, which was some kind of retelling involving parts of her own life, she accidentally slapped one of the statues with her tail. Eyes wide, she hauled ass to grab the statue and keep it from crashing to the ground. Pulling it back up into a standing position, she wiped the sweat from her brow and looked over at Booette. "That didn't happen." She just covered her giggle with a hand and nodded, not wanting to admit just yet that it didn't matter if one measly statue got broken. It was she who had donated them in the first place.

Eventually they reached the end of everything they wanted to see. The museum was close to closing too, so that was perfect timing. They ended up in the gift shop, as one always wants to be before leaving. The two of them split up to look around, with Booette finding herself by a rack of print-ups of some of the paintings in the gallery. To her delight, she found that one of them was the painting that Bowsette had said she liked. Smiling to herself, she picked it up and took it the register.

She didn't have to wait long, since there was nobody in line. When she finished paying for it, she floated over to Bowsette and held it out with a shy smile. "I bought this for you. You said you really liked this painting..." She hoped that she liked it. It'd be hard to come back from being rejected on that.

"Yeah, I did. Thanks!" She took it with a grin, but then immediately turned that smile right-side up. "You didn't have to spend anything on me. I gotta find something good for you too." Before Booette could tell her that she didn't need anything, she had turned right around and zoomed down the aisle, looking at everything with a quick, critical eye. Would she even have time before the shop closed?

It was on the same rack of print-ups that she found what she wanted. A different painting, one of a sad, ghostly woman in a white dress sitting on a bleeding throne, seemed perfect to her. 'The Woman in Wight'. That was clever, she was pretty sure. It seemed perfect for someone like Booette. Silently applauding herself, she went up to the register and paid for it, then handed it to her curious date. "Told ya I'd find you something!"

Booette took it, looking over the painting print. It kind of looked like her, actually. Though her throne didn't usually bleed. It was the thought that counted, though, and there must've been some thought put in it to make sure she'd like it. She was really flattered, almost choking her up. Smiling, she ducked her head in embarrassment. She couldn't hide her smile this time, though. "This is really nice. It's... really sweet of you to buy it for me." Bowsette beamed, pleased with the response.

They walked outside with their prints in hand, a surprise gust of wind greeting them as soon as they exited the building. Booette shivered a bit, but Bowsette seemed completely unaffected. She looked so cool, honestly. Booette was rendered awestruck with both how cool and thoughtful she was on their date. Oh, and attractive. She was also very attractive. Couldn't forget about that.

"I had fun tonight... Thank you for taking me here." Outside of the exhibits, and in the night's sobering chill, she could feel her anxiety returning. She wished that she was holding Bowsette's hand again. At least then she'd feel warmer and less worried about her dating performance. She'd had fun, but had Bowsette? It seemed like she did, but she couldn't know for sure. Mind reading wasn't a power that ghosts had, unfortunately. Would she want to know the truth if she could, though?

"No problem. I had fun too!" As far as Bowsette was concerned, their date was a rousing success. It'd been so long since she'd been on a proper date that she'd wondered if she'd forgotten how to even do it properly. Since Booette had fun, though, it seemed that she wasn't as rusty as she'd feared. Perhaps that meant they'd even go a second date. She hoped so, anyway. It wasn't likely that she'd have a chance to go on a date with someone else who was even close to as interesting and easy on the eyes as her woman in wight over there. "So how 'bout you give me my jacket back on our next date?" She decided to go for it, hoping that her svelte charms would work to her advantage.

"I... think that should be acceptable." Blushing at both Bowsette's forwardness and her own agreement, she stepped closer to her date until they were face to face. Surprising even herself, she leaned in and softly kissed her on the cheek. Stifling her laughter at the shocked expression on Bowsette's face, she whispered "Call me," before turning and gliding down the steps to her car. She couldn't believe that she'd done that, but she could admit to herself that it was worth it. A second date sounded wonderful, and she felt a bit giddy being the one to shock her otherwise-gregarious date into silence. All the way down to her car, she could only think about Bowsette's big smile, carefree attitude, and her very warm hands. Also those back muscles that had flexed ever-so enticingly with certain movements she had made. That dress had been backless.

Still on the top step, Bowsette watched Booette glide away in stunned silence. She put a hand on the cheek that had been kissed, feeling a ghostly chill on the spot where it would usually be very warm. It didn't take long for her to break out into a big smile, though, pumping her fist excitedly. "Yes! Second date, baby!" She tilted her head back and blew a breath of fire into the air, clapping her hands excitedly. The museum's nightwatchman, just exiting the building, looked at her curiously. "What are you looking at, bub?"

[sleepyssnail]

Andes Sides

I’m not the best artist and I can never seem to draw myself properly, so I just drew my sides with their own design. Kinda cheating, I know, but I thought it was more fun and they still have some of the physical traits I do, so here we go!

Intuition: Essentially my anxiety and my logic fused together to create him.

The only one of my sides who actually has my glasses, mainly so he can try and guess what’s to come next in my interactions.

Gets pouty and sulks when he’s wrong,

Preens when he’s right,

Loves puzzles and trying to figure out what’ll happen next in fanfictions, movies, books, or conversations.

“I swear, if she turns out to be his sister, I’m gonna flip.”

*Five minutes later*

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!”

Has a slightly difficult time trusting people if they don’t instantly make him feel at ease or if he can’t read them

Fantastic skill at reading body language and facial expression

Plays with mind teasers all the time

Is a huge nerd

Vulnerability: My insecurities, doubts, trust, and hidden desires.

The only side who rarely shows up, and when she does it’s for a reason

Has bandages over her face to hide what I don’t want others to see unless I trust them enough.

Speaks softly in a normal setting, but will raise her voice and scream if she needs to get the attention of the others or assert herself.

Will sometimes overstep and say something too personal

“That was too much, we gotta backtrack, someone take over I ruined the moment.”

Has my absolute hate for lemons and limes

Reads a lot, enjoys coloring books or simple rhymes

“Lemons and Limes are bad, while melons and mimes are sad.”

Has a tendency to hide behind another side if she’s overwhelmed or trying to put up walls

Takes off a few bandages around her neck and hands when I’m trying to empathize with someone so I’m at a better position to be there for them.

Will regularly fall asleep in a pile of blankets and not move for hours until scaring one of the other sides by awakening

Spite: One of my dark sides, motivation, and more.

Is everything I’ve wanted to do to spite someone, or didn’t do to spite someone.

Has purple hair as a form of rebellion

I was going to get mine dyed purple but some control freak constantly berated me and basically told me my natural hair color is boring and I’d look so much better with it purple.

Just to piss her off I kept mine its natural color, but Spite has his purple because I do want to get it colored sometime.

Has henna tattoos on his arms and shoulders

Refuses to call any of the sides by their names and will tease them and never tell them what his name is

Will tackle the other sides to spite someone in my life

“INTUITION!”

“Not again.”

“GIMME YOUR NERD GLASSES! SOME ASS WIPE TOLD US WE LOOK BETTER WITHOUT THEM AND I’M GONNA PROVE THAT WE LOOK FRICKEN HOT!”

Alternates between wearing leather jackets and heavy hoodies to soft sweaters and loose shirts

Likes to rest his arm on Vulnerability’s head around people who I don’t think deserve to know personal info

Loves to torment Intuition by taking his glasses or hiding his puzzle books.

Partners with Creativity whenever I need to write a vent fic or something angsty

Will bang pots and pans together in the morning to wake everyone up when he makes breakfast

“WAKE UP! IT’S MORNING! I MADE WAFFLES! YOU SAID I COULDN’T BUT I DID”

Creativity: My inspiration, positive motivation, my Roman.

Has an intense love for fantasy realms and will spend most of her time there

Adores making outfits and armor sets for the other sides (even if she doesn’t show them)

Enjoys questing and interacting with mythical creatures and will try to bring back little dragons to tease the other sides

Will regularly return from the imagination soaking wet from a pirate quest

“Why are you dripping on the carpet?”

“I FOUGHT A KRAKEN!”

“That’s nice.”

Likes clothes with pockets and will sew them on herself if need be

Will get irritated at Intuition for telling her that an idea is “too predictable” and will debate with him to try and create a better plot with more twists

Sometimes feels inadequate and useless to the other sides because I don’t know how to work her into my life without damaging my sleep schedule or grades

I still adore her

Will try and rope the other sides into doing something crazy and it usually works

Optimism: A fusion of my morality and deceit, keeps me looking on the brighter side of things even when I shouldn’t, and pushes me through situations.

Has a love for anything pastel and happy themed

She has the difficult job of making my pessimistic self find the positive in a situation

Doesn’t get along with Spite in the slightest and will try to use positivity to motivate me instead of petty revenge

Loves to ballroom dance

Creativity is the only other side willing to dance with her

Will obsess over the smallest good things even if it’s very small in the big picture

“Lookit! We got the laundry in the dryer on time!”

“Half the house looks like a tornado hit it and we have guests coming in 30 seconds.”

“But we switched the laundry!”

