#so much effort from much better people just to have me waste years more oxygen

[larry-ben-kenobi]

I just cannot escape the yearning to die

Its almost been a decade and if I think about it it still brings my mental space into the molten core of the earth

I'm just so tired of being depressed im not depressed like I used to be, though, it just gets duller because I'm so damn used to it unless i let myself think about how much I don't want to be alive

Bleh. Ive said it for years and still true, if I could find 18 year old me id tell him to do the attempt better, rather than anything about how life is worth it. It's been eight years and honestly it only got worse. Was supposed to have done it when I was 14 probably, and never bothered anyone.

Hate being such a stereotypical zoomer freak about my own existence though.

[cactusjoonie]

Too much

I figured pretty early on that people don’t pay attention to me. I was never one of those people that just shine and attract others to them like moths to a flame. I was just… there, until I realised that people don’t even see me. I could be next to someone and they wouldn’t even notice me. I was as invisible as a ghost. I consoled myself saying that it’s a good thing, that I could sneak around without any effort, that I could listen to people’s secrets without them knowing, telling myself anything to make me feel like I was in control of this. Then it hit me, I actually wanted to be seen. I craved the attention and approval of others so much that it hurt.

So I changed myself entirely. I stopped diminishing the light inside of me, hoping that this way, at least, I could find myself surrounded by people. With the personality change also came a style and appearance change. It did make me get more attention, but in all the wrong ways. Older men catcalling and staring intently on the street, people’s disapproval of my new style, people judging me based on my hair colours… but there also came “admiration for my courage to dress that way” from some people. Others simply didn’t care, and lastly, few truly understood me, perhaps other outsiders.

Still, even after all these changes, there were a lot of times when I simply didn’t exist. I was there, occupying space, just wasting oxygen trying to talk and make myself visible in any way, all my efforts in vain without anyone noticing my presence. Other times I would just be excluded when people tried to remember groups I was a part of. People forgetting my name, forgetting my age, forgetting where I’m from JUST when I felt like I was beginning to be a part of something.

One step forward, five steps backwards. I envied the people that were naturally gifted in the art of making friends and being liked. I envied the people that didn’t have to put so much effort into everything, who seemingly had everything handed to them by the Universe easily. Compared to them it seemed like a curse had been put on me. Everything I had ever done has never been rewarded the same way.

As the years passed, that resentment turned into anger and ultimately into a deep sadness and loneliness, one that very few understand.

Is it a crime to want to be liked? appreciated? loved?

I became desperate for human connection. From nothing at all, a mere ghost among people, I had become too much. Emotions out of control, talking faster and louder, trying to befriend everyone, whether good or bad, anything, just anything to make me feel something.

Yeah, it’s not a crime to want to be liked… right?

After every failed attempt my heart getting emptier and emptier. Crying in the middle of the night of the stairwell. Crying in my bed. Crying in my friends presence. Crying to my family. It seemed like the only thing I could do besides breathing.

“Your time will come, don’t worry!”

Words like these hurt a lot, especially when coming from someone who’s never struggled with this. I’ve waited my entire life. Perhaps it’s just not meant to be. So I console myself saying that maybe it’s for the better, that I don’t actually want or need anyone beside me, telling myself anything to make me feel like I was in control of this.

————————————————————————

just a short text, not proofread

some might relate to this

[stomachimage4u]

So idk what in doing. Im gonna explain why i need to die. First of all nobody can convince me that i deserve to live because im a waste of space and oxygen. Everyday i wake up and play games or draw. I dont do anything productive such as studying or reading or exercising. Im too lazy to do stuff like that. Im too lazy to even write rn 😭 i wish my mind could write it for me and i wouldnt need my fingers to type. Im so lazy i dont clean my room, but its not like its too messy i just have to fold my clothes and vacuum and organise. Ok nvm my room is messy. I disappoint my mon. Sometimes i just cant bring myself to do the chores i do them from time to time but i sometimes scoff and throw myself in my bed. I dont see myself in the future. Yeah sure i have drawing skillz but can i really turn them into a job?? Nuh uh artists dont get paid a lot and its going to be even more horrible. Jobs for artist could be: commissions but you have to be very popular on social media, i mean its kinda optional but you need a lot of commissions to pay the bills. Another job as an artist could be clout but its almost same as the commissions. There are a lot of jobs, but its not like i can do any of them. They require skillz that i dont have. You could improve but it takes a lot of time. Art is just another hobby and i dont think i would take it to next level. Another reason that i should die?? For i should die?? Fuck english, is that im fucking ugly. I hate my hair because for at least 2 or 3 years i always kept it in a low ponytail because i look uglier with my hair down. I hate myself i wish I wasn’t so self conscious about my hair . I wish i could get a cool haircut without my mom saying something about it. I would still look cringe with a cool haircut cuz people dont really see me with my hair down not even my mom, and if i let my hair down they gonna b like :”omg she finnally let go of the ponytail” or sum like respectfully stfu, youre making me more insecure. I hate my face. I have a lot of pimples on my forehead. I mean its normal to have pimples but it isnt for me. Like what the fuck???? I havent eaten shit like chips and coke in since summer vacation started and my skin still looks horrible. Its true i sometimes forget to do the skin care routine because im lazy. I hate my eyebrowz. They are so fucking thick😭. I wish i should just give them a slimmer shape but my mom says that my eyebrowz are ok. Yeah, no. They arent. I hate my teeth. They are so yellowish because i sometimes forget to brush my teeth and even if i remember to brush them and actually do it, i give out no effort and i just move the brush in my mouth for 30 seconds and then leave. I dont have the BEST hygiene, i do shower two times a week but i dont really brush my hair or my teeth. I hate being a girl. I dont wanna shave but i still have to because i dont look “feminine” or some shit like stfu i dont wanna shave im lazy. In the end i still shave cuz my mom tells me its for the better. So i hate myself so much, i wanna rip my hair off my head and scream loud AAAAA. And if im so ugly, nobody would want me. I need to be pretty to feel loved. I crave some much attention and love nobody understands. I mean, my parents love me right?? Idk they both are at they jobs and come home late and idk if they forget about me or nah. So now, i have the MOST important reason why i should die. Im egoist and narcissist. I only care for myself, i do things for myself, not for others. I imagine or daydream how i would get a lot of attention and that narcissism because uhhhh i read on the internet and ur prolly gonna be like “dont believe whats on the internet” well fuck it i mean it makes sense to be narcissist and imagine getting a lot of attention. Im a bad person, i make people around me disappointed or sad. So yeah, these were all the reasons why i should die. There's one more reason. I'm stupid but I'm not gonna explain everything you get the point.

[comehomeducklings]

Past [Part 3] (Obsession)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Tom Riddle's Moodboard

Main Character's Moodboard

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

1940 - 3rd year

There’s no chance of getting out of this. Our mentor must be out of their mind. No smooth sailing this period, not for me. Nothing at all has prepared me for this point in time.

My heartbeat rises by the second. At the brink of jumping out of my chest. I constantly try to reassure myself as I prepare. Forcing the illusion that I have everything together.

I most definitely don’t have anything, not a crumb, together.

My hands sweat with anticipation, my wand almost slipping off multiple times. The magical stick even wants to run away from this situation. I’ll start running with it soon enough.

The whole room is quiet in expectation. The tension levels in this area are too high for me to even start to comprehend. All I can hear is the sounds of my breathing and the occasional ruffle of robes. The high regard these people hold for me isn’t doing me any favors. I’m about to ruin any confidence anyone holds in my skills.

My friends are holding their thumbs up for encouragement. It does little to calm my panic, but I appreciate the effort anyway. Other acquaintances from the same house nodded their heads in an attempt to console my emotions.

Before the teacher signals to start, he gives us a bit to come up with a plan. Ten seconds at most. Now, this isn’t something possible to win. Not against him, no. My only goal here is to last as long as I can and don’t mess up.

Act smart, seem like you know more than you do.

He looks as easy-going as ever. This may seem like a walk in the gardens to him. No “threat” whatsoever to make him feel uneasy. I’m quite irritated at the thought of being anything but a challenge. He may be a little right, but that doesn’t help my ego.

Easy, I’m nothing easy.

Riddle might be stronger at this, but that doesn’t mean I'm complete garbage. I can hold my own, I will hold my own.

My breathing patterns change into more of a deep inhale and exhale. Focusing on completely dropping my heart rate and keeping my thoughts intact. Madam Rose, the school nurse, hates seeing me walk in there. Frequent visits from dealing with plants has her hair getting pulled out. I don’t think Miss Rose would be too keen on me passing out from the lack of oxygen.

“Only stick with the one basic spell of force. For both offensive and defensive tactics.”

Riddle’s atmosphere surrounding him is focused, deadly. He hasn’t moved his gaze from my lips. Probably on guard for whenever I cast something. I’m slightly unsteady on my feet from nerves. It’s almost suffocating being under all these watchful eyes.

A snake takes their time to strike. They examine all angles where you may be weak. Testing the vulnerability of your actions and thinking process. A few testing snaps of their mouth can tell them how the fight will go. They are well-balanced and focused, masters of intimidation.

Breathing.

Oxygen informs the snake how much you’re able to hold on for. The more you intake, the tighter it gets. Restricting the amount of oxygen the prey respires. Until they are physically unable to anymore, slowly weakening. The fight they were presenting lessens to almost non-distinguishable. The prey’s struggling to get free, dying down. Then it passes away, openly given to the snake without any more thought. A mere temporary meal in its eyes.

“Begin.”

Our eye contact is steady, neither of us moving an inch. Our mouths are closed shut, wands at the ready. I slightly squint my eyes while I focus. If he’s waiting for me to go first he is out of luck. I’m not budging, we will stay in the same position until next period if we have to.

Riddle also slightly squints his eyes. His hand doesn’t shake even if his wand was out in the air for a long time. The arm he holds out is steady and unmoving. Nothing triggers my attention since his movements are of little importance. I search his eyes for any life, no emotion is found swirling in those charcoal black eyes. Absolutely brilliant and fierce when focused or aggravated. The class starts getting rowdy, finally allowed to talk since Riddle just made the first move.

There’s only one spell I need to remember, that makes it a little easier to think of ways to find my opening. I quickly revert the spell away from me and send it right back. A tennis match is played between that one spell. Tom huffs and sends his enchantment straight towards the ground. It bursts into tiny magical specks of green. During that time I sent a spell his way.

After a while, I start to notice right before he casts a spell he moves his mouth like he inhales to take a breath. I’ve noticed him do it quite often. Since he casts fairly quickly there wasn’t much to go off of. Not much to use to my advantage. When he “inhales” he’s most of the time not actually breathing in air. It’s just a simple movement he does. It might be because of his accent, the way he learned to talk. Quite a small little quirk of the lips.

To start testing out this theory I centered most of my attention on his mouth. Waiting to see if my theory was reliable enough to depend on. He’s starting to gain more offensive attacks on me. Most of my spells undecidedly move more defensive by the minute.

Right before he mutters the words, I send a spell of my own. The magic aiming for his knees. Before he could defend himself from that one I prepared another offensive conjuration to his wand. He forwarded an incantation my way and I hurriedly obviated the sorcery as it was also heading to my stifle joint. Some of the force still slightly makes contact with my left knee. My balance is suddenly thrown off.

As I scramble to catch my footing, Riddle with point accuracy parries my wand attack. Then diverts my knee attack towards my right knee. Since I was focused on stabilizing my posture I didn’t notice the spell approaching my other knee

Forthcoming my inevitable demise.

