#needs a lot of work. mostly needs better placed breaths than the default and the legato situation is dire

[bmpmp3]

EXTREMELY low effort plug n play cover with very default settings mixing i did in like 20 min but im trying out voisona and holy shit tsudumi's 2.0 sounds SO so good

honeymoon un deux trois by dateken (original vocal rin), UST by purblexber

[chubbology]

Getting Big

prompt: someone discovering they're a feeder as their feedee partner gets bigger

Sometimes you’re both in bed, distracted and ignoring each other on your phones or laptops, when you notice. Your eyes lift from your phone and notice your partner’s relaxed belly, rising and lowering with calm breath, stretching the fabric of their shirt. Really stretching it now, not just with every inhale, but by default. Not just pushing the seams a little with chubbier hips, but forcing the cotton to bow out close to its limit, forcing the stitching to cave into a belly button deeper and softer-looking than you remember. And your eyes inevitably take in the rest: thicker thighs, more shapely chest, less defined arms, softer jawline.  

You’re aware that your partner’s gained a little weight. More than a little, but it’s fine. Probably thirty or so pounds, not a big deal, and you absolutely don’t judge them for it. Have they mentioned it at all? No, they just keep tugging at their shirts and pants. And underwear. Their underwear is getting too small for them, with weight gain making them a bit of a pear and all, but you don’t say anything. You don’t say they need bigger underwear. You don’t tell them how much you appreciate the fact that they need it. As long as they stay mum on the subject of their weight and the fit of their clothes, so will you; that’s your rule.

Sometimes you’re both in bed, watching TV, and they’re eating their way to the bottom of a quart of appallingly flavored ice cream (super-caramel-quadruple chocolate-chunk type stuff), and you keep sneaking glances. Because you’re amazed they’re comfortable enough around you to eat freely like this—or so you tell yourself. Their eyes are so glazed with distracted pleasure that maybe it didn’t even occur to them not to gorge themselves tonight, right in front of you.

Not gorging themselves like some kind of pig—no, it’s just, you both ordered a lot of takeout just a couple hours ago, and then they snacked on chips for a while, and then there was that candy bar they ate on a whim while you took out the trash, and now it’s a whole quart of ice cream. A whole quart. The more glances you sneak at them, the more you notice how their budding second chin peeks out when they chew. The more you notice that their bites seem hasty, as if tinged by some kind of distant, unconscious desperation.

You lean against them as if too tired to stay upright, reaching over them casually, letting one arm rest against their belly. It’s soft. It’s bigger. Not a big deal at all, you tell yourself for the millionth time.

And yet, you ponder their weight more. You’ve been pondering it incessantly. You can’t stop thinking about how they went to the mall two weeks ago without telling you, bought clothes a size up, and already were uncomfortably tugging and pulling on on every tight band and seam again. You can’t stop your thoughts from wandering to the idea of them sizing up again any more than your partner can stop their hands from opening another package of cookies.

“Ugh, this stuff is so good,” they mutter, swallowing the last bite, then closing the lid on the carton and setting it aside.

“Mm. I’ll buy more then,” you say without thinking. It’s fine if they size up again, after all. You’ll love them no matter their body type. Their happiness comes first. “I’m going to the grocery store anyway.”

A couple months later, going to the grocery store is not a chore to you, but a fun outing. You never used to even go down the junk food isles if you were by yourself, but now you scour them carefully. You place things in the cart you know your partner will like, and consider new brands and products they might like to try. It’s all so colorful and thrilling to actually buy. You tell yourself you might even try some of it and ignore the intrusive thought of your partner sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night again to binge on half the goodies themselves.

What niggles at you isn’t that you’re buying way too much junk food for your partner, who’s a little overweight now. It’s not as if they’ve told you to stop, or have implied they want to lose weight, or have said anything about any of it at all. That’s the thing: you’re in uncharted waters, and they haven’t told you a word about whether they fine with the way the tide was turning or whether they were actually really concerned that they were getting heavy and a little jiggly and they didn’t know what to do about it, let alone have the wherewithal to say, Honey, stop buying junk food. I’m getting fat.

Just the thought of the word makes you blush at the box of Fudge Covered Twinkies you’re holding. You quickly set them back on the shelf. Twinkies were practically the poster food for getting fat, right? Surely, your partner would suspect something, even though there wasn’t anything to suspect. You just know that they like food, particularly food that’s soft and sugary and addictive, and what better, cheaper food to comfort them with than Twinkies? No, it wouldn’t be good for their waistline, but you can already see their eyes fluttering closed at the taste—which was probably not even good, but that was hardly the point, was it?

Compromising, you buy a limited edition blue-stuffed brand of Twinkies instead, preparing an excuse that you thought the novelty of it was amusing and wondered if it was good.

But later that night, your partner eats six of them while you play video games and doesn’t mention the novelty of it at all. Your character dies stupidly and your partner laughs at you, belly jiggling as they do. You swallow, eyes fixating on their fat thighs. There’s no other word for them—they’re fat. Their thighs have gotten fat, just like their belly got fat, just like their hips and chest and arms and even their neck and face has been rounding out with so much chub. They were fat and they did eat like a pig, and all signs pointed to more weight gain. They were going to keep gaining weight, and when was it going to stop? When you finally decided enough was enough? When their doctor told them to take control? Yeah, so, you could imagine them awkwardly saying, coming home from the doctor, I guess I gotta lose weight. Maybe they would be holding a pamphlet on obesity or something, looking ashamed.

And maybe they would try at first. You would help. They’d exercise a little here and there, maybe only eat one Twinkie instead of six, maybe not ask for takeout so often. But it wouldn’t last. The second their will broke, yours would too. And you’d both be in bed, distracted by nothing but endless waves of pleasure that your sex life hadn’t known in a while, them leaning back against the headboard, eating every fattening thing you had to offer, which would be many, many, as many fattening things as they’d agree to swallow down like they glutton they were becoming.

“Babe?”

You blink.

“You okay?” they say with that chubby face of theirs, a face that said, I’ve been gaining so much weight, and you’re really aroused.

“I’m glad you like those,” you stutter. You look at the Twinkies box, and so do they. Your mouth keeps moving without forethought. “I’ll buy you more next time. Any other flavors you like?” You set down your controller and push your hand into their hair affectionately. Since they’re slouched, they look up at you, and you lower your hand to the back of their neck, touching the bulge of the fat there. “Want me to get you your favorite ice cream? I know you had a long day at work.” You stand and head for the kitchen, ignoring your partner’s confused ums and wells.

You open the freezer and get one of many ice cream quarts. Thanks to you, the fridge and freezer have been stuffed to the gills with crap, but you can’t regret it, not when it makes your partner look perpetually stuffed to the gills too. You get a spoon and sit down next to them again, brain fuzzy with want. “You’ll feel better when you finish this. By the time you do, I’ll finally finish this damn level.”

“I’m—I’m not…” But the look in their eyes is conflicted. “I’m not that hungry, really.”

You laugh. Your body is buzzing. “Please. With you, when you eat and when you’re hungry are completely unrelated. Let’s make it a competition! Finish before I do. Go!”

“What?”

You’re already starting the level over, thinking to yourself What the hell? Don’t make them eat if they don’t want to. Even if they do want to, even when they’re full, because they’re greedy and addicted, gonna get obese soon—

A minute passes, and they’re sitting up, belly folded in rolls on their lap, looking poised to either stand up and put the ice cream away or rip the lid off and devour it all.

“Eat it,” you say innocently, or try to. It mostly comes out like a pathetic attempt at sounding not-horny.

You glance over, and they still look conflicted, so you lean over and kiss them on their tubby cheek. “Go ahead,” you say, quieter. You meet their eyes. “Don’t you want to?”

They look taken aback now, flushed. All at once, they seem aware of their blubbery, overweight body, and they shift on the couch. You forget the game and lean in again, kissing them on the lips, then deeper as they lean into you. “I know you want to,” you whisper. You cup their fattened hip, squeeze it gently. “I bet you really want to.”

They’re blushing really hard now, gone shy and speechless. So you move closer to them, and since their head is lowered to avoid your eyes, you land a sweet peck on their bulging second chin. Then you peel off the lid of the carton, tear the plastic off, and push the spoon satisfyingly into the over-processed sugar that has been fattening your partner out of their clothes so well.

Despite their air of reluctance, they eat the spoonful you offer as if on instinct. They squirm with pleasure, and your breath hitches when their plump hand twitches out to take the spoon away from you when you don’t use it quick enough. You scoop them another bite. Then another. The room is quiet except for the game in the background and your rapidly beating heart. Their eyelids lower, and you murmur encouraging words to them. That’s it. It’s good, huh? Big bite... The experience seems no less momentous to them than to you, and so you keep going. Their eyes drift shut and so you guide their mouth to open at the right times. Eventually, your cooing gets bolder.

“I know how much you like this. Like eating. Eating a little too much.”

Their mouth pauses around the spoon, but their eyes don’t open. They swallow and wait for the next bite.

“And I know you get up in the middle of the night sometimes, just to eat,” you say. “Eat and eat until your clothes feel tight and your stomach’s queasy, right? You always come back to bed so uncomfortable, tossing and turning, panting a little. Holding back little burps. I wake up and all the junk food I bought is gone.”

Your partner leans into to your next spoonful, then takes it from you. Without meeting your eyes, they start eating from the tub themselves, at twice your pace. You smooth your fingers through their hair. Then rub a hand down their arm, which was now sausage-like with so much fat clinging to it. But it’s squishy, when you pinch it. No firmness anywhere you can see.

“I’m sure you know you’re getting big, baby. You’re getting big. But that’s okay.” You rub your hands over their belly, their hips, their rolls of back fat. “You just keep eating as much as you like.”

And after another pause, they nod.

[soundsfaebutokay]

So I've recc'd this video before, but it deserves its own post because it's one of my favorite things on youtube. It's a Tedx Talk by comics writer, editor, and journalist Jay Edidin, and I really think that it will connect with a lot of people here.

If you live and breathe stories of all kinds, you might like this.

If you care about media representation, you might like this.

If you're neurodivergent, you might like this.

If you're interested in a gender transition story that veers from the norm, you might like this.

If you love the original Leverage and especially Parker, and understand how important it is that a character like her exists, you will definitely like this.

Transcript below the cut:

You Are Here: The Cartography of Stories

by Jay Edidin

I am autistic. And what this means in practice is that there are some things that are easier for me than they are for most people, and a great many things that are somewhat harder, and these affect my life in more or less overt ways. As it goes, I'm pretty lucky. I've been able to build a career around special interests and granular obsession. My main gig at the moment is explaining superhero comics continuity and publishing history for which work I am somehow paid in actual legal currency—which is both a triumph of the frivolous in an era of the frantically pragmatic, and a job that's really singularly suited to my strengths and also to my idiosyncrasies.

I like comics. I like stories in general, because they make sense to me in ways that the rest of the world and my own mind often don't. Self-knowledge is not an intuitive thing for me. What sense of self I have, I've built gradually and laboriously and mostly through long-term pattern recognition. For decades, I didn't even really have a self-image. If you'd asked me to draw myself, I would eventually have given you a pair of glasses and maybe a very messy scribble of hair, and that would've been about it. But what I do know—backwards, forwards, and in pretty much every way that matters—are stories. I know how they work. I understand their language, their complex inner clockwork, and I can use those things to extrapolate a sort of external compass that picks up where my internal one falls short. Stories—their forms, their structure, the sense of order inherent to them—give me the means to navigate what otherwise, at least for me, would be an impassable storm of unparsable data. Or stories are a periscope, angled to access the parts of myself I can't intuitively see. Or stories are a series of mirrors by which I can assemble a composite sketch of an identity I rarely recognize whole...which is how I worked out that I was transgender, in my early thirties, by way of a television show.

This is my story. And it's about narrative cartography, and representation, and why those things matter. It's about autism and it's about gender and it's about how they intersect. And it's about the kinds of people we know how to see, and the kinds of people we don't. It's not the kind of story that gets told a lot, you might hear a lot, because the narrative around gender transition and dysphoria in our culture is really, really prescriptive. It's basically the story of the kid who has known for their whole life that they're this and not that, and that story demands the kind of intuitive self-knowledge that I can't really do, and a kind of relationship to gender that I don't really have—which is part of why it took me so long to figure my own stuff out.

So, to what extent this story, my story has a beginning, it begins early in 2014 when I published an essay titled, "I See Your Value Now: Asperger's and the Art of Allegory." And it explored, among other things, the ways that I use narrative and narrative structures to navigate real life. And it got picked up in a number of fairly prominent places that got linked, and I casually followed the ensuing discussion. And I was surprised to discover that readers were fairly consistently assuming I was a man. Now, that in itself wasn't a new experience for me, even though at the time I was writing under a very unambiguously female byline. It had happened in the letter columns of comics I'd edited. It had happened when a parody Twitter account I'd created went viral. When I was on staff at Wired, I budgeted for fancy scotch by putting a dollar in a box every time a reader responded in a way that made it clear they were assuming I was a man in response to an article where my name was clearly visible, and then I had to stop doing that because it happened so often I couldn't afford to keep it up. But in all of those cases, the context, you know, the reasons were pretty obvious. The fields I'd worked in, the beats I covered, they were places where women had had to fight disproportionally hard for visibility and recognition. We live in a culture that assumes a male default, so given a neutral voice and a character limit, most readers will assume a male author.

But this was different, because this wasn't just a book I'd edited, it wasn't a story I'd reported—it was me, it was my story. And it made me uncomfortable, got under my skin in ways that the other stuff really hadn't. And so I did what I do when that happens, and I tried to sort of reverse-engineer it to look at the conclusions and peel them back to see the narratives behind them and the stories that made them tick. And I started this, I started this by going back to the text of the essay, and you know, examining it every way I could think of: looking at craft, looking at content. And in doing so, I was surprised to realize that while I had written about a number of characters with whom I identified closely, that every single one of those characters I'd written about was male. And that surprised me even more than the responses to the essay had, because I've spent my career writing and talking and thinking about gender and representation in popular media. In 2014, I'd been the feminist gadfly of an editorial department and multiple mastheads. I'd been a founding board member of an organization that existed to advocate for more and better representation of women and girls in comics characters and creators. And most of my favorite characters, the ones I'd actively seek out and follow, were women. Just not, apparently, the characters I saw myself in.

Now I still didn't realize it was me at this point. Remember: self-knowledge, not very intuitive for me. And while I had spent a lot of time thinking about gender, I'd never really bothered to think much about my own. I knew academically that the way other people read and interpreted my gender affected and had influenced a lifetime of social and professional interactions, and that those in turn had informed the person I'd grown up into during that time. But I really believed, like I just sort of had in the back of my head, that if you peeled away all of that social conditioning, you'd basically end up with what I got when I tried to draw a self-portrait. So: a pair of glasses, messy scribble of hair, and in this case, maybe also some very strong opinions about the X-Men. I mean, I knew something was off. I'd always known something was off, that my relationship to gender was messy and uncomfortable, but gender itself struck me as messy and uncomfortable, and it had never been a large enough part of how I defined myself to really feel like something that merited further study, and I had deadlines, and...so it was always on the back burner. So, I looked, I looked at what I had, at this improbable group of exclusively male characters. And I looked and I figured that if this wasn't me, then it had to be a result of the stories I had access to, to choose from, and the entertainment landscape I was looking at. And the funny thing is, I wasn't wrong, exactly. I just wasn't right either.

See, the characters I'd written about had one other significant trait in common aside from their gender, which is that they were all more or less explicitly, more or less heavily coded as autistic. And I thought, "Ah, yes. This explains it. This is under representation in fiction echoing under representation in life and vice versa." Because the characteristics that I'd honed in on, that I particularly identified with in these guys, were things like emotional unavailability and social awkwardness and granular obsession, and all of those are characteristics that are seen as unsympathetic and therefore unmarketable in female characters. Which is also why readers were assuming that I was a man.

Because, you see, here's the thing. I'm not the only one who uses stories to navigate the world. I'm just a little more deliberate about it. For humans, stories formed the bridge between data and understanding. They're where we look when we need to contextualize something new, or to recognize something we're pretty sure we've seen before. They're how we identify ourselves; they're how we locate ourselves and each other in the larger world. There were no fictional women like me; there weren't representations of women like me in media, and so readers were primed not to recognize women like me in real life either.

Now by this point, I had started writing a follow-up essay, and this one was also about autism and narratives, but specifically focused on how they intersected with gender and representation in media. And in context of this essay, I went about looking to see if I could find even one female character who had that cluster of traits I'd been looking for, and I was asking around in autistic communities. And I got a few more or less useful one-off suggestions, and some really, really splendid arguments about semantics and standards, and um...then I got one answer over and over and over in community after community after community. "Leverage," people told me. "You have to watch Leverage."

So I watched Leverage. Leverage is five seasons of ensemble heist drama. It's about a team of very skilled con artists who take down corrupt and powerful plutocrats and the like, and it's a lot of fun, and it's very clever, and it's clever enough that it doesn't really matter that it's pretty formulaic, and I enjoyed it a lot. But what's most important, what Leverage has is Parker.

Parker is a master thief, and she is the best of the best of the best in ways that all of Leverage's characters are the best of the best. And superficially, she looks like the kind of woman you see on TV. So she's young, and she's slender, and she's blonde, and she's attractive but in a sort of approachable way. And all of that familiarity is brilliant misdirection, because the thing is, there are no other women like Parker on TV. Because Parker—even if it's never explicitly stated in the show—Parker is coded incredibly clearly as autistic. Parker is socially awkward. Her speech tends to have limited inflection; what inflection it does have is repetitive and sounds rehearsed a lot of the time. She's not emotionally literate; she struggles with it, and the social skills she develops over the series, she learns by rote, like they're just another grift. When she's not scaling skyscrapers or cartwheeling through laser grids, she wears her body like an ill-fitting suit. Parker moves like me. And Parker, Parker was a revelation—she was a revolution unto herself. In a media landscape where unempathetic women usually exist to either be punished or "loved whole," Parker got to play the crabby savant. And she wasn't emotionally intuitive but it was never ever played as the product of abuse or trauma even though she had survived both of those—it was just part of her, as much as were her hands or her eyes. And she had a genuine character arc. My god, she had a genuine romantic arc, even. And none of that required her to turn into anything other than what she was. And in Parker I recognized a thousand tics and details of my life and my personality...but. I didn't recognize myself.

Why? What difference was there in Parker, you know, between Parker and the other characters I'd written about? Those characters, they'd spanned ethnicities and backgrounds and different media and appearances and the only other characteristic they all had in common was their gender. So that was where I started to look next, and I thought, "Well, okay, maybe, maybe it's masculinity. Maybe if Parker were less feminine, she'd click with me the way those other characters had." So then I tried to imagine a Parker with short hair, who's explicitly butch, and...nothing. So okay, I extended it in what seems like the only logical direction to extend it. I said, "Well, if it's not masculinity, what if it's actual maleness? What if Parker were a man?" Ah. Yeah.

In the end, everything changed, and nothing changed, which is often the way that it goes for me. Add a landmark, no matter how slight, and the map is irrevocably altered. Add a landmark, and paths that were invisible before open wide. Add a landmark, and you may not have moved, but suddenly you know where you are and where you can go.

I wasn't going to tell this story when I started planning this talk. I was gonna tell a similar story, it was about stories, like this is, about narratives and the ways that they influence our culture and vice versa. And it centered around a group of women at NASA who had basically rewritten the narrative around space exploration, and it was a lot more fun, and I still think it was more interesting. But it's also a story you can probably work out for yourselves. In fact it's a story some of you probably have, if you follow that kind of thing, which you probably do given that you're here. And this is a story, my story is not a story that I like to tell. It's not a fun story to talk about because it's very personal and I am a very private person. And it's not universal. And it's not always relatable, and it's definitely not aspirational. And it's not the kind of story that you tend to encounter unless you're already part of it...which is why I'm telling it now. Because the thing is, I'm not the only person who uses stories to parse the world and navigate it. I'm just a little more deliberate. Because I'm tired of having to rely on composite sketches.

Open your maps. Add a landmark. Reroute accordingly.

[spaceorphan18]

have you ever read a detailed post about the glee cast’s singing voices? like all about their technique and stuff? reading your reaction to the ‘vocal coach reacts to glee’ video makes me want to know more!

Hmmmm, not really! Not from a professional vocalist POV, I don’t think.  (That I’m aware of.  This does remind me there was one vocal coach in fandom, and she hated Blaine, and I wasn’t too fond of her, or her analysis, so I won’t point you in that direction.) 

My background is in music, but not in vocal performance.  But I can give you a quick rundown of cast’s musical abilities if you like, though they won’t be huge on the technical side of it.  

ETA: I started this a while ago before I started doing the music retrospective - I’ll probably try to explore a little more as I do those.   If you guys want more conversation about one person in particular, let me know! 

But for now... 

*

Matthew Morrison: Is a classically trained musician with a very good voice.  It’s a shame Will was such a tool, because Matthew Morrison was very talented, had the ability to do a lot of great things with his voice.  People joke about his rapping -- but I think this stemmed from the issue that his background is in musical theater -- which teaches you a cleaner and more traditional way of singing -- opposed to a pop or rap style.  He doesn’t have the grit that rap often has, which makes it a little too much like a Kid’s Bop version of something.  When singing musical theater, though, he really shined. 

A number that showcases ability: Make ‘Um Laugh

A number that isn’t so great: Ice Ice Baby

*

Lea Michele: Lea does have a very good and solid voice.  She’s also been classically trained.  The one drawback is that it hinders her a bit on pop music, she lacks some of the grittiness often needed on a lot of the pop songs.  She also starts to lose some of her classic training as the show goes on (which I think is a shame) so that she can get some of the shine off her voice to make a transition to pop music.  

She has one vocal tick that drives me crazy, though -- she has a tendency to slide into her notes instead of hitting them dead on, which gets worse as the show goes on, and it makes her sound a little screech-y at times.  But for the most part -- she is really good. 

A number that showcases ability: Don’t Rain on My Parade

A number that isn’t so great: Ooops...I Did It Again

*

Amber Riley: The cool thing about Amber is that you get to hear her grow as a musician as the show goes on.  She had already started to get vocal lessons before the show started, but at the beginning, she was still a bit raw and unrefined in her technique.  But you can tell she did practice, and her voice is developed beautifully as the show goes on.  She was one of the best, well rounded vocalists on the show.  She had a good handle on pop and R&B music, but she could sing musical theater rather clearly, too.  She has great breath support - and can belt numbers out while still retaining the quality.  Can’t say enough good thing about Amber’s voice. 

A number that showcases ability: Someday We’ll Be Together

A number that isn’t so great: Sweet Transvestite (It’s not bad - but it’s my least favorite Mercedes solo.) 

*

Cory Monteith: Cory wasn’t a vocalist.  And, to be completely honest, I thought it was some kind of joke when they introduced him as some kind of hidden musical gem when Will hears him singing the showers.  He did really well with classic rock that’s allows not only for a weaker voice - but is often not as technically hard.  And I have to wonder if Cory got lessons, because he did get a lot better as the show went on, and I think his season 4 work is great! 

I will say that sometimes they pushed his voice a little too far.  A lot of times songs were either too high for his range and he often sounded like he was straining.  (The most notable of which is A House is Not a Home - which is far too high for him.)  That said - I think he did reasonably well along side Lea - mostly because often sang pop duets.  

A number that showcases ability: I’ve Gotta Be Me

A number that isn’t so great: Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore

*

Chris Colfer: Chris is such an interesting study due to the uniqueness of his voice.  He’s got a huge range both in terms of genre and literal range of voice.  He can sing quite a few octaves.  He’s got a great, clear sound, too, which is why he’s great with theater numbers.  Interestingly, Chris’s voice did drop over the years, and while I know people love his higher range, he has a gorgeous lower range that wasn’t used as often (and is often my favorite.) 

The one (nitpicky) issue was that Chris’s voice ended up getting pigeon-holed.  I know singing Diva-Broadway songs was his schtick - but it would have been nice to hear him sing a bigger variety of songs.  He wasn’t the strongest on non-ballad pop music, but they also didn’t give him that very often.  

There’s also the fascinating unusualness in that, Chris could really sing duets very well with people -- but in group numbers, his voice sticks out like a sore thumb, and he was often left out of some of the more general songs because of it.  His voice just doesn’t texture very well - which is why I get why they did what they did.  

A number that showcases ability: Being Alive

A number that isn’t so great: I’ll Remember

*

Kevin McHale: I feel like people are often surprised when they sit down and think about it, but Kevin has a great voice.  He has a solid range, and he’s able to do pop music very well (I believe it helps that he was in a professional boy band for years.)  Not sure if people noticed - but he’s often the lead on group numbers that don’t need to be related to specific story or character points.  Which is a bummer for Artie’s story - but if you’re a fan of Kevin’s voice, you get a lot to choose from.  

Kevin was also able to handle a lot of the musical demands that I think some of the other males weren’t? He’s a much better singer than Cory - and could handle leading a full number.  His voice isn’t as unique as Chris’s and can texture really well.  In addition he was fairly versatile.  He might have been the best rapper the show had, lol. 

A number that showcases ability: For Once In My Life

A number that isn’t so great: Addicted to Love (personal taste choice - I just don’t like the song.) 

*

Jenna Ushkowitz: Jenna is another one who is classically trained.  She has a strong, solid voice, which was unfortunately not showcased all that well on the show, and because of that, I’m not sure how she does on a wide variety of music.  I do think she sounds a little generic - but not helping is lack of being featured.  

A number that showcases ability: I Don’t Know How To Love Him

A number that isn’t so great: Gangum Style (She does fine - but the fact that they made her do it in the first place...) 

*

Dianna Agron: The interesting thing about Dianna is that she has a really nice low female voice.  The fact that they never gave her any punk or harder rock was really a shame, because I think she would have done really well with that.  The funny thing is that, more so in the beginning, they show tried to make her sing songs that fit her character - but weren’t necessarily great for her voice.  I feel like it wasn’t until late season 2 did they start really using her voice for the better.  

A number that showcases ability: Never Can Say Goodbye

A number that isn’t so great: It’s A Man’s, Man’s, Man’s World

*

Mark Salling: Mark had a really solid voice - that often lent itself well to folk and acoustic really well.  He was good with softer pop and classic rock, and the show showcased that pretty well.  I think, in general, Mark was a much better vocalist than actor, and the show often picked good music for him to sing - which helped with his character.  I don’t have a whole lot to say, only that I think he was underrated as a vocalist, but I get it - with all the other baggage that comes with talking about Mark. 

A number that showcases ability: No Surrender 

A number that isn’t so great: Fight For Your Right (to Party) (I don’t think it’s bad - I just hate this song.) 

*

Naya Rivera: Naya is a little tricky.  I think she has a good, smoky sound to her voice that makes her excellent at things like pop and R and B.  (Shame she didn’t have a good jazz number to do on the show - she would have been great at that.)  I think she was really versatile, though, and handled her Broadway numbers really well.  I do think she was somewhat pinched and nasal at times - and while I do think this was a stylistic choice, to me it’s not my favorite type of vocal sound.  But I do think she was really good at the numbers she was given, and was one of the most talented female vocalists on the show. 

A number that showcases ability: Back to Black

A number that isn’t so great: Alfie (I think I may dislike the song more than her singing on it.) 