Has a love for outdoor activities and will join Creativity on quests or pester Intuition over his puzzles

Doesn’t understand why Vulnerability is needed but tries to include her whenever possible

Will prompt me to hug attack my friends whenever I see them

People who might find this interesting: @morganlafley @moonlitarchangels @time-to-sleep-now

[ugyeoms]

Him//Vernon Scenario

Title: Him//Vernon Scenario

Plot: All your life, your main priority has been to get good grades and please your parents. It isn’t until you meet him that your life finally starts it’s true beginning (bad boy!au + high school!au)

Word Count: 4.9k+ (I went a little crazy oops)

A/n: Well this is something that happened! I know I don’t even write for Seventeen, (I guess this is me starting now??) but I’ve started getting into them a little bit ago and am now consider myself a stan (even though I can’t choose a bias sdlifjfs)! So this Vernon idea just kind of came to me and I have no idea how or why but I figured I’d just write it and see what happens. Hopefully you guys enjoy!

A little handwritten number on a paper. The sole thing that defines one’s status in the enormity that is high school. The higher your number, the smarter you are. Basic logic. From a young age, the main advice you were given about pursing a worthwhile life was to get those high numbers throughout all of your years of schooling. Not only do those numbers earn you praise from both your parents and your educators, but they guide you in the right path for the upmost success. Now, it is a known fact that these numbers aren’t achieved easily. You would know. Countless hours reading and rereading the same small text on an old torn up textbook page until it’s engraved into your mind, encountering multiple sleepless nights in order to finish the mountains of homework assigned to you, the constant feeling of loneliness that comes with all of your time spent on assignments; they’re all part of the weight. The weight of the burdensome feeling to do well, no matter what the cost. All for a number. It’s how you were raised. Everyone’s parent want a perfect child, and you are exactly that. It’s a label that you wear, whether it be with pride or with humility. There’s always the decision between grades and social life, and it’s really not your fault that your parents chose it for you. And for a while, the one side of the big decision is all you knew. Until you met him.

The boy with the hair dyed a non distinctive silver color. The boy with the dark eyes that never fail to draw you into them, to trap you in their deep gaze, and to reign control. The boy who broke you.

Your reputation was no secret in school. Some would use the term “goody-goody”. What other title would fall upon you when grades were your sole priority? The teachers loved you, the parents of fellow peers wanted their children to be like you, and the students envied you. The higher the number, the higher the praise. Striving for high numbers isn’t even difficult for you anymore, it’s just how you are. 

It’s just an average day when you first meet him. The sun is bright, classes go along just as they normally do, and people are happy. You’re sitting in Chemistry when it first happens, when your monotoned teacher whose standing blandly in the front of the classroom cuts off their current line speech. Confused, you look up from your notes, only to be met with the most mesmerizing boy you’ve ever seen. The entirety of the class seems to be in the same boat as you, slightly startled, but significantly curious about the newcomer standing at the door.

“Can I help you?” Your teacher asks, breaking the silence, but failing to stray from his monotone voice.

“I’m new.” The boy says, clearly lacking interest. Those two words were all you needed to realize the alluring tonality of his voice. It’s a rough yet smooth sound, the two textures perfectly contrasting one another. The pitch is at a perfect medium, with what almost sounds like a bit of sweetness lingering in it, bringing an immediate calmness to your body. You quickly conclude that you could listen to the melody of this boy’s voice all day.

“Well ‘new’, take the open seat next to y/n right there.” He instructs, not forgetting to let out a chuckle at his cringeworthy ‘joke’. The boy nods carelessly and makes his way over to the empty seat at your desk. His eyes meet yours for a split second before he’s giving you a quick look up and down and meeting your eyes again with a slight smirk. There’s a notable jump in your usually steady heartbeat once his smirk comes into your line of vision. It’s impossible to hide the heavy gulp that you swallow afterwards. Just sparing a glance at his simple smirk was fatal enough to make your mouth go dry. The silence of the classroom is broken once again when the chair the boy pulls out squeaks obnoxiously against the floor, allowing him to take a seat before screeching nosily yet again. Once he’s seated, the cringe from the sound slowly fades away from your face. A scent of smoke mixed with a masculine pine like smell fills your nose once the boy takes his seat. It’s evident that he smoked before coming to your class, which is most likely the reason he showed up so late. You unconsciously look the other way, appalled at your apparent adoration to the scent.

“Do you have a pen or something that I could borrow?” The boy whispers, gifting your ears with the majestic melody of his voice once again.

“S-sure.” You can’t help but stutter, reaching into your bag to get a pen and quickly handing it to him before going to return to your notes. The slight touch of his hands to yours doesn’t go unnoticed by you, a light flush making it’s way onto your cheeks.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” He whispers once again. The use of the pet name throws your mind into chaos as your cheeks heat up even more, reaching the brink of insane temperatures.

“My name is y/n.” You build up the courage to respond anxiously, wanting to him to know your name so that he didn’t feel the need to call you “sweetheart”, because you just know you wouldn’t have the strength to handle listening to his voice say that to you daily.

“Vernon.” He replies curtly, cut off by the bell. “I guess I’ll see you around sweetheart.” He winks, swiftly grabbing his belongings and making his way out the door without looking back. The initial numbness of your body prevents you from moving, forcing you to remain at your desk five seconds longer than you truly need to. You watch intrigued as Vernon exits the room, still not necessarily comprehending the events that just occurred. When you begin to stand up and gather your things, there’s still a faint linger of his intoxicating scent present in the surrounding air. Just like Vernon will continue to linger in your mind from this point on.

It’s during passing when you see Vernon again. He has this bright, toothy, smile on his face, an indication that he’s laughing at something the boy he’s talking to is saying. Using this opportunity to spare a glance at his outfit, you conclude from both the skin tight, ripped, black skinny jeans and the beat up leather jacket that Vernon is not someone that you’d typically associate yourself with. The minute amount of his personality that you’ve been introduced to and his choice of clothing seem to just scream stereotypical “bad boy”. ‘Bad’ in any sentence is usually a clear warning for you to stay away, but something about this boy just enthralls you. Vernon looks up from his conversation and his eyes find yours. A smirk is painting it’s way onto his face once again and a playful glint appearing in his eyes. Before you know it, he’s saying something to the guy again, but this time, nodding his head towards you, never breaking eye contact. The floor is your new point of vision as you frantically keep your head down and maneuver your way through the hallway to get out of his view. The wall is cold against your back as you throw yourself onto it, heavily breathing. The amount of anxiety he’s able to give you already frightens you. He’s said no more than 3 sentences to you and he already has you this shaken up. No one’s ever managed to have such an affect on you. Shaking your head and taking a deep breath, you go to turn the corner to begin making your way to your next class until you’re walking right into a chest. A chest that smells like the familiar mixture of smoke and masculine pine. His sharp jawline comes into view as you slowly look up at your barricader. 

“Sorry sweetheart, I’ll guess I’ll have to be more careful next time.” He smirks, once again walking away and leaving you frozen in your position. Those were the first two times you’ve ever encountered him. 

No matter how hard you try,  you can not get Vernon out of your mind. The longing gazes, the not so subtle smirks, just the whole thought of him in general, began to be a huge distraction for you. Anytime the silver-blue dyed hair comes into your point of view, all feeling disappears from your fingers, all thoughts dissipate from your mind, and you just become weak. It’s as if it’s his daily objective to make your life more stressful.

The next time the two of you partake in a legitimate conversation is when you receive a Chemistry test back. The three digit number printed on the paper is no surprise to you, Chemistry deeming itself a simple topic in your mind. Dark brown eyes gaze over at your paper to read the grade. Feeling his attention, a brief shudder makes it’s way down your spine.

“A perfect score? You must be good at Chemistry sweetheart.” He starts. “Although I must admit, from what I’ve heard, you’re pretty much stellar at everything you do.” He finishes with his signature smirk and a direct attempt for eye contact. The heat floods across your cheeks, painting your face a bright red color.

“I wouldn’t say everything...” You trail off, not really knowing what to respond. An extremely prominent thought lies in the back of your mind telling you that you shouldn’t be talking to someone like Vernon. It’s more than likely that he’s just messing with your feelings for his own pleasure. Hell, he may not even realize he’s affecting your feelings at all. But there’s just something inside you that fuels your desire to keep talking to the mysterious bad boy. The binary between good and bad is such an interesting entity. There’s you, an absolute goody-goody who always get perfects grades and never defies her parents, and then theres him. The nonchalant, stereotypical bad boy who smokes, cuts class, and steals the hearts of countless people around him in just seconds. The two of you reside on completely opposite sides of the spectrum, you not even knowing the contents of the opposing side. Vernon knows that just as well as you do.

“Oh come on y/n, don’t give me that shit.” He rolls his eyes, putting his elbow upon the table and leaning towards you on it. “I was actually wondering if you could help me?” He asks with a slight but mischievous glint in his eyes.

“W-with Chemistry?” You choke out, cursing yourself for allowing him to make you trip on your words once again.