I end up planting both hands on the ground. My knees falling one after the other from the pressure.

Our audience starts yelling complaints and praise. Calls for a rematch and cheats. My loss was bound to happen, but I did get to do that three combo. Two offensive and one defensive, all in the span of 5 seconds. Not too bad if I say so myself.

“Mr. Riddle wins this duel. Excellent job to the both of you. A very good strategy was well thought out for each side.”

I make my way down the steps on my platform’s side. Immediately being greeted by hugs and pats on the back.

At least my feet didn’t get tied together from restlessness causing me to fall and he wins the duel immediately. I would have dropped out right then and there from embarrassment.

There’s barely any feedback for Riddle, his little posse praising him like a king. People either saw no fault in him or were too frightened to actually comment on it publicly.

For me, that’s another case. Quite a bit of suggestions are offered, keep my form ready and my attention on more than one thing. Any and all advice is welcomed. Who knows how it can help me one day.

Amelia hugs my side with the biggest grin on her face, “You did so well! I think he actually had to work a little for that win.”

Everyone is dismissed and we head our way to Herbology. Tom’s face looks as if he’s already forgotten about the duel. His body language remains tranquil as ever.

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

Bubotuber pus, one of the grossest things I’ve had the misfortune of learning at home. Now I have to live through it again? How can one endure harvesting the essence?

“All of you are required to wear gloves for today’s class. Does anyone know what effects you would have when touching this substance with your bare skin?”

Quite a number of students raise their hands. I’m guessing they did research on why they needed to buy these gloves when handed the school procurement catalog.

Exactly what I did, curiosity might actually kill the cat.

“Yes, you sweet girl,” she picks, “What’s your name?”

“Merlene,” the student answers, “If you touch this without protection then extremely painful boils will appear in its stead.”

“Correct! 5 points to Hufflepuff,” she claps.

My fingers already lay inside the dragon-hide gloves. Its rough texture rubs against the calluses from dealing with the harsh stems of different plants.

This substance is usually processed to be used for acne treatments. Only touched in its weakened state. Oddly satisfying to some, I am not a part of that group of people

“This is disgusting,” I say as I harvest the pus. My gagging reflexes acting up every time the plant gets squeezed.

A few students chuckle at my remark. They seem to be having a good time, weirdly focused on this substance. It smells of petrol, not a big fan of the scent. Reminds me of the sketchy gas stations my parents and I would take on family road trips.

Its thick goo is finally contained in bottles. Relief washes over me from finishing the collecting process. My gloves are removed and I do a quick spell to clean my area. Nothing really fell on it so it didn’t need scrubbing beforehand.

Amelia seems to just be finishing her plant. A lot of goo splashed all over her table. Luckily it doesn’t seem like any of that touched anyone’s face or uncovered arms.

“I’m just about done, can you help with cleaning please?” Amelia starts collecting all of her bottles into her arms. None of the glass vials touched in green gunk.

“Yeah, I got you, turn those in to the professor.” I immediately started helping her out. In that process, I also cleaned other’s messes too. Why not, there is still time to waste until we can all leave. Cleaning products smell better than whatever chemicals intoxicate the air.

“Pop quiz, shout out the answers. Why not use spells instead of treated bubotuber pus for treatments?”

Easy question, I whisper the answer in Amelia’s ear when she comes back from turning in the assignment so she can shout it.

“Using spells proves to be too risky, like the Eloise Midgen incident,” she answers.

Good, she remembers Eloise's event.

“Yeah, she cursed her nose off, poofed from existence,” a girl from Hufflepuff adds.

“Precisely, everyone has permission to leave now,” the professor exclaims, “don’t head out without cleaning or I’ll reduct points. Last time a student got boils all over their hand from an improperly cleaned station.”

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

“It actually went decently. Nothing blew up, surprisingly.”

At lunch, we are all talking about our first three classes. Potions being our first topic.

“Thought as much, I saw your stupid grin. You looked like you just won the wizarding lottery,” I say with my mouth stuffed with food. Hoping they could understand me between my chews.

“Both of you, slow down. The food ain’t going anywhere damn,” Devyn laughs.

Amelia and I pause, we look at each other, then at Devyn, then back to us. After a silent halt in our actions, we continue to shove down a bunch of food.

“I noticed you kept gagging at the pus. You looked queasy, your face was so pale.”

I audibly shiver at the recollection of said class. My eyes were watering so bad there. That stuff would never stop coming.

“I’m eating, stop mentioning that nasty stuff,” Amelia starts shaking her head. If only I could see the thoughts forcefully being shaken out of her head.

“You should have seen her station. That stuff was everywhere. How bad is your aim, the opening to the bottle wasn’t that small?”

“It wasn’t even that!” she drops her fork, “I squeezed that bloody plant too hard and it squirted everywhere!”

“Poor choice of words,” Devyn snickers. All she gets is a shove from me.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, she’s clearly traumatized.”

Devyn shoves me back, “You’re clearly traumatized from the duel. The one you failed at, the one-”

“I’m aware of the duel you’re talking about,” I interrupt, “I bet you wouldn’t have lasted as long as I did.”

“Oh please, you’re just salty about losing.”

I roll my eyes and subconsciously scan the room for him. There he is, mysteriously talking to his group of buddies. After a little bit, he catches onto my staring. He briefly looked around him to see if I was looking at something else. Finally, he comes to the realization it was in fact him I was blessing with my attention.

During this, he was talking to his friend next to him. He stopped his conversation to completely give me his attention. The guy he was just talking to engaged in another conversation quickly.

The moment was interrupted with hands waving in front of my face, “You gonna eat that?”

“Nah I’m full, go ahead.”

Riddle continued on with his food. Never looking my way again.

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

“Hey, uh, Riddle you have a second?”

I stop him by tapping his shoulder a couple of times. His height already makes mountains seem molecular.

He furrowed his eyebrows and glances at the shoulder I just touched. Making it a scene to dust that part off, what an ass.

“No, I really don’t have a second,” he responds.

“Well that, really, sucks for you huh. Can you teach me techniques for dueling?”

“No,” he starts to turn away.

“Please, you will get one favor from me. Whatever you need.”

Tom turns back around, “Anything? Does that favor expire?”

I shake my head no. If he plans to wait a long time he’ll probably forget about it. He seems to be deep in thought for a bit. No rush really since we're on our break. If he agrees I could get ahead of so many competitors.

“Fine, every Friday afternoon starting tomorrow in the Room of Requirement.”

He immediately strides away while I stare back in shock. My brain didn’t expect him to actually accept. Getting this far wasn’t a very possible outcome.

Now I just have to find out where the Room of Requirement is located.

~////////////////𓆙////////////////~

Taglist:

@empath-bunny

@jinxqsu

[bloodfromthethorn]

The past is never dead. It’s not even past

Bozer and Riley knew, logically, that Mac and Jack would share some bad memories. They weren't expecting to stumble across one while they were busy planning some R&R over the Pacific Ocean.

Also on AO3 ->

..

Bozer was still getting used to the idea of going on actual, honest-to-god missions for a US government covert agency, but even he had to admit, this one sounded pretty simple. Mac and Jack apparently had some sort of aversion to the word - the instant Riley had said it earlier, the pair of them had looked a heartbeat away from running for the hills - but all of them had had to agree that being tasked to fly to the other side of the world and sit around surveilling a suspected dead drop was about as plain sailing as it was ever going to get. They didn’t even have to confront anyone who approached said dead drop, just record and report it. 

The result was, unsurprisingly, Riley and Bozer planning what they were going to do with the ample free time they were sure to have. Jack had initially made some attempt at reining them in, reminding them that as easy as it may seem, they were going there to do some actual work, but he’d given up some time ago and now seemed content to listen to them plotting in peace. Amused, Mac had just watched the whole conversation play out without a word. 

It wasn’t until Bozer and Riley had spent a solid ten minutes arguing about the possible pros and cons of a natural mud spa that the blonde figured it was time to intervene. “You two know that at most Matty’s going to give us a few hours of R&R before she calls us home. All of this planning is going to go to waste.”

“If that,” Jack put in with only a touch of sullenness. “Remember that time in Trinidad? We didn’t even get a full ten minutes before we had to be back on the plane.”

Mac wrinkled his nose at the memory. His recollection was foggy given that they had more or less crawled back to the landing strip and then passed out the instant they were off the ground, but then, that was really the point Jack was making. “Right? Just saying you shouldn’t get your hopes too high.”

Bozer scowled at them both. “You two have absolutely no faith. I have no idea why Matty thinks all four of us should be on this mission but I for one fully intend to make the most of it. If you want to sit back and be negative, that’s on you.” He let that indictment hang in the air for a minute, then bumped his shoulder against Mac’s. “'Sides, you’re supposed to be helping! You must know all the best sights, right?”

Unexpectedly, that earned him a confused frown. “Should I? Why? I’ve never even been to Fiji.”

Across from them, sprawled out carelessly against his seat, Jack suddenly went rigid. The change was sharp enough that all three of them picked up on it even though the man hadn’t actually moved, staying exactly where he was like a bug under a microscope. Bozer cast a quick glance at Riley but she looked every bit as lost as he did.

Fortunately, Mac was apparently more clued in. “When was I in Fiji, Jack?” He asked quietly, his voice very gentle. 

For a very long moment there was no response. Bozer considered answering the question - he’d asked Mac about tourist attractions in the first place because he remembered Mac had holidayed in the South Pacific with Nikki three summers ago - but he’d gotten the sense that maybe this wasn’t a conversation he should involve himself with. Jack still hadn’t so much as twitched and he could feel Mac tensing up beside him. 

Eventually, Jack answered with a heavy sigh. “July 2015.”

A short pause. “Ah,” Mac said quietly, his eyes darting to an unremarkable spot on the floor for a second before jumping back to Jack. 

The pair of them fell silent, Jack glaring sharply at the ceiling of the plane cabin while Mac watched him steadily. Evidently something significant had just happened, and Bozer had a sneaking suspicion he was at fault for whatever it was, but he didn’t think he could just leave it there. Apparently, neither could Riley. “What happened in July 2015?”

Predictably there was no response, so Bozer offered her the little that he knew. “Mac went on a ‘work trip’,” he said with quotation marks. “I thought he was in Cleveland. Then just when he was due to come home, Nikki called me. Said they were taking a last minute vacation to Fiji and I shouldn’t expect them back for another two weeks. Ended up being gone most of a month.”

At the time, it hadn’t been that weird. Logically he understood that it might sound strange to most people, but Mac had always been a somewhat inconsistent presence in Bozer’s life, even when they were kids. It was just the way he worked: Mac would go where his brain took him and he wouldn’t stop until he’d achieved whatever it was he was hoping to do. In hindsight, that long standing pattern of behaviour must have been a godsend when Mac had joined DXS and Bozer had become part of his cover.

But that was then. Now, he knew the truth of those strangely frequent, unpredictable work trips - except in all the ways that he didn’t. “I take it you weren’t in Fiji,” he asked slowly. 

Mac didn’t look away from where Jack was still frozen. “No.”

“Where were you?”

He hummed. “Not entirely sure, to be honest. I think I wound up somewhere in the Ural mountains.”

Bozer tried to work out the most delicate way of asking further and found none. The deadened tone of Mac’s voice would have made it very clear it wasn’t a happy memory even if the fact that he apparently hadn’t known where he was hadn’t given it away, and his eyes hadn’t drifted from where Jack was looking more and more strained. 