*

Heather Morris: Heather wasn’t a singer, and I do think it showed at times.  She often had to have her voice autotuned more than anyone else on the show.  That said - she did do Britney Spears really well, and I think she deserves credit for that.  

A number that showcases ability: I’m a Slave 4 U

A number that isn’t so great: Dinosaur

*

Chord Overstreet: Chord’s background is in country - and that shows a bit through his singing - he’s got a bit of twang in his voice, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing.  He’s a fun singer.  I don’t think the show knew exactly what to do with him (voice or character) but there’s a lightness to his singing that makes him easily adaptable to pretty much anything you throw at him. 

A number that showcases ability: Red Solo Cup (You think I’m joking - but I think this is the most fun Chord has singing a song.) 

A number that isn’t so great: Girls on Film (I think just by default of me liking everything else better.) 

*

Darren Criss: Ah, Darren, where to even start.  The thing about Darren is that he may not be the strongest singer, his voice is a little wobbly at times, and his range is somewhat limited, but his showmanship is just completely beyond nearly everyone else.  Darren has the unique ability to draw you in with his singing and hold you captive.  There are technically better singers on the show - but Darren just has this amazing ability to really sell a performance.  And I do love his voice, even if there are some limitations to it.  I really could gush about Darren’s performance abilities, but I’ll refrain... 

A number that showcases ability: Teenage Dream (Both Versions) 

A number that isn’t so great: Piano Man (Which isn’t bad - I just think the show had done it better, and it’s a rare time that felt like Darren was kind of phoning it in.) 

*

A quick run down of others, but first a quick aside - as they started adding people in, vocal ability starts being a factor.  I think a lot of the newer characters could sing better than they could act, which was both helpful and a hinderance.  I think we began to get more solid musical numbers as the show went on, but sometimes acting wasn’t always top notch - and across the board, old and new, hitting a combo of acting and singing ability didn’t always happen.  

Harry Shum Jr.: Not really a singer - but the show often played to his strengths, and his few songs played off the fact that he wasn’t a great singer to great aplomb.  

Jane Lynch: Can hold a tune, even if her voice isn’t the best - is really great at musical comedy. 

Jayma Mays: She has more singing ability than the show allowed to showcase, however, she’s another one whose voice was really unique, and doesn’t texture very well.  

Damien McGinty: Is actually a very good singer.  However, he’s very generic, too - which makes him a little on the bland side. 

Sam Larsen: I think he was fine - I don’t think he sang enough on the show for me to make much of an impression one way or the other. 

Alex Newel: Fucking Fantastic! Alex might be one of the strongest vocalists on the show - has great range, energy, and vocal control.  

Melissa Benoist: Her voice tends to lean on the pop-ier side, but it’s a solid voice, and her work on the show was pretty good.  

Jacob Artist: Has a strong voice, and could sing genres that weren’t often featured on the show (like hip-hop and R&B).  

Blake Jenner: His voice is fine, but like Damien McGinty, it’s generic and a little bland. 

Becca Tobin: She has a very quirky voice that brings in a different and unique sound.  They didn’t use her much, though, so it’s hard to comment. 

Noah Guthrie: An amazing singer, has a really unique sound, but is able to do blend in well with others.  

Samantha Ware: Another amazing singer.  She’s in full control and can do really great things with it. 

Billy Lewis Jr: Has a good, solid voice.  Not as strong as Guthrie, or some of the other guys, but he’s a lot of fun to watch. 

Laura Dreyfuss: Like Becca Tobin - has a uniqueness to her vocal quality that makes it stand out a little, but she’s still a solid singer. 

Marshall Williams: His vocal ability is okay.  It’s better than his acting ability.  I’m slightly confused how this dude got cast, tbh.  

[hypmic-writings]

hi love! can i request jealousy hcs for ichiro, samatoki, and jyuto? thanks!

━━ ∘◦ ☆ ◦∘ ━━

Pairing: Ichiro Yamada x Reader; Samatoki Aohitsugi x Reader; Juto Iruma x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: None

A/N: Is it just me or is it kinda hot when people get jealous? Not like, over the top jealousy, but just slight jealousy that makes you think they must really love you if they can’t stand the thought of you being with anyone else. It’s kinda cute haha Hope you enjoy~

⋘ ──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ──── ⋙

Ichiro Yamada

2.5/5 on the jealousy scale

Ichiro rarely gets jealous because he trusts you a lot in your relationship, so if you’re just hanging with your guy friends or even hugging them, he’s not going to mind so much

however

if you’re at a club and you get hit on, or if someone you don’t know begins to flirt with you, that’s when he’s going to get jealous

he’s not the type to suckerpunch someone just for looking at you 

so I can imagine him walking over and throwing an arm around your shoulder to make it clear that you’re his s/o

before smiling and asking the person if there’s something he can help them with

if the person insists that you can do better than Ichiro and that you should come hang out with them instead, that’s when Ichiro’s gonna start to get mad

he’s absolutely not afraid to start throwing hands if they touch your or physically try to get you to go with them

I especially think that he gets much more apt to fight when he’s been drinking a little bit...especially if it’s for your honor

he’s not the type to deny his jealousy, instead saying that of course he’s jealous - he doesn’t want just anyone to steal you away from him

he loves it when you reassure him that he doesn’t have to feel jealous because he has you and you’re not going anywhere

especially if you reassure him with a hug or a kiss or even holding his hand and squeezing it gently

overall though, Ichiro doesn’t like feeling jealous because he thinks that it feels like a stomachache that just won’t go away until you’re back in his arms

he would never want to feel overbearing as a boyfriend, but sometimes he just can’t handle it

because he loves you a lot and he wants you to make friends, but he also wants everyone in the world to know that you belong to him just as much as he belongs to you 

Samatoki Aohitsugi

4/5 on the jealousy scale but that’s mostly because, as a Yakuza, he’s just sort of wary of everyone

Samatoki can get jealous fairly easily within reason - he’s not going to get jealous if you’re off with your friends, but it it’s someone he doesn’t know he’s going to want to meet them or at least know more about them

he’s a pretty protective person by nature so he’s always on the lookout for anything that can hurt you - this in turn makes him keenly aware of anyone that’s taking up your time 

his jealousy usually comes out first as annoyance or coldness and then as anger

if he sees someone is making you laugh or if they’re acting cool around you, he’s going to act aloof and probably just cuss under his breath

if you ask him what’s wrong, he won’t tell you and instead will just act annoyed like the tsundere he is 

if someone’s flirting with you though, his arm is immediately pushing you to the side in protection and he’s in front of you glaring at the person

his aura is usually strong enough for most people to take the hint and leave, which is why nobody really makes moves on you when you’re out and about in the first place

however, if someone gets brave enough to try something, bones will be broken and blood will be spilled because Samatoki doesn’t usually hold back and if he’s fighting for you he’s definitely not gonna hold back

that’s very rare though, and usually he just ends up sulking until either the two of you or the person leaves 

he feels bad that his jealousy translates into anger and he’s definitely been working on it since the two of you started dating

since he’s not someone that loves PDA all that much, I can imagine him urging the two of you to go home whenever he has a bout of jealousy

because he wants you alone and all to himself so that he can properly show you why he’s the only one you should be with

one time Samatoki got jealous because you were spending too much time playing with the cat and not enough time with him

you never let him live that one down

Juto Iruma

2/5 on the jealousy scale because he knows he’s great...what is there to be jealous of?

when he does get jealous though, Juto’s jealousy tends to take the form of annoyance and disgust

whenever he sees someone taking up too much of your time or if, god forbid, someone try to flirt with you, his first thought is that it’s disgusting

disgusting that someone would even attempt to steal you away from him

he defaults to using his sharp wit whenever he feels jealous, thinking of the best way to remind you and whatever/whoever he’s jealous of that he’s your boyfriend

his go-to move is to walk over to you, slink an arm around your waist and pull you into him with a smile, asking what you were laughing about

while he’s all smiles to you, he’s smirking knowingly at the person, ensuring that they know you’re taken

if the person still isn’t letting up, Juto will pull out his secret move - insults

he’s definitely the type to undermine what the person is saying and make a sharp comment here or there

you would never admit it, because you don’t want to condone such behavior, but most of the time his comebacks are amazing

suffice to say that you’re quickly enamored by Juto once more and all your attention is back on him

which is exactly what he planned for

he might feel a little angry when he gets jealous, but he would never show it

additionally, he would never be angry with you when he was jealous unless you were reciprocating the feelings of someone else

Juto understands that he doesn’t need to feel jealous, but he also knows that he likes it when you get jealous of people that flirt with him from time to time

so on the rare occasion that he does feel jealous, he allows himself to feel it fully, just so that he can make it known that you’re his s/o

he doesn’t really get angry with his jealousy and it usually ends with you teasing him that he got jealous and him simply shrugging before running a finger down you jawline and saying

“Of course I was jealous. Who wouldn’t be jealous if they had someone as perfect as you they needed to keep?”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

[ravenadottir]

non fluffy alphabet: tai

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

extremely caring. he has this habit of holding you close, kissing your forehead as he lies behind you, taking the role of the big spoon. hearing your breathing as you slowly fall asleep, or the way you mumble your answers when he asks you something, are the things that breaks this man into a big grin.

he always has water on his nightstand and he will force you to have a big gulp. “you lost a lot of water there, beautiful.”

his arm goes under your head so he can snuggle closer, covering your back entirely with his own. he also loves nuzzling in the back of your neck, catching the scent of your hair before falling asleep.

B = Body Part (His favorite body part of their partners)

everything that relates to the bottom half of your body.

ass and thighs have a different impact on this man when the imagery is you moving in a way that displays them properly. the waving of your hips, the top of your thighs’ muscles contracting as you grind on his lap.

he adores running his fingers on your skin, or leaving a trail of kisses. an occasional slap is always part of it. digging his fingers on the crease of your hip bones.

he can’t take his hands off your body and that, to him, signifies closeness during sex.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum)

tai loves the intensity of the moment and how to make it even more heated.

he mostly prefers to cum inside of you. to him, it’s much more raw and real for when it happens. and he knows you love the look of his legs trembling when he lets go and do it.

D = Dirty Secret

none.

he is openly bisexual. “out and proud” as he once said, and he likes talking about sex, preferences, past experiences. he won’t hide anything from you, it’s part of his personality to be open and sincere.

and he appreciates if you’re open to him as well. he likes knowing everything about you, and that wouldn’t change when it comes to intimacy.

E = Experience (How experienced are they?)

relatively experienced.

he’s had serious relationships, but also one-night stands. to him, numbers aren’t relevant. not on his end nor on yours. i wouldn’t guess hundreds, but definitely dozens.

he doesn’t take too much time to decide if he wants to spend the night with someone, caring about pleasantries or “rules”.

if he has a feeling it’s going to be fun, he goes for it.

F = Favourite Position

you on all fours, on the bed.

the way your body moves while he thrusts behind you makes his mind travel. everything about the outlines of your back and hips, when you rear up and gyrate against him messes with him.

your ass, your legs spread, the possibilities are endless.

he also likes bending over to kiss your shoulder blades, to bite the back of your neck, to pull your hair and whisper in your ear how much he adores you just like that. he will call you beautiful at all times.

tai has a firm grip on your waist and if you take the lead and move against him, he melts. to him nothing beats the motions you make while in that position. nothing is sexier and he has to control himself to not cum so fast.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in bed? Or are the humorous?)

tai can be both. his natural self is usually playful, chuckling when you black out from an orgasm, sharing smiles as you move together.

he can also be intense if the occasion asks for it. but that’s not his default.

he would rather have fun and sexiness over intense stares and muted moans.

H = Hair (Are they groomed down there? Does the carpet match the drapes?)

trimmed, very taken care of.

he does his best to keep it tight and pretty. the guy feels more comfortable with less hair and knows how sometimes can be unpleasant to some people.

the sensation of having a ‘haircut’ is satisfying to him.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, are they romantic?)

sex to tai is something he shares with someone he feels comfortable with. in one way or other, he has to have that level of connection before it can happen. when he’s in love, he’s extremely caring, passionate and romantic.

he wants that moment to speak for itself, and whatever he can do to make it special, he will. he doesn’t care much for ambiance, but about what you do together before, during and after.

J = Jack Off

if you’re away, he loves phone sex.

to picture you touching yourself as you moan his name softly is one of his favorite things in the world. not to mention how your voice messes with his head and senses.

to him, it’s the sexiest sound in the world, and that’s when you’re speaking normally. he might even have seconds while talking to you.

as for jacking off by himself, i believe tai likes compilations of girls and boys having real orgasms. the whole trembling, rinding, grinding shebang. he doesn’t last very long when he has those on.

K = Kink

hair pulling, for the both of you. he needs his hair pulled as much as he needs to pull yours (if possible, of course).

he also likes slapping and biting. if it’s your ass, even better.

from time to time the control stays in your hand, but he does appreciate torturing you with lingering nibbles and slaps while you ride him, or he rides you, so to speak.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

you already made his dream of the waterfall come true. i think if tai could choose, a balcony with the view of the beach would be the perfect spot for him. the waves crashing on the shore, the salty wind refreshing you both while you’re biting your lip from screaming each other’s names, the rails you’ll grip on while he’s behind you.

everything about the beach view excites him.

at home, the couch. he likes placing your knees on the edge of the seat while he grabs your shoulder, rolling his hips, grunting your name.

M = Motivation (What turns him on? What gets him going?)

you and your smile, the way you tease and goof around with each other.

to tai, sex starts before foreplay and kissing. the way you understand each other and how he can be himself with you is his major turn on.

but he’s also the type of guy that has “boner on command”. if you walk around in shorts, or just your underwear, he can’t take his eyes off you. he follows your every move and if you bend over to pick something, he’s ready to go.

N = No (Something they wouldn’t do.)

the one thing i’m certain about this is that tai is open to try anything once. there’s not a lot he would put a limit to, and he’s open to most things.

he’ll try, but if doesn’t like it, don’t expect him to sugarcoat it. he’ll be blunt and honest about it, and he appreciates when you do the same.

O = Oral (Do they like to give or receive? Are they skilled?)

tai skills while going down on you is to almost die for. what contributes to him being so good at it is that he knows communication is key. he can’t guess what you like, so he lets you set the pace, the location, the speed, intensity.

it relies on you to tell him what to do. everyone is different and the sooner you have this experiment, the better.

on girl, he loves swiping his tongue, feeling the back of your legs on his shoulder. when you moan a little louder you can see his smile reaching his eyes. his fingers might tease their way in while your hips roll against his mouth.

on boys, he swirls his tongue on the tip while in his mouth.

he works it nonstop, and won’t cease his work until you cum. that’s the one thing you can expect from him. oral is not a way of foreplay, it’s as important as the act itself.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?)

his default is rough and slow.

the speed increases as time goes by, but the intensity of his kisses, the way he touches your body, his bites and slaps stays the same.

he’s the kind of guy that likes to hold your gaze while inside of you. that only shows him how he’s at the right place, at the right time, with the right person.

Q = Quickie

volunteer of the year!

before leaving to work, in the morning. before parties in friends’ houses. during those parties on a hidden cupboard somewhere in the house. in the car on an empty parking lot after doing some shopping.

you name it. tai won’t back out from a quickie, and it often happens by him pinning you on a wall.

R = Risk (Do they take risks? Are they willing to experiment?)

absolutely. he’s open to new things. when it comes to intimacy, he’s willing to experiment.

“how do you know you don’t like it if you never tried it before?”

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

he can last long or not, depending on what you need since he’s pretty selfless when it comes to it. if it’s his choice, definitely taking his time is the way to go.

he enjoys watching your body tremble, and he goes for the 4+ goal every time. you’re there to have a good time and to enjoy each other’s company.

besides, tai’s default is to last longer than usual. with him on your bed every session is a rollercoaster. he’s changing positions after every orgasm, flipping, turning, rolling. it’s wild and fun, all the time!

T = Toy (Do they own toys?)

that’s where his cruel self might make an appearance. one of his favorite things is to watch you writhe with whatever he’s doing.

he knows the intensity and speed you like on your toys, and has zero shame in whipping one from the drawer. he might hold your legs on each side of his hips and hold a magic wand on you until you ask for mercy.

the thought of dominating you in that way is something that makes him go crazy.

he combines toys with his mouth or fingers, or even when he’s inside you, he can use a suction vibrator on you. there’s no stormy insecurity with him when it comes to accessories.

U = Unfair (How much do they like to tease?)

such a fucking tease!

he will touch your skin with his mouth, from your ankle to your waist and make sure he skips the most important part, and while at it, a stupid grin will stay on his lips.

he loves hearing you pleading and huffing when he doesn’t give you what he wants, licking his way up your legs just to go straight to your breasts or lips, to plant another kiss.

he also likes swiping the tip on your wet skin. almost masturbating you with it, long enough to have you throwing him on the bed and sitting astride him.

and even then, he might hold you, physically, stopping you from getting what you want.

V = Volume

vocal and loud.

he says what he wants, he gives your orders, tells you to grind, to ride, or simply how much he loves having you like that.

doesn’t hold back his moans, and they happen usually when you’re on a slow pace. but when he’s about to cum, or is having a hard time to hold back, he can’t help grunting your name, repeatedly. this is how he communicates.

tai also hisses and speaks through his teeth. not in an aggressive way, more in a pleading manner, trying to hold back as longer as he can.

W = Wild Card

if not in a serious relationship, open to it. he might even be the one bringing it up. boy or girl, he doesn’t care. the important thing is that he likes the person he’s about to share you with.

but if he’s committed to someone, i can’t say it would happen. he would be taken aback if his partner suggested it, even a bit insecure. there’s definitely some limitations about sharing the person he loves with someone else, even if he gets to be with the third person as well.

X = X-ray (What’s going on down there?)

so much girth. length. our boy is P-A-C-K-I-N-G and he knows it. he displays big dick energy and it’s not for nothing.

it might even hurt your shoulder if you stroke him for too long.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

my god, he’s driven!

he craves your touch at all times. it’s the way he knows he’s found the person he’s supposed to be with. and there are many ways to show someone how in love you are with them, but the most practical to him is sharing the bed. or the couch. or the wall.

Z = Zzz (How quickly did they fall asleep?)

he falls fast after so much exercising.

tai goes hard when in bed, so the effect it brings is just as intense. he wants to make sure you’re ok, taken care of and hydrated. once those bases are covered, it’s snoring time for tai.

[answrs]

Mythologic AU (arthur)

(this is copied from an extended (very extended aka 35 pages in gdocs even after removing the avatars rip) discussion of an au I’d been sitting on for years i decided to share on discord a while back and am interested in eventually rp’ing. will be posting more - specifically on the au as a whole as well as lew and vivi’s aspects in different posts)

tldr arthur is a very unfortunate mix of dragon genes but we love him regardless

mythological au where the whole group is some sort of creature and artie's parents were a wyvern and a wyrm, and he inherited the worst possible combination of traits for his dragon form.

lance gets to be the badass grumpy wyvern while art is literal noodle boy

he littel water snek

can't fly, no venom, no fire/element breath... he won the lottery of getting literally none of the good traits from either side, rip.

just curl in his kiddie pool because it's Texas in summer and some MORON (me) gave him GILLS

here's the lil note section for easier reading:

2 short legs

2 tiny wings

no flying

awkward noodle body

gills (in Texas!)

main seafood diet

no ears

hoarding compulsion/need

no fire/element breath

he's like the dragon equivalent of one of these:

---

any small inconvenience: exists

Arthur: 

also asdfkl sure lots of downsides but we are forgetting CUDDLE THE BAES (AT THE SAME TIME) POTENTIAL

---

lance is full wyvern (since he was brother to art's mom, while Arthur's dad was a wyrm)

---

he likes to soak in his pool (nice rockscaping type deal like a good boa enclosure) with just the snoot poking out

with the tongue occasionally

doin the blelele thing

---

guess who just snapped out of bed to write part of a whole symposium on Arthur's human form in the mythology au.

not that i need a reason in order to have a physically disabled/wheelchair using character, but i thought the logistics would work really well?

so imma ramble. a lot. because worldbuilding is my jam

so basic premise of this aspect is that many creatures, if they aren't already, develop human/humanoid forms through various methods of magic because it made it a lot easier for most* societies to accommodate for just one main range of body type.

*very much not all. especially throughout history, different regions catered to the local populus (centaur herds, merperson cities), or was just a mish mash of differently constructed styles for more mixed societies (like fae villages). but just like English was spread across much of the world (for better or worse, considering how it was done) most main or central areas of modern society now cater mostly or exclusively to the one humanoid body shape.

so dragons, but specifically Arthur's parents in this case, show the two most common body plan of the various dragon types, 4 and 6 limbs for mother and father respectively.

for 4 limbed (1 wing set, 1 leg set), the wings are used to interact with objects and serve as hands, so they map to the human form's arms. their single set of legs map to the human legs for the same reason.

meanwhile the 6 limbed (1 wing set, 2 leg sets) varieties use their front legs as hands, while wings act as their own set of limbs if the human form has them.

(4 limbed dragons with only legs and no wings map the same, minus the wings since, well, they don't have them :p)

Arthur meanwhile, despite being 4 limbed, uses his front/only legs as hands while his wings are auxiliary limbs since they are small and not conducive to movement. he doesn't have any limbs to mirror the use of a human's legs, so while he changes shape the magic makes the "default" form with legs, but there's nothing to actually map to those limbs.

in universe, merpeople are similar, in that if they bother with human forms their tails don't transfer to legs and thus wheelchair and mobility aids aren't as stigmatized as they are irl. difference being they'd need an aid to move on land regardless, while Arthur is perfectly capable and comfortable moving as a dragon, and the chair restricts his movement in that sense. but growing up he was required to use a human shape for school, and even if he does change to get around better he's still got to keep track of and drag around the chair in the interim. so at home and as he gets older and can go more places where a human form isn't required, even if helpful, he goes around "beast" much more than most other people. especially hanging out with his friends at their houses. (if it's like a sleepover and going out to a movie he'll bring it along since the theater (and just cars in general too) doesn't accommodate his dragon self, but he can chill with them and leave it out of the way somewhere which he can't do just going around in public.

his dragon body isn't the most conducive to graceful movement, but it's his body and he's had it his whole life so yeah. he can get around perfectly fine in the chair too, using it isn't some horrible, arduous task he dreads or anything like that. it's very much an "eyeroll, yeah yeah okay" and not "oh no fuck i hate it" even if it can get annoying dragging it around sometimes (like with basically any aid i think, though it’s mostly just a nonissue to even think about)

[artificialqueens]

Ever in Your Favor, Chapter Six (Rosnali) - Athena2

Summary: We find out what happened to Rosé, and the Games continue.

A/N: Thank you so much for the incredible feedback on chapter five!! It made me so happy to see and I’m so glad how people enjoyed it. I’d really appreciate hearing your thoughts on this chapter as well!

Denali chokes back her scream as Rosé collapses, not wanting to give away their position. All the teams have targets on their back now, the danger even higher. And Rosé is motionless on the ground.

“Rosé, wake up. Please wake up.” She shakes her shoulder, mind running through a hundred possibilities. It can’t be because of the rain, or Denali would be affected too. Probably not poison either; they’ve been eating the same things. Whatever it is, she needs Rosé awake. Denali taps her cheek, dimly registering that Rosé shouldn’t be this warm. Her green eyes slowly blink open, and Denali loses herself in them for a second.

“What…happened?”

“I think you fainted. Or…” Denali trails off when she smells smoke. Thick gray clouds of it blot the sky, and where there’s smoke, there’s… “Fire. Oh, shit. Fire.”

A tower of flames writhes toward them, licking at the trees and filling the air with the scent of burnt pine. The fire is too large to be natural–figures the Gamemakers didn’t even wait five minutes after their announcement to unleash something.

Denali scrambles for their stuff, tugging Rosé’s arm. “We gotta go, we gotta go now.”

Rosé winces as she staggers to her feet.

“Can you run on that leg?” Denali asks.

“Do we have another option?”

It’s a fair point, and the flames are close enough to feel their heat. She puts her head down and runs, Rosé trailing behind her. They need to find shelter, somewhere safe enough for Rosé to rest. They’re not far from the mountain, and there has to be a cave or crevice they can hide in. They just have to get up there.

They sprint across a valley with the fire just feet behind them, and the only good thing is that it protects them from other tributes–no one can attack them with a wall of fire in the way. They trudge through weeds and gnarled roots on the mountain passes, Denali wordlessly catching Rosé when she stumbles, beating out the dying fire. A slit opens between two rocks, so small Denali’s trained eyes hardly see it. It’s big enough inside for both of them, and Denali’s shoulders loosen slightly. They should be safe for a few days, probably more if she disguises the entrance better. There’s even a stream nearby.

Rosé collapses against the wall with a gasp. Her face is ghostly pale and twisted in pain, her body drenched in sweat as she trembles.

The pain probably made her faint, but Denali thinks of how hot she was, and her heart sinks with what she doesn’t want to acknowledge. Their first aid kit didn’t have antibiotics, or a needle and thread—the Gamemakers wouldn’t make things that easy—so Denali had just rinsed the wound and wrapped it tight. Maybe it wasn’t enough.

Denali kneels beside her cautiously. “I need to look at your leg.”

“No.” Rosé clamps her hands over the wound with a wince. Denali isn’t sure if Rosé doesn’t want to admit that something’s wrong, or if she’s afraid of getting medical help from Denali. Denali isn’t a doctor by any means, and part of her wants to leave Rosé alone, pretend everything is fine, but she can’t.

“Rosé, you fainted.”

“Only a little,“ Rosé mumbles. "It’s nothing, I’m fine.”

There’s a hint of fear in her voice, and Denali softens. “I just need to check it, okay? I’ll go slow. And I used to hunt, remember? I’ve seen dead animals a lot worse than your leg.”

“Denali Foxx, did you just compare me to a dead animal?” Rosé asks in mock outrage. Her hands ease off her leg, Denali’s humor relaxing her like she hoped it would.

“Well, let’s hope we can avoid the dead part,” Denali says. “The animal part was spot-on, though.” She carefully moves Rosé’s pants down, grateful for her undershorts because Rosé’s bare skin is not something Denali can handle right now. She unwinds the bandage, her stomach churning once the wound is uncovered, red and inflamed and oozing at the edges. Denali knows, and the red lines streaking up Rosé’s thigh confirm it.

Blood poisoning.

“Oh,” Rosé says quietly. “Fuck.”

—

“Okay, don’t panic.”

“Pretty sure you’re the one panicking,” Rosé says. She sits against the cave wall, slowly getting her breath back while Denali paces.

Denali stops, wringing her hands together. “I saw leaves that draw out infection by the stream. I’m gonna get them. Stay here.”

“Not like I can go anywhere.” Her leg is throbbing, and moving will only make things worse.

Denali grimaces and heads out, desperate for a purpose, for something to help. Rosé knows the leaves aren’t enough to fix her infection; she needs real medicine from the Capitol. She has no idea what it would cost a sponsor to send it, because that kind of medicine isn’t a possibility in District 12, where the default prescription is drink some whiskey and sleep it off. If something’s really wrong, you usually don’t make it.

Denali rushes back in with a bundle of green leaves, crushing them up and making a paste with water. It’s not enough, but it can’t hurt, and Rosé won’t upset Denali when she’s trying so badly to help.