“Yeah, I didn’t do too well on this test, and who better to help me than the person with the best grades in the school right?” He rhetorically questions confidently, meeting your eyes with a smile. Suspicious of his ambitions but too curious to decline, you agree to help him.

“Awesome, are you free next period?” He asks. A nod of your head is the only measure you’re capable to take in order to respond, too in shock from the whole situation that’s happening in general. “Great, we’ll start then.” He winks, turning back to face the front of the classroom when your teacher walks in. A few weeks have passed since the first time you two have shared a conversation, but this one has managed to render you just as speechless as the first one. Whenever he speaks, the roughly smooth tonality of his voice just hypnotizes you, persuading you to want to agree with everything he speaks. His pine like cologne scent captivates you, with the little hint of smoke always present in it enticing you more. It’d be simple to blame this infatuation on your lack of truly getting out and mingling with people because of your studies, but you can’t help but believe it to be more than that. Of course, you have friends you go out with whether it be rarely or not, of course there have been guys that have caught your attention, but nobody has ever taken over your mind as much as Vernon.

The arm of clock moves as slow as ever, aiding in increasing your thoughts of anxiety. The teacher’s monotone voice has never sounded more bland than it has in this moment, as you listen to him ramble on about basic Chemistry. Vernon’s light tapping of his finger against the table catches your attention, the steady beat echoing lightly throughout the area of the desk. Taking this time to observe his hands, you notice how scuffed up they are. Purple bruises and bloody cuts color his hands, making his image seem all the more rough. The shrill ringing of the bell startles you out of your thoughts, and you immediately gather your things to escape the bore of a class. Before you are even able to step out of the proximity of your desk, the rough hand you accidentally managed to study all period lightly wraps itself around your wrist.

“Ready?” He asks. Instead of answering right away your eyes follow his arm to his hand wrapped around your wrist, the calloused fingers somehow feeling comforting against your skin. “I know the perfect place we could go.” He continues when you don’t respond. Vernon loosens his grip around your wrist and indicates for you to follow him. You follow the silver hair through the crowds of the hallway, him managing to maneuver his way through perfectly without loosing you in the crowd.

“Whoa, where are we going?” You question with a slight shake in your voice when he starts to lead you in the direction of the front door of the building.

“Relax and just trust me, this spot is perfect for studying.” He says, pushing the front door open and waiting for you to step out. When he sees your slight hesitation, he lets out a scoff.

“Come on, this isn’t jail! it’s not like we’re not allowed outside, let’s go!” He exclaims, grabbing you by the hand this time and pulling you out the door himself. His hand engulfs yours and gently leads you across the front parking lot and over to the side with your school’s football field. Right before the entrance of the field, there’s a enormous tree that takes up a significant amount of space and offers a lot of shade. Vernon lets your hand fall to your side and goes to take a seat under the tree, patting the spot next to him indicating for you to sit down.

“I promise you this a great place to study, no one ever comes out here so it’s always quiet, and it’s shady and comfortable under here.” He smiles, the sight causing your heart to race once again. Instead of responding, you reach into your bag and get out your Chem textbook, opening to the current chapter to get started. Vernon was right about this being the perfect place to study. The fresh air creates a relaxed environment, and the calming sounds of nature really help. However, the whole reason you couldn’t help but find it difficult to concentrate is because of the certain boy next to you. The two of you are in a close proximity sharing the view of the small textbook; you could feel his presence next you, and feel him breathing gently against your shoulder. Whenever he leaned to point something out, his shoulder would brush against yours and send sharp chills down your spine. Even at such minute measures, his touch feels almost electric. After a while of just you talking, it becomes apparent to you that Vernon has zoned out and become quiet. A puff of smoke drifts in front of your face, and you look over to see that he’s lit a cigarette. You find him staring at you, his dark eyes immediately taking their usual affect on your body as he routinely lets out puffs of smoke. A notable flinch makes it’s way onto your face once he let’s out a particularly large puff, and he lets out a small laugh.

“Never tried one before?” He asks casually, still staring you down intensely. You shake your head in response, and watch him as he removes the cigarette from his lips and places it into one of your free hands.

“Oh no i’m fine...” You trail off awkwardly, reaching to hand it back to him. He shrugs and takes it back, huffing in some more smoke and letting it out again.

“So what do you do for fun?” He questions out of the blue, still not taking his eyes off of you.

“What do you mean?” You turn to him, shocked at such an off topic question coming from him.

“I mean, I always see you studying and things like that... what do you like to do besides that? What are your other hobbies?” He asks, his voice persuading you to try to make eye contact, only for you to drop it right away.

“Well... I usually just study. I have to get good grades right?” You giggle awkwardly, the embarrassment slowly coming to terms with you as you realize Vernon will finally see what a loser you actually are.

“What about hanging with your friends, or partying? You don’t do any of that?” He asks curiously, somewhat intrigued by your lack of similar activities to his.

“I have friends that I hang out with when I don’t have tests or homework so it happens, really rarely... and I usually never have time to party... it’s not really my type of scene anyway.” You blush, breaking the eye contact and looking down at your lap.

“What’s so important about a number on a piece of paper?” Vernon scoffs, tossing away the blunt cigarette and lighting another. 

“Well if you get good grades, the smarter you become, and the better chance you have in living a successful life.” You recite as if you’re reading it from a textbook. That sentence is one that you’ve been told your entire life, and it’s what you’ve always followed. 

“I don’t believe that’s necessarily true.” Vernon starts. “Most tests that teachers give out are memorization correct? Memorization doesn’t equal intelligence. You could spend a whole week memorizing some sort of information for a test and immediately forget it the next. Meanwhile, someone could be absolute shit at testing but be able to retain the information, actually put it to use, and still be considered the less intelligent one.” This stumps you for a moment, since he actually seems to have a point. Is your apparent “intelligence” just your ability to memorize tiny words on a page?

“You’re not responding...” He breaks the silence after a few long seconds go by.

“I’m just thinking.” You say airily, still stuck on the concept he just introduced to you.

“I’m not implying your not smart y/n, it’s the exact opposite actually. You’re extremely intelligent, you’re drop dead gorgeous, and you’re so kind. Why are you not allowing yourself to live your life?” He asks, letting out a breath of air in disbelief. This shocks you as well, since this is the first time he’s actually addressed you by your first name. The compliments echo throughout your mind rapidly. Are you really preventing yourself from living?

“There’s so much in this life y/n... so many things to do, so many things to take advantage of... what’s the point of all of that if you spend all of your time cooped away memorizing things you’ll never use again just to get some random number on a paper?” He continues, bending down to meet your gaze and forcing eye contact once again. Tears start to brim your eyes as you process what he’s said. All your life, you’ve listened to your parents. You’ve avoided spending time with friends, avoided getting involved with boys, avoided acting like a real teenager, all for what? For a number on a page, right? Or for your parents praise? Vernon’s words have resulted in a million questions, a million thoughts rushing through your mind, making you question all you’ve done, and all you’ve been up to this point. A single tear makes its way down your cheek. The rough calloused hand from the boy sitting across from you wipes it away immediately, his hand lingering on your face and gently cupping your cheek. 

“I-I don’t...” You start, but are forced to stop in order to take another deep breath. Vernon watches you intensely, willingly waiting for you to be ready to complete your sentence. “I want to live my life.” You choke out, the only thing you’re able to get out over the mountains of thoughts running through your brain.

“All you had to do was say it baby.” Vernon starts, using his other hand to brush the hair out of your face. “Now let me be the one to show you how.” He uses his free hand to lift this cigarette to his mouth and breath in some of the smoke, before puffing it out slightly and placing his hand behind your head to pull you in for an open mouthed kiss. Your first ever kiss. The strong scent of the smoke fills your system, entering through both your nose and your mouth. Emotions cloud your brain and reign your rational thoughts foggy as his lips move against yours. Hips lips are rough and chapped, but move soft and smoothly against yours, capturing your every breath in the heated moment. Vernon guides the kiss well, considering your lack of experience as he controls your movements. He eventually takes both of your hands in his and wraps them around his neck. Once he deems you’re ok and comfortable with everything, he deepens the kiss, first by lightly biting your lip and then casually adding his tongue into the mix. He removes his hands from your face and wraps them tightly around your waist, pulling you closer into his hold. Heaving pants and sultry noises engulf the air around you, the kiss getting sloppier as your lack of air increases. His kiss feels intoxicating, your whole body relaxing into his hold and just going completely numb in result of his movements. The feeling is new, but it’s something you want to keep experiencing again and again. Vernon’s ability to affect your feelings this much should be worrisome to you, but it feels to incredible for you to care. Once the lack of air finally becomes too much, the two of you pull away from each other. His lips are red and puffy, as are yours, and the two of your are intensely staring at each other whilst trying to catch your breath. Leaning in once again, Vernon lays a quick peck against your lips. A smile etches it’s way on to his face as his views your swollen lips and flushed cheeks. He can’t help the surge of confidence that flows through him when he realizes it was him that made you look this way.