As Bozer floundered, Riley pressed on. “A mission gone bad?”

“In the worst way,” Mac agreed, then seemed to come awake from some reverie. He blinked, and finally looked away from his partner to take the two of them in. Whatever it was he saw on their faces, he visibly made an effort to make himself smile and relax, shaking off the grim set of his shoulders like an unwanted coat. “We were in Minsk, tasked with surveillance on a human trafficker. Turned out that he was more well-connected than we thought, and some of his friends ended up grabbing me out of our hotel room.” His voice faltered ever so slightly and he bit off whatever he was about to say next. 

Bozer did some quick maths and came up feeling ill. “You were gone for a month.”

“I wasn’t with them the whole time,” Mac hurried to reassure, immediately seeing what Boze was getting at. “Jack caught up with me after about ten days.”

“It was too fucking long,” Jack murmured, the first thing he’d said in over a minute. He still hadn’t moved, but he was wearing one of the darkest expressions Bozer had ever seen on his face. “Should have got there sooner. Should never have let them take you in the first place.”

“It wasn’t your fault Jack,” Mac said with the air of someone who had already said it a thousand times, but was willing to repeat it for as long as necessary. “You were on the other side of the city when they found us. We didn’t even know that they knew we were there.” He glanced back at Bozer to explain, “Someone at the CIA leaked information. The target wasn’t supposed to have any idea there were agents in the city, but somehow his guys knew exactly what hotel room to hit. We didn’t get any warning.”

“I knew something was bogus,” Jack said, more to himself than anything. “I said it felt off, and then I fucked off and left you in that hotel on your own.”

“Instinct isn’t everything. We had no reason to suspect the hotel wasn’t safe.”

Jack shook his head sharply and said nothing more. Mac sighed, but didn’t press. 

Thoroughly thrown for a loop and feeling more than a little bit guilty for inadvertently touching on what was so obviously a sore point, Bozer cast a wild-eyed look at Riley. She looked little better than he felt, pale in the harsh white of the plane’s overhead lighting. They’d both known that, in theory, Mac and Jack both had years of service behind them and that those years were likely to be host to any number of bad memories, but to have the knowledge of that so suddenly and specifically confirmed was a lot to take in.

“If you were- there for ten days,” Boze started slowly, half-knowing the answer and needing to hear it anyway, “Why were you gone for so long?”

Mac glanced back down at the floor, looking distinctly uncomfortable before he settled himself. “I was in medical for a bit. Once I could shake the oxygen mask, I moved into Jack’s apartment for a few weeks. I would have been good to come home but there was- bruising.” He fumbled over the last word, waving a distracted hand at his face as though that explained anything. 

For the first time since they’d broached the topic, Jack moved. He jerked to his feet with a strange lurching step, as though he hadn’t expected to do it himself, then marched towards the back of the plane, shaking his head as he went. Bozer caught the tail end of some dark mutters, but he couldn’t make anything out past the stormcloud of Jack’s expression. Startled, Riley shifted forwards to go after him, but Mac just waved her down, watching Jack’s retreating back with a careful eye before turning back to the two of them. 

“He’s okay,” he said, as though that was in any way believable. “It’s not a great memory, for either of us. Despite what it sounds like, he got the worse end of the deal.”

Riley’s eyebrows rose. “You were in captivity for ten days and he had the hard time?”

“I knew he would come after me. He didn’t know what he would find when he got there,” Mac said with a shrug. He’d said it flippantly, like it was some great truth of the universe that was just the Way Things Were. Maybe to him, it was. “Sure, physically I was a mess, but that stuff heals. If I had the choice again, I wouldn’t have switched places with him for anything.”

Bozer was shaking his head slowly, trying to remember details he had brushed off as unimportant years ago. “I remember you coming home. There were bandages on your arm.” A pause, then, accusingly, “You said you got got by a jellyfish.”

Looking down, Mac tugged self-consciously at the cuff of his rolled-up left sleeve, only managing to draw attention to what he was trying to keep hidden. They were faint - so faint as to be almost invisible against his already pale skin - but for the first time Bozer was able to make out a fine tracery of scars marring the skin of his forearm like a spider’s web, twisting all the way from his wrist to beneath the fabric of his shirt. “Jesus, Mac,” Riley breathed. 

“Electrical burns,” he offered as the explanation they wouldn’t have asked for. Catching their thunderstruck looks, he shifted his expression to what he probably imagined was reassuring. “It looks worse than it was, mostly; being shocked hurts like hell but there’s no real permanent damage to worry about. Honestly, most of it was superficial stuff, scarcely a mark left on me. The only reason I was in medical for as long as I was was because they had to drain my lungs and get me on antibiotics in case of infection. Could have been home within a day otherwise.”

Bozer wasn’t entirely sure what it was about Mac that made him think that explanation would do anything at all to allay their concerns, but he didn’t care for it at all. Worse than any of that though was the dawning realisation in the back of his mind that had been growing steadily ever since Mac mentioned moving into Jack’s place. “Except you couldn’t have come home,” he said quietly, needing to hear it for himself. “Because I was there.”

Mac shuffled in his seat, but held his gaze. “A couple of bruises could probably have been explained away, but I was… kind of a mess. Even if you could have believed I got hit by a car or something, all it would have taken was a few screaming nightmares to give me away. No way it wouldn’t have blown my cover.”

He sounded apologetic even as he said it, bracing himself as though he was expecting Bozer to lash out at him for something that had already been long forgiven. Sure, lying to him for years had been a shitty thing to do, but Boze understood why he had done it now, and he knew that Mac had only ever been trying to keep him safe. It might have been the wrong choice, but it was done for all the right reasons. 

“Mac,” he started, uncertain and wounded and so, so guilty, “Mac, you should have been at home. After whatever it was you went though, you should have been able to recover in your own house.”

Mac blinked at him in clear surprise. Did he really not understand? Boze tried again. “I’m guessing that Jack wasn’t the only one dealing with some shit when you got back to LA and I’m not even going to pretend I can imagine what that was like. You should have been able to come home, come back to the place where you felt safe and cared for and-” He sucked in a hard breath. “And you couldn’t, because of me. I chased you out of your own house when you’d been tortured.”

The blonde was already shaking his head, looking stricken. “That wasn’t on you. Boze, that was never on you.” He finally stopped worrying at his sleeve to grip Bozer’s shoulder, tight and grounding. “I was the one who kept the truth from you. I lied to you, for years, and that’s all on me. I know that if you’d known what had happened you would have been there for me and you only weren’t because I didn’t let you.”

He wasn’t wrong and Bozer knew it, but he wasn’t exactly right either. “I get that. But you do know that you shouldn’t have had to make that choice, right? You should have been able to come home Mac.”

Riley was glancing between the two of them looking utterly lost, and Mac was starting to look not much better, so Boze took a slow breath and tried his best to let it go. He had spent years of his life trying to convince Mac that he should rank his own well-being at least somewhere on his list of priorities, and this was really just another piece of that endless puzzle. There would be time to fight that battle later. “I’m just glad you’re okay man. No lasting damage?”

Thankful for the lifeline being offered, Mac dropped his hand away from Bozer’s shoulder and shrugged lightly. “A few scars, but nothing else. Like I said, I had a surprisingly easy time of it in comparison to Jack.” His eyes darted over to where his partner had hunkered down as far from them as he could get. “And speaking of, give me a minute.”

He was on his feet and gone before either of them could even think about trying to stop him, not that they would have done. Bozer had the sense that this was a conversation they had had before, and he knew that Mac would have it handled. If there was anyone who could convince Jack that he hadn’t somehow apocalyptically failed the man he had dedicated his own life to protecting, it would be the man himself. 

“How many stories do you think they have?” Riley asked quietly, soft enough that the others wouldn’t hear her. “All the years they’ve been doing this… How much is there that we don’t know about?”

Bozer thought about the scars on Mac’s arm that he’d never really seen before, about the number of unannounced work trips he had gone on after he came back from Afghanistan. Thought about the number of times he had heard him moving around the house late at night after a nightmare, or worse, the times he’d woken up crying out in panic. He’d known for years that Jack had a protective streak a mile wide and he’d centered it firmly on Mac; before he’d known about the Phoenix, Bozer had always wondered if the man was going overboard. Now, he knew with certainty that he wasn’t. 

When he met her gaze, there were tears in Riley’s eyes. “Too much.”

[yeojaa]

( GHOST IN MY BED. )

Sometimes, hating someone is the only thing you can do.

pairing.  jjk x (named) f!reader. 

genre + rating.   rockstar!au.  e2l (exes n enemies!).  general angst.    

tags / warnings.  everything about this is pain.  you can literally spin in a circle and point at somewhere on the page and it’ll be pain.  i’m sorry.

beta reader(s).  @midnighttifa​ (your comments make my days better, @pars-ley​ (you’re so lovely), and @papillonsgf​ (i owe you my life and all my love).  thank you, my dears!  💖

wc.  3k

chapter three.

You’d thought they’d left - all the memories of him.  Packed into cardboard boxes and plastic bins, folded between clothes and bare picture frames.     

You realise now, they’d only been hiding, waiting for his return.  

The smell of your perfume.  His favourite one, strawberry jam and cosy cedar wood.  It calls to moments together, of his face buried into the side of your neck.  Wandering hands and wondrous laughter, warmth crowding everywhere.  The wet of his teeth against your skin as he’d smile.  Springtime and Sunday matinees, fresh picked fruit and messy kisses.  

The mirror in your hallway - the one you’d taken too many photos in front of, that’d you almost broke one drunken stumbling night.  The one he’d loved you breathless in, with a hand at your throat and another on your waist.  Where he’d whisper sweet nothings with eyes only for you.  Where your little piece of paradise was preserved by a pretty iron frame. 

The tee shirt that you’d washed and promised to return but never had, keeping it as a trophy.  A rightful reminder of his love.  How it fits you just right without fitting you at all, comfortable and lazy and effortless.  A mirror image to the one he wears now.  

You find pieces of him scattered everywhere, swept under rugs and tucked within cupboards.  He’s there in the kettle that whistles and the tea that steeps, dipped in the honey pot and hidden behind your curtains.  He’s there in your thoughts, tucked away on the top shelf that you pretend doesn’t exist.  

Even as he sits, still and unimposing on the couch you’d both picked, he’s everywhere.

How is he everywhere?

“Want some help?”  It floats across the space, comfortably as if he’d never left.  It fits easily, familiar and lovely.  You hate it.  You hate how it makes you feel, digging up emotions you’d buried from their rightful place in the ground.  

“I’m fine.”  

A lie.  Lily white and inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things. 

You’re not quite sure why you bother.  Whose feelings were you sparing - his or yours?

“You sure?”  It’s closer than you anticipate, a ghost of a breath over your shoulder.  It sends your mind reeling, feet following in the same fashion as you all but slam into the hard block edge of your counter.  You nearly topple mugs as you go, only avoiding a disastrous mess when hands find you, catch you like that’s what they were made for. 

Jungkook’s an indomitable figure, palms searing heat into every nerve ending beneath his touch.  You can’t help the way you instinctively lean into him.  You love him somewhere deep in your bones, in the stardust that makes up every atom - a moth drawn to his flame. 

But you knew better now.  Fly too close to the sun - you’ll only get burned. 

“Please don’t touch me.”  

It’s you who breaks away first, turned towards the scent of chamomile and lavender.  You can only imagine his expression;  it’ll twist out of shape, crooked like you’ve just kicked him while he’s down.  