Denali’s movements are frantic, nothing like the measured motions for stringing her bow, and she almost drops the paste.

“Hey,” Rosé says. “Let me put it on. Your hands are shaking.”

“Yeah, because I care about you, you idiot.”

Rosé would make a snappy comment, but she sees how much Denali is shaking, how her eyes are wide in genuine fear. Denali really cares about her, and Rosé has a rush of affection for her.

Rosé gently takes the mixture from Denali. “I’ll do it, okay?”

Denali laughs bitterly. “You’re the one who’s–”

Rosé cuts her off before she can say how bad things are. “I’m gonna be fine, okay? This isn’t how I’m going out. I’m not going out at all, but if I do, I’m going out fighting, with my sword in my hand.”

Denali nods shakily.

“I’ve got some of the steadiest hands in the district,” Rosé continues, hoping to soothe Denali’s fear. “Cake-decorating hands, baby.” It slips out before she can stop it, and any worries are stopped by the fact that she should be saying this, should sell their romance for the camera. But none of this conversation has been for that; every part of it was real for Rosé; her need to soothe Denali, take away her fears, her insistence on making it through this. Denali must know it’s real too, because she’s smiling now, and she actually laughs, Rosé’s heart lightening at the sound.

“Too bad you can’t pipe icing at the tributes,” Denali snorts.

“Laugh all you want. I guarantee I could take someone out with a piping bag,” Rosé says. Her own laugh is strangled by muttered curses as the paste stings on her wound, but swearing is all she’ll allow herself. She won’t whimper like a baby in front of the Capitol, and she won’t add to Denali’s worry.

“What was it like, working at the bakery?” Denali asks, throwing her a line, a distraction, and Rosé takes it.

“It was…it was fun, really. My dad did the cakes, my mom did the breads. Me and Jan and Lagoona helped.” She rolls her eyes and smiles. “We mostly just played and tried not to get in trouble. When we were a little older, we’d make the cookies together, and my dad started showing me how to decorate cakes when I was ten. I still remember the first one I did that was good enough to sell. White icing with little pink and yellow roses. He let me put it in the window and everything.”

Rosé tries not to think of those days, of how happy and carefree they were, because it only makes the fact that days like that are now hard to come by hurt that much worse. But maybe it’s okay to tug memories over her like a blanket. She remembers running around the kitchen playing tag with her sisters, their father shaking his head fondly. She remembers the smell of yeast, watching her mother knead the bread over and over, mesmerized by the rhythms. She remembers the squishy piping bag in her hand, her father guiding her along, how he always said what a good job she did.

On her good days, when she leaves the house, she goes right to the bakery, soaking in the sweetness as golden and warm as the pastries her father makes. If she’s really up for it, she’ll even grab a bag and decorate a cake, the world fading away as she makes flowers out of butter and sugar.

“That’s really nice.” Denali smiles as she hands Rosé the bandages from the first aid kit.

“Yeah.” Rosé winds it around her leg, grateful to have the wound hidden again. It’s fine. She’s fine. She just has to outlast it until she and Denali are the only ones left. They can still win. “We should have a victory cake after we win.”

Denali leans in with the medical tape, her touch gentle as she tapes the bandage in place. She’s so close that their foreheads almost touch, and Rosé stares at Denali’s focused brown eyes, all the air knocked out of her lungs.

“Thanks,” she manages.

“No problem.” Denali smiles. “And I’m holding you to that victory cake.”

—

Denali tries, as hours blur into days. She tries to stay hopeful, to not let Rosé see how worried she is. Denali shouldn’t even be this upset, this stressed; Rosé is the one with her leg cut open and an infection burning through her, yet she’s calm and Denali can’t sleep because she’s afraid something might happen to Rosé while she does. She knows the odds, knows how bad things are, but she tries to ignore it. She tells herself it’s natural to worry about her teammate, but she hasn’t been this worried about someone since her father died and her mom couldn’t get out of bed. She hasn’t been this close to anyone since then either, but being thrown into the arena like this, trusting each other to survive, has brought them closer than Denali could have imagined. She’s grown to really like being around Rosé, hearing her laughter, watching her eyes soften when she tells stories about the bakery. She doesn’t want to lose her.

Losing Rosé would put Denali at worse odds, anyone can see that. But Denali doesn’t see her as just an ally anymore, and losing her would be losing a friend. A friend who’s been with her through the arena, who understands feelings Denali can’t even put into words. She won’t lose her. She can’t lose her. If anyone is stubborn enough to outlast an infection, it’s Rosé, and Denali lets the thought give her hope.

“How are you feeling?” Denali asks when Rosé wakes up.

“Fine.”

Denali touches her forehead gently, Rosé’s breath hitching at the touch. “You’re still pretty warm. I found some painkillers in the first aid kit. Nothing major, but they can’t hurt.”

Rosé nods, accepting the pills with some water. She becomes a bit more herself when they kick in, her eyes losing the shadows of pain and lightening up. Denali hopefully offers her breakfast, but Rosé shakes her head.

“Not hungry.”

Denali winces. It’s not a good sign.

“Not an option. If we’re gonna win, you need to eat.” Denali digs through their bags again, offering Rosé dried meat and apples like she didn’t refuse them five seconds ago. They need something light, something easy on her stomach. “If we had soup, do you think you could eat that?”

“Probably, but do you think soup is just gonna drop out of the sky–”

Something clangs at the mouth of the cave, and Denali finds a silver canister attached to the parachute. She unscrews the top and smells savory broth and vegetables. Clearly someone agrees that Rosé needs to eat, and she thanks their mystery sponsor.

Rosé snorts. “I’ll be damned.”

—

Soup keeps arriving, and Rosé keeps fighting. She does her best to eat, to keep her composure so Denali doesn’t worry. Denali’s only getting snatches of sleep, every second focused on Rosé, and Rosé doesn’t want to give her too much cause to worry.

Aside from the dull pain and the fever clinging to her like fire, it’s not so bad in the cave. It’s like their own little world, far away from the arena’s dangers. Just her and Denali, together like at the Training Center. Denali peeks her head out each night to hear the anthem and see if anyone’s died. So far, just the man from District 9. There’s still five tributes left, and Rosé knows something has to draw them together eventually. They both hate sitting here, being helpless, wanting so badly to go out and end things, but they can’t. Rosé can’t even sit up without getting so dizzy she almost loses whatever’s in her stomach. It’s her fault they’re stuck here, and she burns with guilt that she might cost them the win with her stupid infected leg. If someone would send the medicine, she could manage. Her leg would still hurt, sure, but she could power through long enough to get her and Denali home. Why hasn’t anyone sent it yet? She’s grateful for the soup, but surely someone in the Capitol can afford the medicine, and surely they would have sent it by now. What are they waiting for?

Maybe because Rosé is just laying on the cave floor like a baby, and they want to see her do something that’s worth the money they’d spend. Proof she’s worth dipping into their pockets. Deep down, she thinks they want more of the love story, more reason to watch them. Would kissing Denali be enough? Announcing her love? It’s terrible to do that to Denali, though, terrible to use her to stay alive. We’d be using each other, Denali said ruefully, but this feels like too much.

So Rosé talks instead.

She talks about the bakery, about the time Jan tried her own cake recipe and the thing was burnt outside and raw inside, or the time Rosé and Lagoona kept flicking flour at each other until they looked like ghosts. Denali laughs and laughs, and Rosé is grateful she’s let these stories out, grateful to share them with someone besides her sisters. She can’t remember the last time she talked this much, and even if it exhausts her, she keeps going. Because if she’s talking, Denali knows she’s okay.

“What was it like? Learning the woods stuff from your dad,” Rosé asks, hoping Denali doesn’t notice how her words slur.

Denali grabs a piece of cloth she’d cut from the sleeping bag, dips it in water, and rests it on Rosé’s forehead. She gets water from the stream each morning, and though it’s barely cool anymore, it’s heaven against Rosé’s hot skin, and she sighs in relief.

“It was…quiet,” Denali says finally. “Peaceful. He was always in the mines, so it was the only time I got to be with him, really. He didn’t talk much, but he was there, and it was enough. He would show me all the flowers and plants and tell me these rhymes about what was safe to eat. And he showed me how to use his bow. It was bigger than me the first time we practiced.” Denali smiles, and Rosé does too, heart warming at the image of a tiny Denali holding up a bow twice her size. “It felt so right in my hands,” Denali continues. “He drew targets on the trees until I got them all, and then he’d have me aim for certain leaves. Everything I can do with my bow is from him.”

“He taught you well.”

“Yeah. I–sometimes I wish he could’ve seen how good I got with it. I wish he could’ve seen me win,” Denali says sadly.

“He’d be proud of you. I know it,” Rosé says, touched that Denali trusts her this much, that she’s shown this part of her.

There’s a lightness in her eyes Rosé doesn’t think she’s seen since Denali was a kid–the kind of lightness Denali was rarely without as a kid. It was why Rosé had sneaked cookies in her bag years ago, trying anything to ease the sadness. And being with Denali now, closer than they were as kids, closer than Rosé has been with anyone besides her family, makes her ache to do it again. To be there for Denali’s pain and sadness, and do her best to lighten the load. To maybe let Denali do the same for her. Because all this–spending time with Denali, being on her team–feels so right. They’re the perfect team, and they’re both going to win, and go home. And if–when–they do, Rosé won’t lose Denali again.

When she first got home after her Victory Tour, she spent most days in her room, tired yet fighting sleep because of what she might see, the excitement of her return crushed by the weight of what she had to do for it. She was cold to her sisters when they tried to help, cold to Denali when she tried talking to her. She isn’t proud of it, and while she fixed things with her sisters, she never formally did with Denali–she just let them drift, though she forced herself to work extra hard when she mentored Denali. Surviving the Games could have reunited them, but Rosé let it push them further apart, because it was something she didn’t want to share with anyone–especially not someone she cared about. But she’s sharing it with Denali now, and she’s grateful to. And when they go home, she won’t let them drift. She’ll work to keep Denali in her life, to go outside more, to appreciate what she has.

“Do you want more soup?” Denali asks, once more desperate to help.

“No.”

“Just a little more?” Denali pleads. “Please? For me?“

Denali’s eyes are too much for Rosé. “Anything for you,” she says, and even in the cave, she can see Denali blush. She eats three more spoonfuls, then turns to Denali. “Can you do something for me now?”

“Anything.”

“Get some sleep, Denali. Please. I’ll be okay, I swear,” she says before Denali can protest. “You need to rest.”

“But–”

“I have my sword. I’ll wake you if anything happens. I’ll be fine for a few hours.” Rosé fixes the sternest look she can muster, and Denali finally gives in.

“Don’t let me sleep too long,” she says, slipping into the sleeping bag. Her breaths even out in minutes, and it tugs at Rosé’s chest how much Denali is exhausting herself to look after her. The stress of the arena slowly leaves Denali’s face in her sleep, and she could be nine again, curled up in her sleeping bag for a sleepover with Jan. The determined kid who used to protect other kids from the class bully and beat the older boys in races during recess. The determined woman who’s been there for her since the reaping, who didn’t give up on her and helped her fight again. Who makes her want to live again.

Rosé grips her sword tightly as she watches Denali sleep, and when Denali lets out a little sigh, it occurs to Rosé that if she were to confess her love, it might not be a complete lie.

—

Hours after Denali wakes up, things take a turn for the worse. Rosé is too weak to feed herself, and turns her head away when Denali offers her soup. Her skin is so hot she instantly dries out the cloth Denali puts on her forehead. She slips in and out of consciousness, her sleep full of whimpers for her sisters, and Denali vows not to mention it to her.

“I’m sorry,” Rosé croaks. Her eyes are closed, and Denali isn’t sure she’s fully awake.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Denali says, trying to keep the worry from her voice.

“Your mom’s…necklace,” Rosé says. “We nev-never went back.”

Right. They were supposed to go back that morning, but the announcement came, and Rosé collapsed, and then the fire arrived. Denali had forgotten about it in the chaos.

“It’s not your fault,” Denali says quietly. “That fire came, remember? We couldn’t have gone back anyway.” She bites her lip. “I’m the one who’s sorry. You got hurt saving me, if I–”

“Don’t,” Rosé says. “Not your fault.” She wheezes, the talking taking too much out of her. “Maybe you should go on without me.”

“Not a chance in hell,” she growls so fiercely that Rosé doesn’t even attempt to argue.

Rosé grunts as she reaches for her jacket, and her shaky fingers unclasp the lion pin and offer it to Denali.

Denali’s heart sinks. “Rosé, I can’t take this, it’s your sister’s.”

“I promised Jan I would bring it back to her. Denali, if I can’t make it, I need you to make it. I need you to bring this home to her,” Rosé says seriously.

Rosé would never give away the pin–the promise–unless she was really worried about being unable to keep it, and Denali blinks back tears of helplessness.

“No–no. Don’t think that, Rosé. You’ll bring it to her yourself,” Denali says. She can’t even consider bringing this pin to Jan, can’t even consider that Rosé won’t be with her. The past weeks with Rosé have only left Denali certain that she never wants to be apart from her again.

“Just in case. Promise?”

Denali knows Rosé won’t take no for an answer, and she doesn’t want to upset her. “I promise.”

“Good.” She sleeps again, and the pin sits like lead in Denali’s pocket.

—

By night, Rosé’s forehead burns Denali’s hand. Denali helplessly watches her toss and turn, like she’s trying to get the heat off her. God, Denali was so stupid. She seriously kidded herself that Rosé would magically get better. Rosé’s held out longer than most, but blood poisoning isn’t something you get better from–not without serious medicine.

Denali’s no stranger to pain or misery or suffering–her own or someone else’s. But she watches Rosé sweat and shiver and she can’t bear it. Rosé used to give them piggyback rides even when they were too big, hiding the backache with a smile. When Jan forgot her homework, Rosé ran home and back, handing Jan the work just as the bell rang. When an older boy kept bothering Lagoona, Rosé threw herself between them, firmly standing her ground until he left her alone. She was a hero to her sisters, to Denali, though now Denali knows Rosé isn’t so much a hero as a woman who’s made mistakes and is just trying to survive. Rosé should be home with her family, piping beautiful roses on cakes. Not thousands of miles away, suffering on this hard cave floor. It hurts Denali to even look at her. It should be Denali trembling with fever and pain. Would be Denali if Rosé hadn’t taken that hit for her. This is all Denali’s fault. How could she spend so long preparing for a fight and be too slow when the attack finally came? All the dreams of them going back home, of inviting Rosé over for breakfast, of taking her on walks in the woods, are slipping through Denali’s hands.

No. She’s not losing Rosé. She turns the lion pin over in her hand. What had Rosé called it in her interview? A symbol of love and home, Denali recalls, and more tears sting in her eyes. This is the one of the most important things in the world to Rosé, and she gave it to Denali, wanted to give her this piece of love and home. She trusts Denali to bring it home if she can’t. She trusts Denali, period, when she hasn’t trusted anyone in years. And Denali trusts her. Trusts her in the arena, trusts her in this cave, trusts her to talk about her family with. Rosé isn’t going home without this pin, and Denali isn’t going home without Rosé. There has to be a way to get the medicine. What if she–

Rosé coughs, her brow furrowing in pain.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Denali says quietly, for Rosé’s benefit as much as her own.

Rosé stills, opening glassy eyes. “Jan?” she asks hoarsely, and Denali’s stomach drops. The fever is high enough to mess with her brain—what if it’s too late even if she can get the medicine?

Denali hesitates, heart in pieces, wondering if she should play along or tell the truth. If she plays along, Rosé might get upset after realizing she’s lying. But denying it might upset her even more, and Denali can’t hurt her.

“Yeah, it’s me. It’s Jan,” Denali says. She strokes Rosé’s hair and hums the lullaby Rosé hummed to Finn, and it’s not quite right, but it soothes her anyway.

For a few minutes at least, and then she stubbornly opens her eyes.

“You’re not Jan,” Rosé says, and before Denali can wonder if she’s mad, she smiles. “You’re Denali.”

Denali blushes. “Yeah, I am.”

Rosé looks at her in wonder, a shy smile on her face. “Denali, I need to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

“I love you.”

Blood roars in Denali’s ears, her heart racing. What the hell is Rosé doing? She must still be delirious, she doesn’t know what she’s saying–

“I’ve loved you for a while,” Rosé continues, her eyes clearing a little, her voice sincere. “And you’re so special to me that I want you to know. I want everyone to know.”

And then Denali understands. Rosé has mustered up one last plan to get the medicine. A love declaration on live television. If this can’t get a sponsor’s sympathy, nothing can, and Denali has to play along. This is the game, it’s what they agreed to, so why does it feel so real, like at the interview? Why does part of Denali want it to be real? It’s just a game, she tells herself.

“I…I know, Rosie. I know you love me.” Why can’t she say I love you back? Rosé’s damn life is on the line, but the words won’t come out. But maybe she doesn’t need words. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” Rosé breathes.

Denali holds her breath as she leans down to meet her lips. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t imagine this before. She was eleven when she realized she wanted to kiss girls, and so what if her fantasy kissing partner had red hair and green eyes? It was just her imagination. Nothing real. And Denali doesn’t know if it’s real now, but she’s doing it.

Rosé’s lips are fiery, but soft and delicate. Denali knows this has to be believable, so she runs one hand along Rosé’s arm, the other stroking her sweaty hair. If Denali’s heart was racing before, it’s running a sprint as the kiss deepens, and she feels more alive than she has since the fight in the clearing. It’s been so long since she’s kissed anyone, touched them so tenderly, and she wants to do it again and again. But she shouldn’t enjoy it this much, because it’s just a game, right?

Right?

She doesn’t have time to think, because a clanging at the cave mouth announces the arrival of their saving grace.

—

Denali tears the lid off the container. Inside, there’s a syringe, a needle and thread, bandages, and painkillers. Denali grabs the syringe, whispers an apology to Rosé, and sticks it into her arm.

Rosé, falls asleep seconds later, exhausted from the talking and the kiss. Denali isn’t sure if that’s good or bad. She assumes the medicine is a fast-acting Capitol creation, since she only needs one syringe. But how fast? Minutes? Hours? She doesn’t know how much longer they can hide here before the Gamemakers force them out.

Denali sighs. She might as well stitch the wound properly while Rosé is asleep. For the first time in the cave, her sleep is peaceful, and Denali feels a rush of gratitude. The lines of infection are already fading, and she stitches the wound with new hope, tinged with anger. All that work, all that suffering, for one little syringe. How could the Capitol have something that practically works miracles and make it so hard to get?

“Rosé McCorkell, you better wake up soon,” Denali says. “Because if you die on me after all this, I swear I’ll bring you back just to yell at you! I–I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life! I’ll–”

“‘M pretty sure I’d be haunting you, since I’m the dead one.” A wide grin crosses Rosé’s face as her eyes ease open.

“Rosie, you’re–”

“I’m okay. I feel like shit, but I’m okay.”

Relief slams into Denali, filling the cave with joy, and she cups Rosé’s cheek gently, feeling that she’s alive and okay. Denali isn’t going to lose her.

“Thank you, Denali,” Rosé whispers, and Denali knows how much she means it.

“We look out for each other, remember?”

Rosé nods as Denali helps her sit up. They eat the last of their food, making a plan to wash up at the stream, find food and water, and re-enter the arena.

Five tributes. That’s all that’s between them and the train home.

“One more thing.” Denali carefully re-pins the lion on Rosé’s jacket, ignoring how the touch reminds her of the kiss–just a game, just a game. She’ll have to deal with the kiss at some point, but not now. “Let’s go. We’ve got a game to win.”

[xenteaart]

Diplomacy Failure

Summary: The Master and you have an established friendship, a bromance - you’re basically partners in crime. One day the Master comes up with this grand robbery scheme but it takes him months to plan the whole thing out properly, and by the end of it - he’s getting way too impatient and reckless. That’s where you step in.

Warnings: none, pure fluff again

Pairing: Dhawan!Master x Reader

Note: This was supposed to be a short thing so I decided not to create a whole ass backstory around it. The main reason why I wanted to write this was because I usually see MC being mostly submissive in fics (not that there’s anything wrong with it whatsoever) and I craved some diversity so here it goesss. 

Huge thanks and lots of love to my incredible beta @wonders-of-the-multiverse​ i love you to bits <3

The last few months have been hard to say the least. After years of knowing the Master you’d grown accustomed to his severe mood swings, but this was something else. 

Most of the time you never really bothered to get to know all the details of his typically complex and intricate schemes. You simply trusted him with those and did what he asked you to do, not taking any liberty to make your own decisions because he did know better. He was the one spending restless days and nights planning everything out after all, so you never really questioned anything. Until today. 

He was getting impatient and it wasn’t a good thing at all. 

The Master had an impressive set of skills, the ability to wait and execute slow-burn plans exceptionally well being one of them. However this time, he got way too invested in what he was doing, his near obsession leading you to believe it had something to do with the Doctor in the long run.

As for now, he needed to get his hands on something “very valuable and very important” and he was planning to steal it, of course. It was no common robbery though, the ship you were now finding yourselves on was huge. No, massive, so simply threatening a few creatures with his TCE and acquiring the object wasn’t a viable option. The ship’s obscenely advanced security systems were not working in your favor either.

The two of you were pretending to be a regular married couple, mere visitors to the event and so painfully ordinary in your nature as to not draw any attention. Keeping a low profile was essential.

The Master called from somewhere below the console where corridors led to the wardrobe room, and since you weren’t occupied with anything even remotely important you joined him right away. You were happy to merely see him and talk to him considering he now preferred the company of a thousand papers with all sorts of layouts, schemes, his own scribbles and something else in Gallifreyan that you had no way of understanding. 

“What’s that?” you asked, a little taken aback by his excessively fancy suit. 

“Your dress is right there, try it on and see if it fits,” he said casually as he looked in the mirror, ignoring your question and waving his hand at the sophisticated purple dress that was laid out on a nearby sofa. 

Ah. Matching outfits. He could never resist the drama of it.

You looked at the dress, the decoration on it exquisite and lavish. A quiet sigh escaped your lips as you tried not to laugh too loudly.

“If that’s for tomorrow, we’re not wearing that.” you uttered, not even trying to hide your amused grin at this point.

“What? Why?”

“Because we need to be wearing this,” you pointed at a horrendous blue suit and a dress of the matching color, the shade and design of both so ugly and simplistic that the clothing wouldn’t look good on either of you. 

A displeased frown flitted across the Master’s features.

“Come on, we need to look pitiful. Men of wealth love playing charity and chatting with lower class people, helping them out with whatever. It makes them feel better about themselves, boosts their ego.” you elaborated, your words heavily accompanied by expressive hand waving and vocal shifts.

He blinked a couple of times and looked at himself in the mirror again, trying to make peace with the idea of this fashion crime you were both about to commit.

The first step of his plan was relatively easy - he was doing the networking and you were doing the smiling as the two of you were slowly getting closer and closer to higher rank guests that were usually a little too drunk and clueless to not accidentally give away the information you needed most, that being - where the security control room was located. Getting a sample of some rich and wasted guest’s DNA was also part of the job since they all had unlimited access to all parts of this ship. As of now, you were getting a feeling you were never even going to make it to that point. 

The Master wasn’t very good at tolerating stupidity, especially when nobody knew and feared who he was. To all of these arrogant and self-absorbed upper class assholes, he was literally a peasant. Little did they know. 

You could see his hand playing with the TCE in his pocket as he was seriously considering whether to take it out and end this shitshow here and now. That would probably feel really good for a couple of minutes but then both of you would be captured and very likely executed on the spot because no matter how intimidating and dangerous the Master was - the quantity of creatures on the ship would be an undeniable advantage on their side. Plus, he’d spent so much time on plan A, there wasn’t any room for plan B, you figured.

Granted, dying wasn’t something the Master was ever afraid of. But you were human with no spare lives, so his impatience would mean very bad news for you.

“Don’t you want to take a break from this?” you asked timidly, standing in the doorway and not daring to let yourself into the Master’s working space just yet since knocking on the door did nothing to catch his attention. 

He was rapidly glancing all over the papers, his mind being evidently busy with something of more significance than your presence. 

“I can get you some coffee if you like? Or... anything at all, really,” you made another attempt at starting a conversation but it was met with silence once again, except this time you noticed hints of irritation in the way he was making notes and moving things around his table, mercilessly digging his pen into his notebook and purposely making a lot more noise while searching for something buried under these piles of paper.

“Yeah, no worries then.” you sighed as you saw yourself out of the room. 

You were getting fed up with this.

As you were standing next to him and contemplating your options, you felt the air around you change a little. It was an insignificant shift but you were particularly sensitive to emotional fields people and other creatures tended to create, and right now the atmosphere did not feel friendly.

You looked at the Master and then back at the greenish humanoid looking creature he was talking to. The conflict was clearly starting to develop, filling the space around you with tension and unease. 

You were so close to the control room, you couldn’t let that happen. There were only a few more floors you had to pass in order to get to the royalty hall where your main mission would be taking place. 

“For Christ’s sake.” you thought to yourself, recognizing the familiar burning anger in the Master’s eyes as he was slowly losing his already weak grasp on his temper and reaching for his pocket, his actions now fuelled with proper intention of making the man pay for his disrespect and bad manners.

The problem with the Master was - no matter how brilliant and clever his ideas were, his emotions and temper would always get in the way. You had to learn it the hard way by nearly getting killed a couple of times because of it in the past. But pissing off a few soldiers and running away was one thing, and acting hostile on a space station sized ship with no quick way out was a completely different story. 

“I am so sorry, sir, my husband suffers from this terrible condition,” you spoke as you looked at the Master intensely, doing your best to wordlessly communicate with him and beg him to stay silent, “where he gets unreasonably aggressive when he’s upset.”

The man’s expression was now plagued with confusion but it was a good sign, you thought. He was paying attention.

“He’s just frustrated we can’t yet afford to lead a life like yours, sir. Isn’t that right, darling?” you patted the Master on the back, your voice now so sugary sweet it made you want to vomit, but you were committed to your little act and nothing could stop you.

“Please forgive our jealousy, we simply wish to be more like you but it pains us to realize we’re a long way away from that,” saying this made your skin itch, and you were pretty sure the Master’s eye was twitching a little. You looked at him briefly and noted he was indeed… puzzled. 

Your flattery seemed to work wonders on the man’s self esteem, though, his facial expression momentarily switching to pity and its default arrogance mixed with pride. 

You tried not to make eye contact with the Master as you were escorting him away, your hand wrapped around his elbow. Your heart was beating a little too fast for your liking, and your main concern for now was peacefully leaving the floor and avoiding any more fuss on the way because, honestly, you were getting angry yourself.

---

“What the hell was that?” was the first thing he asked you as soon as you both entered the TARDIS safely, the two of you still slightly out of breath from your usual cardio on your way back; the desired object sitting securely in the Master’s pocket.

“I was actually going to ask you this exact same question, how convenient.” you snapped, kicking off your heels and making your way to the console barefoot, the cold metal floor having a soothing effect on your aching feet.

The Master gave you a grim look as he took off his ridiculous and evidently uncomfortable jacket, and swiftly marched towards you. His intimidating aura rarely had any impact on you and you didn’t even flinch at his intrusion of your personal space. You knew all too well he would never hurt you deliberately. 