“Come home with me today.” He tells you with a giddy smile. “Today is going to be the start of a new beginning for you.” You smile in response, but frown once you remember your parents.

“I’d love to, but Vernon... what about my parents?” You ask innocently. 

“This is about you y/n, alright? We’re not going to let their pressure and persistence rule over your life anymore. You’re the ruler of your own life, and can make your own decisions. And if they have a problem with that, then they’ll have to learn to deal with it.” He smiles at you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his hold. You snuggle into the warmth of his body, and take a deep breath.

“Since we’re doing this whole ‘new beginnings’ thing right now, I may as well tell you my real name, huh?” He laughs breathily, looking down at you and observing your slightly shocked face.

“What?! Vernon’s not your real name?” You ask shocked, and now extremely curious.

“Well it is technically a part of my name, but it’s just my middle name. My real name is Hansol.” He confesses almost shyly, looking down at your face and then looking away.

“Hansol...” You speak aloud slowly, letting the name sink in. “Why do you go by your middle name?” 

“’Hansol’ doesn’t sound like the name of the guy who cuts class and smokes all of the time, now does it?” He asks vaguely sarcastically.

“Well I like it. Hansol.” You giggle as he rolls his eyes and leans down slightly to place a gentle kiss on your forehead. After revealing in the moment for a significant amount of time, you reach over to check the time on your phone, only to gasp and sit up at the time.

“We only have five minutes until next period starts!” You explain, worriedly packing up your things as Hansol just stares at you with a smile. 

“Do we have to go, why can’t you just stay here and kiss me again?” Hansol pouts, his words making heat rush to your cheeks.

“As much as I’d enjoy that, I still would like to get somewhat good grades and graduate high school, wouldn’t you?” Nodding in response, Hansol sighs and gets up, grabbing your hand and leading you back into the building. As soon as the two of you walk in, you feel peoples eyes on you. What else could you have expected? The school goody-goody just returned to the building in the arms of the new school bad boy. Your hands go numb at your sides as the attention begins to make your uncomfortable. Ignoring the stares and whispers coming your way, Hansol leans in and whispers, “Just ignore them baby, they don’t know anything and aren’t worth it.”, before leaving a light kiss on the side of your cheek. The few gasps from fellow students in the hallway don’t go unnoticed, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. With Hansol’s hand in yours and his supporting words, you’ll make it to your next class.

~

Life is a precious gift. It’s important that you take advantage of such a gift and live your life to the absolute fullest. That day under the tree a few months ago taught you that. Specifically, your boyfriend taught you that. Such concepts are what have you making your way to the football field’s bleachers in the middle of the school day. The sun is bright and hot against the metal bleachers, the reflection of the light blinding you slightly as you make your way over. The initial silence when you first arrive fuels you to believe that you’ve arrived first, but the puff of smoke that escapes from further back behind the metal seats creates a smile on your face. Walking further underneath, you gain sight of the silver haired boy whose managed to steal your heart. The sun clings to his black leather jacket as he stares in the opposite direction, routinely bringing the cigarette up to his lips.

“I don’t know how you still insist on wearing a leather jacket in this kind of weather, you look like your being cooked.” You giggle, your boyfriend turning around at the sound of your voice and smiling once he sees you. 

“Finally baby, it took you long enough to get out here.” He complains, reaching out to you and pulling you in for a deep kiss right off the bat. Hansol doesn’t even give you a chance to get situated before his hands and making their way down to your ass and squeezing in order to get entrance into your mouth. You wrap your arms around his neck and tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling certain pieces to get sinful noises from his mouth. The kiss lasts for a bit longer before you’re both pulling away and breathing heavily. 

“You’re coming over tonight right baby girl?” He asks with dark, hopefully eyes.

“Of course I am, it’s Friday. And I already have a feeling of what you have in mind...” You trail off as your eyes down and a slight smirk makes it’s way on to his face.

“You know me too well.” He says, leaning in to place another rough kiss upon your lips. “Can’t we just go home now? I don’t wanna wait for later.” He pouts, making you wonder how he could be so dirty minded but so cute at the same time.

“There’s only like two classes left, I think you could hold off until then.” You roll your eyes and begin to walk away, only for him to reach out and grab your wrist to pin you against the flat part of the bleachers.

“Where do you think you’re going baby girl, we still have some time.” He smirks, placing open mouthed kisses on different parts of your neck.

“Come on babe, we have class! I promise, once we get back to your place I’ll let you have your absolute way with me, ok?” You promise, releasing yourself from his hold and walking back in the direction of the school.

“I hope you know I’m holding you to that!” Hansol shouts, catching up to you and wrapping his arm around your waist. You look over and your boyfriend and can’t help but smile. Your whole life had been spent with you busying yourself, and you not living up to your full potential. Who knew the new “bad boy” would be the person to finally ignite your life?

[sevanshq]

cafe encounter | solo

LOCATION: nerds and java, coffee & comic shop downtown

DATE & TIME: 6/16, early morning

NOTES:  coffee, with an extra shot of awkward. WC: 1394

Considering his late night, Sam wasn’t entirely sure how he was up and moving around so early. Well, slightly later than his normal seven AM time, but sleeping in had proved to be necessary after the unexpected encounter with Dani.

Which, he wasn’t really intending to mull over the ‘why’ of that whole situation. He wasn’t above being somebody’s late night booty call, and figured he’d chalk it up to luck of her phone’s draw and call it a day.

There were far more pressing matters to attend to, like the quest for a pineapple fanny pack. What started out as a ramble to distract Mia from whatever bothered her at the late hour seemed like a genuinely good idea once he was awake.

So naturally he found himself searching online, which led him to a small shop no more than twenty minutes away in a Lyft that thankfully kept early hours.

With his newly acquired fashion statement tucked safely in a bag and his stomach growling, Sam found himself another Lyft ride later at one of his favorite spots in the city. The comic book shop also served dual purpose as a coffeehouse, allowing people the chance to browse and sip and linger as long as they liked. Though on a Saturday morning, and the morning of Pride, lingering seemed to be the name of the game.

Still, he managed to find an empty spot, squeezing in at the small table near a large window. He’d finished his breakfast sandwich and was more than halfway through the new Spiderman when a voice above him asked, “sorry, but is anyone sitting here?”

Sam glanced up from the antics of Peter Parker to meet dark eyes peering almost nervously at him, in the polite way someone could when tasked with having to put aside the instinctual awkwardness of invading a stranger’s personal space.

“Oh. Yeah sure, let me just clear some of this stuff…” he pushed his glasses up further on his nose and shifted the empty plate from his sandwich closer towards him along with the bag filled with comics he’d already purchased to make room for the young woman, who flashed him a grateful smile as they sat.

She wore a cheery yellow sundress, the color complimenting her bronze skin and dark curls, and a kind smile that only carried a hint of polite apology once she settled at the table, balancing a huge cup of coffee and some kind of cranberry muffin fit for a family of five.

“Thank you, I really wasn’t expecting this place to be so crowded it's still kinda early.”

Sam shook his head. “Yeah I guess we all had the idea of gettin’ in early before the Pride rush started.” He nodded towards the group of patrons who’d commandeered one of the larger tables, noting their rainbow attire right down to the large rainbow top hat one was wearing and he flashed his new breakfast companion a grin that he was glad to see returned.

“Seems like they’ve already got the spirit. Sorry, I’m Sunny.” She extended a hand and Sam shook it, lips tugging into a grin.

“Nice to meet you, Sunny. I’m Sam.”

“Sunny and Sam. We could’ve had a killer variety show back in the day.”

That made the blond laugh. “I guess it does have that show business ring to it.”

He watched as slender fingers tore the tops off two sugar packets and added the contents to the large cup of coffee in front of her, only looking up at the sound of sheepish laughter.

“I feel like I gotta apologize for this ginormous cup, but I promise I'm not one of those ‘coffee is life’ people. Just needed the caffeine boost.”

Sam held up both palms. “Hey now, this is a judgment free table. You wanna have a coffee the size of a small toddler that's between you and your future caffeine rush."

The pair shared a laugh and Sam ducked his head, grin still firmly in place when long fingers reached for his own (smaller) coffee.

There was something good about  meeting somebody at random. The energy of it all, a different kind of charge he hadn’t felt since moving to Los Angeles and moving into NDHQ. While he enjoyed getting to know his coworkers and developing good relationships with them, on and off camera, it was nice to not have that pressure of needing to impress, to meet someone and not have to ask how long they’d ‘been in the business’ or talk about kinks like stats from last night’s game.

This kind of charm felt familiar, like slipping into a worn leather jacket, a comfortable and seamless fit, the second nature rapport, and the banter, just run of the mill friendly.

No need for Samson or the constant shift between who he was or what he needed to be in the moment. Just two strangers chatting it up in a coffee shop.

He learned that she was studying for her masters in psychology at UCLA and wanted to work with at-risk youth, primarily children of color. He simply stated he was from Texas and an artist. The half-truths he figured would be difficult to form came easy, and Sam supposed it’s because they were rooted in reality. He did move here for work and to be closer to his brother, he was looking to find something in his career field, and he was a comic book fan.