You suppose you have, but he’d thrown the first punch.

“Why’d you invite me in if you’re only going to ignore me?”  It hits like a shot to the gut, exactly as it’s meant to.  He isn’t asking for the sake of asking - he’s asking so you’ll cry yourself hoarse and find comfort in his arms.  He’s asking because he knows the answer and he wants you to regret it.  

You know it.  You know this side of him, even if you wish you didn’t.  

Even if you wish he was still the same boy who you’d fallen in love with years ago, full of sunshine and promise.  The one who’d have held you all night, kissed you senseless under the moon and held your hand through the sunrise.  Who’d break his own back bending over, weather a hundred storms for the people he loved. 

It’s a silly wish - a useless one, wasted on shooting stars and broken bones.  

He would never be that boy again.  He’d come too far, changed too much.  You hardly even recognise him now, cut from stone rather than cloth.  A thousand sharp edges you catch your hands on when you foolishly reach for him.  He is an incomplete masterpiece and you’ve never been artistic.  There’s nothing for you here.  

A mug is extended - an unnecessary apology.  An olive branch in the form of your old ritual.  “Please don’t say that.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?  Can’t do or say anything.”  It’s petulant and angry, a riot crowded behind his teeth.  You’re worried what the words might do - how they’ll beat you black and blue. 

“I don’t know what you expected.”  You can’t hide the exasperation, the overwhelming sadness that starts in your heart and branches out into your veins.  It creeps further, presents itself prettily in jewels nestled along your lash line and the tremble of your chin.  You’d cry if you weren’t so tired, every ounce of your effort eaten up by the boy that glares at you now and demands more than you can possibly give.  

He sighs - a long, unbroken sound - and something shifts, snaps into place as if the entire cosmos has aligned to allow this moment.  

He looks like him suddenly, like the version of himself you’d thought long lost.  It’s hidden in the peculiar shape of his mouth, uneven around his frown;  it’s there in the light of his stare, where sunbeams pour past boarded up windows.  It’s there, even where you can’t quite see it, in the corner of his soul and his drifting heart.  He’s always been a wanderer.

But then he moves, retreats back to his seat and to himself.  

He feels farther away than the moon, his silence that of the stars.

You take a careful sip of the liquid that burns through ceramic - anything to distract from the cold hands of memory that claw at your neck.  You turn words over in your hand - test them for clarity and weight, a jeweller inspecting their most prized possessions.   Was there anything you could say that would make this better? That would fix this gaping, Jungkook-shaped silhouette that tore a hole right through you?

You remember how you’d fallen for him, tumbled headlong into love with him - intensely, blindly, wholeheartedly.  It’d been easy then.  You’d dived into depths too shallow, climbed trees too fall;  you hadn’t thought your heart would break, even if every other part of you did. 

You’d thought it’d all be worth it.  

Instead you’re left with alkaline bones calcified under paper-thin skin, parchment sewn together by shaking hands and sodden by saltwater.  It’s hardly a body at all, ripe for the picking and bruising and tearing beneath teeth like knives.  

Can you blame him for how he hurts you when you’d already hurt yourself?

There’s a tang on your tongue.  It pools between seams, dripping misery into your mouth and swallowing the sob that’s formed in a wave.  It crashes against your teeth, stings the pink of your gums with salt;  it rises and crests, engulfing sandy shores you’d once built your home upon.  It comes and comes and you can’t stop it - sound bursting forth like a siren song.

He’s upon you then, utterly defenseless to your call.  He crowds you before he can think twice about it;  a drowning man seeking air.  It’s a pretty metaphor for a pretty boy.  What he doesn’t realise is that he is a galaxy all his own - not a sailor lost at sea but a swirling vortex not fit for human life.  Jungkook contains no oxygen of his own, smothering you in what he calls love and feels more like hell. 

“I’m sorry.”  It disappears into velvet, clinging to silk like electricity.  They spark in your eyes, electrifying your thoughts.  “I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”  

Arms do the opposite of what they’re meant to.  They crush your resolve beneath the weight of them - pry open your insides - and you’re crumbling.  The agony comes in sheets, like September rain.  It streaks down your cheeks and soaks your clothes, sinking beneath your skin until you’re waterlogged. 

“Don’t say that.  Don’t you say that to me.”  

Don’t lie to me, you think.  

He speaks the words he thinks you want to hear, weaving them until they’re a muzzle for your sadness.  “I’m sorry.  I never meant to hurt you.”  As if good intentions make up for the way your heart aches. 

They don’t. .

“Forgive me.  Please.  I need you.” 

Forgive him.  Forgive him?  You don’t even know what you’d forgive him for.  You’re certain there are more skeletons in his closet than in the ground.  Dig one up and another three would rise - some sort of awful hydra’s head born from your nightmares.

“I can’t.”  It claws itself out of your throat and into the air that suffocates, ripping it apart with teeth and nails.  Hands find the collar of his shirt and it isn’t clear whether you’re shoving him away or clinging to him.  You can’t make up your mind, fisting the material between your fingers until the strands might snap.  It feels terribly familiar, like the thing behind your ribs that’s six seconds from tearing.  

You’re pushing and pulling, hitting and halting.  Hauled in a million different directions.  It’s too much.

“What’re you sorry for?”  A fist to his chest, right where your heart lives (or dies, rather).  Your demands are barely coherent, words with no beginning and no end.  “Tell me.  Tell me what you’re sorry for.”  

He could push you away.  It’d be easy, really.  You half expect him to.  He hates being told what to do.

“I’m sorry for hurting you.  I’m sorry for not realising how good I had it.  I’m sorry for forgetting about what we had.  I’m so fucking sorry.”  They’re confessions you’ve heard a hundred times.  Over the phone, through the door, on his knees.  It never changes - a recital he knows intimately well.  “I’m sorry for letting you down.”  

You shouldn’t have expected more.  It would never come - not with him.  Not from him.  He had too much to lose and you’d never be enough.  Nothing in comparison to those thin white lines, those flashing lights, those women. 

You thought you’d known that.  You’d had three long years to learn that.

These apologies aren’t answers;  they’re excuses.

You peer up at him - into those wondrous eyes, so full of light and swirling with constellations - that you don’t think he expects it when you thrust your hand into his chest, past sinew and gristle to find the truth.  It squeezes, incremental, around the organ that you’d once thought beat in time with yours.  Silly girl.  It hardly beats at all.  

“That’s not what you should be sorry for.”  The tears still fall.  They come, relentless, as if his mere presence undoes all your hard work;  they carry your words, pull them off your tongue like white water rapids.  “You should be sorry you’re asking me to forgive you.  You should be sorry you’re putting me through this.”  It’s those same fists, over and over again, as if you might force something more out of him.

“I’m sorry I can’t let you go.”

“Please let me go.”

“I can’t.  I can’t.”  Jungkook cries like his tears might sway the tide.  “Stay with me.  I can’t do this without you.”  It’s a lie - a terrible, poorly-dressed lie - but he speaks it like the truth, like you’re his truth.  

He begs as if he doesn’t remember the harsh sting of reality and how it fits within your story.  He pretends like these chapters haven’t been written together, passages underlined in garish red ink.  He acts oblivious to the mistakes you point out, refusing to read between the lines even when they’re written in. 

Fault lies with him - mostly, wholly - carried in the palm of his hands with small portions - sections of his knuckles - divided up to reflect the ache of your mutual loss. 

He knows that - but knowing something doesn’t mean facing it.  

“I need you, Pumpkin.”  

“You don’t need me.”  Hasn’t needed you in years, far longer than even the last three.  He’d found others to need, others to fill the gaping you-shaped hole he swore was real.  

Women with beguiling eyes and beseeching mouths.  Women whose names you never learnt but whose perfume found a home somewhere along your shelves, whose clothes masqueraded as yours when you’d find a wayward scrap of lace in the back pocket of his jeans.  Women who took your everything - but only because he’d been ripe for the taking.  

I miss you, he’d insisted over those first few weeks.  I can’t wait to come home to you.  Nothing’s the same without you. 

You should’ve known then that someone so used to having it all would never let go so easily.  

In a perfect world, you would’ve fought less, given more - uprooted your whole life to travel across the world with him.  He would’ve stayed at your side, found his vice in the shape of your smile, the beat of your heart.  You would’ve been happy.  Together. 

You wonder - would it have made a difference?  Or would all paths have led to this?  Had you been doomed from the start?  Star-crossed lovers?  

You’d like to think so.  Passing blame helps - softens the pain and drowns out the what-ifs. 

You never had a chance.

He wants to tell you it’s true, that none of them mean anything close to you.  He wants to tell you that you’re the love of his life and that, when he gives this all up - flickers out like a star that’s burned too bright - you’ll be the one he crashes into.  You’ll be the only arms he seeks, his northern star in human form.

But you told him not to lie and you’d insist he was, so he doesn’t. 

He stares at you instead, soft and sad and so desperate he can trace the fractures in your composure as he levels you with that unwavering intensity.  It stutters to life a hundred hummingbird wings;  he can practically hear them buzzing about in your chest.  He thinks they’d burst out of your chest if you weren’t careful, caging them beneath brass.

“I love you,”  he tells you, words so sweet, so tender - a melody he strings together only for your ears.  It warms your cheeks and fizzles quietly in your stomach, melting away the ice that crystallises your heart and turns it cold.  He strips you bare with the admission, hoping to find some sort of acceptance in your eyes.

He forgets that he is not a blameless boy and your body is more than a confessional booth.

You believe it when you say it, half-hearted and defensive.  It would hurt more if it weren’t so wet.  “You don’t love me.” 

“I do.”  What can he do to convince you it’s true?  He thinks he’d do anything if it brought you back to him - where he wants you most - tucked away in his arms and his head and his heart.  “I swear I do.”  

He reaches for you with high hopes.  It’s silly of him, he knows.  You’re lightyears away, tucked among the stars.  It’s where you belong, out of reach and shining bright.  He can’t deny how badly it hurts.  He wants you here, beside him;  he wants it selfishly, as he wants most things.

“You don’t love me, because you don’t hurt the people you love.”  It’s a phrase Jungkook’s heard before.  From your lips, from movie screens, from god knows fucking where.  What a stupid phrase.  He didn’t mean to hurt you.  He didn’t mean a lot of things and didn’t that mean anything?

Each time it comes, it agitates him, stewing his blood to a boil.  It simmers in his veins like witch’s brew, a love potion rotten and ruined - sweet milk gone sour.. 

Was this that - a relationship that had run its course?  A bond past its expiration date?

“I love you,”  he repeats, ever harder.  As if the words might turn to amber, remain forever on the top of his tongue, crystallised and perfect.  It feels like it.  He’s told you enough times, ever since he was fifteen years old - practically an eternity.

“”You don’t.”  It’s your own insistence, biting and cold and yet somehow still a summer’s day.  You weren’t always like this.  He’d driven you to this.  But you were never very good at keeping him out;  warmth always crept in, sunlight streaming through the clouds.  That was the glory of your love.  It was irrefutable.  

Your skin may have thickened but the fire roars on.  

“I love you.  I love you so fucking much.”  He holds you, seeks to burn the truth of his words into your marrow.  Thumbs sweep the point of your chin, right below where he’d like to leave the impression of his mouth.  

There’s a sadness in your eyes - an ocean of melancholy that turns them bitter blue.  “Love is sacrifice.”  You pry each finger from your face, turn knuckles alabaster with your gentle ministrations.  A part of him wishes you’d tear them clean off;  your kindness hurts more than your hate.  “And sacrifice is something you’ll never understand.”