“I did not allow you to intervene.” 

“You should have seen your face, darling,” you said mockingly, maintaining intense eye contact as if it was a competition on who looks away first. 

“You should have heard your voice, such sweetness and flattery I was worried you were gonna kiss his ring at the end of your speech or something,” he spat out his words with grimaced disgust. 

The two of you stared at each other in complete silence for about half a minute, and your facade dropped first. You burst into laughter, giggling obnoxiously at the memory of the Master’s pure and sincere confusion. You’d never seen him so baffled and mad, the funniest thing of it all being the fact that he had to comply and play along. It made you a little proud of yourself.

The corner of the Master’s lips twitched, his stubbornness and denial still fighting his urge to crack up, but a couple of moments later he finally joined you. Any trace of annoyance was long gone, and a wide smile took over his person as he laughed out loud with you. 

“Idiot.” he commented, still chuckling and grinning while also unbuttoning his lousy shirt. You both wanted to get out of those trashy clothes as soon as possible. 

You suddenly went quiet. With no further talking you simply stepped forwards and hugged the Master tightly, burying your nose in the crook of his neck.

“I’ve missed you.”

He hugged you back, resting one of his hands on your head and ruffling your hair, so very aware of how much you hated it. 

“Missed you too, fool.”

[bigskydreaming]

Okay, my thoughts on that last reblog, and the TYPE of protectiveness showcased on Bruce’s part.....and to be 100% clear, this is not meant as a call-out to the OP of that post whom I don’t know and have nothing against, its simply about the fact that this kind of view of Bruce and certain forms of his parenting are not at ALL uncommon in fandom, and I’m just kinda like hi, yeah, I have some issues I would like to raise here plz and thank you:

So the issue I have with so many headcanons that pair massive invasions of privacy and disregard for personal boundaries with the idea that this is Good Dad Bruce Wayne....is that no matter what one feels this says about Bruce’s concern for his children, it simultaneously also says or implies that for such extreme measures to be deemed good and not invasive, and as such NECESSARY.....then his children are not just headstrong....but UNREASONABLE.

Because families fight. The Batfam moreso than a lot, sure, but even still, I think anyone trying to pitch the existence of Good Dad Bruce Wayne is still ultimately trying to build a case for a Batfam who even when they fight, still love each other.

But with a family like that, no matter HOW much they fight....they’re still ultimately all going to understand and be ABLE to keep an awareness that even while FURIOUS with each other....this doesn’t mean they don’t care about each other’s well-being and want to know and be reassured that they’re alright.

And this is what’s not on display on the side of Bruce’s kids, anytime a fic or headcanon or meta defaults to justifying Bruce going to extreme lengths to look out for or even just check up on his kids....because intentionally or not, it paints his kids as total assholes if they’re not even willing to accommodate basic requests about checking in or being checked up on, so at least their dad who loves them knows that they’re alive and well.

Only if and when his kids just flat out stonewall and block any and all LEGITIMATE attempts by Bruce to check up on them, do his more invasive attempts at doing so become necessary and thus ‘justified’ to any degree whatsoever....

With the biggest issue here being that so many fics and headcanons just hop, skip and jump straight over and past any attempt at Bruce giving his kids the OPPORTUNITY to meet him halfway and at least check in or reassure him they’re safe despite being pissed for other reasons....

And go straight to Bruce keeping them under surveillance in manners that wouldn’t be out of place with the CIA’s protocols for watching enemies of the state or what-the-fuck-ever.

And all the while, treating it as though its just a GIVEN that Bruce HAS to resort to such measures....because just....calling them on the fucking phone isn’t going to get him anywhere.

Like yeah, if you want to write a story where he tries that and they block him at every turn, and so Bruce ‘has’ to resort to less than stellar measures to gain any peace of mind, go ahead. Just don’t be surprised if when you write it all out in such a manner, showing each step of the way rather than just skipping straight to the endpoint there as though its a foregone conclusion, you run into people commenting with judgmental opinions of the kids and what assholes they’re being, that Bruce feels he has to go to such lengths at all.

Because I think the reason we so rarely see people ‘showing their work’ here and just jumping straight to Bruce asking forgiveness rather than permission (while umm, usually still not ever asking forgiveness which is sorta kinda still a necessary ingredient of that axiom but I fuckin’ digress).....is because I think deep down most people know that it isn’t really in character for all of the Batkids to just refuse any and all legitimate attempts at checking up on them purely out of spite, just being all “well I’m mad at you so I want you to SUFFER, OLD MAN, yeah, go ahead and wonder if I’m dead or not! Suck it!”

Like, even Jason or Dick at their ‘pettiest’ - I think most people would agree that its more that they’re characterized as WANTING to hear Bruce express actual concern for them....and only getting as pissed as they do because Bruce just flat out refuses to do so and defaults to taking measures that don’t treat them as having any kind of competence, maturity or autonomy of their own....and thus are virtually indistinguishable from actions taken purely out of a desire to control everything around him, rather than a father just being concerned for his kids. 

Even when they’re at their most spiteful in regards to not wanting Bruce to know what’s going on with them, its born of an undercurrent of hurt, I maintain, as they’re really mostly just pissed off that there’s even a question of whether Bruce actually cares or Bruce is just being controlling. Because kids shouldn’t HAVE to read between the lines and interpret surveillance tactics as parental concern just to even FEEL like their dad gives a damn, because their dad just flat out refuses to come out and SAY it.

Like, that’s not a big ask, at all, and thus its not something any of the kids are at all unreasonable in wanting and yes, even expecting from their father. Which makes it really obnoxious and one-sided when they’re implicitly painted as being unreasonable for wanting this, because a narrative or headcanon has just zoomed past “calling them on the phone and asking them how their day was like a normal person” as if it was never even an option for Bruce in the first place. Like it was just a given that he had to go full Operation: Periscope In the Plumbing to scout out their current state of health. And there was no sense in wasting time with like, an in person drop-in visit to say hey, haven’t seen you in awhile and I miss you and just want to make sure you’re doing alright and don’t need anything.

(Ever notice how many fics treat it as a given that Bruce always makes the kids come to him and this is normal and reasonable and fine, for him to never venture forth from his manor in search of them.....except in rare cases where its often almost framed as though a visit from Bruce is codenamed “I Can’t Believe I’m Having To Resort To Coming To Your Place Because You Won’t Just Come To Mine Like A Good Son Would?” Just saying).

But yeah.....the problem is never, and has never been, Bruce caring about his kids and being concerned and willing to go to any length to make sure they’re okay or be reassured of this.

The problem is when its implicitly treated as though Bruce launching operation SPY ON MY KIDS LIKE A GOOD DAD DOES as his step one is like, more reasonable and understandable and just BETTER...as opposed to......just being like “Alexa, call my kids” first instead.

Like....no. That is backwards. That is not Good-Dadding. That is Creeper-Dadding. Bruce’s kids are one hundred thousand million bajillion times valid for being like WOW COULD YOU JUST NOT in response to this, because aside from the whole issue of how “is this totalitarianism or just good parenting” should not be something that’s actually in question and needs distinguishing, like.....there is a very real, very understandable (and for some of us) very relatable element of “I am also feeling all the hurt and resentment that you’d rather bug my apartment or hack my phone than just fucking TALK TO ME LIKE A HUMAN BEING and treat me like you place a modicum of trust and respect on any answers I give from my place of Being an Adult Who Is Actually More Than A Little Bit Competent and Responsible, Not That You’ve Noticed Apparently.

Also, a good exercise here would be like, before deciding on a course of action for Bruce in regards to one of his kids, first imagining another character you aren’t as predisposed towards, like, deciding on that exact same course of action in regards to that exact same kid.

For an example, look at the time Tim left Gotham in Red Robin and wasn’t speaking to Dick, and how Dick still very much was concerned about him and wanted to check up on him.

Look at how even just Dick asking Tim’s friends like Steph and Cassie to check in on him for Dick was characterized by a lot of people.

Now imagine if Dick had been like “well, Tim’s not speaking to me no matter how much I try to apologize to him, but I’m still really worried and concerned about his safety and well-being, and also I am his big brother and I know what’s best for him....so I am going to bug his phone and ask Raven to spy on him magically and also maybe ask Superman to occasionally lurk in the bushes outside his hotel room and peep in on him and report back on his breathing patterns like a creeper BUT ONLY BECAUSE I TOTALLY CARE AND THUS NONE OF THIS IS UNREASONABLE.”

Like......hmm. Does that fly with most people? Would that go over at all well, or do you think that maybe Tim might have pitched the mother of all unholy temper tantrums upon hearing that Dick had done any of this let alone all of this....AND BEEN COMPLETELY JUSTIFIED IN PITCHING SAID FIT ABOUT DICK’S CHOICES HERE?

Would this be at all defensible on Dick’s side of things, even with it being 100% true and even taken for granted that he only did this because he genuinely loves his brother and was genuinely worried about how he was doing and hell, even IF it was genuinely a given that Tim was not going to give him the time of day no matter how he went about asking Tim to just check back in occasionally to let Dick know he was still alive and alright?

Or would it - even in light of all that - still be seen and construed as invasive, infantilizing and disrespectful of Tim’s rights to privacy and self-determination, not to mention his capabilities in looking out for himself?

Now......swap a few characters in and out of the key slots here.

Imagine Bruce in Dick’s place here, enacting any or all of the above or even actions slightly less hyperbolic but no less intrusive or boundary-crossing.

Would any of those actions be any LESS invasive, infantilizing or disrespectful of Tim’s rights to privacy and self-determination, as well as his capabilities....just because Bruce is his father and not his brother?

See what I mean?

Its never at all an issue that Bruce loves his kids and is concerned about their safety, nor is it actually untrue that his kids aren’t stubborn and headstrong.

The only actual issue is when its framed as though all of this means that Bruce skipping to “launch drones from Batcave” before he even TRIES “hit speed-dial on phone”....

Is both valid and necessary, and thus a sign of a Good Dad....rather than just Bruce’s own fears of being rejected or turned away by his kids. Or an example of his own flaws with interpersonal communication rather than evidence of his kids being completely unreasonable little assholes with a lifelong commitment to Suck It Dad, Yes Even IF You’re Legitimately Worried I Might Be Dead Right Now.

Et cetera, et cetera.

[seokiloquy]

Headline Pt 2 - Kuroo Tetsurou

AU: Parent

FEM! Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3

“No activity at Kuroo and girlfriend’s apartment. Strange? Did they move?”

Kuroo made it a point to not look at the media anymore. There were too many lies and it made his blood boil, but at least the lies were better than what actually happened.

All of them were better than what happened.

The first night without you, he woke up without you beside him and felt wrong. When he finally got out of bed, he looked around the bedroom and didn’t see your stuff littered around and that made his heart drop. The last straw was not seeing you in the kitchen, baking or smiling, and it made his stomach turn.

After that night, he couldn’t stay there anymore. The apartment was empty without you.

Later that day, volleyball practice was a mess, it was even worse than the game he did earlier that week. His couch must have known what happened from the look on his face, but, thankfully, didn’t say anything.

He gave Kuroo the week off which he gladly accepted.

He went back to the apartment one last time and packed all of the things that he needed and headed over to Kenma’s. Kenma’s house always acted as a safe haven for him. It’s the place he would go to after the two of you fought, but Kenma would always kick him out before he could suggest sleeping over.

“Get out and fix your argument. You’re only going to make things worse if you hide,” Kenma would say, and then slam the door in his face.

However, when Kenma opened the door this time and saw Kuroo’s tear-stained face with bags in hand, he didn’t say anything and just opened the door. Kuroo never went over to Kenma’s house with open tears, usually, he would suck it up like a man and cry in the car ride over, but wipe his face before he rang Kenma’s doorbell.

For a while, all he did was stare at the ceiling, rejecting all of the offers Kenma gave him like water and trying to talk about it. It was only later in the night when Kuroo spilled his guts about anything.

Kenma listened carefully, never judging, but a worried expression rested on his face. “She just left?”

Kuroo wiped his cheek and took a sip of water. “Yeah...she did. I don’t blame her though...I’m just worried about her. She doesn’t have a good relationship with her parents, so she wouldn’t go there, and most of her friends live within 20 minutes of us and she’s not with any of them. She’s gone.”

“Kuroo…”

“And she’s pregnant,” Kuroo sobbed, “she’s probably scared, tired, holy shit. What did I do?”

“Kuroo…”

Kuroo looked up at Kenma. Kenma’s eyes widened in shock. He’s never seen Kuroo like this…

“I left her alone, Kenma,” he whispered. “I left her alone.”

Kuroo kept mumbling to himself like that until he fell asleep on the couch, choking on his words. Kenma was sitting beside him still awake and he picked up his phone. He scrolled through his contacts until your name showed up. His hand hovered over the call button for a while. It was late in Japan, but for all he knew you were on the other side of the world.

He finally clicked the call button and held it up to his ear.

You didn’t answer.

He hung up and called again.

You didn’t answer again.

He was a little disappointed, but he didn’t have his hopes up in the first place. Kenma looked over to Kuroo. He was still mumbling to himself and hugging the couch pillow, his head burrowing itself deeper into the couch cushion.

Kenma opened up your text chat. (Y/N)... I feel like you’re there. Answer me, please.

He waited a bit, but you didn’t answer. He shook his head and flipped back to the game that he was playing before Kuroo came over.

Just as he was about to beat the final boss, a message popped down on his screen.

Are you with Kuroo?

He immediately switched back to his texting app and replied, Yes.

He waited.

Leave me alone Kenma...please

Wait, just tell me if you're safe....do you need anything? Kuroo’s really worried….

I’m safe. Bye Kenma.

Your new home was a lot smaller than the one you shared with Kuroo, but you loved it. This apartment didn’t have a single trace of him. In fact, you liked how small it was; it was cozy and you never felt alone.

Well, you weren’t alone and when you felt alone, you’d look down at your ever growing abdomen and pat it, whispering, “It’s only you and me now.”

Sharing the apartment with Kuroo for years helped you, financially, in a sense. For a little less than a year, Kuroo paid for the apartment in full until you pushed to pay for half of it. From that, living without paying for a while, meant more money in your account than you expected.

You didn’t go far. You brought the furthest train ticket that was available at four in the morning and went there. Absolutely nothing was planned. For the entirety of your train ride, you looked for places that you could stay. One of the passengers, on elderly lady, Mei, who was on your train seemed to take pity on you because when she offered you cookies, you burst out crying, and she offered to help you from that point on. She was on her way back home from her husband’s grave in Tokyo.

You had luck on your side. She told you that the apartment complex she lived in had an apartment opened for rent, and a few phone calls later, you had a roof over your head.

She helped you a lot too after she found out that you were pregnant. Once you moved in, Mei would check on you every now and then to make sure you were eating and getting enough rest. The entire complex was nice to you. They would bring you sweets every now and then and wave to you in the hallways.

After the first few months, you got into a good pattern. Luckily, your work from Tokyo allowed you to work from a laptop so most of your time was spent doing work.

At first, you were angry. Always angry. You couldn’t even turn to your stress baking ways because all you thought about was how Kuroo would walk in on you baking in the kitchen, laugh, take a bite of whatever you were making, and then talk to you about what was stressing you out that day.

Then you were sad until you couldn’t be anymore. The baby was coming soon and you had to prepare, physically and mentally.

You could raise a kid here, you thought.

You can do it.

9 Months later

Your doctor put you on bed rest, a literal order to sit and do nothing until your baby came.

Since then, Mei would check up on you more often. She would bring you food and help you when you need to get up for a little bit. Mostly, she just sat beside you and told you stories about how she met her husband and how he died (which always made you cry) until you fell asleep.

You woke up in pain. Your stomach was crampy and your bed was wet. You reached up and flicked on the light.

Blood soaked your sheets.

You started to panic and cry.

Slowly and carefully, you made your way to the front door, droplets of blood following your path. You opened the door and stumbled into the hallway, making your way a couple of doors down where Mei lived.

You banged on her door until she answered, blood still spilling between your thighs.

Her eyes were half closed and she was still in her pyjamas. “(Y/N)?”

“Something’s wrong,” you cried and fell to the floor.

Kuroo’s phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Today, he came fully dressed in his uniform, so he left his bag on the gym floor and went straight to practice. His phone was on vibrate, but whenever there was a silent moment in the gymnasium, everyone could hear the phone vibrating against the floor.

It was to the point where his coach gave him an annoyed look and called for a 10-minute break.

The call just ended when Kuroo got to his bag. He had seven missed calls from an unknown number. He looked through his phone for a bit to figure out if they left any messages and right when he was about to call them back, the mystery caller returned.

“Hello?” Kuroo said.

“Hello,” the caller replied. “Are you KurooTetsurou?”

“Yes?”

“I’m calling from Uji Hospital in Saitama. You are listed as (F/N) (L/N)’s emergency contact. She is currently in recovery.”

Kuroo heart dropped. He held the phone closer. “R-Recovery?”

“Yes,” the caller said. “A neighbour of Ms.(L/N)’s brought her in early this morning and she had an emergency c-section.”

Kuroo’s coach was calling him over but he couldn’t care less about volleyball. “What hospital was it?”

You woke up with your stomach hurting. Your eyes were blurry and your throat was raw. Looking down, you saw that your abdomen deflated a bit. You turned your head to your side and saw the Mei sitting beside you.

“What happened?”

Mei jumped up. “(Y/N)? You’re in the hospital. You gave me quite the scare this morning. You had to have a c-section, but your son is fine.”

Your eyes watered. “I have a son?”

“Yes,” she smiled. “It’s a boy. Hold on a second, I’m going to get a doctor and tell them you’re awake and then I’ll see if you can hold your son.”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

Your doctor returned without Mei and checked on you. You had to stay for a few days to make sure there were no infections or complications, but otherwise, you were in good health. Mei came back and stayed with you a bit and then had to leave, but assured you that a nurse was going to bring your baby down so that you could meet.

You don’t know how long you waited, but your eyes were getting tired. Once you heard a knock on your door, you sat up slowly, hoping that it was the nurse.

“Come in.”

Kuroo was standing at the door. He was in his volleyball uniform and he was breathing heavily.

“(Y/N).”

You frowned and leaned back into the bed. “How did you know where I am?”

Hesitantly, Kuroo took a step into the room and shut the door behind him. “I guess….I’m your emergency contact?”

“Oh,” you said. You forgot you changed it to him. After you left home, the emergency contact was your parents by default, but when you and Kuroo started getting serious, you changed it to him. You always meant to tell him, but you forgot.

Kuroo took another step closer to you. “I didn’t know I was your emergency contact...I was really surprised when I got the call, but I came as soon as I could...”

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” Kuroo rushed. “It’s okay.”

You were playing with the blanket, looking down. The two of you were nothing like you were months ago.

“I went back to the apartment, after that day,” Kuroo whispered. He was looking at the monitors that you were hooked up too, but his glaze slowly moved to you. “I went back a couple of hours after….but you were already gone.”

“Oh…”

“I’m not blaming you,” he said, taking another step closer. You always kind of hated how tall he was, especially knowing that you were laying in a bed. He was towering over you.“I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry and that sounds like such a stupid word right now, but I am truly sorry.”

You looked up at him. His hair was longer than before and he looked a bit skinner. “What were you going to tell me? That day?”

Kuroo blinked. “I was going to tell you that I’m all in.”

“Kuroo…”

“Wait,” he said, holding out his hand. “Just listen to me okay? And then you can say whatever you want to say and I’ll accept it, or at least see if from your perspective, okay?”

You nodded slowly, relaxing your arms into the blanket.

“I am all in,” Kuroo started. “I want this. I want everything with this — with you. I’m sorry for what I said. It was a reaction. A bad reaction and I know that I can’t take it back, but I’ll do anything to make it up to you. I’m sorry (Y/N). I want the rest of my life to be with you and our baby if you’ll let me.”

You were silent and Kuroo was looking at you with hopeful eyes.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, shaking your head. “How do I know if 5 or 10 years down the line you’ll change your mind and history repeats itself? Kuroo, the moment I told you, you left me. I don’t….I don’t know if I can trust you anymore.”

“(Y/N), I -”

There was a knock on the door followed by it opening. A nurse walked in pushing a cart with an opened plexiglass top box and a baby in it, your baby. You watched as Kuroo stepped aside, his eyes glued in the baby as the nurse grew closer to you.

The nurse looked to Kuroo and then back at you. “Am I interrupting something? I can come back.”

“No,” you said quickly, tears blurring your vision. “No...I— can I hold him?”

“Him?” Kuroo whispered. There were tears in his eyes too, but he froze in place.

The nurse smiled at you. “Of course.”

The nurse carefully lifted the baby out of the plexiglass box and placed him in your arms. You held the baby close.

He was so small.

“Do you have a name yet?” The nurse asked.

“No...I um…”

You held your baby closer. He was sleeping or at least you thought he was sleeping. He was kind of opening and closing his eyes, but he remained still for the most part. He was perfect.

“Can I see him?” You looked up at Kuroo. He was still standing in the same place, but he looked as if he wanted to rush over.

You looked down. The baby was nestling into the crook of your arm. “Yeah, come over.”

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” The nurse said, and left the room.

Kuroo walked over to your bed and crouched down beside you, careful not to touch you. His eyes were wide. He held out his finger carefully and touched his son’s cheek. “He’s perfect.”

This was perfect. This moment.

“Kuroo?”

He looked up at you, his hand still on the baby’s cheek. “I don’t trust you still….and I can’t say it’ll be a perfect system, but our baby...he’s only a couple of hours old, but he already deserves the best. I want him to have everything and...everything includes you. I’m willing to try.”

Kuroo nodded his tears streaking down his. “Thank you.”

You smiled and looked back at your son. “What should we name him?”

Just a small note...I know absolutely nothing about pregnancy or Japan’s geography so just disregard any inconsistencies about that...

I hope you all enjoyed it!!! Like I said before, this is my first time writing something like this before, so I hope it was okay! I’ll try not to be late next time too...but I said that last time so….sorry about that!! But Bacon is the best so :(( (I know I am - Bacon)

*Bonus* I think they would’ve named their son after Mei’s late husband cause she helped so much...I didn’t write it but just know Mei helped a lot:(

Thank you for reading! -Kiwi

Posted: 03/07/2020

[welllpthisishappening]

One Foot In (3/7)

The facts were these.

Killian Jones was dead. This much Emma knew, standing in the middle of the funeral parlor staring at him. What she didn’t know was why. Or how. Or what she would do when she touched him.

Because Emma Swan had a gift. Touch a dead thing once, bring it back to life. Touch it again, dead forever.

And the last thing Emma could do was bring Killian back to life, talk to him for the first time in years, only to watch him die all over again. Not when she’d spent the better part of those same years being in love with him.

—–

Rating: Teen, but eventually they’re going to kiss Word Count: 9.3K this chapter. Again.  AN: I continue to have a lot of thoughts and feelings about all the thoughts and feelings you guys have about this mess of words. Thanks for being lovely. We get to that eventually this chapter. Also, happy hockey day internet. Yesterday obviously didn’t count because the Rangers don’t play until tonight. 

@shireness-says​ @optomisticgirl​ @nikkiemms, @teamhook, @dayo488​, @greymeetsblue​, @jennjenn615​, @heavenlyjoycastle​, @klynn-stormz​, @superchocovian​, @onepunintendid​, @jonesfandomfanatic​, @lfh1226-linda​

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

—–

Emma Swan is twenty-nine years, six months, twenty-three days and, approximately, eight and half hours old when she wakes up to an empty apartment. 

This, normally, would not be cause for distress, but Emma is less than twenty-four hours removed from making sure Killian Jones wasn’t buried in the same cemetery she once kissed him in and they probably should have discussed the rules more. 

Like the never leave her apartment rules. 

Because everyone thought he was dead rules. 

Emma exhales, a breath of air she didn’t realize she was holding onto until she suddenly realizes how much she desperately needs it and it cannot be healthy for her vision to keep fading in and out like that. She assumes it’s a symptom of something. Possibly insanity. 

She feels a little insane. 

And questionably well rested. 

Because for someone who broke most of the most fundamental rules of the universe the day before, Emma didn’t wake up once all night. 

She refuses to acknowledge that that is probably a sign too. 

“Ok, get a grip, Swan,” she mumbles, mostly to herself because she is, in fact, the only person in that apartment. “He can’t have gone that far.”

Pushing out of the pile of blankets tangled between her legs, she glances around her admittedly small living room and the smile on her face feels equal parts unnatural, incredulous and a little overwhelmed. And kind of charmed. 

The blankets on the other side of the room are all folded – sharp corners and folds that are, very likely, Naval grade and the clothes he’d slept in are next to them, looking as if they’ve just been dropped off by the world’s most effective dry cleaners. 

This, however, does not give Emma any sense of where the hell Killian has actually gone and she can’t keep talking to herself. That’s a line she refuses to cross and a rabbit hole she refuses to go down and she jogs into the kitchen before she realizes that’s where she’s decided to go next. 

The plates are still in the sink, not much looking out of place, but Emma has been spending most of her free time with Ruby for years now and she’s got an eye for these things or something that would definitely make Ruby laugh and there’s a peace of paper folded on top of the coffee maker. 

His handwriting is different than it was when he was a kid, not quite as lopsided as it was when he got points taken off a spelling test for illegibility that required Liam to meet with the teacher. It’s blunter now, like he’s trying to work out all his emotions about the entire state of the world in a few letters on a piece of paper that Emma can’t even begin to imagine he found easily. 

You didn’t have any coffee left. You’re an awful hostess. 

Her hand doesn’t shake when she reads it, a moral victory she’ll probably hold onto for the rest of the day, and her smile still feels incredibly out of place. 

Because Killian is not in her apartment. 

Or dead. 

That’s probably the most important part of the whole thing. 

Emma genuinely has no idea what sound she makes in response to that. It’s not a laugh, she’s teetering far too close to those metaphorical precipices to actually find much humor in the situation, but it’s not actually a scoff or a groan either. It’s a weird mixture of all three, a sound that actually manages to hurt her throat on the way out before lingering in the air and pressing down on every side of her skull and he’s right; she doesn’t have any coffee. 

She was going to go to the store last night. 

She got a little sidetracked. 

God, now she wants a cheeseburger too. 

And Emma is disappointed she didn’t realize exactly where a very-much alive Killian Jones went as soon as she woke up. Because, once, when she was seven and he was eight – only a few days after his birthday and he’d been bragging about being older and wiser and several other things that made Emma kick at his ankles – he’d decided he wanted to know what was underneath that one man hole on Main Street. 

And the only way to figure out what was underneath that one man hole on Main Street was to lift it up, climb. down and start exploring. Immediately. He’d ignored most of Emma’s protests, smiling and nodding like she was making any progress in the argument, and eventually she’d run out of fight and gotten a flashlight out of the hallway closet. 

They didn’t find much of anything, just managed to ruin both of their shoes and Ingrid resolutely refused to give them pie for three straight days because they had to throw away their clothes when she couldn’t get the smell out and—

“He went back downstairs,” Emma sighs, shaking her head in something close to disbelief. 

She doesn’t time herself, but she assumes that she gets ready in record time – only a few minutes and a few droplets of water thrown at her face, not even bothering to brush her hair before tugging it up while jogging down the stairs to her own restaurant. Emma put the note in the back pocket of her jeans. 