It seemed like enough information for polite conversation with beautiful girls wearing yellow sundresses in a crowded coffee shop. And he wasn’t surprised when, after his coffee was long gone and she’d cleared away both the massive muffin and giant java with surprising swiftness that they discussed exchanging numbers.

He walked out with her, bag of comics and Fanny pack in hand, grin in place, and a new number in his phone. The goodbye out on the sun-filled sidewalk was pleasant enough and Sam turned to leave, a promise to call her on his lips when she spoke again.

“So I have a little confession.” His brow furrowed at her smile, reminiscent of the nervous one she’d first displayed when she’d initially approached his table and he was suddenly curious.

“What’s up?”

“I know who you are. I wasn’t sure at first since you’re wearing glasses and there’s probably hundreds of long haired blond guys in this city because duh, California. But your voice sounded familiar and then you said your name was Sam and I’m like...Sam...Samson. No too much of a stretch.” The smile was a little less nervous and a little more strained, and Sam’s own lips tugged into a frown because…

Of course.

And Sunny continued, reassuring him she wasn’t a stalker but mostly curious and Sam could feel the tips of his ears growing hot when she mentioned that she’d watched all of his videos.

“I’m sorry if this is weird, and I probably shouldn’t have said anything but...I just, yeah. It is you, right? Samson?”

“It’s uh, Sam" he replied, clearing his throat with low cough. Long fingers raked through his hair and his gaze caught hers, olive eyes unreadable as he offered a slight shrug. “But yeah. That’s me. Sorry, but I gotta get back--"

“Sure! Oh sorry, I’m sure you’ve got a busy day. I really do apologize for making this weird. And because I keep saying it’s weird. You...um, it was nice to meet you, Sam. Take care.”

Sam wasn’t sure what to make what had just happened, knowing he’d have to process it all at a time when he wasn’t running on just a few hours sleep and approaching a busy day.

But something settled in the pit of his stomach, something heavy that felt like disappointment and lingered like the tightness in his chest and he wondered if his job-related encounters would ever stop throwing him for a fucking loop.

Nevertheless, he offered Sunny a ghost of a smile and nodded, even as he made a silent reminder to delete her number later because the last thing he needed was an added layer of ‘fucking with fans’ weirdness with his job.

“Yeah. You too. Take care.”

[mayquita]

Looking For A Smile

Surprise @awkwardnessandbaseball !! I'm your Secret Santa! I've decided to post your gift today because I'm leaving town tomorrow and I didn't know if I would have time to do it properly, so here it is. I'm a little nervous because this is something a bit different from what I usually write, so I hope you like it. It has been a pleasure to share these messages with you during the last weeks. Merry Christmas to everyone!

This is unbeta’d so apologize in advance for all the mistakes.

@saraswans , you’re the best, thank you for everything

Summary: The first time Killian sees her, he thinks she is just a tourist, strolling the streets of Storybrooke camera in hand. Soon, he discovers that this enigmatic woman is much more than that. Modern AU.

Ao3 / FFnet

When Killian sees her for the first time, he thinks she's just a tourist, strolling the streets of Storybrooke camera in hand. There's something different about her, though, an enigmatic halo perhaps. However, he has no time to observe her carefully since she disappears into the crowd in the blink of an eye.

As he immerses himself in his daily routine, he doesn't think about her again in the next few days, the moment too short for his brain to hold it back.

Three days later he sees her again. His first impression is discarded when he allows himself to observe her more closely. He is an observer, after all. And a story creator. Although he no longer has anyone to tell his tales. Not anymore.

No, she definitely is not a tourist. He can assure it now, after finding her three days in a row.

She follows a kind of pattern. First, she wanders through the streets, merged with the crowd. It's strange that no one notices a person who takes pictures in the middle of the street. But sometimes people are too busy or too submerged in their own concerns that they hardly notice what they have in front of them. That happens even in small towns such as in Storybrooke where the pace of life is much quieter than in a big city. Or perhaps she is a kind of ghost or spirit and he alone has received the strange privilege of contemplating her.

She then heads to the docks, her camera pointing towards the ocean, he supposes taking some photos. Finally, she stays for a few minutes facing the horizon.

Three days of observation allow him to begin to create several stories, to imagine what lies behind that enigmatic woman. He is used to it, old habits die hard. She could be a reporter for a travel magazine, or a rookie spy who has not yet learned to camouflage herself. Or a millionaire bored of her tedious life who entertains herself immortalizing the lives of other people. For some reason, though, none of these stories seems to fit her.

On the fourth day, he does not see her through the streets of the town. He is busier that day, so he must put aside his observer work at least for a while. With the sunset, he walks back to his ship —to his house— when a vision leaves him paralyzed. She, the mysterious woman, is there, on the dock, her camera directed towards his own ship. Killian remains frozen a few feet away, doubting whether to approach or continue his observation without interrupting her. In the end, his curiosity is more powerful.

He walks a few steps towards her. When he is close enough, he rests his arms on the railing and directs his gaze toward his ship. For some reason, he is nervous, his heart beats faster, the desire to scratch behind his ear almost so hard that he finds it difficult to suppress it. After a quiet sigh, he speaks.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

The only hint that she has heard him is a slight tremor in the hand holding the camera, her shoulders shaking almost imperceptibly.

There is no other reaction on her part for the next few seconds. He begins to doubt even if she is aware of his presence. After what seems an eternity, she turns to him. And that's when his heart stops working. Her eyes, of an intense green color, searching his gaze with a certain hint of curiosity. There is something else there, but he can't discern it since his eyes drift to her lips, which have begun to move.

"So is that a she?" She tilts her head a little, waiting for his answer.

"Aye, The Jolly Roger." He affirms suppressing a chuckle, a hint of pride slips in his words. She is his house, after all.

"Yeah, I can see the name." She points to the hull where the name appears in black.

She doesn’t ask him if he owns the boat and he doesn’t question what she does there. She does not look upset, but her gaze now turns to the horizon, as if she were lost in thought. After a few seconds, she gives him a half smile and walks away. No more words between them.

Killian doesn't see her for the next two days. He begins to fear that somehow he scared the enigmatic woman when he caught her watching his ship. On the third day, however, she appears again at the docks. She is looking at the sea leaning on the railing, her blond mane and her red leather jacket are unmistakable. He regroups again the courage to approach her.

The look she gives him this time is far from resembling the first one. Where once there was an intense green with sparks of vitality now there are red-rimmed eyes, a dull look. He also detects that she does not carry her camera.

"Where's your camera?" The words come out of his mouth before he can do anything to stop them. It’s not the smartest question he can ask, he thinks as he checks her reaction, her features drawing a gesture of sadness.

She studies him for a moment, perhaps deciding whether to trust him or not. Finally, she mutters as she turns her gaze back to the horizon. "I was so stupid to leave the camera on one of the tables of that diner. I needed to go to the toilet. When I returned, the camera was gone." Her words come in a whisper so subtle that he almost confuses them with the murmur of the sea breeze.

"That device is important to you, isn’t it?" It’s a rhetorical question, he is aware. By all answer, she lets out a snort — that sounds more like a muffled sob— and starts to walk away.

"Wait!" He is reluctant to let her go. Not yet. "Can I ask you something?"

She turns and stares at him for a few seconds. Her gaze is still sad, but he would swear he has detected a spark of vivacity again. "You can, but you may or may not receive an answer."

"Fair enough." He pauses for a moment, sensing that there will be a point of no return from this instant. "I wonder... what you're looking for through the lens of your camera."

She doesn't respond at first and his heart falls to his stomach when he thinks he has missed his chance to approach her. But suddenly the corners of her lips rise subtly. "Smiles... I'm looking for smiles. And the horizon." Without further ado, she walks away, leaving him with even more questions, but also with a purpose, to find the thief. He knows whom to address. He’s an observer after all.

He only needs a couple of days to find him. It's not a difficult task in a town as small as Storybrooke. Will, that's the name of the town thief. He doesn't steal out of necessity or greed. He does it simply because he can. He finds him in an alley, a camera in one hand and a phone near his ear in the other. Killian doesn't wait for the call to end. It's better to catch him off guard. So without more, he spits, “can I see the photos that the device contains inside?" He points at the camera with his right hand, while his gaze stays fixed on the thief.

Will's reaction is immediate, he runs off as he drops the camera on his escape. The device falls on a trash bag, avoiding the impact against the ground. In this simple way, Killian recovers the camera. It’s not his most skillful performance, but the goal is fulfilled. He doesn't expect her to think of him as a white knight who has come to her rescue. But the camera and its contents seem important to her. So he does what he should do.

Two days later, he finds her in the same place, this time sitting on a bench in the pier. He approaches and offers her the camera. Her reaction takes his breath away for a few seconds. Her face lights up in such a way and her eyes shine with such intensity that he is unable to look away. He shouldn't be proud, his only merit has been knowing where to look. But he cannot prevent a wave of pride washes over him. His action, however minimal, has caused a positive effect on her.