You lead him to leave, just as he’s led you through hell.  You don’t falter when the door of your home swings open, the one in your heart slamming shut in tandem.  

When you tell him to go, he isn’t ready - wants to spend the rest of his life in this place with you - so you guide him out, with a tiny shake of your head and a click of the lock.  He stares at the wood grain when it shuts in his face - memorises the patterns of the home you’d built together.  He stands there longer than he should, setting sun searing upon his shoulders.  He should leave, he knows.  

But you’re his weakness and he doesn’t know whether he loves you or hates you for it.

author note.  this was really meant to just... explore their past a little bit?  so i hope that comes across?  actual plot movement will be forthcoming.  tysm for reading!!!  💜 

tag list.  @jalexad​​​ @aa-ronpa​​ @kookiesbreaky​​ @celestialflamefairy​​ @xjoonchildx​​ @pars-ley​​ @seokjinssi​​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​​ @patpus​ @dazedjjk​ @koozui​ @jinhitwhore​ @always-wishing-for-rain​

[queenmagnusao3]

Rescue & Recovery: Part Two

And some dramatic angst. Not a happy ending. Major Character death warning

Tenzin, Jinora and two other airbenders landed quietly behind her, taking in the current situation. There was a fire raging in what was thankfully a mostly unoccupied apartment building. Mako and several other firebenders were working diligently to try and calm the out of control flames but were not having much luck.

The wind was vicious and it was taking all of their concentration to keep it from spreading to neighboring buildings. Lin was feeling particularly useless as she supervised their efforts, barking orders every once in a while in attempt to keep her mind busy. Tenzin was back on Air Temple Island for the month and she had sent word to him hoping maybe some of the airbenders would be able to help.

Tenzin seemed to assess the best course of action and the four of them carefully spread out and began directing a controlled flow of air around the building and its surroundings until the whole street block was encased in a sphere of swirling air.

Lin noticed the difference immediately. With the supply of oxygen under the control of the airbenders the flames became more receptive to being told what to do. Mako and the others seemed to almost sag in relief as their frenzied hand motions became more methodical as they finally regained control. They moved in to find the source of the fire.

Tenzin approached Lin and she gave him a soft smile.

“Thank you. They’ve been struggling with this for nearly an hour now. The wind made in impossible.”

“And who better to tame the wind than a group of airbenders.”

“Exactly.”

Their conversation was interrupted by several loud shouts as her officers and the firefighters ran from the building.

“Everybody back! It’s gonna blow!”

Most people were running for cover but Lin was counting heads. People ran past her, everyone accounted for except one. Mako. She took a step towards the building just as Mako appeared in the entryway, an injured man’s arm draped over his shoulder as they shuffled towards the door as quickly as possible. He looked up, meeting her eyes, his mouth shifting to a soft smile as he started to call something out to her…

She didn’t even have a moment’s notice to react. One second she was feeling an immense sense of relief at the sight of Mako reappearing and the next she was staring up at the sky, her ears ringing and the world on fire.

She started to sit up and someone was at her side. Lin turned to look and recognized Tenzin through her blurred vision. He was saying something to her but she couldn’t hear him, her brain trying to catch up with what was happening as she struggled to remember where she was.

The building. There was a building on fire. But they got it under control. Except there was something wrong. She turned to look and her head started to throb in confusion as she looked at the spot where a multi-story building had stood, intact, moments ago.

But now. Now the whole thing was on fire again, much of the lower levels gone save for a few sturdy support beams. There were no windows left and the front door was completely gone. Lin’s brain finally caught up as the sound of the world around her came rushing back. People were screaming and the building was groaning, the integrity of the structure compromised and ready to collapse at any moment. But she didn’t care as she got to her feet, too quickly then she should have been able to, the adrenaline coursing through her veins giving her more strength than she had a right to have.

 Where was he?

She started to walk towards the building but someone had grabbed her hand, pulling her back.

“Tenzin, let me go. We need to help Mako. I need-“

“Lin, you can’t-“

“Like hell I can’t! Let me go!”

She pulled her hand out of his grip, moving towards where Mako had just been. He had just been there. She had seen him. He was just there. He was almost out.

She was stopped again as Tenzin wrapped his arms around her, holding her arms down by her sides as she continued to struggle against him.

“Lin! You have to stop. Please. He’s… he’s gone.”

“No! He’s fine. I just saw him. He got out. I saw him.”

She continued to struggle against Tenzin, slamming her foot down as she sent out seismic waves to sense the remains of the building. She refused to acknowledge the truth that was boring into her very soul. Her seismic sense wasn’t always right. There had been plenty of times where it had been wrong. If she could just get closer. She bucked her head back before driving a pillar of earth between her and Tenzin. He let her go with a yelp and she sprinted to the building.

“Lin!”

As her foot connected with the first step leading to the building it gave a shudder, the whole thing collapsing in on itself with the sound of grinding metal and creaking wood. Lin’s body was encased in air as she was dragged back, out of harm’s way.

“NO! Mako!”

The tears came then. She sank to her knees, hugging her arms around her torso as tears streamed down her face, her breathing coming in great heaving sobs. Tenzin was there again, kneeling down next to her, laying a gently hand on her arm. The others were watching but she didn’t care.

Mako was gone.

Memories flashed across her mind. Mako’s surprised face the first time she invited him to dinner with her and Kya. Her own proud smile that she hid until he was out of sight the day he had stood up to her. She had been completely pissed off but spirits she was proud of how much he had grown. He had regularly left a bag of food on her desk those nights she worked far too late than she should have. He always claimed he had gotten extra and didn’t want it to go to waste but she knew he was lying to cover the fact he had gotten her favorite, specifically because he knew she hadn’t eaten. He and Kya had developed the annoying habit of teaming up to keep tabs on her well-being.

 Kya.

She was going to have to tell Kya. She had already been through so much. How was she going to tell her that Mako was gone? How was she going to live with herself knowing she hadn’t protected him? That was her job. She was always supposed to keep him safe. Keep them all safe.

Breathing became harder and Tenzin moved to completely engulf her in his harms. She didn’t fight him, pressing into him while he murmured empty words of comfort in her ear.

He was gone.

And it was all her fault.

  ///////

Jinora was crying silently as she watched her father holding onto someone she had always seen as unbreakable. The entire group had gone near silent when her scream had echoed through the somber scene. Jinora had never seen her show such raw emotion, watching as the older woman sank to her knees in complete defeat.

She looked around and saw that others had noticed too, a few them wide eyed while others averted their gaze as if intruding on an intimate moment. None of them had ever seen their Chief break. She was solid, a steely demeanor and cold exterior. She was stone. Unwavering in her strength.

There had been a time when Jinora would have thought that nothing could break her. Lin had been through so much throughout her life but she had also changed so significantly in the time that Jinora had known her. She knew how much she had come to care for Mako, how much he meant to both Lin and her Aunt Kya. They had all teased him incessantly for basically becoming their adopted son. He had always put up a good show about denying it but Jinora could tell he secretly liked the idea.

As she watched Lin grab onto her dad’s robes, her entire body shaking, Jinora knew the fierce some warrior had been broken. One too many blows and even the strongest steel will bend.

He was murmuring something to her now and Jinora caught his eye over Lin’s head. They shared a silent moment and Jinora nodded, wiping her face as she turned to the gathered crowd.

“We need to secure this area and make sure that none of these nearby buildings were affected by the blast. Someone call for some healers and we’re going to need Assistant Chief Saikhan.”

/////

It was hours later as Lin approached the pile of rubble. It was no longer a danger, the flames gone and a steady rain falling from the dark sky. She looked up for just a moment, closing her eyes as she let the cool water hit her dirty and tear stained face.

Sucking in a deep breath she shifted her stance before slamming her foot into the ground, seeing everything the earth had to offer. It was easier to manage this particular job when there was a heartbeat to detect, much like that day nearly two years ago when she had been in a similar position. Only that time had been a search and rescue.

Today there was nothing left to rescue.

Today her job was recovery.

She knew someone else could have taken it on. She’d been told by so many others that she should let someone else do this. And she supposed they were right but she couldn’t bring herself to let anyone else do it. He was her responsibility. And no matter what any of them said, this was her fault.

Lin moved to a new position, stomping her foot again as she searched for him. It was only after the fourth time that she felt something different from the rest. She moved her arms, shifting the metal and earthen debris away to reveal a set of unmistakable human remains.

She stopped breathing for a moment as she took them in. The body was charred and mangled but there was a small fragment of green fabric unburnt stuck to it. The body was also smaller than Mako. This wasn’t him. It must be the man he had been trying to get out of the building. He was the reason Mako hadn’t gotten out in time. Lin suddenly felt angry at the man, her heartrate increasing as she silently wished he was alive just so she could scream at him for his stupidity. But it wasn’t this man’s fault.

It wasn’t even her fault.

Mako had been doing his job. It was a risk they all took with their line of work, the risk of never going home.

She steadied her breathing, bending the dirt from beneath his body into a solid slab before raising it up and resting it off the side. She finished and looked into the hole left behind, feeling her heart stop as she saw a burnt hand sticking out from the space next to it. There was a small bracelet around the wrist. A bracelet made of meteorite. Su had gifted it to Lin on her birthday and Lin had re-gifted it to Mako on his.

She carefully bent the debris out of the way.

It was just a body. It wasn’t really him, not anymore. She knew what to expect and it still hit her like a load of bricks. She stepped into the space near him, not sure what to do. She had to get both of the fallen men out but she also needed just one moment with him. Alone.

Lin had always told herself she didn’t want kids. Or rather, she kept pushing off the idea of having kids until was too late. She had certainly never expected to be blindsided by a young firebender who reminded her so much of herself. She had embraced her role as “Aunt Lin” but it was different with Mako. Kya had teased her at first but she had soon fallen for him as well. They never formally labeled the relationship but in every sense of the word she had become like a mother to him.

And now she was here. Searching through the crumbled remains of random building for a body that no longer held the soul of someone she had grown to care for so much.

Closing her eyes again she took just a moment for herself. Just the two of them, one last time.

“I’m so sorry, kid.”

AO3 Link

[sweetestlamb]

Keep Bugging Me

Summary: Dosan and Dalmi try to get over each other and fail miserably. A story about cockroaches in love. 

Author’s Note: I find it really cute that Dosan is willing to run to help Dalmi at the drop of a hat despite the current state of their relationship and his misconception that she is now with Jipyeong but I get real tired when the efforts are one-sided for too long and the way things ended I definitely think that Dalmi should be the one to reach out to him, so that’s what this is. My imaginings of how things should go after today’s episode. ( I am basically ignoring the preview where it looks like Dosan runs away, nope we not running.) There was a lot more I wanted to incorporate but this took me a few hours today and that’s all I can spare so I hope you enjoy it, happy reading!

 With a long winded sigh that depletes her diaphragm she musters up the strength to catapult herself from her chair, sweeping her disheveled hair behind her ears once more before giving up and letting the strands do as they will. The sense of powerlessness lingers as she recalls her frantic phone calls and pleads for assistance, her heart had lodged itself deep in her throat each time she was turned down, although sympathetic no one was willing to drop what they were doing to help her. 

It hardly came as a surprise especially for someone like her who learned early that the world would knock you down and there were very few people who would offer you a hand when you were down. She chose to get up on her own and fight against the current of life but today’s fiasco only served to remind her that in the blink of an eye everything she carefully planned and created could come crashing down like an avalanche. 