Killian doesn’t immediately look up when Emma walks in, skidding across the linoleum tile of the kitchen floor, but she can see his lips quirk slightly and, if put under oath, she would swear his eyes get brighter. 

That is a scientific impossibility, Emma is sure. She’s also not entirely convinced they’re dealing with normal science. 

She doesn’t know what category magic fingers fall under. 

He’s half leaning on the counter, arms crossed lightly over the button-up he was wearing the day before and feet crossed at the ankles, a mug of what is, presumably, coffee in his right hand. There’s no tie, which is probably for the best because Emma isn’t sure she’d be able to handle that. 

And he’s not alone. 

“Hey, Em,” Graham says brightly, and Emma is glad she’s not holding anything. She would drop it. Killian’s tongue moves into the corner of his mouth. 

Emma needs to study science more because it feels as if the blood actually falls out of her face, vision doing that thing again and she’d just like some kind of confirmation if that’s even possible. 

Killian doesn’t move, although his eyes do narrow, a hint of a concern shifting into the space between him and Emma. There is not much space between him and Emma. 

“So, uh...I met your friend,” Graham continues, eyes doing an admirable job of looking like they’re bouncing around a pinball machine. “Didn’t really know you had friends.”

Killian snorts into his coffee, and Emma is torn between scandalized and...mostly scandalized. 

“I have friends,” Emma sputters. Graham does not look convinced. “Are you not my friend?” “I am your employee.” “Ok, well...yes, that’s technically true, but—” “—Do you want to share friendship bracelets, Em? Is that what you’re telling me?” “There’s no need to be a jerk about this.” “What about those little heart pendants? Where we each have half? Or is that too retro for us? We’re some kind of proper millennial relationship, right?” Emma scowls – an expression that is starting to become her default setting, and Killian is suspiciously silent. Until he isn’t. 

“We had matching temporary tattoos one summer,” he says softly, and Graham nearly falls over. He doesn’t actually, which makes it eight-hundred thousand times worse, and Emma briefly considers drinking the coffee straight out of the pot. 

She assumes burning her tongue beyond recognition will, somehow, ground her. 

“That so?” Graham asks, voice going gruff and disbelieving. “What summer was this? Recently?” “Do you honestly think I am the kind of person who has had a temporary tattoo in recent history?” Emma mutters. Graham shrugs. 

“I have a sudden and very strong suspicion I don’t know much about you at all, boss. It’s not for lack of trying, but…” He trails off in a way that makes Emma’s stomach twist uncomfortably, an allusion to almosts and possibilities that were never really either because Emma doesn’t like those words and she’s much better on her own. 

It’s safer that way. Less connection, means less possibility for getting hurt. Or something. 

She can’t really remember the reason for anything anymore, particularly when she can feel Killian’s eyes boring a hole in the side of her head and her pulse has only recently recovered from finding her apartment as empty as it normally is. 

“If memory serves, Swan was eight,” Killian says, still speaking mostly into his coffee cup. “She’d gotten a rather disappointing mark in third-grade science.” Graham’s shoulders shake when he chuckles. “What kind of science is third grade science?” “The most basic science possible.” “That’s a complete and total lie,” Emma argues. “That was...there was that frog thing involved and I—” “—Resolutely refused to do the assignment,” Killian finishes. “Did you also get detention?” Emma nods, not as stunned as she probably should be that he remembers this so well. Although, he’d also gotten detention with her because if Swan isn’t going to dissect the frog, then I’m not either. “Ingrid was furious,” Emma says. “She said we were challenging authority and couldn’t I have just done what I was supposed to do for once in my life.” “I always thought that was a little heavy-handed. What did the frog ever do to you that it deserved to get cut up like that?” “Died, apparently.” Killian hums, the conversation drifting dangerously close to topics they absolutely cannot discuss in front of Graham. “That was awfully rude of him to do that.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure the frog would agree with that, though.” They stare at each other for a moment – metaphors and metaphorical dances of the conversational variety and Graham coughs pointedly when they don’t do anything else. “Anyway,” Killian says, a forced brightness to the word that makes Emma’s jaw clench. “Swan refused to cut apart the frog, Ingrid was very upset about it, as was the teacher, God, what was her name?” “Ms. Feinberg,” Emma answers. Honestly, Graham does not appear to be breathing at this point. 

“That’s right. That’s right. She wore that ridiculous fur coat in the winter and—” “—We thought she could control the animals with her voice. Some kind of ridiculous magical thing that made a lot of sense when I was eight.” “Does it not make sense now?” Emma shrugs, not sure how she manages to stay upright when it feels as if the floor shakes under her feet. “How’d you get coffee?” “I’m absolutely incredible in unfamiliar situations,” Killian grins. He leans forward as he says it, another test of fate that Emma can’t voice and he knows she can’t voice and she’s going to have to give Graham an entire week off for subjecting him to whatever this might be. It feels like flirting. Again. “Also your coffee maker does not require me to be a rocket scientist, love.” Graham sounds like he’s choking. 

“You ok?” Emma asks as he continues to sputter on oxygen. 

“Yup, yup, yup,” Graham nods brusquely. “I’m fine. Totally fine. So, uh...you two knew each other when you were younger then? What was Emma like when she was a kid? Aside from the weird science thing.”

“It’s not weird to refuse to dissect a frog,” Emma hisses. “I was a kid. I liked animals.” She wishes she could come up with another phrase then kill him because that feels a little insensitive and Emma clearly doesn’t want to kill Killian, but he keeps laughing and pouring more coffee. He twists around, opening a cabinet he shouldn’t know is there and offers Emma a mug. 

“I don’t know how you take your coffee, Swan,” he says quietly.

Emma reaches out slowly, careful not to touch his fingers and it’s as weird as possible – gripping the mug from the top while Graham’s actual head snaps back and forth. “Cream and three and a half sugars,” she says. “If it’s not espresso.” “You don’t have an espresso machine?” “It’s not that kind of restaurant. Espresso is way too new wave.” “New wave,” Killian echoes, but there’s nothing even resembling teasing in any of the letters. He says them as if he’s chasing them and they’re both still holding the goddamn mug. 

“Yeah. I’m not...great at change, really. Like. At all, you know.” He lets go of the mug. 

She doesn’t drop it. So, points to her or whatever. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Graham says. He waves both his hand through the air, as if that will clear it or make any of this make sense and maybe Emma should just give him two weeks off. “I am...very confused. I thought you knew each other. You…” He glances at Killian, blinking quickly. “I don’t know your name.” “That’s because I never told you,” Killian says. 

“And?” “And...what?” “Ok, you’re really not going to tell me your name? Are you...Em, what the hell is going on right now?”

Emma shakes her head, not sure where to begin or how to explain and Killian is pouring her coffee. As if that’s a normal thing that is allowed to happen and the urge to run is almost overpowering. That’s always been her thing – even when she was eight years old and refused to follow the rules of a science class that was almost too dependent on rules and a classroom that smelled like formaldehyde no matter what they happened to be studying that week. 

Emma does not do conflict. She does disappearing acts, her own personal brand of magic that’s served her and her slightly patched-together heart very well for the last twenty years, but that same heart is really only patched together because it was forced to run away from the man in front of her who, once upon a time, wouldn’t let her get in trouble by herself. 

So she doesn’t run.  

She swallows instead, biting back words and explanations and the very real desire to just scream as loud as she’s capable of. 

“You want to double check on the napkin dispensers?” Emma asks, not actually looking at Graham and that does admittedly feel like kind of a dick move. 

“I’m sorry, what? Was that the answer to the question? Seriously who the fu—” “The napkin dispensers,” she cuts in sharply. Emma turns her whole body when she speaks, hopeful that her face betrays the regret she feels festering in the tips of her fingers. “Just...you know make sure that they’re full.” “Are we expecting some kind of mad pie rush today?” “God, I hope not. Also, why are you here early?” Graham’s expression shifts – tremulous and clearly concerned about Emma’s immediate reaction to whatever he’s about to say. He glances Killian’s direction, but is only met with slightly interested eyebrows and a recently refilled coffee mug. 

“You heard her,” Killian mutters. It’s not quite a threat, although Emma can’t stop the shiver that drifts down her spine and lingers in between her hips, a flash of cold that makes her wonder if they’ve suddenly time traveled to the middle of December. 

He hops onto the edge of the counter when Graham’s mouth drops slightly, eyebrows still as high as ever and hackles almost visibly raised. 

Emma has no idea what hackles even are. 

“Hey,” she says, waving a dismissive hand as close as she can get to Killian without ensuring disaster. “What…” Emma trails off when she realizes she can’t formulate that question either, another head shake that makes her neck ache. “Alright,” she continues. “I want a straight answer Humbert. What are you doing here so early?”

Graham shuffles on his feet again. “Ruby called me. Late last night. Which, honestly I thought you were dead, but she promised you weren’t, just that you might be and—” “—I’m sorry, I might be?” “Emma, if you keep interrupting me, I’m never going to finish the story and I’ve got a jam-packed schedule of refilling napkin containers.” “Are they that empty?” “Emma!” "Fine, fine,” she grumbles, shooting a glare Killian’s direction when he dares to laugh at what may be her very real mental breakdown. 

“I didn’t say a word, Swan,” he grins. 

Graham coughs again, but it also sounds a bit like a groan and three weeks of vacation seems almost exorbitant. “Ruby called me,” he repeats. “Was certain there was something going on with you and that you were acting shady after you guys left here yesterday morning. She said she’d been doing some research and some names had come up and—” “—Wait, what kind of names?” Emma interrupts. Graham throws a strawberry out of the closest bowl at it, the fruit bouncing off her left hand and landing at her feet – rotten, again. 

Killian slides off the counter. 

“Do you mind giving us a couple of minutes?” he asks, stepping in front of Emma like he’ll be able to block her from the threat of the one waiter she employees. She has to dig her nails into her palms to resist touching him again, those ridiculous and inconvenient magnets proving particularly problematic once more. 

She doesn’t hear whatever Graham says in response, is far too busy trying to figure out what the buzzing in the back of her head is. It sounds a bit like flies, or maybe a little more like bees, a hum and a sound that isn’t quite distracting, but feels a little powerful. 

The noise grows the longer she stays in one place, as if it’s getting stronger or more intense, knocking at the edges of Emma’s consciousness. It feels a bit like a memory she forgot, but is desperate to remember and that doesn’t make any sense at all. It’s déjà vu, a familiarity and a reminder and it almost feels warm, like it’s wrapping its way around her shoulders and holding her tight and Emma doesn’t think it’s a threat. 

She’s got no idea what the hell it is, but she doesn’t think it’s trying to hurt her. 

It might be trying to help her. 

Or remind her. 

And she nearly jumps out of her skin when Killian tugs on the side of her shirt. 

“Holy shit,” Emma growls, stumbling backwards. “What the hell were you thinking?” “You’re going to have to be more specific, Swan.” “What time did you get down here?” He shrugs, an air of nonchalance that’s far more frustrating with the noise that’s starting to ebb in between her ears. “Not long before you got here.” “Was Graham down here?” “No, he showed up in the middle of my quest for coffee. He’s fairly desperately in love with you, you know.” Emma blinks. “Ah, shut up,” she says before she can come up with a better retort and, that time, Killian’s answering laugh is almost warranted. 

“Did you just tell me to shut up?” “Yes. You can’t...you can’t do, like, any of the things you have done in the last hour.” “I wasn’t aware of the rules.” “Well there are rules,” Emma snaps, and she knows it’s not his fault. He was dead yesterday. And now he’s not and that’s got to be messing with his head, no matter what he tells her. Even if he keeps staring at her that very particular way, as if she’s some kind of magical being descended from on high to...do something. Emma isn’t sure what yet. 

Killian moves back towards the counter, grabbing the strawberries along the way. The whole thing is ridiculous. “And they are?” “You can’t come down here. Not...not without telling me or when Graham is down here and—” “—And just who exactly is Graham, Swan? He seemed quite interested in figuring out who I am.” “Because you aren’t supposed to be in the kitchen!”

“No, I don’t think that’s it. I think it’s because he’s hopelessly, inextricably head over heels in love with you and he made several different assumptions as soon as he saw me. Do you not often have men in your kitchen, love?” “That’s not even clever.” “And that’s a very pointed attempt at not answering the question.” 

Emma huffs, crossing her arms, but that only serves to twist up her shirt and Killian’s eyes dart towards the suddenly obvious patch of skin above her right hip bone. “No,” she mutters. “That’s not...this has never happened before.” Killian eats another strawberry. 

“And Graham, he doesn’t...he’s not a partner in your side endeavors?” Emma shakes her head. “He knows that sometimes I take elongated breaks that usually require Ruby to arrive, but other than that, no. He’s got no idea. No one does.” “Why not?” “Why not?” Emma balks, voice rising of its own accord. Killian’s face doesn’t shift, but she can see his tongue press on the inside of his cheek and that might be one of his tells. “No one can know that,” she presses. “It’s...that’s way more power than anyone should have. Life and death and—death.” “You said that twice,” Killian points out. His own voice drops, like it’s trying to balance out Emma’s near-shriek and she probably shouldn’t be taking comfort from it, but she can still dimly make out the buzzing in the back of her brain. 

“I left Storybrooke and I got shipped around the country. I bounced around from group home to foster homes and houses and no one was ever even remotely interested in actually adopting me. One family tried to use me as a tax break, but that was as close as I got and it was never...it was never Ingrid. It was never you.”

She has to take a deep breath to stop herself from crying and Emma isn’t sure how the words keep coming, but Killian Jones is in her kitchen and everything seems to fall out of her without much concern about her set of rules. 

“There was never anyone,” Emma continues. “So I learned to keep to myself and figure things out on my own and it’s better that way, don’t you think? No chance of making a mistake or doing something wrong and I’ve managed to rationalize the whole thing with Ruby.” “Justice being served, huh?” Killian asks knowingly. 

“Yeah, exactly that.” “I can’t just stay in your apartment forever, love.” The endearment switch catches her off guard, a trend that Emma should really start expecting at this point. Nothing seems like it’s on even ground anymore. 

“People know you’re dead,” Emma argues. “There were news reports and, well, you heard it. Your name was there and there were graphics and—”

“—All of that seems a little tacky, don’t you think?” “I’m not here to debate the merits of journalism with you.” “Then what are you going to do, Swan? Because I’m not going to stay cooped up forever. I can’t. I did that for a very long time and I won’t—”

“I told you,” Graham announces, turning towards the wide-open door of the restaurant where a fuming Ruby appears to be doing her best impression of carved marble. “Doesn’t he look just like that dead guy on the news?”

Emma drops the coffee mug in her hand. 

“He looks exactly like that dead guy on the news,” Ruby seethes. She stands in the doorway for a few more moments, likely considering where to dump Emma’s body when she inevitably kills her, but then the clack of her heels moving towards the kitchen sounds impossibly loud and Emma regrets not getting dental insurance. 

She’s got a feeling she’ll need it sooner rather than later. 

“That’s super weird,” Graham continues, stuffing a handful of napkins into the container at table six. “Didn’t he die under suspicious circumstances?” “They don’t know,” Emma bites out. She chances a glance at Killian who, it seems, has also frozen, fingers wrapped around another strawberry. 

Ruby’s laugh is distinctly lacking any humor. “Or so the reports go.” “I heard some rumors there was some shady stuff involved,” Graham says. Emma’s head is going to fly off her neck. That would be for the best – then she could ignore the whole situation entirely. 

“What kind of shady stuff?” Graham shrugs, dropping the container back onto the table and every noise sounds magnified. Emma has to glance down to make sure there aren’t sparks shooting out of her fingers. There are not. That’s almost disappointing. 

“Well they didn’t find anyone else there, did they?” Graham asks. “At the scene, I mean? Usually there’d at least be a suspect or something.” “Maybe you should be the PI,” Ruby drawls. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re hysterical, Lucas. I’m just saying. There should be DNA or something right? And they said he lost his hand. But...no hand at the crime scene.” “What?” Killian snaps, looking only slightly affronted when Ruby glares at him. “Where did it go?”

“Do you think I’m aware of dead peoples missing limbs?” Graham asks. 

Emma’s never had an actual heart attack, so she can’t be entirely certain of what the symptoms are or what it actually feels like, but she assumes it sort of feels like this. Her arms feel too heavy for her body, hands like weights dragging her into the kitchen floor. Bobbing on her feet, she tries to dispel the extra energy she’s suddenly flush with and that can’t possibly be medicinal.

No one notices at first – Ruby far too busy asking Graham where he’s getting his sources and Graham snarking back and it’s not a surprise when Emma feels Killian’s gaze move back towards her and her tiny vertical jump. 

“Swan,” he starts, leaning forward. “What…” “Oh, no, no, no,” Ruby shouts. Her hair hits the side of her face when she shakes her head, eyes bordering on dangerous and possibly tinted as red as the highlights in her hair. “No, no, you did not call her that. Is that...Humbert, you need to get out of here.” Graham drops another napkin container. “What? I work here, Lucas.” “I don’t care.” “You are not my boss.” “Get out of here, Humbert!” He lifts his hands in frustration, clearly waiting for Emma to object, but her jaw is stuck mid-clench and there is something wrong here and a heart attack probably shouldn’t last this long. “Fine” Graham growls. “Fine. You guys want to play secret and not act like this is the first time Emma has acknowledged there are other human beings on this planet, that’s fine with me.”

He’s gone in a huff of napkins and knocked over chairs, the bell on the door ringing loudly as soon as he slams it behind him. 

And for half a moment Emma is almost hopeful they won’t say anything else. They’ll just stand there until the end of time when the meteors come and dinosaurs return or however the world is going to end and she’ll be able to avoid this particular brand of conflict. 

“Emma.” No such luck. Killian is still staring at her. 

“So, guess we’ve got some things to talk about, huh?” Ruby asks, more forced calm that’s almost worse than screaming and shouting and throwing fruit. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” “The truth would just...blow my mind.” Emma sighs, closing her eyes and trying to come up with something that’s even remotely possible and everything sounds worse than the last lie. “I couldn’t,” she whispers, staring at her shoes. Her shoes are less judgmental than the other two people in the kitchen. 

“He is kind of dreamy. I think it’s the hair. Or the earring.” Emma lifts her head – Ruby grinning knowingly at her because Ruby knows that other rule and they’ll have to deal with that eventually. Preferably when Killian isn’t within hearing distance. 

“I think my uncles thought it was a joke,” Killian murmurs, tugging lightly on the jewelry and the wisps of hair that curl just behind his ear. “I looked this morning. Just to make sure I wasn’t taking on any zombie-like characteristics.” “You’re not a zombie,” Emma groans. He grins at her. 

“No harm in double checking. But I noticed the earring and that’s definitely Nemo’s, so...in the grand scheme I suppose it’s nice.” “Who’s Nemo?” Ruby asks, grabbing a pie off the counter and two forks. She hands one to Killian. And they’re all taking this surprisingly well. 

Emma may be the only one who isn’t. 

“The aforementioned uncle,” Killian says. “This one is good too, Swan.” “All Emma’s pies are good.” “Are you two bonding right now?” Emma demands. “Because that’s...Ruby are you not furious?” Ruby nods, tugging the fork out of her mouth slowly. “Oh I’m super pissed at you, but you’re currently exercising three of the five tells, so I figure you’re doing a really great job of beating yourself up already. Also I’ve got some news and, like, eighty-thousand questions.” “Only eighty-thousand?” Killian asks. 

“At least. Don’t try and play cute with me though, Jones. I’ve got some very strong suspicions about you.” “Such as?” “You weren’t as naive about the situation as you told your girlfriend.”

Killian’s grip on the fork noticeably tightens and Emma should really clean up the puddle of coffee at her foot. It’s starting to seep into her sneaker. Maybe she should buy new sneakers. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, and Emma’s breath catches because she’s incredibly familiar with that particular tone. It’s the same exact tone it was when he was seven and trying to convince Liam he’d only had one slice of pie at Ingrid’s. 

And the tips of his ears go red. 

Ruby shakes her head. “Incorrect. And as much as I hate to admit Humbert is ever right about anything, he does bring up a good point about your hand. What do you remember about that?” “Not much,” Killian lies. 

“Nope, try again.” His eyes dart towards Emma’s, tongue flashing between his lips and it’s as if they’re standing on a tightrope above several dozen crocodiles or alligators, whichever are more dangerous, and there’s probably rain involved too. Just to make everything as slippery as possible. 

“You said you’d already done the cooped up forever thing,” Emma whispers. “And you wouldn’t do it again. What did that mean?” “You ran and I stayed put, Swan.” “English, Jones.” The twist of his answering smile is enough to make Emma’s heart stutter against her rib cage. He tugs the pie plate out of Ruby’s hands, taking another exaggerated bite – eyes never leaving Emma. “Seriously, you should be winning awards for this,” he mutters. “And I didn’t actually lie to you before. I have no idea who actually killed me.” “But?” “But,” he repeats. “I’m not exactly the kid you remember.” “Who are you then?” Killian inhales, only to exhale even sharper and—”It’d really be much easier if I could hold your hand.” Ruby gags. “That’s not a line,” he promises. “That’s...it was always easier that way.” “Start at the beginning,” Ruby commands. He salutes again. 

“My brother died when I was ten years old and it changed my entire life,” Killian explains. “For awhile I thought it ruined my entire life because it meant Emma was gone and, you know no one ever moved into your house, Swan?” She shakes her head, not sure what the right response to that is, but some twisted part of her is almost glad. “They didn’t,” Killian continues. “It was just there, forever, taunting me of what was gone and what wasn’t ever actually coming back. And, well, Shakespeare and Nemo were used to being on the road, but the acting troupe they’d be in for the decade before they got saddled with me...it was on its last legs. There’s no money in it and they sort of stumbled into guardianship without much prep or guidance and they didn’t...they sat in that house and they’d both seen so much already. 

“You know Nemo’s ship was attacked once, that was part of the reason he wanted to avoid the bars on that port leave when he met Shakespeare and they’ve both dealt with so much shit from the world. They weren’t really….they weren’t really interested in the world anymore.” “But I bet you were, weren’t you?” Ruby asks, tugging on the plate again. 

“Not at first. Well, no that’s a lie. I was a shit kid as soon as Swan was gone, always getting in trouble and blowing off class and I think I tried to run away no less than sixteen times before I actually turned sixteen.” “How would you get out of town?” Emma asks, hating how soft her question sounded. 

Killian smirks “I never made it very far. You know Storybrooke, love, eyes everywhere and people gossiping even more. I think Cora Mills caught me trying to sneak out of my house even more than my uncles did.” “Oh she always gave me the creeps.” “You’re going to want to remember that in a second.” “Can you please put a pause on the flirting for, like, point two seconds so we can get on with the story?” Ruby groans. “Time, as they say, is a-slipping.” “You’re not very patient are you?” “It’s a family trait,” Emma mumbles. “You should meet her grandmother.” “Hey,” Ruby cries. “My grandmother taught me every PI trick I know. She’s the reason we’re going to find Jones’ killer and collect both rewards.”

Emma tenses. “Both rewards?” “Yeah, now you’re interested, aren’t you? Keep going Jones. This is almost interesting backstory.” “Almost interesting,” Killian chuckles, and they really should have each gotten their own pie. “Alright, alright. So Cora Mills—the mayor of Storybrooke,” he adds at Ruby’s questioning expression. “She’s been mayor since the dawn of time really, and she’s known I’ve been trying to get out Storybrooke for years, but I never did.” “Why not?” Emma asks, Killian’s hum of confusion feeling as if it lands between each one of her ribs. “I mean...couldn’t you?” “Eh, I’m sure I could have if I put my mind to it. But at some point around high school graduation, which was never entirely a guarantee for me, I realized that Nemo and Shakespeare were done with the world. They were tired of fighting it and tired of trying to find their place in it and—” “—You couldn't leave,” Ruby finishes, a note of sympathy in her voice that stuns Emma more than just about anything else that’s happened. 

Killian hums again. The disappointment and regret in the sound is bitter on Emma’s tongue, and maybe she should be taking some adult-ed science classes because she’s clearly got no idea how any of this works, but she’s never seen that look on his face before. 

As if the whole world has passed him by and left him in the metaphorical dust. 

“They’d given up their whole lives for me,” he mumbles. “And we were good. For a very long time. I...well, I figured out how to make money and I had books.” “Books?” Emma repeats. “You had books?” “I like to read.” “Are you a nerd now?” “I wouldn't go that far. It’s a...hobby, possibly some kind of obsession depending on who you ask. Don't ask my uncles.”

“I promise.”

He smiles at her again – slow and genuine until that replaces the whatever in between Emma’s ribs and she feels as if she breathes normally for the first time since she woke up. Ruby sticks her entire tongue out. 

There are berry stains on it. 

“Is this going to be a thing now?” she shouts. “The flirting? Are we going to flirt our way through several different crime scenes?” Emma tilts her head. “Are there more than one crime scene?” “There might be if Jones doesn’t get better at telling us his goddamn life story. Also, the less sarcastic answer is maybe because I’ve got news, but seriously the life story. If you were good with the shut-ins, why did you leave?” Killian doesn’t answer immediately, and the tension in between his shoulder blades is almost too obvious. Emma isn’t sure she hears him at first. And then she’s not sure she wants to. 

“Nemo got sick,” he says. “Suddenly and...badly? Is that the right word? It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t great and so I was trying to figure out a way to get some money and an opportunity presented itself.” “How?” “Remember creepy Cora Mills?” Emma hates that her jaw drops, but she can’t stop it and she knows this is not a good story. She didn’t expect it to be a good story and it is, somehow, even worse. “What could she possibly offer you?” “Money,” Killian shrugs. “And the chance to get out of Storybrooke, which given the situation paints me in a particularly asshole-light, but that’s always been kind of my MO too and—” “That’s not true.” “You haven’t known me for a very long time, Swan.” “I don’t believe that.” Melting certainly isn’t the right word for whatever happens to Killian’s expression. Emma doesn’t care. It’s the first word her mind comes up with and latches onto, in some misplaced effort to maintain control of a decidedly out of control situation, and she wishes she could hold his hand. 

Too. Or still. 

Or always. 

Honestly, whatever. 

“Thanks,” Killian mutters. “I promise it’s warranted in this situation. I was getting desperate. I never went to college and I couldn't figure out what to do or who to ask.” “No girlfriend to help, then?” Ruby asks archly, ignoring whatever noise Emma makes at that particular question. “What? First of all, that’s a genuine question. Because if there is a girlfriend, then we should probably prepare ourselves for her arrival in defense of Jones’ previously discussed very dreamy face and, second of all, if there is a girlfriend, she probably should have helped him rob a bank or something.” “Are we advocating bank robbing now?” Emma fumes, her anger having nothing to do with the sanctity of the American banking system. 

“No girlfriend,” Killian says. Emma wrings her hands together. So, naturally, Ruby notices. “Anyway, Cora found me one day and told me she had an opportunity if I was interested.” “And were you?”

“I didn’t see any other option, really. It made sense when she explained it. I had to get on the ship and—” “—Wait, wait, there was a ship involved?” Ruby asks. 