She does not ask how he got it, simply thanks him and gives him a warm smile, clearly indicating that his presence there is welcome, so he accepts her silent invitation and sits by her side.

"Can I ask you something?" Killian repeats the same question of two days ago. It seems like that's their only way to communicate for the moment, so he accepts it.

"You can, but you may or may not receive an answer." She obviously responds in the same way. He didn't expect anything else, but her smile lingers on her lips, so that encourages him to continue.

"What’s your name?"

"Is that your question?" She raises one of her eyebrows teasing him.

"Well, if we exchange our names we will never be strangers anymore."

"Maybe it's the best, keeping us as strangers."

He nods but doesn’t give up, his curiosity is too strong. He has an ace up his sleeve, something he doesn't feel particularly proud of, but he uses it nonetheless. "Perhaps gratitude is in order now."

She lets out a snort as she rolls her eyes. "So you want my name as a gratitude for returning my camera."

Although her words do not come in the form of a question but confirmation, he nods with a shrug. "It's fair enough, isn't it?"

She then gets up and starts walking. He holds his breath, thinking he may have pushed her too hard. A few seconds later she turns, the sea breeze playing with her curls, so she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "It's Emma, Emma Swan."

The way her name slides between her lips, like a melody, and the light of the sunset giving her silhouette an ethereal halo makes him wonder if he really is not contemplating a gosht, or a vision. He blinks a couple times, and she's still there, her lips flatten out in an attempt of a smile. She is waiting, he finally realizes. She's waiting for his name.

"Swan, it suits you. Killian Jones is my name."

“See you around, Jones.” Before turning and walking away, she smiles at him again. She, Emma, doesn’t look back.

The next day they meet again on the same bench. Although he has gotten her name, Emma Swan is still a mystery to him, so he intends to know her a little more. His ability to create stories doesn’t work with her. Or maybe, he doesn’t want to create a fictional story with a happy ending for her. Maybe it's time to know a real tale. He begins the conversation in the same way as in previous days.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You can, but you may or may not receive an answer."

"You said the other day that you were looking for smiles. Why?"

Her face keeps a thoughtful expression for a few seconds. Then she tilts her head, her eyes searching for his, a spark of defiance in her gaze. "I've noticed that you observe people. Why?"

And there it is, a proof that she had also noticed him. Killian cannot suppress his lips forming a grin. He does not mind answering, not really. In fact, this can be a kind of catharsis. It's been a long time since he's expressed these thoughts out loud, so he takes a few seconds to respond.

"Well, the answer could be quite long."

She shrugs. "I don’t mind, it's not like I have anything better to do." She leans back against the back of the bench, resting her head against her palm, her gaze directed at him, a sign that she is ready to listen.

"Okay, I'll tell you my story if you tell me yours later."

“Deal.”

He can’t do other than trust her to fulfill her part of the bargain. After clearing his throat, he turns his gaze to the horizon, his mind, though, travels several years ago.

"It's just a habit. I learned it from my brother Liam." He pauses for a second, the mention of his brother always has the effect of drying his throat and moisten his eyes in the form of contained tears. "For a while, it was just him and me, no one else to take care of us. He began to develop an idea for the purpose of distracting his little brother in the endless summer afternoons. He asked me to choose a random person from among the many who passed down the street. Then, he used that person as the main character and created a story just for me. He invented a life for that person that started from the moment I chose it. It was a story with a happy ending, of course. That was their purpose, after all, to ensure that, for a moment, our lives were not so miserable, to get us to experience full happiness, even through other people's”

"And you have taken that habit back then? Do you observe and create stories?" She gives him an understanding look.

There is much more in his story, but a sudden melancholy seizes him, preventing him to continue. Maybe some other day he'll tell her the next chapter, though. Meanwhile, he just nods. "Aye. I like to think that some of those created stories do come true. Maybe the chosen person dies the next minute hit by a bus. But there are many other possibilities. To think that my story might be one of those possibilities is enough for me.”

After his confession, a quiet silence reigns over them. He thinks that Emma is not going to fulfill her part of the deal, but after letting out a sigh, she speaks.

"I... I like to capture the moment, to immortalize that instant when a genuine smile appears, a proof that, whatever happens before or after, that person was happy for a moment."

There is much more than that. He can say it when a cloud of sadness crosses her gaze. He does not push her, though. "And what about the horizon?"

"I like the sea. It has a calming effect on me." She simply responds.

"We make quite the team, Swan."

"We do?"

"Of course love." He replies in an exaggerated tone, as if the answer were obvious. "I offer a chance to happiness through these stories and you immortalize that happiness, capturing the moment and making it eternal. I tell you, Swan, quite the team.”

They continue with that routine over the next few days. Now, when they see each other in the distance, he observing and she taking photos, both wave or share glances and smiles of complicity. They even meet by chance in places like Granny's. On these occasions, they sit in the same booth. And they talk about everything and nothing, their respective coffees abandoned and cold on the table.

One day the pattern changes and it's Emma who asks first. "Can I ask you something?"

"You can, but you may or may not receive an answer." He emulates her previous answer because how not? Although he will answer any questions she asks. Killian earns a laugh on her part. He then realizes that he needs to hear that sound more often.

"When you first saw me, did you think of any story for me?"

"Aye, too many stories, indeed. But for some reason, none of them seemed to fit with you."

"Would you tell me any of them?" The way she addresses him, with a mixture of curiosity and hope and a special glow in her eyes makes it impossible for him to reject her request.

So he tells her not one but all the stories he created based on her. Her reactions vary from almost laughing to widening her eyes with surprise or shaking her head in disagreement, but without losing her smile. I would never do that, Jones. He cannot deny it, he likes the effect his stories cause in her. He could spend hours inventing stories just to keep that smile on her lips.

After a few seconds of silence, broken only by the sound of the sea and the echo of her previous laughter in his ears, Killian asks. "Do I appear in some of your photos?" There is a deeper meaning in that question and he is not sure he wants to know the answer but he asks nevertheless.

Her gaze is full of understanding when she responds. "Yeah, in several, mostly on your boat, other times while talking to the librarian or when you come across that couple, the short-haired woman and the blond-haired man."

"The Nolan." He offers.

Emma nods. "They look pretty nice."

Yes, they're nice, like Belle, the librarian. He is surprised by the answer, though. Not because he thinks he doesn't smile, but because he would never have considered them as genuine smiles of happiness. He didn't come to this town in search of happiness, in fact, he thought he would never get it again, his heart broken and his soul empty. But maybe his feelings are starting to change.

"See that man, the one with a red hat? Tell me his story, Killian." She asks him one day, after having had an intense conversation in which both have shared memories of their past, not the most painful parts, he suspects. Not on his part, at least. Sometimes it's better if the old demons stay buried.

He looks in the direction Emma is pointing at and finds a man leaning on the railing, looking out to the sea. He narrows his eyes and studies his posture and his expression intently. Little by little, a story begins to form in his head.

"This man is a sailor, a seaman, and he has spent most of his life on the high seas. It seems, though, that bad luck hangs over him and he hasn't been able to get on board for a while. He looks at the horizon, remembering the countless adventures he has experienced in the ocean and dreaming that someday, he will be able to sail again. Two days later, his bad luck is over. A sailboat arrives at the port, at his command, an adventurer captain with a lot of free time and too much money. He is looking for a small crew to accompany him on his next adventure, a trip around the world sailing on his ship. And that's how our man with the red hat gets back to his beloved sea.”

"Whoa, you have quite the story there. I like it, it suits him." At that moment, Emma raises her camera and points directly at the man. "Got it."

It seems to be a day of confessions because, after a brief silence, Emma begins to speak. "I... I was looking for a particular smile. When I came here I was just looking for someone." Killian senses a slight shake in her voice, but she continues, a nostalgic expression on her face and a gleam of sadness in her gaze. "As I told you before, I grew up in the system... I... got pregnant very young, while I was in prison for a crime I hadn't committed... I couldn't keep that baby. I had no future to offer him so I gave him up for a closed adoption trying to give him his best chance."

He knows that the story is not over, so he simply nods and silently encourages her to continue.

"It was easy for a while. After leaving prison, my main concern was to find a way of life that would allow me to move on. The first few years I managed to bury my regret with work, but as time passed, every time I saw a child on the street, the memory of my son came to torment me. I began to feel guilty and I kept asking myself if I really had done the right thing, if I really had given my son his best chance. So, after a few investigations, I got something, just a name, Storybrooke. That's how I got here."

She is looking for her son. More specifically, she is looking for the genuine smile of her son, to make sure that she made the right decision. It's a bittersweet story, he thinks uneasily. But there is something that doesn't fit into all this. Killian is aware that Emma takes pictures not only of children but of other people. Before he can express his doubt out loud, she continues.

"I don't even know what I was looking for in the beginning. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, I don't even know what my son looks like. Maybe that's why, while trying to locate him among the crowd, I began to observe people and I was surprised by the reasons why some people smiled, so I started looking for smiles. Since I didn't find my son's at least I could immortalize the happiness of other people."