Hearing his voice again had been just as overwhelming, the deep timbre just as soothing has it had been three years ago. Hearing it in that video did nothing to prepare her for the real thing, she tried to put up a strong front but she knew that she needed him and his brilliant mind; those capable hands. She didn’t deserve his help she knew that, her vicious words replaying in her mind all those years ago on what should have been a joyous day. Yet, just like all those years ago when he had no obligation to help her and it would not benefit him in any way he still showed up. Looking every bit as devastating as she’d seen him at the networking event. No, even more because this was the real Dosan showing up. Slipping in her computer chair easily as he threw out orders to the other members of his team, in all the important ways he seemed like the same Dosan but the air that surrounded him was no longer wavering, it was certain. He’d found his voice. 

She sighs rubbing her hand across her face again, hesitating before deciding. She picks up the forgotten jacket, the crisp scent of his cologne wafting up her nose and temporarily immobilizing her. 

Shaking herself free from her mental prison she grabs her purse and rushes to the door, phone already in her hand as she presses his name in her contacts. She doesn’t know where any of this is going but she has a reason to see him, she won’t let this opportunity go to waste. 

Closing the door behind her, she props the phone against her ear using her shoulder before she hears the tell-tale sound of  a phone ringing echoing down the hallway. With a gasps she sprints down the narrow hall before turning a corner and seeing him, his back is turned to her and his shoulders are slumped she watches with bated breath as he pulls his phone from the crevice of his pocket. He stares at it and after a moment’s pause he silences it and walks away. 

He straightens to his full height before shoving the phone into his pocket, swiftly exiting the building. 

“Dosan-ah.” She whispers to this retreating back but he moves further and further away until he reaches the door and she loses sight of him completely. More than anything she wishes she could apologize to him for those callous words she said all those years ago, if he’d felt a fraction of what she’s feeling right now she regrets her decision that day. She’s never regretted anything more. 

“Oh, Ms. Seo I didn’t know you were still here. You must have worked late. Please let me drive you home.” 

Sniffling and willing her tears not to fall she turns around, plastic smile spread across her lips as she greets Mr. Han. His dimpled grin does nothing to soothe the aching in her chest, but she pushes that aside and gently nods at his offer. 

On autopilot she walks to his car and opens her door before sliding into his car briefly she considers that her own car is parked in the garage close by but she’s too exhausted to drive right now. Her heart and her head equally throbbing. 

The ride home is relatively silent, Mr. Han attempts to engage her in conversation but her head is too filled with Dosan to offer anything more than one word answers and eventually he stops, turning up the radio instead. 

She misses his longing stares across the console, his own eyes wavering as she stares longingly at her phone for a call that won’t come. 

*******************************************************************************************

Maybe I should go back to San Francisco. 

The thought plagues him as he lays restless in his old bed, he’d entertained the idea of staying in a hotel until his mother had knocked him upside the head and dragged his suitcase inside the house before he’d even recovered from the blow. His smile had been blinding as she struggled up the stairs before he rushed to help her, easily lifting the luggage and wrapping his empty arm around her shoulder. He’d missed her like crazy, San Francisco had some much to offer but some things were irreplaceable. 

Now he’s having second guesses once more, he’d thought he was ready to be back in Korea, ready to see her again but he was wrong. There was something about his place that shook his confidence, made him the same bumbling idiot that he’d thought he left behind when he took off on that plane. It feels like he’s been wearing new shoes and now he’s back in the old ones, he hates it. He truly did not plan on seeing her again, she had made herself very clear all those years ago, he was not the Dosan from the letter and he would never be. 

He wasn’t smooth or thoughtful, he was just Dosan and though he wished that was enough it wasn’t. He thought he had accepted that, in San Francisco he did everything to forgot her. He never spoke about her or sent her the paragraphs he would write, he threw himself into coding with a painstaking fervor and he worked until he was successful and waited for happiness to find him. 

But happiness didn’t appear after he was named the most valuable developer of the year. 

It made no appearance when he bought a new car that he would have only dreamed about driving before. 

Still remained missing when he was offered another contract from one of the top companies in the world. 

But then he got that call and despite everything he said to his mother, trying to convince himself as much as her, his decision was simple. He had the ability to help her, so he did. 

The adrenaline made time slow down and simultaneously speed up, it wasn’t lost on him that every member of Samsan Tech was in the room all to help Dalmi, despite everything they’d been through she was still one of them. The strangest part had been the addition of Injae honestly, she’d spent so much time as Dalmi’s antagonist it was hard to reconcile that they were working together, that for once she would not be rooting against Dalmi. 

Everything had been going better than he ever imagined, she was as pretty as ever, gorgeous even while panicking and almost fainting it was a feat only possible by Seo Dalmi. But he had pushed that thought to the back of his mind, the black box cauterizing any hope he had of rekindling their romance. 

Their moment had passed. He wasn’t the one she wanted. What did he expect when the person who had actually written the letter was right there?  

It shouldn’t hurt this much but it did, It ached like a reopened wound. 

He’d only wanted to get his jacket back, the added bonus was seeing Dalmi but he wasn’t delusional enough to think that she had be waiting for him while he was gone. 

His blood still boils both from the phantom hand on his chest and the words that cut him like a knife. 

Stop showing up. You’re making us both uncomfortable. 

There had been more but those words stuck with him. 

Us. 

They were an “us”, close enough for jewelry that came in black boxes. It was time for him to stop fooling himself. 

The three years without Dalmi had been torture for him but evidently that was not the case for Dalmi. 

He was going to accept that. 

*******************************************************************************************

It takes him days to finally reply to her message and she tries her best to stay calm but her heart has missed the memo and instead triples its beats and almost pounds out her chest when his name flashes on her phone. 

Inhaling deep gulps of oxygen, she opens his message after ignoring for as long as she can- a measly ten seconds. Her pride has flown out the window it seems and she’s not particularly fond of relocating it. 

Don't’ worry about it. I have any jackets like that now. You can throw it out.  

She gapes at the words on the screen, not at all the response she expected and she clutches the discarded jacket tightly in her hands as if to promise the object that she will do no such thing. Scooping her hair into a ponytail she responds. 

No. It’s a nice jacket you should get it back. Where are you? I can bring it to you. 

She stares at the message long and hard, scrutinizing each word painstakingly. It might appear overzealous, too eager and the image of him ignoring her call still plays on repeat in her mind. Maybe he simply doesn’t want to see her, that is his right after the way she ended things. But logic alone is not enough to stop her fingers from pressing send, she doesn’t want to have anymore regrets.

Minutes tick by with no response and she worries her bottom lip between her teeth as she glares at the phone willing Dosan to answer. 

Please. Please. Please. Please.  

Despite her silent prayers, her phone is still and she contemplates sending another message although she has nothing else to say, terrified that this will be the end of their conversation. 

Then a message vibrates her phone, two messages actually. Mr. Han’s name also flashes on her phone but her fingers instantly open Dosan’s instead and a tentative smile makes its way across her face as she reads the message. 

I’ll be near Sandbox tomorrow. I will pick it up. 

Unable to control her emotions anymore, she squeals as she falls backwards on her bed, legs happily kicking as she hugs the phone close to her chest rolling side to side before she loses her balance and crashes to the ground. Her pained shout fills her room and her grandmother's voice rings out, “Dalmi, what was that? Are you okay?” 

Embarrassed but bursting with energy she shouts back, “Yes! I’m okay. I fell off the bed.”

There is no response and she giggles as she imagines the exasperated look that will run across her grandmother’s face. She may have lost her sight but her attitude and snark are still very much there. 

She knows that this changes nothing and she shouldn’t get her hopes up but still her feet drag her to her closet to find the perfect outfit for tomorrow, she will make sure to knock him off his feet this time. 

*******************************************************************************************

Dosan knows that he should have been more adamant about not needing the jacket, if only to avoid seeing her again. But he was weak and one rejection was all he could muster, he glances at his watch she should be arriving in a few minutes. 

Being back in the coffee shop they would often to go together is tugging on his heart strings but he fortifies himself, that was years ago. There is no use clinging to the past now, especially when he’s the only one doing so. He takes a hearty gulp of his iced Americano, desperately needing a distraction from his thoughts. When suddenly someone sits in the empty chair in front of him. Blinking he looks up and meets a face that does not belong to Dalmi. The woman now occupying the seat is pretty for all intensive purposes of the word with rosy red lips and long dark lashes. 

But he feels nothing but confusion by her sudden appearance and he voices that after his shock wears off, “I’m sorry that seat is reserved. I’m waiting for someone.”

Lifting a thin curved brow, the woman seems amused and no closer to leaving, “Oh? Is this person a girlfriend?” 

Dosan feels his cheeks burn at the blatant flirtations, over the years his ability to understand women has marginally improved with a success rate of 53% instead of the 12% before he left Korea. He has had many offers to date, none of which he has accepted. There was someone that hadn’t left his heart yet and it was impossible to make space for another with her so deeply wedged in there. 

At his silence she smirks now, “I’ll take that as a no. I’m not usually this forthright but you are probably the cutest guy I’ve ever seen.”

He made the mistake of sipping right at the moment and he chokes on the liquid as it lamely spills out of his mouth. 

Her giggles are light and melodic as she eyes him, “See? I even found that cute. What’s your name?”

He’s at a lost for words and that’s when the door chimes, and when he looks up he locks eyes with Dalmi. 

She is a vision in a plum colored business suit and her hair cascading over one shoulder. He almost forgets to breath. 

She walks to him immediately, his jacket folded over her arm. 

As she comes closer her eyes finally lock on the person occupying her seat, he watches them widen before narrowing into two thin lines. Then like a switch she stands taller and smiles facing him, “Dosan-ah, I didn’t know you were expecting company.”

His eyes dart back to the mysterious woman who is smiling but for some reason he remembers an episode of Animal Planet he watched while in the U.S about snakes that lulled you into a sense of comfort before striking. 

He begins to speak but his comment is interrupted, “I was just leaving. It was a pleasure meeting you Dosan-ah. Don’t be a stranger huh?” And true to her word she collects her belongings before opening a tiny emerald purse and extracting something thin. 

A business card. 

it is slick and modern with gold lines and her name printed in bold letter, Han Ji Yoon. 

Reaching across the table she deposits the card into his slack hand, her fingers lingering minutely before she draws away with one final dazzling smile she is gone, as suddenly as she arrived. 

The silence is deafening in her departure before Dosan hears the scratch of metal on wood as Dalmi reclaims her stolen seat. When he peers up from the business card he meets her smiling face, her eyes however are dull lacking the joy that her face is presenting. He wonders vaguely if something happens. 

“Who was that?” He shifts in his seat, shame curling in his belly before he realizes that he has no reason to feel shame. Dalmi does not care if other women are interested in him, it probably made her elated to see him with someone else. Proof that he was moving on and he would not be intruding on her life and her relationship. He would no longer be an inconvenience in her otherwise ideal life. 

So he answers honestly, “Just someone I met. She seemed interested in me and came over to talk.” 

Dalmi turns to look out the window as he sips on his Americano before he can offer to get her one she is speaking again, her lips barely open but the words are clear nonetheless. 

“How about you?”

He tilts his head, not quite following along with the direction of this conversation. He was unaware that they were on a level where they could discuss his potential relationships. More evidence that she is completely over him, the mere thought of her with Mr. Han is enough to sour his day but she is comfortable asking him about other women. 