“Yeah, a cruise. To uh...shit, where was it to?” “We weren’t on the ship.” “That wasn’t the important part that’s why,” Killian mutters. “It was Tahiti or something. But I was told that I wasn’t supposed to do any of the onshore stuff they do. You know, zip lining and...swimming with sharks or whatever.” “The thought of that always freaked me out,” Ruby muses. 

“Yeah, me too actually. They say it’s safe, but—” “Can we focus, please?” Emma exclaims, met with two wide-eyed expressions for that especially emotional outburst. “Sorry, sorry, just...what were you supposed to be doing on this boat? Oh my God, are you some kind of drug mule?” Killian makes a face, ridiculous enough that Emma has to dig her heels into the ground to make sure she doesn’t try to do something absurd like kiss it off. The rules of the universe can suck it, honestly. 

“Are you kidding me?” “You’re the one who said I didn’t know you anymore!” “I was not a drug mule,” Killian sighs, dropping his fork so he can run his fingers through his hair. “I was...a water mule.” “What does that mean?” “Cora said that once we got to the island, there’d be some people getting on the ship who had something for me. I was supposed to bring it back.” “Did you meet these people?” Ruby asks, business-like and Emma knows she wishes she had a notepad of some kind. She pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket. 

“Yeah, that was kind of the problem.” “How so?”

Killian doesn’t shudder, but it’s awfully close, a nervousness to him that doesn’t match up with anything Emma knows about him. “There was a whole group of them. Each one of them shadier than the next and they all spoke in grunts, I swear.” “Sounds like lackeys.” “Yeah, probably. They didn’t know anything about Cora though, so the orders were coming from higher up and that’s kind of when I realized I’d gotten into something I wasn’t particularly interested in.” “What do you think that was?” “I don’t know exactly,” Killian admits. “But one of the goons handed me a vial of something that was, maybe, filled with water, demanded my immediate and complete silence and told me his boss was expecting me when I got back to New York.” “New York?” Emma asks. “That’s where the ship left from. I asked this guy what exactly it was I was supposed to be moving and how I was supposed to get it through security.” “I’m sure he didn’t appreciate that,” Ruby chuckles. 

“He did not, actually. He told me to shut my mouth and do my job and that, this is where it gets weird, his master wouldn’t be pleased if I deviated from the schedule.” Ruby’s eyebrows pull low. “He switched from boss to master?” “Weird, right?” “Super weird. And incredibly creepy. So what did you do after that?” “I told him that I thought there was a mistake,” Killian says with a laugh that sounds full of a slightly different brand of regret. “And that I wasn’t interested in shipping whatever product they were trying to move. I don’t remember much after that, but I do remember the vial falling and breaking. Goons one through six were not very happy about that. There was a lot of moanful grunting about it.” “There were six of them?” Emma breathes, not nearly as confident as she’d like to be. She rocks backwards on her heels when Killian slides off the counter, ignoring whatever Ruby is doing with all of her limbs as she steps into her space. 

There haven’t been very many moments in Emma’s life that stick. She’s made sure of it, run from the thoughts and the feelings and the relationships for years. This moment, however, seems determined to linger and fester and that second word is absolutely wrong. 

It doesn’t fester. It grows – the buzzing returning until it sounds like someone’s turned the metaphorical volume up as high as it will go on Emma’s life and soul and, possibly, the magic she’s done her best not to acknowledge for the last twenty years. 

None of that, however, holds a candle to whatever look settles on Killian’s face. It’s not quite understanding – there’s still that pesky rule hanging over their heads and she’ll tell him the truth at some point, eventually, she will – but for right now, this moment, she wants to memorize every shift of his face, the twitch of his lips and the turn of his eyebrows, hair falling almost artfully across his forehead when he tilts his head slightly. 

He doesn’t look scared of her. And, really, that’s what makes all the difference because Emma’s been a little scared of what she can do and terrified of what everyone else will do if they find out about her, but Killian just takes another step towards her and smiles as if everything is normal or could be normal and—

“I’m fine, love,” he promises. “I’m very good at surviving.” Ruby scoffs. The moment ends – with Killian’s hand hovering just a breath away from Emma’s side. “Right, right,” Ruby mumbles. “Sure you are. That’s all very well and good and everything, but you’ve thrown a very large wrench into a case that already makes a negative amount of sense. Plus, you know...you’re supposed to be dead.” “I think we’ve covered that several times, Rubes” Emma mutters. 

“And I don’t think Jones died in Storybrooke.” Emma is very glad they’re not open until ten. Ruby’s proclamation rings out in the empty restaurant, bouncing off walls and tables and half-filled napkin containers. It hangs there, taunting and teasing and it can’t possibly be true. 

It can’t possibly be...not true. 

“I think you died on that boat, Jones,” Ruby adds, rolling her eyes when Killian mutters the technical term is ship under his breath. “And I really don’t care about that. But I think the goons killed you then and there and moved you to Storybrooke because you were some kind of very dreamy recluse who, if we’re keeping up appearances, should be dead in your hometown.” “But then why is Cora the one with the reward money?” Emma counters. “She’s the one who set this whole thing up.” “Unless she doesn’t really know who she was working for. Or she didn’t expect Jones to show up dead. Or she’s a little nervous about her own safety because Jones did show up dead. There’s plenty of reasons. All of which I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to answer when we go pay her a visit.” Emma does her best to form actual words. She does. It does not end well. And Ruby snickers at her. “Five figures, Em,” she says, pausing between each word to really drive her point home. “And whatever the uncles have offered now.” Killian jerks his arm back to his side. “They did what?” “Oh yeah, it’s not as much as Madam Mayor, but it’s a good amount and I think they’ve got some suspicions about you and your little jaunt to the...what water is Tahiti in? That doesn't matter. What does matter is that there’s more money being floated around and that means that more eyes are going to be on this and it’s in our best interest to figure it out.” “Don't you think that’s dangerous?” Emma asks, fighting the itch to start mixing something. 

“Oh, I think it’s incredibly dangerous. Except we’ve got a living, breathing dead person in this kitchen who’s involved in some kind of shady something and those same shady somethings will probably be very interested in him being alive. So solving Killian Jones’ murder seems to be our only option at this point.” Killian smiles at Emma – as if he’s won a competition they absolutely were not staging. She groans. “This is not a victory for you,” she hisses. “This is...how do you expect to just go outside? Graham knew who you were.” “He suspected,” Killian corrects. “And I’ll wear a hat. And sunglasses.” “Your ears look ridiculous in a hat.” “I hate to be that person, but I don’t think we should be all that worried about the fashion choices of the dead here,” Ruby says. 

“And you’re very worried about your own fashion choices.” “Ok, that’s rude. I am worried about you. Incredibly so, in fact. Because we’ve got a good thing going here and I...well, I am worried about you. That’s the headline.” It’s not a particularly impassioned speech, but it may be the most emotional Ruby’s gotten since Emma ran into her perp in an alley. Her heart strings are, effectively, tugged. And the guilt in the pit of her stomach churns. 

That’s less pleasant. “Fine,” Emma snaps, like she had any chance of convincing either one of them otherwise. “Fine. Let’s all solve a goddamn murder then. It’s not like I had pie to bake.” “Should be award-winning pie,” Killian adds. They’re definitely flirting. “And I’m serious about 30-30-40. Except from my uncles. That’s...there’s got to be a line, you know?” Ruby stops pouring the coffee Emma hadn’t realized she’d started pouring. “What exactly does that mean? Exactly?” “You said that twice.” “I’m going to get Emma to touch you.” “God, Rubes, that’s dark,” Emma grumbles. She’s run out of coffee. 

“I think I should get the forty percent of the reward because I died,” Killian says, easy as well, pie. “And we’re not taking money from my uncles. Nemo’s still sick. There’s gotta be some kind of morality clause in your familial PI code, right?” Ruby considers that for a moment before bursting out into a laugh that is so loud Emma glances at the walls to make sure the paint hasn’t been chipped. She’s still doubled over nearly thirty seconds later, body shaking and tears in her eyes and it’s a little concerning, but also kind of nice because it sounds real and Killian is still standing far too close to Emma. 

Like he can’t bring himself to move. 

“Yeah, yeah, that does seem fair actually,” Ruby nods, laughter still clinging to her words. “It wasn’t in the original instruction manual, but I doubt Granny was really prepared for people coming back from the dead.” “Magic’s got a way of sneaking up on you like that.” “I guess it does. And I guess we’re going back to Storybrooke, huh?” Killian hums, a barely visible shift of his weight that’s really a dismissal without the words. Ruby almost looks impressed. “I’ll, uh...I’ll give you guys a second.”

Emma needs to take the bell off her door. 

It’s far too loud, particularly when she can’t hear Killian breathing next to her. He turns on the spot, quick enough that Emma feels like she has to blink to make sure it’s really happening. It is. He’s still there. 

Looking at her. 

“Are you alright?” she asks, desperate to say something before he can. She’s a great, big, giant coward really. 

Killian’s mouth quirks up again. “Still as fine as advertised. And you stole my question, actually.” “There’s not anything to be worried about.” “With you or the situation in general?” “Me. Always.” “That’s a decidedly depressing mindset, Swan. I’d very much like to worry about you, at least for the time being. And I know there’s something you aren’t telling me.” Emma startles at the certainty there, the distinct lack of blinking or confusion. He’s positive. And he’s right. She makes another absurd noise. “I don’t know anything about you,” she points out. “It’s...we’re in the middle of something here and I just, well—”

“Why is it a minute?” 

“Why is what a minute?” “This whole magical side of you,” Killian says. “A minute seems incredibly arbitrary. It’s not a lot of time to do anything productive.” “You’d be surprised.”

He chuckles, tongue doing something incredibly unfair again. “You know I haven’t often been jealous of other people, but it seems to be a trend for me this morning.” “That’s ridiculous. Graham is not...we’re not like that.” “You may not be, Swan, but he certainly is. And I can’t say I blame him.” “That felt like flirting,” Emma accuses. 

“It was absolutely flirting. Was that not obvious? That’s frustrating. I am, admittedly, out of practice though, so...” “That’s surprising actually.”

“Is that a compliment?”

Emma nods, taking a step back to try and maintain her sanity. It seems to be slipping through her fingers the longer they stay in that kitchen. “I’m kind of out of practice with the flirting thing too,” she admits. “But, yes, it was meant to be. And, again, there’s no reason to be jealous. I’m talking to dead people.” “And then dead’ing them again.” “Usually.” “Alright, so we’ll work on the flirting then,” Killian promises, and Emma resents whatever her pulse does at that. He certainly hears it. “But why the minute? Did you decide that?” “A minute is a very long time. Plus, the longer someone is alive who isn’t really supposed to be alive, the more likely something is going to go wrong and people get very preachy when they realize life and death is in the balance.”

“I’m still here though. You’ve avoided kissing me on multiple occasions.” “That’s what you're worried about?” “Not in the way you’re thinking. Well, partially in the way you’re thinking, but mostly in the way that you said you’ve never done this before, right?” Emma nods. “And you don’t have some boyfriend aside from the love-struck waiter.” A less enthusiastic nod. Killian’s smile widens. “So,” he continues, leaning around her to grab something she can’t possibly be bothered looking at. “My main question before we dive into the seedy underbelly of the world is...why me?” “I told you that already,” Emma whispers, and she is not emotionally prepared to deal with this many emotions this early in the morning. Or ever. She can’t believe she still has so many emotions about Killian Jones. She desperately wants to brush his hair away from his eyebrows. 

“No, you did a rather horrible job of avoiding the question. So, I’ll ask you one more time, love, why didn’t you let me go?” Emma opens her mouth – certain I couldn’t will come spilling out of her, again and on loop, but she meets his gaze and it’s all too much and not enough. He’d know if she was lying anyway. 

“I just thought it made more sense,” she says. “To have you there. I...I thought my life might be...better if you were in it. You know, again.” He’s infuriatingly quiet or a moment, gaze penetrating. That’s not altogether uncomfortable either. Emma doesn’t blink. 

And, that, that, eventually seems like the turning point because it’s in that moment she realizes what exactly Killian is holding. 

Saran wrap.

He moves quickly, leading with his head so as not to touch her with anything else. The saran wrap isn’t perfectly tight between his fingers, a strange balancing act with only five fingers, but Emma’s too stunned to worry about that for too long and then she’s too amazed to be stunned and she’s wanted to kiss him since she saw him. 

Again. 

She moves forward, the taste of plastic on her tongue when she presses her lips against his. Her arms twist behind her, determined not to give into the metaphorical magnets that feel as if they’re yanking on Emma and begging her to card her fingers through Killian’s hair. 

She fists her hands, but she doesn’t pull away. Part of her is stunned, toying with fate and fire and the rules of the world, but the rest of Emma is screaming out in triumph, desperate to press her mouth closer to Killian’s, to breathe him in until he’s found his way back into the middle of everything. 

It feels impossibly easy. 

It always felt like that. 

Emma makes a noise, almost a groan and possibly a sigh and she can feel Killian’s smile through the twisted up saran wrap. Their noses bump.

“I can’t believe you did that,” she mumbles, not moving her head away. His laugh times up with the buzzing in her ears. 

“Consider it a well-executed science experiment.” “What would you have done if it didn’t work?” Killian shrugs. “I was pretty confident it would work.” “That’s not an answer.” “I really, really, really wanted to kiss you.” 

He bunches up the saran wrap before Emma can object, another quick press to her cheek that isn’t really to her cheek and she feels like she’s floating. She’s not sure she’s ever felt like that.

Ruby groans when she walks back into the restaurant. 

“Oh my God,” she sneers. “Is this our new normal? Because if it is, I’m taking my own car. Or that bus. It wasn’t really that bad.” “You made her take the bus, Swan?” Killian asks, tossing the saran wrap in the trash. Emma probably shouldn’t regret that. 

“I was trying to figure out how to get you away from your own coffin.” He beams at her. Ruby throws several napkins across the restaurant. 

“Can we go solve a murder, please? I’m sure Madam Mayor is very busy.” Emma takes a deep breath, glancing at a still-smiling Killian and the slight flush to his cheeks. She’s a little proud she put that there. “Yeah,” she nods. “Let’s go solve a murder.”

[robotslenderman]

Still only partway through CP77.

Spoilers for the Death’s Head questline.

Warning: this involves my V ignoring canon, having a mental breakdown and expressing it by attacking poor, poor fucking Judy.

So like

My V was a complete fucking mess after the Heist and what happened there. Her best friend (and crush) was dead, she almost died, and she had a fucking terrorist in her head who could TOUCH HERRRR and had hijacked her body and hurt her, and she was going to die in a month and slowly lose control of her body to someone who wanted to hurt her.

She. Was fucking. Terrified. Even when Johnny offered an olive branch she didn’t trust him at all (something Judy would come to relate to, although my V hasn’t yet noticed the parallel).

So when Judy refused to give her any information on Evelyn?

V, who was absolutely scared for her life and having a mental breakdown after the death of her best friend, went to visit Judy.

With a baseball bat.

And used it.

I know this doesn’t make it better at all, but V did hold back a bit -- didn’t hit the head, pulled her punches on the body and spine, and mostly went for the legs. If any permanent damage was done, it wouldn’t be to Judy’s brain, it wouldn’t be to her hands or arms. Better she disabled Judy’s ability to walk if she went too far than fucking lobotomising her or fucking up her hands.

How fucking considerate of her, I know. V basically wanted to scare the shit out of her, made her think that other people were hunting down Evelyn (”if you don’t give me this information, I’ll just fucking kill you. I don’t need you. I can wait for someone else to find her first and drop in on them. So you better talk because otherwise you’re not getting out of here alive”), and made a big song and dance about how the only reason V wasn’t going to fucking annihilate Judy on the spot was because Jackie would never forgive her for turning into a complete monster.

Anyway. Poor Judy quickly blurted out the information about Clouds once she realised V was not fucking around. V threatened her again, then got the fuck out. And obviously hasn’t been back to Lizzie’s since.

When she calmed down she wrote Judy an apology letter. (I told my friend this. She was like “your V is fucking psycho.” Yeah.) She was like “look, I know an apology doesn’t mean jack fucking shit after what I did to you, but... idk man. send me what you owe the ripperdoc and I’ll square my debt to you.”

Yeah V, because contacting someone you fucking traumatised is a BRILLIANT FUCKING IDEA, I bet Judy wouldn’t be afraid AT ALL to send you a bill!

(Naturally, Judy didn’t reply and just sent some of the Mox. V gave them everything she could spare and told them to come back in a week for the rest. They roughed her up. She fought back enough to defend herself and eventually toss them out, but didn’t attack them because she knew that wouldn’t help Judy.)

Needless to say, when she ran into Judy at Fingers’ place Judy was NOT at all happy to see her and didn’t want to work with her at all. V basically gave her all the details she uncovered at Clouds -- by now she was actually pretty damn worried about Evelyn and she’d started coming to terms with the fact she was going to die, so she was far more concerned about finding Evelyn than getting anything from her, and was terrified Evelyn was dead.

But obviously Judy was still Mega Freaked Out and traumatised and wasn’t going to work with her. V didn’t offer, either. V didn’t try to scare Judy, but she was also a bit tetchy because Judy obviously didn’t want her looking for Evelyn still, and so V probably scared her a little still because V was like “look, I’m going to find her whether you like it or not, get out of my way. She is in big fucking trouble and I don’t have time for this.”

Judy followed her into Fingers’ room and watched her deal with Fingers. V was actually pretty calm when dealing with Fingers, then realised how fucked up it was that she beat up Judy but not this asshole, so she beat up Fingers too.

Nice, V. Way not to freak out Judy even more.

But obviously, Judy didn’t want to work with V like she did in canon. So V got the snuff film by herself. Unfortunately, she needed an editor, so this was the point where she reached out to Judy again. Sent her a text message that basically said, “This film could help me find Evelyn. Give me a time when you won’t be in and I’ll use your stuff to get into edit mode and track them down.”

V’s dumbass logic: “she probably doesn’t want to see me but I need this information, so I’ll just tell her to keep away from me.”

Judy’s response was “oh my god, even if you could do this without someone on the outside what the hell makes you think I’d let you on my tech unsupervised?!”

(V: “Oh. Right.”) “Do you want me to find Evelyn or not?”

“That’s not what I meant! Come in, but I’m operating the computer and I’m putting Mox in there with us, so don’t you dare try to intimidate me.”

“... Yeah that’s a much better idea. I just knew you wouldn’t want to be alone with me.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

(V, thinking a joke might put her at ease a bit, not realising it just makes her look like a psychopath anyway.) “It’s okay, I’ll leave the baseball bat at home.”

(Judy is not at all amused.)

So the questline continues the way it does in-game, except with a very jumpy Judy. It’s when they find Evelyn that Judy is freaked out enough to be distracted from V. V carries out Evelyn, speaking to her softly.

At this point V had totally come to terms with the fact she was going to die. And Evelyn was a complete fucking mess, and Evelyn was not going to talk even if V wanted her to. So my V didn’t even bother with that, just helped Judy get Evelyn the hell out of there.

Once Evelyn was settled in Judy’s apartment (it’s only later that Judy realises “oh shit, now V knows where I live”) Judy and V’s conversation went almost exactly as it did in canon, with the exception of the more trusting/loyal responses Judy gives you, which Judy simply omitted. V also elaborated on some of the stuff in her letter -- that V was dying because of the relic slowly overwriting her presonality, and she’d hunted down Evelyn because Evelyn could give her a lead to go on to reverse the process. But V still didn’t make any attempts to talk with Evelyn. V knew she was going to die. She wasn’t going to compound Evelyn’s trauma even more. When Judy expressed concern that other people were hunting Evelyn, V was like “oh, shit, no, actually, I was bluffing.”

“...”

“I wasn’t going to kill you. I just wanted to make you think I was. I don’t know of anyone actually trying to hunt her down, and I didn’t run into anyone at all while chasing up this information on her. So either she’s in the clear and nobody wants her, or they’re being damn subtle about it. Either way, since she’s in this condition she’ll be staying inside and lying low, so that’ll help her shake off any tail she might have.”

V gave Judy some more money, though not the full amount because she’s still scraping the eddies together -- told Judy she’d make sure she was fully reimbursed before she went. Told Judy if she or Evelyn needed anything more, call her.

...

By then, after seeing her with Evelyn, Judy is not sure about my V.

After the baseball bat incident, Judy thought that my V was an unhinged violent lunatic. I mean, V was an unhinged violent lunatic -- but she’d thought my V was that by default. But obviously my V showed Evelyn a lot of empathy and concern -- genuine empathy and concern, not V trying to go “LOOK HOW NICE I AM” to Judy. She knew V wasn’t trying to show false empathy to butter up Judy because V got pissed at her in Fingers’ office for getting in the way of her trying to find Evelyn to make sure Evelyn was okay. That is, pissed at her for that specific occasion of Judy getting in the way -- V was definitely not checking on Evelyn’s wellbeing when she visited Judy with the baseball bat, but Judy tried to discourage V from going after Evelyn again at Fingers’ office and V’s response was pretty much “oh fuck OFF, she’s in a really bad situation and needs help.”

So Judy was like, okay, there’s two possible judgements you can make about V:

V is one of those people who seems absolutely lovely until she gets in a bad mood, which is even more fucking terrifying because that makes her unpredictable.

V legitimately was in the middle of a mental breakdown and Judy just happened to be really fucking unlucky in that she was the convenient target. V had said this in her letter but obviously Judy was like “What the FUCK did you really send me an APOLOGY LETTER for almost BEATING ME TO DEATH” and hadn’t really taken it seriously, but now she’s starting to think V might have actually told the truth.

Judy is hoping it’s the latter but she’s not holding her breath, and also you have to remember that even if it was a mental breakdown... it showed her exactly what V was like when she was having a mental breakdown, and therefore meant V was perfectly fucking capable of doing it again.

(Meanwhile V was thinking “If she knows I was having a mental breakdown then she knows she doesn’t have to be scared of me doing it again.” No, V. You’re wrong.)

Judy is less spooked after seeing V in action with Evelyn, but she’s still very wary of her. But after V helped her with Evelyn, Judy told her not to worry about the rest of the eddies and just accepted what V gave her then and there. V almost pushed it, but realised Judy probably didn’t want to feel indebted to someone who beat her up with a baseball bat, so she dropped it.

V later sent Judy a weighted blanket for Evelyn to sleep under. “I’ve got one, it helps when I’m stressed. It won’t make her any better, but it might give her a little comfort.”

So right now, V and Judy have an uneasy truce. V keeps her distance from Judy unless she has to, except to occasionally ask after Evelyn, and Judy keeps her distance right back.

V is, however, not sucking up to Judy or grovelling to her. All she wanted was to let Judy know she didn’t have to be scared of her (although again, Judy is perfectly fucking aware that even if it was an actual mental breakdown then yes Judy should be scared of V having another one), that Judy didn’t have to worry about V going back to have another go at her.

V’s not going to make a huge deal about what a horrible person she was. She’s... well. Even if she thought it would help, she’s got a month to live unless the omega blockers give her more time. She’s not going to wear a hair shirt over this. She gave Judy some funds for the ripper doc, she’s apologised (even if an apology feels awfully pathetic), and she’s kept away from her.

Now she’s going to go back to chasing up leads, because Evelyn is in no condition to help. Because Judy released her, she’s been able to pay off her debt to Vik, and now she’s scraping up funds to pay Rogue for help and trying to talk Hakemura out of that fucking parade because that idiot keeps trying to get himself killed and she has to stand by to haul his ass out of the fire.

[aliceslantern]

Give/Take, a Kingdom Hearts Fanfic, Epilogue

Ienzo has been too busy since the war to be overwhelmed by the past. But with little progress to be made in his work with Kairi, old nightmares start to invade.

Riku is a glorified housesitter. Lonely and faced with no choice but to wait for a way to find his friends, he eagerly accepts when Ienzo asks him to help do repairs around the castle. Before long, the two strike up an unlikely friendship, united by their dark pasts and their attempts to be better people.

But just as they begin to consider something more... Kairi wakes up.

Ienzoku (Ienzo/Riku), post-Melody of Memory, slow burn. Updates Thursdays until it's done.

Chapter summary:  Ienzo moves on from Radiant Garden.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Still, Ienzo was sad to see Destiny Islands fade from behind them. It was raining here, too, and despite his initial worry about visibility Riku seemed nonplussed. “I’ve flown through worse,” he said. “Try to relax.”

But it was nearly impossible. The thought of going to the basement had his heart beating hard, a slick anxiety chasing away the joy and freedom he’d felt the past month. Ienzo took slow, deep breaths. After so many days in shorts and sandals, his normal clothes felt constricting, and Riku looked odd in his adventure wear.

The flight was both too long and too short. He’d accumulated a small bag of things in his time there--mostly weather-appropriate clothing--but he’d also brought along a few souvenirs that Kairi had helped him pick in an attempt to placate the others of his absence. And some foodstuffs he couldn’t get here. He couldn’t help it.

The day was clear, though cloudy, when they landed, and, Ienzo noted with a strange irony, when he disembarked it felt cold. He scoffed to himself.

Dilan was standing guard at the entrance. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he said dryly. “Wasn’t sure we’d ever see you again. With a bloody tan , too.”

Ienzo rolled his eyes. “Good day, Dilan.”

The castle felt massive and brutal, though Ienzo noted Aeleus had made some more progress with the paint. Though he’d cleaned his bedroom before he left, it smelled a bit dusty. He set down his things.

Procrastinating wasn’t going to help.

Riku squeezed his shoulder. “Ienzo?”

“I’m… I’m alright.” He found himself glad he hadn’t eaten much at breakfast. “Right. If you would just… give me a moment to change.”

“Change?”

“Yes.”

He nodded once. “I’ll be right outside.”

Ienzo took a deep breath. Took two. He went over to his wardrobe, took out the black slacks, the white shirt, the sweater vest. The boots, the ascot. With shaking hands he took his lab coat off of its hanger.

The apprentice garb felt heavy on him, and its fit was different; he must’ve gotten more exercise on the islands than he thought. He looked at himself in the mirror. “Right,” he said softly.

Riku appraised him when he came out. “Ready?”

“...As I’ll ever be.”

The walk down to the lab felt long. He realized he hadn’t even checked to see if Even or Ansem would be down there, but when they got down it was empty, the computer asleep, the room in semidarkness. Ienzo didn’t realize he was almost gasping for air until Riku squeezed his shoulder. “Are you sure about this?”

Wearily, Ienzo nodded. He approached the keypad. He typed in the default password, and the door slid open.

He wasn’t sure what he expected--darkness rolling out, running at him--but nothing happened. “I don’t smell or sense much,” Riku said. He drew his Keyblade. “Stay close, just in case.”

They walked down the long, long ramp to the second lab door. The air smelled musty, stale, but not much worse than that, the lights flickering unevenly down the hall. Ienzo felt shaky, weak, already choked up. At first he wasn’t sure if he were seeing things, shadows flickering. Riku surveyed the space warily.

He took slow, shaky steps. The offices were all the way at the end of the corridor, past all of the cells. Their doors were open, unoccupied, but the whole place was in disarray; mattresses torn to shreds, gouges taken out of the floors and walls, sinks and toilets ripped from their joints. “You kept people here?” Riku asked, in a neutral voice.