Killian's heart tightens after hearing her story, while a wave of affection washes over him. She is waiting for his reaction, if her hesitant gaze is an indicative. Little by little, a goal begins to draw in his mind, he's going to help her find her son.

"You can still find him, you know. It looks like a small town, but there are several children around your child's age." He trusts that the smile he offers her will be reassuring enough. "I offer my observation skills to help you in your purpose. I'm going to help you find your boy, love."

Her lips draw a tentative smile as a pleading shadow crosses her gaze. "Would you do it?" When he nods firmly, her shoulders fall slightly, as if discharging part of the burden she had been carrying. That encourages him in a certain way, maybe if he also talks about his past he may feel lighter.

So on this day of confessions, he also shares his. The words escape from his lips in a fluid way, demonstrating how easy it's to talk to Emma. They have known each other for barely a month, but there's a connection between them that makes it possible for him to feel closer to her than he has been with any other person in a long time.

Killian tells her that his brother died when he was still too young, leaving him alone in the world, with no one else to tell him stories. It was then that he began to acquire that practice of observing people and building their happy endings. He also tells her how he met his first love, and a future full of promises opened before them. That future did not last long, though. A car accident took his love and his left hand. And again, he was left alone in the world, heartbroken and with no one to share his stories with.

"We make quite the team." She repeats the same words that he used a few weeks before, getting his lips to lift slightly despite the pain of bringing his old demons to the surface. To his relief, her soft voice and warm smile have not a shred of pity, only understanding.

After their confessions, they continue with their routine, but little by little, something is changing between them. He feels more and more close to her, his heart beats faster every time he sees her, while his stomach flutters violently. She seems to feel the same effect, always looking for his gaze, always looking for a casual contact from their hands. He does not want to give a name to this feeling that is still blooming, but it's getting harder to be separated from her, if only for a few hours.

A week later, they are sitting on the bench they have already made theirs, looking at the horizon. There are no words shared among them, sometimes all they need is to feel the presence of the other at their side as a perpetual support.

Suddenly, he feels Emma's hand squeezing his leg slightly. Confused, he looks for her eyes, but she is no longer looking at the horizon but at something different. He follows the direction of her gaze and meets two people, a boy, and a woman. They're having an ice cream while walking by the docks. The realization of what they are contemplating washes over him. He doesn't need confirmation to know that Emma has finally found her son.

"Tell me his story, Killian." She pleads in a strangled whisper, without looking away from her son, while holding her camera ready to capture that unique moment. That bittersweet instant.

He closes his eyes for a moment and lets his mind wander for a few seconds, while a story begins to form. He knows the woman, after more than four months in Storybrooke it would be impossible not to know who is the mayor of the town. But she is a reserved and a bit haughty person, reluctant to share her life, so he hardly knows anything about her. Maybe it's better that way because he can offer a genuine story to Emma.

"She is the mayor of the town." It's the only thing he can affirm with certainty. "She... she decided to adopt for the wrong reasons. It was a selfish act with the aim of filling her wounded heart, to find someone who loved her without reservation. In spite of this, at the moment in which the little boy came into her life, she started to change. Where there was darkness before, now there is light. Her son has become the center of her life."

Although Emma doesn't look away from her son, he knows that she is listening to him, or at least that is what he senses while seeing a silent tear running down her cheek. Suddenly, he feels how she stiffens and raises her camera, ready to capture the moment she has been waiting for so long. And there it is, that smile. He doesn't need Emma's skills to be certain that the smile that appears on the child's lips is a genuine one. And it's addressed to his adoptive mother.

He feels the need to do something for Emma, to brush away her tears, to hold her in his arms... Instead, he offers her something she can cling to, hope. That is his function, after all, to generate a ray of hope through his stories, creating a happy ending within the infinite world of possibilities. Maybe it will come true, maybe not. But his instinct is strong and silently shouts that this time his story and reality will run parallel paths until they converge on a point. He just hopes that he can witness it.

"He's a happy lad, he has everything he could wish for. He also knows his history and his origins. For that reason, some days, he looks out the window and observes the town with longing. He likes to think that maybe, somewhere in the world, there's someone who also looks with yearning towards the streets full of people. That maybe there's a person who is looking for him. He is a patient boy and is confident that, when the right time comes, that person, his biological mother, will find him."

Silence falls over them while he holds his breath, waiting for her reaction. "Thank you." She mumbles while wiping away her tears. The moment has passed, the boy and his mother are no longer in sight and it seems that this is the moment for Emma to leave as well. "I have to go." She whispers, as she gets up and walks away without looking back.

He doesn't try to stop her. But he begins to feel an uneasiness that tightens his heart while a terrible thought takes hold of him. He feels helpless but cannot do anything but wait the next day and trust that, even though she has already fulfilled her mission of capturing the genuine smile she was looking for, there is something else that makes her stay.

When Killian approaches their bench the next day, there is someone else there. Emma. She is still there. He represses the impulse to jump for joy and instead approaches with slow steps. The moment he arrives at her side, Emma looks up, the corners of her lips rising slightly. She carries a folder in her hands. He pulls his lips into a soft smile as accepts the folder she hands him while sitting next to her.

"I've thought to bring this to you as gratitude for your story from yesterday." He opens the folder and is surprised to see its contents. There're photos where he himself appears, and most importantly, he is smiling. Killian seems happy while talking to Belle, the librarian, or the Nolan. He also sports a placid smile as he contemplates the sea in another of the photos. He swallows the growing knot in his dry throat, as emotion seizes him.

"I wanted to show you that you are not alone anymore. I think you have already found your place in this town." Emma is smiling, a soft smile that goes straight to his heart. His gaze then drifts to her lips, wondering, not for the first time, what it would be like to kiss her. There is an almost irrepressible impulse that begins to take hold of him. Instead, he decides a path perhaps more subtle.

"Can I ask you something?"

Emma is grinning now, instantly recognizing their little game. She doesn't disappoint, of course, responding as expected. "You can, but you may or may not receive an answer."

"I've been thinking. Since your mission to find a genuine smile has been successfully solved, you could start a new mission. What do you think about looking for kisses that mean something?"

Her eyes widen in surprise, but, fortunately, she seems to have caught the hint. Her gaze also goes to his lips getting his heart to race with anticipation. "Uhm, it's not a bad idea. Maybe you can help me with the first attempt." Emma suggests with a tone of voice that would make it impossible to reject it.

She doesn't wait for an answer though. Instead, she approaches until she is within inches of him. And before he is aware of it, her lips are on his causing an electric shock to travel throughout his whole body. He's lost in the softness of her lips, in her sweet taste, in the number of sensations that the kiss brings with it, sensations that he already thought forgotten but that now return making him want much more. The kiss ends too soon, though.

"I forgot something." Emma's voice caresses his lips, while their foreheads remain in contact. "I'm afraid we're going to have to repeat since I forgot to take the picture."

He happily obliges, of course. And while their lips come into contact again as Emma raises her hand holding the phone and pointing towards them, he sets a new goal, to get a genuine smile from Emma every day and to make their kisses, because he is sure that from now on there will be lots of them, always mean something.

Thanks for reading :)

[thinceiling]

rupture and repair (1/4)

“Mind if I join you?”

Angela opened her eyes, fully prepared to refute some clueless man, and choked on her drink. The reigning champion of People She Did Not Want to See Unless Absolutely Necessary stood before her, wearing a leather jacket and a grin—Fareeha Amari.

“Fareeha,” she sputtered. Damn her. “What are you doing here?”

“Drinking after work.” She jerked her thumb at the men. “I’m legal now, you know.”

“Well—yes, of course…”

“Can I join you?”

“Fareeha…”

“Ah, come on. For old times’ sake?”

Modern AU. Angela is a therapist. Fareeha is a firefighter, and her most difficult client. Together, they save each others’ lives—albeit in very different ways.

If you like what you read, please consider liking and/or reblogging this fic! Thank you ^^

c/w: depression, sex, alcohol

After challenging sessions, some therapists ate powdered donuts or smoked American Spirits. 

Angela sorted emails.

Absently massaging her shoulder blade, Angela organized her messages into the usual junk and not-junk piles, blue eyes glazing over. Junk... junk... junk… wedding invite?

Begrudgingly, she clicked. Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” trumpeted through her headphones. Lena Oxton and Emily Murphy were cordially inviting her, the esteemed Dr. Ziegler, to their ceremony and ensuing reception, formal attire optional. Angela drummed her fingers. Well. She was happy for Lena. Accepting the invite, she returned to her inbox. A name caught her attention. From: Fareeha Amari. She clicked.

Dr. Ziegler,

It’s Fareeha, Ana’s daughter. Been awhile, hasn't it? My mother swears I am depressed and says you can cure anything. I would like to schedule a single consultation.

Cheers, Fareeha

Fareeha. She remembered her. God, how many years had passed? Fifteen? Twenty? Memories, unbidden, rose to the surface. Twanging strings; a humming amp; nimble fingers, spidering across a fretboard; a nervous grin. I wrote that for you, Angela!