“Well I am.....-”

He never gets to finish his sentence because suddenly Dalmi’s phone vibrates, buzzing on the table and instinctively he glances down at it and feels his heart pang. 

Han Jipyeong. 

She makes no move to answer it and he feels nauseous, she must know about his feelings and this is an attempt to spare him. 

He makes things easier for her standing up and nodding to her phone, “You should get that. I have to be somewhere soon. Thank you for bringing this.” With a slight bow he takes his jacket from its spot over the back of her chair and takes one step away. 

Her hand shoots out and captures his wrist and it feels like she thrust into his chest and squeezed his heart. 

“Dosan-ah you don’t have to go. I can call him back later.” 

He shakes his head, “No. Take it.” And with that he picks up his coat  and with a moment’s hesitation he also picks up the business card. 

He misses Dalmi’s jaw clenching as she watches him walk away, again. The vibrations of her phone falling on deaf ears. 

*******************************************************************************************

“Hello?” She blinks away tears and she tries her best not to sound like she is on the verge of falling apart. 

“Oh, Ms. Seo it’s me. I wanted to know if you wanted to get lunch together.” Mr. Han’s voice rattles through her speaker as she watches Dosan through the window. 

She spent all morning finding the right outfit and then perfecting her no make up makeup look, eager to see him despite her head reminding her that this wasn’t a date she was simply meeting him to return his jacket. Nothing more and nothing less. 

Then she’d seen him with someone else. A pretty woman, looking at him like he was an item on the menu and she was very thirsty. And the rush of jealous and irrational anger that consumed her made it clear that it was not possible to just be friends with Dosan. She couldn’t paint on a happy smile if he decided to date someone else, she wanted to be that someone. She wanted to hold on to those huge hands and never let go. 

“Ms. Seo?” 

She shakes herself from the memory, hurt still bubbling under the surface. She hadn’t gotten a chance to hear Dosan’s answer to her frankly invasive question but his actions were loud enough. She wanted to rip that card into pieces and stomp on the papery bodies. 

“Sorry, I was distracted. I can’t do lunch today. I have a lot of work to catch up on. Are you still coming over for dinner on Friday? Grandmother wants to know, you know she always makes your favorites.” 

At his agreement, she stands up and leaves. Maybe it’s time to move on, Dosan clearly has already. Once again leaving her in the dust. 

*******************************************************************************************

He goes on a few dates with Ji Yoon, and they have a good enough time together. She laughs at his jokes even though there are times her laughter is delayed and he wonders how genuine it is. She’s impressed by his car and the restaurant that Chul-san recommended, hmming at the perfect medium rare steak on her plate. 

But he feels nothing, no fireworks not even a spark but his friends convince him that it will come. These things take time, so he can’t just give up after a few dates. He pointedly ignores the voice in his head that states that his feelings didn’t need time to grow for a certain someone, they had hit him like a freight train and he just hung on for the ride. He doesn’t voice that out loud because that would be counterproductive in his journey to eradicate his feelings for her. 

So he goes through the motions and comes home each night with a sour taste on his tongue and a different face in his dreams. 

Then Friday arrives and he decides to stop wallowing in his own self-pity, ignoring his mother’s insistent statement that “he should just call her”, that is the absolute last thing he should do. He doesn’t want to be the person who stops her happiness, not again. 

But there is something he has to do and he needs to take a risk to do it. 

He called Saha earlier in the morning, pretending not to hear Chul-san’s voice in the background despite the fact that it was 7:00am in the morning and they had no reason to be together, now was not the time for teasing. 

He would make time later. 

She’d seemed suspicious when he asked about Dalmi’s schedule but ultimately told him the information he needed to know so with a heavy heart he rolled out of bed and hopped into the shower, he needed to see someone very special. 

Picking up the scarf and table mats he had knitted the night before he runs down the stairs, squeezing his mother in a one shouldered hug before bolting out the door. 

A woman he doesn’t know answers the door and he stands nervously, wringing his hands his head tilted toward the ground. 

“Yes? Are you here to see Dalmi? She is at work right now.” She apologizes and something about her feels familiar and he looks up and her eyes immediately inform him of who he is speaking to. 

Stuttering he stumbles over his words before finally getting out, “No. I am here to see...”

But a new voice joins them and instantly tears pool in his eyes when Dalmi’s grandmother comes into view, she stares straight ahead but there is no reaction to his presence. She can’t see him. Her world is shrouded in darkness. 

He gazes at her and wonders why these things only seem to happen to good people? Where is the justice in the world? 

“Hi, I don’t know if you remember me but-”

“Nam Dosan!” She shouts his name and his heart swells from her obvious glee, she steps forward and makes grasping hands in the direction of his voice and without pause he steps into her hold, allowing her to surround him in a warm embrace. 

“How could I forget you?” She squeezes him tighter and he doesn’t fight her hold. He’s been cracking apart at the seams her hold is putting him back together. 

*******************************************************************************************

Dalmi turns off her computer, stretching her arms high above her head. Her sister is still on her computer clicking away but she can’t stay another minute her brain has turned to mush. 

Another message from Saha flashes on her phone, once again asking her if she’s left for the day yet and telling her not to work overtime. 

Go home quickly. They don’t pay you enough for this. 

Their relationship has blossomed from where it started with Dalmi on her knees begging the designer to work with her. Their friendship had amounted in a fairly similar fashion, Dalmi bulldozed her way into the girl’s life after the boys left and after a new coffee dates they were inseparable. The sassy designer the only one who knew about Dalmi’s true feelings and how she had pushed Dosan away for his own good. 

“You did the right thing. But you’re an idiot. Why break up with him if it was going to hurt you so much?” 

That specific piece of wisdom had been regaled when Dalmi showed up drunk at the other girl’s house, banging on the door and crying until she was granted entrance. If looks could kill Dalmi would have been buried six foot under instantly but alas mental homicide was impossible so she lived to see another day. Their bond had been cemented in that moment, she woke up the next day with mascara lines on her face and a thick blanket thrown across her on the couch. 

“Here have some coffee and then get out of my house. “

Dalmi took the coffee but she didn’t get out, they spent the day together talking about boys and heartbreak and she pretended not to know who Saha was talking about when she mentioned missing someone, “a little bit, really just a smidge.” 

So she listens to her friend, probably her best friend not that she’ll share that moniker with the girl, she would like to keep some of her pride thank you very much. 

“I’m heading home. Today is family dinner, do you want to come over?” She inquires already knowing the answer based on her previous attempts but she is nothing if not resilient. 

Injae doesn’t even look away from her computer before answering, “No. I have a lot to do here. You go ahead.”

With a shrug she nods, collecting her belongings before walking out the door. 

When she pulls up to her house, she sees an unknown car and she wonders if someone came to visit her mother. Then bright lights fill her side mirrors and she sees the familiar sight of Mr. Han’s car pulling up behind her. 

Hopping out her car, she waves at him. Eying the bag in his hand, he always brings something despite protests from her and her grandmother. 

Before she can properly greet him, he asks “Whose car is that?”

She looks at the car again but nothing comes to mind, “I don’t know I was wondering the same thing. Let’s go inside and find out.” 

And so, they both walk to the door, Dalmi taking out her keys and prying open the door. She is greeted by boisterous laughter and slipping off her heels she enters her home, unprepared for the beautiful scene that welcomes her. 

Dosan is sandwiched between her mother and her grandmother, the latter holding his hand as he hangs on her every word. 

“Dosan-ah”

“What are you doing here?” 

She twists caught off guard by the vicious tone of Mr. Han’s voice, his eyes are glossy and hard as he watches the same scene. 

instantly Dosan gently pulls his hand out her grandmother’s hand and she greets them as well, “Oh Dalmi, Good Boy you’re both home. Dosan stopped by, why don’t we all have a meal together?”

The tension in the room is thick and Dalmi is lost as she watches Mr. Han glare at Dosan as if he has committed the greatest crime. 

With a voice barely above a whisper Dosan speaks, “No that isn’t necessary. I don’t want to intrude. Thank you for talking to me. I’ll fix all the bugs you mentioned.” 

Dosan simply stares at her grandmother for a pregnant moment before he makes his decision and he wraps her in his strong arms. Her grandmother immediately responds, hugging him back and whispering something only he can hear. 

Bowing to them all Dosan walks past her, never meeting her eyes regardless of her hard stare penetrating through his face. 

Before she can bolster up the courage he is already walking out the door. 

“I’ll see him out.” Mr. Han offers, following Dosan out the door and she watches breathless. 

*******************************************************************************************

“What were you thinking coming here?” He shouts at the developer’s retreating back, anger simmering in his blood. He had a family now and he wasn’t going to let anyone take that away from him. Dosan could have anyone in the world, why did he have to come back and ruin everything he had been building? 

He was finally to ready to tell Dalmi how he felt, no more cryptic messages and codes that needed deciphering, he was going to lay his heart on the table. Show her that he could be the Dosan from the letters, he could be her safe haven. 

“I just wanted to see her grandmother, I didn’t meant to run into her. I asked Saha she told me that--”

But he’s too angry to listen to reason, he just wants Dosan to go away, for good. 

“I thought I made myself clear in the elevator. You need to move on. I am the one she calls now when she’s in trouble. I am the one who comes to dinner with her family, that person is me. You are just a piece of her past. A past she has forgotten, stop coming around and making us uncomfortable. Don’t come here again.”

He realizes a second too late that Dosan eyes are shifted over his shoulder and when he turns around Dalmi’s angry tear streaked face fills his vision. 

“What are you saying Mr. Han? What is happening?” Her voice quivers, breaking on the last words and guilt rises as he looks at the clear betrayal on her face. 

“I’m leaving. I won’t come here again. You made yourself very clear.” Dalmi makes to follow Dosan but he steps into her path, needing to explain himself. He just needed a chance to bat. 

“Let him go.” He pleads with her but she snatches her hand out of her reach and stares at him with wet eyes. 

“Why would you say those things to him? What did you say to him in the elevator, are you the reason he’s avoiding me?!” He has never heard Dalmi raise her voice before, even when he was giving her harsh but honest feedback she was calm and accepting of his feedback. The woman before him is someone new, someone he’s never witnessed before. 

“Answer me!” He’s reminded of her screaming those same words at Dosan. 

Swallowing he finally answers her, “I like you. I like you so much it aches Dalmi, I was watching for three years. I thought you would start to notice me but... I don’t understand. Why can’t it be me? Why does it have to be him? I’m the one who wrote the letters, I was the one who comforted you.”

“You lied to me! You and my grandmother. You both lied to me and you created someone who doesn’t exist. You only wrote to me because you owed her a favor, it wasn’t real.”

“That’s not true. Maybe at first, but I grew to enjoy writing them. You comforted me too. I can be the person that you want, just give me a chance. I want to be with you.” 

Then impulsively he pulls the ring box from his pocket, flipping it open and thrusting the box at her.  It shines brilliantly from its satin pillow, diamonds twinkling in the moonlight. It was almost as beautiful as the receiver. 

He get his answer when she barely looks at the ring and instead looks out into the street as if Dosan will materialize again. 

So this is heartbreak. 

“I’m sorry. I should have given you an answer a long time ago. Thank you for those letters, you did comfort me during one of the hardest times of my life. I wish I could repay you somehow. But I can’t repay you with my heart. I’m sorry I really am.” 

He closes the box, putting his bat away. It seemed that even after getting a chance to bat he just wasn’t what Dalmi wanted. He’s never struck out before, the pain is crippling. 

Before he can reply to her rejection she is already bursting through the gate. The engine of her car loud in the dead of the night. 