“...Yes.” He swallowed. “It takes some a long time to fall to darkness.” He imagined, not for the first time, how his subjects might have felt. Dazed, terrified, in pain. He did remember them screaming out--either in anger, in fear, or in grief. He remembered himself giving them psychological profiles as a child--some had thought he, too, was a victim and tried to save him, only for their horror to grow that much more when they realized he was apart of it.

The pain he’d inflicted echoed heavily around the room as the memories poured in. Xehanort, or Even, or Dilan gently nudging him to do this, that, or another awful thing. Wanting to do it without their prodding as well. Seeing his family members do so in turn.

“How many?” Riku asked.

Ienzo swallowed. “A little over a hundred. But… what we wrought here… spread across the world--the seeker of darkness’s artificial Heartless--”

Riku rested a hand on his back. “You were a child. If you were anything like me… they used you.”

Somehow Ienzo made it to the office. It was a large space, with filing cabinets to one side, a few computers to another, a printer in the far back. Chemistry supplies, glassware, and a fume hood were to the center right of the back wall. Black-topped worktables were also towards the back, a Bunsen burner left out connected to the gas line. In a lot of ways it looked untouched, like it was that hectic and horrifying day they’d been turned. A coffee cup sat on the table in the center of the room, its contents long evaporated. Papers were still spread across the desk, someone’s old, moldering lab coat on the back of a chair.

Ienzo’s knees gave out.

“Ienzo!” Riku cried.

He felt like he couldn’t breathe. It was all so… casual. Mundane.

This had been his normal. School days spent here, torturing other people, other kids, because he thought it was for the greater good. What were a few sacrifices for knowledge? To understand human nature?

He made an odd, guttural noise. “I’m sorry.” He sounded like a wounded animal. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Ienzo?” Riku knelt next to him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Look at me.”

The tile floor was cold and dusty under his hands. He wanted to rip the file cabinets from the walls and destroy everything--

“Look at me.”

Ienzo did so, breathing through his teeth. Despite it all, there was still somehow tenderness in Riku’s eyes.

“Apologizing can’t help them now,” he said. “But what we can do to help is to preserve the memory of who they once were.”

He felt so incredibly heavy. “I killed them.”

“Xehanort and the darkness made you. Weren’t these guys your only family? If you hadn’t listened, what would’ve happened to you?”

“I’d be alone.” His chest hurt. “I’d be an orphan.”

“It was all you knew. What happened to the Zo who forgave himself on the island?”

Ienzo looked down.

“Huh?” he prompted.

“Do you think I deserve forgiveness?”

“Yes. I do. I think you were a victim too. Just like I was one of my Ansem’s.”

Ansem had said the same thing. The pain bled out of him. Riku let him cry, and mourn the person he could’ve been if not for all this. “Alright,” he said at last. “Alright. Alright.”

Riku helped him to his feet and wiped the tear from his face. “Better,” he said gently. “Where are these files?”

“Over… over here.” His knees were still shaky. He pulled open the drawer. “Help me…” He hefted them over to the scanner. “Digitize them. So they never get forgotten.”

“Right. Of course.”

It was a tedious, annoying task, but seeing the images, the people , get uploaded into the system, Ienzo felt something like relief. Once it was all--finally--done, he checked with his phone and the network that the data was safe. “All these years,” he said softly. “We kept the results, the data, but this was all left here to rot.”

“Easier to forget the price that way,” Riku said. “We can do something with this.”

“I’ll talk to the others. See how they feel. But seeing as all this--” He spread his hands, “Is due to my influence… I think I can guilt them all into agreeing.”

“For some reason I don’t think they’ll need much persuading.” Riku kissed him once, lightly. “Are you ready to leave?”

He looked around the room. He noticed a document on the table with his childhood self’s handwriting. He touched it once, turned it over. “I think so,” he said. “I think so.”

---

“Ansem? Can I speak to you?”

The man looked up from his writing desk, startled to be called his name. “Oh, Ienzo, it’s so good to see you,” he said. “I feel as though it’s been ages. You look so wonderfully well. Did you have a good time?”

“I truly did,” he said. “There was a lot I learned. But I’d…” He exhaled. “I realized something.”

Ansem gestured for him to sit in the opposite chair, so he did.

“I recall you telling me I am one of the victims of what happened here,” he said slowly.

“Yes. I believe that is true.”

“Staying with Riku’s family… seeing what type of life he used to have, what I could’ve had… it… so much of it shifted my perspective.” Ienzo cleared his throat and knotted his hands. “I think I’ve started to forgive myself, but moreover… I… I want to do something to honor those we destroyed.”

Ansem’s face slackened a little.

“Riku helped me digitize the personal files of the victims. I feel like… by accepting responsibility openly… we can give the townspeople closure. Ensure their memories aren’t lost. We can’t bring them back, but using what we’ve learned… we can help the people here move forward. Help heal their hearts.” He spoke quickly, not at all encouraged by his expression. “Please, master. This is because of me. I want to do something--even if it is so simple as a memorial.”

A long pause. Ansem tapped the tips of his fingers together. “That is very wise, Ienzo,” he said at last. “I think it’s a good first move. I think myself, and the others, agree heartily.”

He took a deep breath. “Moreover… I think I would like to leave Radiant Garden.”

Ansem’s eyebrows shot up.

“I know it probably seems selfish--” He couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact. “I have so much to atone for. But being there, in Destiny Islands, I… I just need time, I need time to figure out who I can be, before I’m truly emotionally able to do all the work here that I need to. I’d like to move there and attend university.” He bowed his head and realized he was asking for permission. “I want to heal, and experience normalcy, and in order to do that in any meaningful way I have to leave. The memories are too painful. There’s too much unsaid.”

Ansem smiled kindly. “Ienzo,” he said. “Why are you trying to convince me?”

He looked up.

“I think that would be wonderful for you,” he said. “I always thought you were so young to be weighed down by so much. I’m your father. Of course I’m going to support whatever you think you need.”

“Thank you.”

“I just have to ask…” He chuckled a little. “This isn’t just because of the boy, is it?”

Ienzo blinked. “I do love him, but no,” he said. “I’m not going just to be with him. ...Though that will be a perk.”

“You have no idea how much it soothes me to know you’re beginning to move on,” Ansem said. “For the longest time I felt like I’ve damned you. Whatever I can provide--money, an official letter, name it.”

“I still have to figure it all out. They just barely know of other worlds. How would they deal with an immigrant? I don’t think forged papers would be good enough.”

Ansem sat back. “I seem to recall a good friend of your beloved has sway with the mayor,” he said.

“Kairi,” he said. “I completely forgot.”

“You may want to start there. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to introduce you.”

“...Yes.” Ienzo was dizzy. “Yes. That’s a good place to start.”

---

“You’re what. ” Even’s nostrils flared.

“I’m leaving, Even,” Ienzo said. As much as he’d braced himself for this conversation, he was still not looking forward to Even’s reaction. “I just… I need time. I need space. I need to learn how to be me… and I can’t do that here.”

Even sniffed. “The boy’s been too much influence on you. All of the tenderheartedness, the ideas… Life won’t be easy, Ienzo.”

“But it will be normal,” he said. “I think that’s what I need in order to begin to heal. A… controlled environment. A vacuum.”

This made him soften a little.

“ I need to have control,” he said. “And if I stay here, for now, I’ll only be reminded of when I didn’t have that. It’s not forever. Or maybe it is, that is yet to be determined.”

Even sighed. “I see,” he said. “Ienzo… child… there’s so much I have to do to make up to you, and you’re just leaving ?”

Ienzo smiled. “Then support my decision,” he said. “Moreover, with the phones… it’s not as though I’ll never see you again. And we can still work together, as well. I think… one of the things you can help me do is spearhead the memorial with me.”

Even took a breath.

“I know you want to atone just as much, if not more, than I do. Help me accept their pain, Even, and make sure they don’t get forgotten. And that nothing like this happens again.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “Alright.”

“Thank you.” He turned to leave, but Even spoke.

“It is… easy, to get caught up in the guilt and the grief,” he said, “And let it paralyze one. So often I feel as though I’ll never have enough time to even begin mitigating the damage I’ve done to this world.” His green eyes were sharp, reddened at the edges. “My mistakes were mine more than yours were yours. Yet…”

“In the end you chose to give up everything in order to stop Xehanort,” Ienzo said. “You deserve to be here. You deserve life too, Even.”

He chuckled. “You have gotten soft, child,” he said. He squeezed Ienzo’s shoulder. “It suits you. But don’t let go of all that bitterness just yet. Use it. Build your new life just to spite us all.”

Ienzo nodded. “I likely shall.”

Even sighed. “I will miss you,” he said. “But I understand.”

“And I you, I think,” Ienzo said.

“Though if you’re going there we must come up with a way to protect your complexion,” he said, snapping into brightness, though Ienzo saw his eyes watering. “I’ll get to it at once. We can’t have you end up with… moles, or worse, you’re so fair.”

He chuckled. “Thank you, Even.”

“You’ll… you’ll take care of yourself?”

“I will if you will.”

Even smiled.

“Truly, Even, you lecture me for working too hard, yet I’m not sure you sleep.”

A beat, a moment. “Take care, Ienzo,” Even said. “I do hope this new life treats you well.”

He nodded. He nearly left, but acting on impulse, he hugged Even once, quickly. “I’ll be back to collect that sunscreen, I’m sure,” he said. “I’ll see you before I leave.”

“Yes, yes, leaving me with more work, as always.” A smile.

---

The apartment had come pre-furnished, but was cramped. The sink leaked. Most of the microwave buttons did not work, and the electric stove heated unevenly. If Ienzo was not quick to shower in the morning, the other flats in the building used up all the hot water.

It was run-down, but it was his, and he loved it.

Riku groaned a little when he got up. “Why,” was all he said.

“I have to get to work,” Ienzo said. “I told you last night I’d be getting up early and if you wanted decent sleep to go home. I warned you.”

He sighed heavily. “To be fair, after what we did, I didn’t think I could move.”

He rolled his eyes and went to go shower. He’d made it for the hot water, though under the wire. When he came back out to get dressed Riku had pulled the blanket over himself, like a burrito. “Don’t you have class to get ready for?”

“Yes, and if I don’t go now I’ll be late.” Still, he didn’t move.

“The last thing I want is for you to become a ne’er do well on my watch,” he said. He grabbed his apron from the closet door handle.

“ Fine. ” He got up and started putting on his discarded uniform. “As long as I can be the first customer. You’re not going to make me wait outside until open again, are you?”

“The last time I didn’t my manager was unhappy.”

“You are the worst sometimes.”

Ienzo smirked. “You still keep coming back.”

The left the apartment together, down the rickety narrow staircase. The sun was just starting to rise. The days, lately, seemed long; but they were full, and Ienzo no longer dreaded them. He found the keys in his bag and unlocked the cafe’s door. “See you in half an hour,” he said breezily to Riku, who just rolled his eyes and sat at one of the outdoor tables.

Most days he didn’t mind this work. Opening the cafe meant he got out of work early, leaving the day open for his classes, or seeing people, or simply existing in this strange city. It wasn’t forever--he had reason to believe he’d be offered a student research position at university, and that would cover most of his living expenses. Ansem had given him money, but he didn’t want to touch it unless he had to.

Sometimes admittedly if he was having a frustrating day--if customers were awful to him or the espresso machine was on the fritz yet again --Ienzo felt his genius was being wasted being a barista. But most of the time, he liked the work, baking and making coffee the most. It was objective, harmless. I wanted normal, he’d think.

He counted in the drawers, put the breakfast pastries in their displays. Warmed up the machines and made coffee. He’d been promoted to keyholder when the manager saw how efficiently he was able to work, and that meant opening shifts. Sometimes on breaks he’d sit with a book and watch the people go by.

He hadn’t realized life could be gentle.

He saw Riku making faces at him through the window, and though he knew it was unnecessary, Ienzo waited until it was six on the dot to let him in.

“You’re a horrible boyfriend,” Riku said.

“Sure I am. Your usual?”

“You’re bankrupting me.” He placed a note on the counter. He made Riku’s latte and handed him the usual buttered croissant, and before the morning rush, sat with him to have his own breakfast. “So, later,” Riku said. “Couple of us are getting together at Sora’s. You in?”

Ienzo sighed. “I’d love to, but I have to finish that paper. I’ve procrastinated enough.” He seemed to be angling towards a degree in psychology with a minor in literature. He could use this to help people--he was trying to help Sora, who seemed to at least be more willing to open up. It was a start.

“Come anyway.”

“Then I’d have to stay up all night.”

“...Like you haven’t done that before.”

“Anyway, don’t you have a test to study for?”

“So?”

Ienzo sighed. “I’ll come, but I’ll be late.”

Riku leaned over and kissed him. “I should try to grab the ferry. Looks like you’ve got customers.”

---

There were already a few people over at Sora’s by the time Ienzo had done enough schoolwork to justify going. “Oh, you made it!” Sora said.

“And I brought snacks.”

“Yay, snacks!”

“Easy to please, as always,” Ienzo said, and Sora stuck out his tongue.

All of this wasn’t easy, but it was slowly getting easier. Sometimes Ienzo felt he was living a lie, not disclosing his past to everyone he met. As he made true, real friends here, it became apparent that this would be something he had to figure out how to deal with. Darkness still poked out from time to time.

There was some kind of movie playing on TV; Sephie and Tidus were arguing over what to watch. “But this is the good part!” Sephie said.

“I don’t care, it sucks.”

Someone had put on music, an upbeat pop song. Only Riku and Ienzo were of age to drink, but somehow someone had brought some wine. A normal Friday. His phone chimed with a text; a file from Even. Call me. Ienzo sighed and went onto the balcony. “Do I even want to know what time it is for you?” he asked, as prelude.

“This is what we’ve come up with,” Even said. “Can you let me know what you think? If it passes your muster?”

“Even, you know it’s better if these things are symbolic. It’s more meaningful that way.”

“I know, I know, I know, I’ve heard enough from your father.”

“I do look forward to seeing it,” he said. “The notes from the committee were helpful, at least. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Out and about, are you?” Even asked.

“Ah--quite.”

A pause. “You’re eating well, and all that?”

He smiled. “Yes, Even.”

“Because you know I raised you to--”

“I promise I’m getting all my fruits and vegetables.”

“Right. Ah.”

“Go sleep, Even. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“As long as you do.”

He hung up. The moon was full, and it was glinting on the ocean. Ienzo heard the back door slide open. “What are you doing here, all alone?” Riku asked.

“Even called me. He has a new draft of the memorial.”

“Oh,” he said softly.

Ienzo smiled. “It’s alright. I think we’re getting close.”

He offered him a glass of wine, which Ienzo took. “Are you glad you came after all?” he asked him.

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“I just… I dunno. I want to make sure you’re happy.”

“Well, I am.” He chuckled a little. “As much as I can be. It’s just that… sometimes the darkness still… comes out.” They both nightmared, occasionally. Sometimes Ienzo heard Riku cry out in his sleep for Sora or Kairi.

“It… does.”

“Are you happy?”

“As much as I can be.”

Ienzo nudged him. He rested a hand on Riku’s waist.

“I’m just glad to… have time,” Riku said. “I think I’m understanding that… it’s not all gonna get snatched away.”

“Good. I told you as much, though I know why…” He sighed. “Sometimes I still feel like I’m going to wake up in that… stark white castle. But then I wake up with you.”

Riku kissed him. “I can’t wait to figure it all out together.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

The door opened again; Kairi was smirking. “Alright, lovebirds. Do you want to want to play dominoes or what?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Ienzo said, “I’m going to wipe the floor with you all.”

“Easy there, killer,” Riku said.

And they went inside, to the rest of their lives.

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

Kars anon here! I love all these mysterious fate words, but I MUST go with Propitiate !

Oh, for God’s sake.

I’m sorry this took so long!  This also turned into an absolute monster of a fic, haha wow.  No worries if you guys haven’t read the first part of it.  If this readmore doesn’t work, on God I’m going to march into the offices of tumblr staff and tear down their servers board by board.

i.  it is perilous to live past the end of your myth.

In the land you were born, there is a flower that grows only in places that blood has been spilled.  It’s noted for its alacrity in covering battlefields; in wars long past, the day after battles was specifically set aside so the combatants could bury their dead before the flowers did.  They featured prominently in stories, these flowers, as symbols of mercy in the face of horror.  Of the world’s willingness to move on and heal.

You mentioned this to your Hamon master in passing, on a moonless night as the two of you picked over the mass grave of a vampire’s recent gluttony.  Their face was half-shadowed in the torchlight as they considered your words, but the look you caught was unmistakably perplexed, and then quietly sober.

“Flowers are flowers, child,” they had murmured, staring into the glazed-over eyes of the corpse at their feet, “nothing they do is borne of nobility or wickedness, only need.  Don’t make the mistake of seeing grace or malice in what is merely survival.”

It was a strange thing to say, looking back.  To be honest, after the rush of what happened next—the hunt for the vampire, and the desperate fight that ensued—you’d forgotten your master’s remark entirely.  So why has this memory resurfaced so unexpectedly and with such clarity in your dying moments?

Perhaps you’re wondering whether the flowers will take you when you’re gone.  

“…eep pressure on th…”

…You’re not familiar with this memory.  The speaker isn’t anyone you know, and their words are obscured by the pain tearing its way through your mind, pulsing from your throat.  Whatever it is they’re saying, you can’t say you’re too interested in listening; comfortable nothingness beckons, where there will be no fear or shame or failure, and you find yourself sinking into it with something approaching eagerness.

“…in the lungs…ain the fluid—“

Something spears your body, neatly sliding between your ribs, and like a harpoon drags you back from the brink of oblivion.  Cough after agonized cough is forced out of your raw throat, racking your body.  There’s no relief in your lungs as the breath you take tears at your insides, but someone presses on your chest, forcing you to do it anyway.  You thrash—you can’t help it—though it’s impossible to tell whether your eyes are open or closed, and your upraised arms are easily pinned down; you barely had the strength to raise them, let alone actually fight off your unseen attackers.  They’re saying something again, in words muffled by the encroaching darkness, but all you can think about is there’s pressure on your throat again, and you can’t breathe, and the only thing that can possibly mean is that you didn’t get the collar off after all.

It’s this thought—not the pain, not the lack of breath—that loosens your grip on reality entirely.  When oblivion takes you, you welcome it.

ii.  do you not live?  badly, but you live.

The transition from sleep to wakefulness is instant.  You startle—not from your nightmares of a flood of blood or a mountain of bodies, but from the phantom touch of a cold kiss pressed against your cheek—and find yourself face to face with a wide-eyed young man, frozen in the act of setting a glass of water on the nightstand beside you.

“Um,” he says.  Belatedly, you realize you’ve grabbed him by the front of his shirt and gracelessly release your grip, too surprised to be face-to-face with someone living.  Breathing.  

He takes a quick step back.  Silence reigns as the two of you stare at each other.  His posture shifts from defensive to awkward hesitation, but you barely notice; you’re too busy watching the rise and fall of his chest, suspicious that this is some strange illusion, or perhaps that you were awake before and this is the dream now.  At last, he speaks.

“This was for when you woke up,” the words are hesitant, “but uh.  You can have it now.  If you want, I mean.”

He’s holding out the glass.  Some of the water spilled over when you pulled him forward, but there’s still plenty to drink.  The surface of the water almost sparkles in the late morning sunlight coming through white cotton curtains…curtains.  Stupidly, you finally take your eyes off the man to look around you.  

You’re in a bed, an actual bed, a sensation so alien to you now that you can barely register the softness of the sheets.  For whatever reason you’ve been propped up with pillows, so you’ve been sleeping almost sitting upright.  There’s a window to your side that admits bright sunlight, but the curtains are mostly drawn and you can’t see outside, only that it’s daytime.  The air is warm and still, and smells of the living.  

The glass is still within reach, when you turn your head to look at the man again.  He didn’t take it away.  In fact, he hadn’t moved at all, like you’d turn on him if he moved wrong.  

When you take it from him, and see your reflection in the surface of the water, you instantly understand why.  Someone had taken the time to brush your hair and wash your skin while you were asleep, but they couldn’t do anything about the rigid alertness that tensed your body, the bluish tinge to your lips, the look in your eyes that would have been more at home on a feral animal.  You were still that desperate survivor from Kars’ pit, you were merely cleaner, with thick gauze around your throat instead of the collar.

You want to apologize.  You don’t know what for, or even to who, but the words won’t come.  Your reflection trembles; you force your eyes to look at something else and bring the glass to your lips.  The drink feels like a balm, cooling you from the inside, arresting the fearful beating of your heart into something more tranquil.  

“Thank you,” you say once you’ve finished.  You don’t wince at hearing how horrible your voice sounds, but that’s only because you’re too tired.  There’s a strange heaviness in your chest that isn’t melancholy, and as you recline back into the pillows, trying to lie more flat, it only worsens, threatening to smother the breath from your lungs.  The young man watches you attempt to force yourself upright for a moment, and then moves to help, readjusting the pillows at your back.

“We had a doctor look at you when you came in.  You were in a really bad way, um…we weren’t sure whether you were going to die or not.  It looks like you won’t, but you can’t strain yourself or lie down, and you need to call for us if your heart feels strange.  The doctor said it was pl—pul—“ he makes a face as he tries to recount whatever medical term he overheard, but you aren’t listening; something far more important has your attention in a stranglehold.  

Your breathing is right.  It’s slow and deep and even, the movement radiating throughout your body in the way you were taught.  

Your breathing is right.  But the Ripple isn’t there.

iii. love did not make you gentle or kind.

“You sure you should be doing this?”

The gauze is heavy with the sunlight beating down on you and too tight around your throat, but it’ll be another day or so before it can be replaced, so you resist the urge to tug at it and try to forget it’s there.  

Mateo—the man who was with you when you woke up—is older than you, though not by much.  Taller than you, though not by much.  His skin is tanned and his hands are calloused, but his ignorance of the darkness you spent your life fighting gives him an almost childish vulnerability in your eyes.  For him and the rest of this village, vampires and the undead are nothing more than ephemeral myth; the recent disappearances of distant villages nothing more than particularly aggressive raiders, or a disease.  They see the storm on the horizon and think it distant, that it will not swallow them up in the course of a single night.

You know better.  

A lot of good that does you.

“It’s just breathing, Mateo,” you say after a long pause.  Conversation comes slowly to you, he’s noticed, probably assuming it’s out of reticence.  You’ve become so unused to conversation that you’re having to force yourself to pay attention to what people tell you, instead of tuning it out by default.

…speaking of, he’s been saying something else while you were thinking about this.  You have the decency to look apologetic.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Mateo gives you a hesitant smile.  “I said I’d still be more comfortable with you doing this ‘breathing’ thing in the shade.  You don’t look too good.”

 You believe him.  You’ve been avoiding your reflection whenever you could in the day or so you’ve been awake, but there’s a constant low ringing in your ears and your skin is clammy to the touch, and a horrible pervasive weakness in your lungs.  If you hadn’t been soaking up the afternoon sunlight all this time, you’d have to give serious thought to the idea that you were somehow undead.

Unbidden, your hand goes to your bandaged throat once more.  Mateo graciously pretends he wasn’t watching you, and instead gestures to the nearby trees.  

“Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

A lifetime ago, you would have snapped back, would have impressed upon him the significance of your martial art and the power your techniques belied.  In this moment, however, you simply step under the flowering boughs, sheltering in their shade like he asked.  There’s no longer any urge to grandstand or prove yourself; simply the will to do.    

And so you do.  You forget the curious eyes on you and force yourself to relax, stretching as much as your ruined body will allow, letting the tension flow out of your body.  Your heartbeat is erratic from the embarrassingly short trek to this grove, but as the seconds pass it begins to settle, becoming the meter by which you measure breaths.  One, two, three…the motions of your arms are practiced, familiar, but most importantly gentle, as you begin the most basic Hamon exercise you can remember.

You don’t simply wait for your life energy to manifest, you call on it, and when it doesn’t come you focus your thoughts on the process more and more, drawing deep into the well of your soul…and when you don’t find it, you pull deeper still.  You take another deep breath, ignoring the protest from your weekend lungs, and keep trying, keep pushing, like your life depends on it…

…because it does.  The mechanism of the collar is complicated, even more-so when you can’t examine it through anything but touch, but with enough daylight hours to yourself you think you’ve come to understand it.  The abomination keeping you here is frustratingly inventive.  In fact, if it wasn’t playing its sadistic game of cat and mouse, you wouldn’t have survived the first night wearing it. Would have been overwhelmed entirely by the hordes it insisted on throwing at you.  Fortunately—or unfortunately—it entertains bizarre delusions that it can bring you to heel.  Force you to serve it.

And it is in that folly that you have your chance.  It’s a desperate gamble, suicidal; the more you draw upon your Hamon techniques, the more the collar’s stranglehold tightens in response.  The trick, then, is to not attempt to build strength gradually, but to force the mechanism in one explosive burst, and pray that you can tear the thing apart in the second you have before your neck is crushed completely.  It’s your only chance.  It’s all you can do.

You wait for mid-day, when the sun is at its apex, burning away the disgusting slough of undead flesh pooled around your ankles.  You wait for the time nothing borne of the night could hope to stop you, and then in one sudden motion you breathe, flooding your muscles with the burn of power, straining your lungs even as the vice-grip of the collar makes stars swallow your vision, even as something inside you snaps—

Your breathing stutters out into a guttural, horrible cough, one that tears at the inside of your throat and forces you to your hands and knees.  Driven by frantic instinct, you claw at the cracked earth, trying to propel yourself back to your feet—I’m not done I’m not done I’m not done—but something else inside you gives out, and you collapse even farther, almost kissing the ground with each heaving breath.  

Mateo is alarmed, by the shouting you can vaguely hear as he rushes to your side, but all you can think about is the frothy sputum dripping from your lips, the iron bite of blood filling your mouth.  You hadn’t merely brushed over a healing wound in your attempt to reaffirm your grasp on Hamon, you’d reopened it, and instead of the strength you expected you found only…this.  

Someone’s talking to you.  You force yourself not to tune it out.  “Easy.  Easy.  Oh my god—you said you were just breathing—can you stand?  I’m going to help you up, we need to get you back to the—”    

You can’t get up.  There’s no strength in your legs.  You lower your head, trying to force yourself to move, but it isn’t breathlessness that’s holding you in place.  You can’t stand because you aren’t here; your body is half somewhere-else, in a place where there is no sun or life or hope, as a powerful arm wraps around your waist and pulls you away.  Mateo is saying something as he half-carries you away, but it’s a low voice you hear instead, sweet in its cruelty.  This can’t be the limits of your strength, can it?  Surely not.  He’d told you to give everything, and this couldn’t be it.  If you’d persist in this obdurate disobedience, though, there was a solution...

“Almost there,” you can hear Mateo puff as the floor of a threshold drags beneath your feet, “just need to hang on a little longer—“

“Almost there!” Kars laughed, a peal of delight as you vainly forced another zombie’s jaws off your arm, only for another to take its place.  The bodies that swarmed you threaten to bury you completely.  As you found yourself overwhelmed, the weight of the horde pinned your arms to your sides, forcing you onto your back, pressing on your chest and halting the breath that could save you.  “Struggle more.  Hate more,” the words wormed their way into your ears just as his finger traced the contours of your cheek, as the fumbling hands of the dead prised their way into your raw flesh.  “Obey!  Only then can you—“

“—rest.  I’m going to get you some water.”  A gentle hand pats your shoulder, and then is gone.  A door closes somewhere, leaving you alone in your room once more.  You find yourself staring at nothing, tracing the paths of dust motes illuminated by the beams of sunlight in front of you.  You hadn’t moved a muscle, not once, in all the intervening moments that had passed; not even those where you were somewhere else, still fighting for your life.  You hadn’t even tried.  