After some consideration Angela responded to the email—blew out the candles—and returned to her apartment alone.

The following week, there was a brisk knock at the door.

“Come in,” said Angela.

The door opened and a woman entered, gold cuffs shimmering in her hair. Fareeha.

She had gotten tall; muscular, too. Fluid and noble facial features evoked royalty from a bygone age, and a tattoo under her eye—that was new—curved toward her ear. An udjat, just like Ana’s.

Attraction stirred within Angela, rusted from years of wilful negligence. She pressed it down—down—and extended a hand. “Fareeha! How have you been?”

“Fine.” Her grip was firm, the handshake brief. “And yourself?”

“Fine as well, thanks.”

As they settled into the chairs around the fireplace, Angela propped her Moleskine journal onto her knee. “So. What brings you to—”

“Is that lavender?”

“Sorry?”

Fareeha indicated the candles on the windowsill.

“Good nose,” smiled Angela. She was proud of how she had decorated her office—the candles, the veneers, the books. After a patient complained of shadows, she’d even brightened the dusky concavities of the room with potted plants. “If the smell bothers you, I can blow them out.”

“It’s not the smell,” Fareeha said flatly, “it’s the fire hazard. You shouldn’t have open flames near curtains or books.” She pointed. “Or plants.”

Angela hitched an eyebrow. “I’m not sure bamboo is flammable.”

“It is.”

“Oh.” She tapped her pen. “I suppose I’ll blow out the candles, then.”

“Don’t bother.” A smile twitched at Fareeha’s mouth. “I like lavender.”

Angela wasn’t sure how to feel. Irritated? Amused? Perhaps she ought to be straightforward. “Why are you here, Fareeha?”

A callous shrug. “You know my mother. She thinks I’m depressed.”

“Do you think you’re depressed?”

“Do I look depressed?”

“I don’t know.” She studied her. “What does depression look like to you?”

“Not sleeping, eating. Minimal showering.”

“Do you relate to those things?”

“Not really. My job doesn’t allow it.”

“And what is your job?”

“I’m a firefighter,” said Fareeha. That explained the lecture on fire safety—and the musculature. “I eat, sleep, and shower on a schedule. Hell, I have regulated piss breaks.”

Angela chuckled, and a smile fluttered at Fareeha’s lip. Her childhood precociousness had evolved into a roguish sort of charm; it was disarming.

Angela cleared her throat. “How do you feel about your job?”

“Fine? It’s not something you do for the money. I just like helping people.”

Angela looked at her carefully. Some hidden emotion seemed to scrape the edges of her expression, raw and painful, straining to breathe. “But you’re here for a reason.”

“Yes, my mother. She worries.”

“Why does she worry?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it because of your actions?”

“No.”

“Your feelings? Your words?”

“No. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I say things, sometimes. To her.”

“And what do you say?”

“How I feel.”

“Which is?”

“Nothing,” said Fareeha, looking straight through Angela. “I save lives, and I don’t feel a damn thing.”

Their second session got off to a promising start. Fareeha spoke at length about her rigorous but happy childhood—game-winning goals, the heat of Cairo, learning the guitar.

Yet when Angela inquired about anything deeper than the perfunctory facts of her upbringing, Fareeha crossed her arms and refused to speak. Breaking her self-imposed omertà proved impossible, and the session ended on a stale note.

Their third session went the same way. So did their fourth. And fifth.

Angela deployed every strategy in her arsenal. She asked Fareeha to draw how she was feeling, to write poetry, to describe her mother. Nothing worked. Late at night she lay awake, mulling over their circuitous conversations, trying to will a solution into being.

“Tequila on the rocks?”

“Yes, Gabe, thank you.”

The bartender nodded and turned, tossing ice into a glass. Angela sighed. She sat at the far end of the counter, where the stools met the exposed brick of the wall.

“Tough client?” asked Gabe, handing her the tequila. She knocked it back. “Well, shit. Sorry for asking.”

“Could I get—”

“Another? You bet.”

As Gabe turned to make her drink, the bell above the door jangled. A group of men tramped inside, chattering idly yet loudly amongst themselves.

Angela looked down. She heard boots shuffling, chairs being rearranged. She sipped her drink. One more shot, then. One more and she would leave. From the corner of her eye, she noticed someone leave the group of men and approach her.

Poor bastard. She closed her eyes and drank.

“Mind if I join you?”

Angela opened her eyes, fully prepared to refute some clueless man, and choked on her drink. The reigning champion of People She Did Not Want to See Unless Absolutely Necessary stood before her, wearing a leather jacket and a grin—Fareeha Amari.

“Fareeha,” she sputtered. Damn her. “What are you doing here?”

“Drinking after work.” She jerked her thumb at the men. “I’m legal now, you know.”

“Well—yes, of course…”

“Can I join you?”

“Fareeha…”

“Ah, come on. For old times’ sake?”

Angela hesitated. Establishing boundaries with patients was critical to the success of therapy; any armchair psychologist knew that.

But... what if this was an opportunity?

She considered the empty shot glasses. A month of sessions had been fruitless; every tactic in her toolbox was exhausted. Perhaps... perhaps a little rapport could go a long way.

She nodded. “Go ahead.”

Beaming, Fareeha sat next to her. She smelled like cologne. “I’ll have what she’s having,” she directed to Gabe, who shrugged and poured her a shot. She sniffed it. “Tequila?”

“You’re a bloodhound.”

“And you’re a heavyweight, apparently.” Fareeha raised her glass. “To my mother, for reuniting us.”

Angela smiled. “To your mother.”

They clinked glasses and drank. Fareeha’s nose wrinkled. “Ugh. How do you stand this jet fuel?”

“It’s an acquired taste,” she admitted with a small smile. She glanced at the men. “You’re with your coworkers?”

“Coworkers—what a cold word. We’re more like a family.”

“Of course.”

“Who’d you come with?”

“Don’t you know?” Gabe cut in, swinging by with two more shots. “Angela sits on her stool and gets hit on by attractive strangers. It’s an eclectic kink.”

Fareeha snorted; Angela leveled a dry look at the bartender. “Thanks, Gabe.”

“You’re welcome, doc.”

“So it’s true?” Fareeha’s eyes glinted. 

“Of course not.” She sipped her drink. “Why, do you want it to be?”

Fareeha raised an eyebrow; Angela flushed. The words had slipped out her mouth, a vestigial habit from when she used to flirt at bars. The tequila didn’t help. “That is—I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Head tilted, Fareeha fingered the rim of her glass. “You think I’m attractive, don’t you?”

Oh God oh God. “No, I just—”

“You think I’m ugly?”

“No! I—”

“So which is it, Angela? Am I attractive or ugly?”

Angela stared. Fareeha was grinning from ear to ear. “You’re screwing with me.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Angela downed the rest of her drink. Laughing, Fareeha knocked her shot back too, exposing the soft skin of her throat. She really was attractive. She was stupidly, unfairly attractive.

Fareeha set down her empty glass. Color tinged her cheeks; her eyes shone.

“Another drink can’t hurt, can it, Ms. Heavyweight?”

In the dead of night Angela awoke. Tangled between her legs was a sweat-caked blanket. Her underwear was hitched around her ankles.

She sat up. The room was dark and quiet. The door yawned ajar. A half-rectangle of light spilled over the floor, illuminating hardwood panels.

Her eyes stung. She removed her contacts and placed them in the case on her nightstand.

She smelled smoke.

Angela swung her legs over the mattress and stood, swaying on the spot. Her head was light. She slid her feet into a pair of silk slippers and fumbled through the dark, following the smell to the balcony.

The sliding glass doors were open.

Angela stepped onto the moon-soaked tile and blinked once. Twice.

Fareeha leaned over the railing. She smoked a cigarette. She was naked.

I’m dreaming, she thought. Then she thought, Has she been crying?

Fareeha tapped ash over the railing and said, “This is illegal, right?”

Angela stared.

“Come on. This must violate all kinds of policy.”

Angela stared.

“Please say something.” Ash flaked off the cigarette. “I’m not used to silence after sex.”

“Sex?”

“Sex.”

Angela said, “Fuck.”

“That too.”

“Fuck,” said Angela. She slumped against railing and closed her eyes. It was all coming back now. Drinking at the pub, confused flirting, suggestive touches; the Uber home—Fareeha’s eyes—sex. Good sex. Memories returned in shaky snatches—bending, clinging, panting, eyes rolling back—and her face grew hot.

Fareeha touched her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“No.” The cigarette. She stared at the cigarette. “Smoking is bad for your health.”

Fareeha stopped touching her and took a drag. Smoke came out of her nose and washed over the balcony, curling toward the stars. “I know.”

“Have you been crying?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Have you lost someone before?”

She paused. “Yes.”

“He was the captain before me. I could have saved him.” The tip of her cigarette glowed. “Why didn’t I save him, Angela?”

Angela did not reply. She did not know how to reply. For a long time, the two of them stood there on that balcony and looked at the lights in the cars and the buildings and the lamps lining the dark streets below.