Should you be proud?  Or ashamed?

iv. you do not exist.  there is nothing left.

…someone’s talking to you.  Their voice had been drowned out by the soft light of the candles and your own thoughts.  You look up from what you’re doing, and have the decency to look apologetic.  

“Sorry.  Could you say that again?”

Mateo laughs, repeating himself without hesitation.  “I said you’re looking well.  Like, glowing well.  Hard to believe it’s only been three days.  If it weren’t for the—I mean, I could believe you were totally fine.”

“Hm,” you reply.  Small but significant progress from the lingering silence you used to offer instead.  

It’s true that you can now walk unaided and sleep fully lying down, but you’re far from the full strength you expected to enjoy by now, physically; a half-joking race with the village children yesterday left you all but bedridden.  The stitches holding the skin of your throat shut will need another few weeks before they can come out, you’re told, and they can’t promise that the scar will ever heal; that you won’t be carrying around your collar in some form, for the rest of your life.

As for your Hamon ability…you glance down at your hands again, cradling an inverted glass between your splayed fingertips.  The water within trembles, but stays in place, unable to cross the barrier of energy pulsing outward from your palm.  The sun set an hour ago, but the room is bathed in gentle light, pulsing in time with your measured breaths.  

You didn’t lose your gift…in fact, you’ve noticed the opposite of what’s happened to your physical body.  The near-death experience has torn apart instinctive limitations on your body, at the cost of control; your difficulty with the current exercise isn’t merely to keep the water in the glass, it’s to keep the glass intact at all.  To keep that gentle light from becoming blinding, from setting things aflame in its intensity.

“So that’s from that breathing thing you were so desperate to do, huh?” Mateo’s voice is full of a wonderment bordering on reverence, blissfully ignorant of the burden you manage.  “Hard to believe…it’s more like magic.  Something you hear about in stories.”

Not stories, Mateo, you think instead of say, bitterness poisoning the words, Tragedies.  

Mateo continues speaking—of the tales passed around his village, fables of heroes long past and encounters with beasts blown wildly out of proportion—and as he does so, you realize exactly why he will always be better off than you.  For him, monsters will stay stories, and his days will be full of bright nothingness.  The shadow of death, hanging unseen over all that he knows, will remain so; you will leave this village, taking it with you, vanishing back into the jungle, departing for that other world where you are only one of many fighting and dying to stem the vampiric tide.  You’ll fade from his memory—from all of their memories—as quickly as you came, a stranger with strange powers, bound for parts unknown.  With luck, nobody here will meet anyone like you ever again.  

That’s your plan, anyway.  For whatever bizarre reason, you’ve noticed that the people of this village, while helpful in preparing for your departure, aren’t in any actual hurry for you to leave.  The house you share with Mateo and his family is only because there isn’t space for you to have one of your own, and the guest room is yours indefinitely.  The villagers insist on learning your name, and in spite of yourself you find that you’re learning theirs.  

They have to know you’re dangerous, but they don’t act like it.  You could have convalesced by staying shut up in your room and taking your meals there, but they’ve insisted on having you at the table, eating with their families because they knew you had none.  The floral embroidery in your cotton clothes grows more elaborate with each day.  You learn to tell who’s approaching you by the sound of their footsteps.  If you hadn’t been keeping track, you would have believed that three years had passed you by, as opposed to only three days.

It’s…nice.  It’s really nice.  The gnarled, feral rage in your heart doesn’t cut so deeply when you see their smiles.  You tried not to let yourself get attached, but it’s easier to think of fighting now that you’re reminded that you aren’t alone in the world.

An unnamable emotion squeezes your heart.  The water trembles behind its barrier, violently.  You right the cup before it spills all over you, setting it back on your nightstand with a soft clink.  

“Hurry up and come to dinner,” Mateo extends a hand to help you up, and without hesitation you take it, getting to your feet.  “Rosa’s been telling everyone about that light trick you did with the garden, so don’t be surprised if they pester you to show it off again…”

You laugh at the thought.  When was the last time you did something like that?

The two of you walk in companionable silence out the door and into the warm evening air, toward the communal area of the village.  Hunting’s been unseasonably good, you’ve been told, so you can expect plenty of meat, and as you approach the communal dishes you think you can see the vegetables you helped grow.  There are flowers everywhere, scattered along the tables and hanging decorations.  Is something being celebrated tonight?

One of the village elders, making a plate nearby, laughs off your question, too preoccupied with what he’s doing to actually meet your eyes.  “In a way,” he says, but leaves it at that.  Mateo abandons your side to save you a seat with his family, leaving you to mill aimlessly within the little crowd.  Everyone is too busy finding their place or getting food to so much as look at you, leaving you free to wander aimlessly.  Perhaps it’s your proximity to the tree line, but you can’t shake the feeling of being exposed, so you pull back into the crowd and try to immerse yourself in the conversations around you.  

Apparently something of religious significance happened recently, because it’s all anyone seems to be talking about; whatever happened is an auspice of protection and good fortune.  It’s a welcome comfort to these people, in the light of dark whispers circulating about yet more villages disappearing and devastating illnesses destroying crops and herds.  The thought makes your gut twist in apprehension, souring the celebratory mood for you.

You’re so lost in your own thoughts, in fact, that details of what happened and when escape you; local superstition isn’t of real import compared to the actual danger out there, after all.  When you’re called over to sit with Mateo and his family, you go willingly.  When you see that no plate has been set aside for you, you shrug and figure that they assumed you’d fend for yourself; you’ll get one later.

When the village elder raises his glass and gets to his feet to make an announcement, you don’t think anything of it either.  There’s someone new sitting in the chair next to him, probably the guest of honor he plans to introduce, but you don’t really see this as something to be worried about.

That is, of course, until you actually register who it is.

You wish you did something dramatic.  You wish you let a glass fall out of your hand with an inelegant shatter, gave a bloodcurdling scream, jumped to your feet to attack, anything—anything at all—that could articulate to everyone around you how much danger they was in.

This is what you do instead: nothing.  You’re paralyzed, a helpless spectator to whatever tragedy is about to unfold, as the village elder continues his speech and Kars politely indicates his attention with the elegant incline of his head.

(All for the best, really.  What could you expect to do, in this state?  Get everyone here killed?  Some gratitude that would be.)

Something has your chest in a vice-grip, smothering the breath from your lungs and making your heartbeat ring in your ears, as the seconds pass in their inexorable march.

Kars—unmistakable, even from this distance, even with the linen wrap around his head—doesn’t seem nearly as concerned about the situation as you are.  In fact, he’s putting on an excellent show of pretending you aren’t even there.  His posture is completely relaxed, and while the clothes on his back are common enough for these parts, his physique is possessed of an unearthly beauty that makes him unmistakably inhuman.  

Inhuman…or godlike.  No wonder everyone around you is staring at him with reverence, though here and there you can see it’s tempered by fear, by that animal instinct you imagine prey have when faced with the beast about to devour them.  All remain in their seats, still and silent, as if moving would draw his attention.  Out of the corner of your eye, you see Mateo take his mother’s hands in his own and hold them tightly, and swallow that secret wish that he’d do the same for you.

(A darker, more morbid part of you makes a wish of its own: that Kars grow weary of his own, implacable cruelty, and discard the civilized charade that prevents you from simply attacking him.  Every second you have to sit here doing nothing is torture.)

As if hearing your thoughts, Kars finally looks at you—really looks at you, with that horrible hungry stare you’ve come to know so well—and smiles.  Apparently ready to end his game at last, he gets to his feet, and the village elder gives him the floor with a reverent bow.  Your hands grip the table in anticipation, almost unconsciously.

“Mortal stewards of this valley.  Friends,” he begins, speaking every word as if tasting it first.  There’s an undefinable quality to his voice that makes him sound as if he were both making a grand announcement and confiding in each individual personally.  “Let me first praise your peerless skill and unparalleled kindness.  Without them, my most precious consort would have almost certainly not survived their wounds.  I would have become inconsolable in my grief; instead, I find myself overcome with joy at our reunion.”

His eyes are on you.  Everyone’s eyes are on you, and it’s only this fact that gives you the presence of mind not to laugh with pure, unrestrained disbelief.  What madness is this?  The way he says it, he’s here to collect a favored pet.  That’s impossible, of course.  He’s here to finish what he started—to kill you and quite possibly everyone here, to take your powerlessness against him and really rub it in your face one final time.

“Now that they are well enough to return to my side, of course, you can all be left to live in peace,” Kars purrs.  He doesn’t need to look you in the eye to see that you’ve caught the underlying threat in his words.

(You should move.  You can’t.)

The whole world seems to let out the breath it was holding, but as you look around you realize that it’s not quite true.  What you felt was everyone trying subtly but desperately to look elsewhere, as if to hide that they don’t believe a word that came out of his mouth but are powerless to challenge him on it, to do anything but hand you over.  There’s a different weight to their silence, not a hope but a silent plea that you’ll play along, that he’ll be satisfied with taking you and leave the rest of them alone.

(You should move.  You can’t.)

You are not a coward.  Cowards would not survive the harsh path of Hamon, or the endless fight against the vampires.  Cowards would not survive Kars’ attention.  Cowards would thoughtlessly throw others in the path of the vampire in their bid to live another day, and you don’t do that—in fact, you barely resist as one hand and then another nudges at your back, pushing you to your feet, silently guiding you to take one step and then the other.  You are not a coward.  

(You are not a coward.  Why, then, in the depths of your heart, are you begging for anyone—anyone at all—to be standing in front of you, rather than behind?)

The people before you make way, giving every appearance of obeisance, but you can see in their downcast eyes that they are merely relieved that you’re choosing to play along.

(What chance do you hope for any of them to stand against Kars?  Why, then, are you finding it hard not to hate them even as you stalk past?)

You take every step as slowly as you dare, even with the insistent push of the villagers behind you.  If Kars is at all bothered by the wait, it’s clearly outweighed by satisfaction; the slow curl of his lips into a victorious smile might as well be a jubilant shout.  

At long last, you stand directly in front of him, and now it’s just you—nobody else dares to draw near.  It’s just as well, really.

Kars gives your body a long, slow once over, eyes lingering on the thick gauze around your neck, the clenched fists at your sides, the look in your eyes.  He hasn’t even changed his posture, still elegantly reclined, barely tilting his head to look up at you as you cast a shadow over his seat.

“Some things about you really can’t be changed, I suppose,” he murmurs, a cold whisper only for your ears, “Should I be proud, or disappointed?”

The barb hurts, but it’s a detached kind of pain, drowned out by the enormity of what you have to do.  “I’m coming with you,” you reply, and your voice comes out as a whisper—not because you’re trying to keep your voice low, but because you don’t have the strength to speak any louder, “so do as you said.  We leave these people in peace.”

He sits up, slowly, languidly, like a leopard about to pounce.  His arms open.  “Is that all I can expect for our joyous reunion?  Come, hero.  Won’t you embrace me?”

Your spectators are silent and unmoving, a human wall that blocks off your escape.  For a foolish moment, you entertain the idea of fleeing, but you discard the impulse about as soon as it registers in your thoughts.  

Another step.  Another.  And now you’re sinking, sliding into his lap, allowing yourself to be enfolded by stone-cold arms and breathless breath, in an embrace you know you won’t escape a second time.

He smells like flowers.

[chemicalmagecraft]

Foresight is 20/20 Chapter 12

Chikage

I axe kicked a giant rock in half. That was fun. I also found floating around not with demon sage cores but with glittery red fairy wings made from demon sage chakra to be enjoyable as well. Because I was pure chakra, I was actually a lot better at handling natural energy than weak, inferior carbon-based lifeforms and could absorb more without any kind of negative effects. Sure, there was some instability if I went too high, but it was nowhere near as bad as the side effects on a human, and I could expel the excess pretty easily. "Dang," Kouki said from where he was sitting on another rock. I turned to face m-him. "So I guess you're just default a lot stronger than me. Makes sense, you're basically a mini biju." I could tell through our connection that he was a little off about how he couldn't access the red chakra that was now me, but that was mostly overshadowed by his marvel over the potential of Demon Shadow Clone Jutsu, the jutsu that created me. He fidgeted a bit, causing his arm to mutate slightly, red scales forming instead of the frog limbs that comes from using toad oil as a medium. "Dangit." The demon sage cores orbiting him sucked all of the natural energy out of him, setting him back to square one.

I grinned and "sat" on the air in front of him. "You having trouble, bro?" Kouki had decided that with the extra control granted to him whenever we were separate, combined with the fact that he couldn't fall back on red chakra without me, that he should finally learn how to make sage chakra the right way.

He glared at me. "You know as well as I do that this isn't easy to do properly."

I grinned and started telekinetically messing with a leaf using my sage aura. "Do I really?" I spontaneously combusted it.

"Haha." He closed his eyes and stuck his tongue out in concentration.

"Right," I said. "Imma go see what else I can do." I melted into the ground, merging the energy that made up my body with the shadows of the grass. It turned out that, while I couldn't move fast at all when projecting myself as a shadow that didn't already exist, whenever I entered a real shadow, I could move... well, I didn't know how fast exactly because I hadn't gotten around to figuring out how to calculate that, but at the very least it was fast enough that it looked like teleportation even when Kouki pulled a little trick with the Shoraigan to slow down the "footage."

So yeah, I got to the the trees pretty dang fast. I flew out of the shadows in my "biju form," which was really just me as a fox with fur the color of my clothes with the exception of a "mane" the same color as my hair, and sliced a tree in half with my claws. I opened my mouth, compressing red and blue chakra in a way that just felt... right. Even with sage mode it was small and a little draining, but it was still a biju dama. I launched it at a tree, obliterating it into smoking mulch. I sighed at the relatively small AOE, but then grinned about the fact that I just made a biju dama. Unfortunately, my victory was cut short by Kouki calling for me to come back through our telepathic link. That meant it was time for our experiment, which he wanted to be whole for just in case something went wrong. I shrugged. "Guess it's for the best," I thought to myself. "Was probably going to just throw around dama 'til I ran out of chakra." I melted into the shadows and zipped off to Kouki.

kukukuku~

I sighed as I felt Chikage returning to me. It was reassuring to have my red chakra back, even if I didn't really use it that much. Still, I suppose I did have the demon gems to fall back on, on account of how my connection to other sources of my own red chakra was uninterrupted. I crossed my arms behind my back and turned around, my eyes closed. "Finally," I said. "A project months in the making, about to be fulfilled. I'm assuming you're here to watch, eh, Tenko?"

Ai laughed. "That's a lot less intimidating if we know you can sense us, kid." I sighed and opened my eyes. "And wasn't it only one month?"

I shrugged. "Felt like more. Might just have been from that one part where they read my journal..." I held my hands out in front of me and the giant scroll I'd taken to sealing as much demon Sage chakra into as possible once I'd filled the demon sage seal on my body, the Scroll of the Demon Sage, appeared floating in front of me through a summoning instead of a sealing on account of how its power meant I couldn't seal it in my inventory scrolls and actually keep anything else in it as well. "This is it. What might be the second most powerful thing in Konoha." The scroll unfurled slightly, revealing a seal tag that as of then contained most of its power. Uzumaki are really good at handling stupid levels of energy, okay? At least I'd also managed to complete my first mini biju dama paper bomb... "Are you ready to receive this power?" I asked Ai.

"Is this really necessary?" Tenko asked, worried.

"No," Ai and I both said at the same time.

"But really, what's the point of amassing an insane amount of dangerously powerful chakra if you don't infuse as much as possible into the best known person for taking in stupid amounts of chakra just to see what happens?" I elaborated.

Ai nodded and gingerly took the demon sage seal tag from its place in the scroll. "Right, so I'm guessing you have somewhere you want me to stand?"

I slung the scroll on my back and pointed over to an area I'd prepared in advance. "There. I've already set up four cores with orders to use the Four Violet Flames Formation should anything go wrong." A nice thing about having multiple potent sources of chakra at my total command, I'd found, was the fact that I could potentially use collaboration nin- or genjutsu without actually having to collaborate with anyone.

Tenko sighed. "That's not reassuring."

Before Tenko could actually object, Ai slapped the tag on her chest. "Toolatealreadyusedit!" She quickly shouted. The red lines of the seal tag began to glow orangey-gold, then started to spread to cover her entire body in a thick chakra cloak. She laughed maniacally, floating into the air as nine tail-like chains made of the same chakra sprouted from her backside. The chains spread to curl around the entire training ground, a red, domed barrier coming into existence at the edges. I don't know if she meant to or not, but her barrier materialized just before the shinobi that I'd had posted nearby via Sandaime just in case of a worst-case scenario, cutting them off.

"Kouki-kun, what did you do to my wife?" Tenko asked worriedly.

I grinned. "'Wife?' So did either of you finally pop the question?"

She flinched, then blushed. "I... haven't yet... I do have the ring, though."

I shrugged. "Hope for the best with you two. And by the way, I'm sure it'll go over fine." Ai's maniacal laughter grew louder, causing me to turn my attention back to her. She put her hands in front of her, as if she was holding an invisible ball. Oh. "A thought occurs to me," I said, making sure to keep my voice calm.

"That doesn't sound good..." As if on cue, Ai started to slowly form a disconcertingly familiar-looking chakra ball in between her hands. In addition to that, countless streaks of energy began to slowly form in the air, gravitating to the epicenter. That epicenter being a modified biju dama.

"So there was this one clan with a Kekkei Genkai that allowed them to passively accumulate natural energy and then use that to mutate themselves. Because they didn't work for it, though, the natural energy caused them to become uncontrollable, entering homicidal rages. Because of that, they were almost completely wiped out." At that point, I started to feel a slight tug on my chakra, though I was able to resist it.

"So what you're saying is..."

"She's drunk on power, yeah. Whoops."

"How, exactly, did you not notice that'd happen with your eyes?"

"Figured out a way to make sure that nothing bad enough I can't fix it will happen while still not spoiling me on what happens. Use exclusively that for my experiments now," I explained. I noticed a bit of chakra chain straying near me and had an idea. "Hang on, let me fix this." I tried to grab the chain with a chakra thread, but it was just sucked in, so I aborted almost immediately and just lunged at it. It was starting to get to the point where I needed to have my demon gems actively cling to me to make sure they weren't sucked in. That would be bad. Thankfully, I managed to grab the chain and my theory was right. Just like how Kurama still held some link to my red chakra and Kaguya still had some link to his chakra, I could feel my connection to the chakra in the modified Adamantine Sealing Chain. I grabbed it with both hands, wrapped one side around my arm, then tugged the two sides in opposite directions.

With a bit of willpower applied, one link snapped and got spaghettified by the still-growing ball of impending doom, leaving me with a really long chain of chakra that I could control wrapped around my arm. "Right, let's hope this works or Konoha probably becomes partially made of smoking crater," I said, glad that I'd picked one of the farthest training grounds from Konoha proper, then pulled a leaf out of Ai's new book and sucked the chain into my body, making sure to strip enough natural energy off of it that I didn't become a glittery garden statue. "Oooh," I grunted, then sucked in a breath. I noticed that with one chain down, the chakra-sucking had slowed back down, though I knew it was going to pick back up if I didn't do anything.

"Are you okay?" Tenko asked.

"Yeah, just a bit of a rush," I said. "Sorry. Well, here goes..." I concentrated on the chakra that I'd absorbed. After a few seconds, I was able to form two purple chains of chakra that emerged from my sleeves. I drew on the power I'd stolen from Ai to lengthen the chains significantly, taking the shortest possible paths I could to intersect her chains with my own. Once I'd gotten all of her chains, I tugged on the chakra in them, converting Ai's golden chains to my purple chains. The effect cascaded, eating away at all of her chains until her chains were fully turned, making the barrier fall and stopping the suction effect fully. I jerked my arm, causing nine chains to sprout from Ai's arms and wrap around the biju dama. I started retracting the chains back into my body, removing almost every last trace of demon sage chakra from Ai's body. Thankfully, she didn't fall on her face, as she was able to recover almost immediately and shoot some now non-glowing yellow chains into the ground and lower herself down gently.

"I have no idea what just happened, but I'm assuming it worked because I can make chains out of my chakra now," she said.

I nodded, concentrating on the ball of dangerously explosive chakra I was slowly reeling in. "Tenko, I need you to take the scroll off of my back and open it up a bit." She did as I asked, holding the scroll up so I could easily access it. I slowly put my hands on the scroll, converting the chain into the seal. The chain, no longer attached to my body, continued to reel in the demon sage chakra. As it did that, I placed my hand on the chain, removing the impurities the chakra gained from being in Ai's system. I greedily absorbed those bits of chakra. As I suspected, my body accepted it as readily as it did Shukaku's chakra.

"What exactly happened there?" one of the shinobi asked now that they'd arrived.

"Science," I answered.

"What were we even supposed to do about that?"

I shrugged. "Sorry, I didn't expect that to happen. I just figured Ai wouldn't have very good control of her chains at first. Turns out that that much sage chakra means going crazy, though."

"So I'm guessing I shouldn't use that seal for a super mode?" Ai asked after walking over to us. I swiped the empty tag that still stuck to her.

"No, if I segment it to lower the dosage, then it both becomes multi-use and lets you keep your sanity, at the tradeoff of power, obviously. Just make sure to use it for emergencies only. And while we're at it, I should be able to eventually teach you how to enter proper sage mode, which you could do any time with just a few minutes to charge up." I looked back up to survey the mostly concerned, but with one happy, faces looking at me. "I'd say that this little experiment has been a success."

kukukuku~

Yeah, I got chewed out by my dad. In hindsight, though, I really couldn't blame him. Thankfully, I was able to get off with just a tongue-lashing and promising to make absolutely sure to test out anything that could theoretically have a large blast radius by making a gem take it far away from Konoha and remote detonate it or just not do it at all. To be honest, though, I was bracing myself for a grounding, so I was actually fine with that. And he even organized a lesson on nature transformation for me. After giving me another lecture, this time on not doing things that could potentially destroy my hands or other parts of my body unless absolutely necessary. And so there I was, leaning on the wall of the Hyuuga compound courtyard. I'd made sure that there was a chain of shadows that Chikage could use to get away from me because I knew Kakashi was going to use that one chakra paper thing on me and I didn't want to have any interference from her/my power, yet still have her accessible once we started the lesson in earnest. "Sup," I said when Kakashi arrived.

"So you want to learn how to use nature transformation?" he asked.

I shrugged and licked my lips. "I already know how to use wind, but I'd like to learn at least the basics of the others."

"Right, learning it now if you have the chakra for it is actually probably a good idea." He pulled out a piece of paper. "I doubt you can do much with it at the moment, but at the very least, you'll be able to practice until you're ready for the big stuff." He used the paper, crinkling it. "This paper is made to test one's elemental affinity. Channel a light amount of chakra onto it and it'll react in different ways depending on what your primary affinity is. Mine's lightning, so the paper became wrinkled." He gave me a second piece of paper. "You try."

I complied, channeling a bit of my chakra into the paper. "Well what a coincidence," I said, referring to the fact that my paper was now as crumpled as his was. "We have the same element, don't we?"

"Yes, that's what that means. I suppose we'll start with the lightning exercises, then?"

I called Chikage back, and she reentered me without Kakashi even seeming to notice. For whatever reason, her chakra signature was muted whenever she was inside a shadow, and she could easily suppress her signature even more and spread herself out to lower the density of her chakra in the shadows, so the only way he would've noticed was when we joined or if his Sharingan was out. It would've been the perfect ability for stealth if not for the fact that she couldn't bring anything with her, and I was already trying to think of ways around that one little weakness. Well, there was also the little snag of how she needed shadows, but really, where aren't there shadows?

"Let's start this lightshow, then," I said with a smile.

kukukuku~

And now for something completely different.

A rabbit bounded across a field near End Valley. It did not know what its destination was, just that something was... calling to it. It stopped by the roots of a great tree and began to sniff at the ground. Whatever it was looking for, it was there. It found it after a few minutes of searching. A small red stone, barely a flake, that glowed with some unearthly light. Now that it could see it, the rabbit's every instinct screamed to get away, that this stone was a predator, but it couldn't stop itself. Its body wasn't its own anymore. The now-terrified rabbit tried to fight back with all its might as its head came closer to the gem, but to no avail. The stone already had a hold over it, it just needed to touch it and it would be over. A spectre of death seemed to emerge from the jewel of death, ready to embrace the rabbit. When the rabbit's head was close enough, the stone lifted from the ground and adhered to its forehead. The rabbit screamed as a foreign presence entered its body, burning away its very soul to make room for something else.

I grinned a rabbitty grin and hopped around a bit, testing out my new rabbity body. It was a shame that I could only gain a proper body by stealing it from a living creature, but what can you do? I sniffed at the ground with my new nose. The rabbit's sense of smell was different from my original's, but when I took over the rabbit's brain I gained complete access to all its memories, so I was able to adjust soon enough. Plus I noticed that I could understand rabbits now. I sent a telepathic message back to Kouki and Chikage.

"You find a body?" they asked.

"Yup. Rabbit. Surprisingly good chakra affinity, despite being wild," I replied.

"Cool. Right, you should probably act natural for at least a month, to build up plausible deniability." they instructed. "Then you can start doing supernatural stuff. Cannibalize the body and continue your mission."

I sent a scoff through our link. "I know what to do, I have all your memories."

"Stop being so sarcastic, you're not supposed to be me."

"Right."

"By the way, did you pick out a name?"

I gave a small rabbit grin. "Of course. If my first body after my 'resurrection' is to be that of a rabbit's, then why shouldn't my name be Usagi?"

"Cool. You'd better give at least one 'name of the moon' speech though."

"Certainly. I would never pass up such an opportunity." It may have purely been within my mind, but I was already preparing my cover by practicing my new mannerisms, at the very least those dealing with how I spoke.

"Right, I'ma get back to this stupid leaf, you go do your rabbit thing. Rabbit." I hopped around a bit, searching for some food. A deep cover assignment. It was going to be marvelous.

kukukuku~

I growled as I passed my chakra through the leaf. No matter what I did, it just wasn't getting wet!

"Did you try turning it off and turning it back on again?" Chikage asked me as she floated over me.

I rolled my eyes, cut off the flow, then let my chakra flow over the leaf like water once more. "Don't think that helped."

"Dude it's been a day," she said. "You're not Naruto, you don't have an army of clones to poorly manage yet still somehow get your thing done. Just take a deep breath, accept that this is going to take some time, and do the other three exercises that you actually did make some headway in. You don't have Tsunade-levels of control when we're unfused yet."

I stared at her for a second. "How are you taking this better than me?" I asked.

"I mean, two heads are better than one. I have the perspective that you're being a lil dummy."

I stopped trying to wet the leaf and started trying to set it aflame instead. Because I already had experience doing it with and as Chikage, it started to smoke after a few seconds. I removed my thumb, seeing a smoldering thumbprint on it. Chikage picked it up, then it just disintegrated. "Showoff," I griped.