“Yeong sil-ah what’s in front of me?” 

“A man in his 30s possibly, holding a black square box and crying.” 

He wipes at his face, his fingers come back wet. He didn’t realize when the traitorous tears escaped and he wants nothing more than to suck them back up. He feels pathethic. 

“Oh Good Boy, come here.” 

And he falls apart in the warmth of the first person to ever treat him like something worthwhile, his only family in this world. He clings to her as sobs ravish his body. 

*******************************************************************************************

He’s such an idiot, he knew better than going to her house but he still went and he was immediately punished. Of course, they had family dinners together. They were dating after all, it was natural that Mr. Han would be a welcome guest in their home. While he was the outsider. This was the way it was meant to be from the beginning after all, he had taken credit for someone else’s good deed. He deserved all the pain and suffering he was receiving now. 

Thankfully, his house is empty when he pushes open the door and he makes it to the couch before breaking down, hot tears leaking from his eyes as he recalls how comfortably they had come into the house together. It wasn’t the first time that much was certain. Three years was a long time. 

But it had been worth it, hearing how useful the app had been for her as she lost her sight, how grounding it was to have a program to help her during the transition after losing her vision. He wanted to cry for her loss but she was fighting so hard and finding the good in her situation, she had praised him until his cheeks hurt and he knew that nothing he ever made would make him as proud as Noongil. 

The ringing of his doorbell knocks him free from his thoughts and he presses himself away from the couch, expecting to see his father’s embarrassed face explaining how he forgot his keys and why have a son if not to open doors for him? He sighs in preparation for the conversation before choking on nothing when Dalmi’s red-eyed face appears behind the door. 

“Dalmi-ah.”

“Dosan-ah.”

They speak at the same time and then they are both still, gazing at each other in silence. 

He has the urge to pinch himself to make sure he didn’t fall asleep on the couch but before he can she speaks, “Dosan-ah, can I come in?”

Honestly he has no idea why she’s here. She had no reason to follow him. Maybe she’s here to second Mr. Han’s word. He can’t stomach that conversation a third time. 

But then she blinks and a stray tear escapes. 

“Please.” 

So he can do nothing but step aside and let her in. She has always been his kryptonite. 

She toes her shoes off before stepping into his house, looking around before her eyes land back on him. 

“I think we need to talk.”

It seems he was right. He tenses at the ominous words and lets out a deep breath, “No. I understand. Your....he was very clear. I understand now. I promise.” 

He can’t’ bring himself to finish his sentence, to name exactly what Mr. Han is to Dalmi, he would much rather not think about it and avoid them both until his heart admits defeat. 

Dalmi steps into his space, her hands pausing by his face before she softly holds his cheeks. He freezes, completely lost in her gaze as more tears stream down her face. She looks heartbroken and he almost feels angry, shouldn’t that be his expression? 

“Dosan-ah, I missed you so much.”

Punch to the gut. 

“I thought about you everyday. Every minute of every day. Every second of every minute. I was so happy you were doing well Dosan but .....I missed you so much. I wanted to be by your side.” 

He pulls his face out of her distractingly warm hands, his own clenched in tight fists on the side of his body. What is she saying? She has...someone. Why is she trying to confuse him, is this a game?

“What are you talking about? You broke up with me because I wasn’t him. You want him, he’s the one that you’ve loved since you were a little girl. I wasn’t enough. You told me I wasn’t enough!” 

He’s crying too now, all the pain he’s been containing exploding out as he shatters before her eyes. He can barely see her through the sheen of his tears and he rubs at his eyes, storming away from her in shame. He doesn’t want her to see the affect she still has on him, he should be stronger than this. 

“I lied.”

He stops. 

“I lied about everything. I just wanted to spend your birthday with you but you kept talking about the lawsuit and I knew you wouldn’t leave, you would think it was your fault and you didn’t deserve to live your dream. I pushed you away so you could have a chance at success. I never wanted the Dosan from the letter, that was a fairy tale. It wasn’t real. I know that now Dosan-ah, I want you. I thought I was strong enough to let you go, but it’s my one regret. I.... I love you.” 

During her speech Dalmi has been making her way over to him, climbing the stair he froze on before meeting him eye to eye. 

“Dosan-ah, I love you. I mean it. There’s no one else. Just you.”

There is no one else. Mr. Han doesn’t have her heart, he glances at her hands finding all fingers empty. As if she feels his gaze on her hand, she grabs hold of his trembling appendages. 

“Please say something.” 

 “Dalmi-ah, I love you too.” His voice cracks, bursting with emotion. 

A smile brighter than the sun stuns him as Dalmi falls into his waiting arms. He holds her tightly, never wanting to let her go ever again. If time stopped now he would die happier than he’s ever been. 

She nuzzles deep into his neck and he rubs his head against her soft sweet smelling hair, before he feels something plush land on his Adam’s apple. 

Her lips. 

He stiffens in their embrace and when she pulls back, her eyes are fixated on his lips. 

He missed her so much. 

“Can we go to your room?” Her voice is deeper and raspier than he’s ever heard it, the tone immediately going to his groin as he imagines her hoarse from something else entirely. 

He nods in acquiesce, taking her hand before they ascend the stairs together. Anticipation thick in the air. 

He doesn’t get a chance to be embarrassed about the state of his room because once they breach the doorway, he is bodily shoved into the door slamming it shut. Dalmi peers up into his eyes, searching his face before standing on the tips of her toes and catching his shoulder to yank him down and smashing their lips together. He stands still at first, lost in the wet sensation of Dalmi’s tongue swiping at his lips until she pries them open. 

She moans prettily as she licks into his mouth, sucking on his tongue as she slides her fingers into his hair moving his head to better fit their mouths together. 

He feels lightheaded as Dalmi steals his breath, he breaks their connection gasping for air only to be assaulted again, her lips suctioning the thin skin of his throat and there’s no denying his arousal now as his hard length presses into the zipper of his dress pants. When Dalmi accidentally bumps into the rigid line he jolts, twisting his hips away in shame and he waits for Dalmi to step away and slow them down. Things are moving astronomically quick, faster than the speed of light.  

His brain spasms when he feels a small hand molding around the length protruding from his pants. 

“Dosan-ah, can I?”

He doesn’t know exactly what she’s asking for but he’s too turned on to say anything but yes, yes, God yes. This has been the focus of one too many dreams that ended with disappointment and sticky sheets, if this is a dream he prays he falls in a coma and never wakes up. 

“Yes. Anything, yes.”

Her eyes glint dangerously at his words and then she’s slithering down his body, until her knees meet the floor.  His tongue is heavy in his mouth as he watches Dalmi on her knees, she’s so beautiful it’s unfair. Her lips are disastrously red and sore and perfect. 

“I thought about this a lot.” She whispers, wrecking him with her slow intentional movement. 

He gasps loudly as she drags the metal of his zipper down, unbuttoning his pants and tugging them down his waist. He closes his eyes at the sight of his desire tenting the front of his tight boxer brief, leaving very little to the imagination.

“Dosan-ah. Open your eyes.”

His body listens to her command easily, eyes opened wide as he takes in the view of Dalmi so close to where he needs her the most. 

Then as if worried she’ll scare him away, she gently removes his boxers. Inquisitively looking at the length that springs free, before a hand wraps around the wide circumference near the base. He groans almost collapsing from the immense pleasure that wrecks his over sensitized body. 

Without any warning she strokes from the base to tip, gathering the viscous liquid that has pooled and using it to smooth her motion, up, up, down, up. 

“Dalmi-ah, you don’t have to do this.” He moans out, he has to let her know that this isn’t necessary he’s just happy to be able to kiss her again and be the one who she turns to. This is more than he ever expected and honestly more than he can currently handle. 

She tightens her grip, tongue poking out the side of her wide lips as she closes the gap between them. She pops the moist head of his cock into her mouth and this time he does crumble to the ground and Dalmi climbs into this lap chasing him, then swallowing him further and he thinks of coding strings and the sequence of pi, as his balls tighten up and his end draws closer- embarrassingly fast. 

Emboldened by his gasps and whimpers she bobs her head, licking at his tip as she strokes the base with a corkscrew move that has his toes curling. 

“Dalmi-ah, I think I’m gonna....please stop. I’m too close.”

Humiliation battles with desire, as he feels his release rushing over him. Dalmi ignores his warning, sliding him further into the wet plush cavern of her mouth and he sputters open, overloading into her mouth as she struggles to swallow around the length in her mouth. 

Wow. 

Nobody has ever touched him before, he’d been offered countless times seen as an exotic treat in the California sun but none of them were tempting enough to make him forget the woman who was currently sprawled in his lap lapping at his spent cock. 

Dalmi sits up, wiping at the white droplets that escaped the seams of her lips and it’s a vision erotic enough to have his member jumping, ready for round 2. 

“Dosan, I need you to listen okay?” 

He’s unprepared for the business-like tone of her voice especially as she pushes his now flaccid cock back into his boxers. He blushes hard fumbling to do that himself but she smacks his hand away, “I got it. I did this, so I should take responsibility.” 

He blinks at the statement, before pinching himself. Hard.

She smirks at his pained cry, “Not a dream.” 

He blushes looking away with squinted eyes. 

“Dosan-ah. Your parents are home. I heard the door open when I first started.” She motions to his crotch and he is in too much shock to react to her words, instead he continues to lay on the ground with his legs spread. 

She heard his parents arrive home and continued. 

Who is this she-demon? 

“They haven’t called for you yet. But I’m sure they will soon. We’re going to go down and act normal okay?” 

Act normal. Like Dalmi hasn’t just sucked his brain out through his dick. Right. Sure. He can do that. 

“Dosan, my son? Are you home?” His mother’s voice travels up the stairs and he jumps up, haphazardly tugging his pants back up his waist and tucking his shirt back inside. 

Turning to Dalmi he asks, “How do I look? Does it look like we’ve been doing...things.”  

She raises an eyebrow at his word choice, before stepping closer and combing through his hair with her fingers. 

“You look....distracting.” At his confused stare, she licks her lips and tries again, “You look disheveled. Straighten your shirt and untuck your shirt. You’ll look more relaxed. Actually change those pants completely, they have stuff on them.”

He looks down at himself and sees the sticky spot on the waist of his pants, dammit. Red-faced he walks to his closet, pulling an identical pair of pants from a wooden hanger. He starts to take off the soiled pants before remembering that Dalmi is still in the room.  When he looks over his shoulder, her eyes are already on him as she unabashedly watches him undress. 

“Dalmi-ah.”

“Hmm?”

“I need to change.”

“Okay, go ahead.” 

They stare at each other, unblinkingly. 

Then there is a sharp knock on the door. 

“Dosan-ah, your mother and I heard talking in here. Are you home?”

Throwing caution to the wind, Dosan rips off the pants and hops into the fresh pair. Leaving the shirt untucked as suggested by Dalmi and running a final hand through his hair. With a nod at Dalmi, whose eyes are shining too brightly while he’s on the verge of a heart attack. 

Finally pulling the door open, Dosan rubs his neck sheepishly as he greets the expectant faces of his parents. 

“Oh Dosan-ah, doesn’t the car outside belong to the pretty CEO? The one you wanted to date? What was her name again, Danmi? Dalni?”

Before he can correct his mother, who he knows for a fact is aware of Dalmi’s name as she had mentioned the girl just days ago. If he was brave (stupid)  enough he would glare at her, but as it is all he can muster up is a pleading stare. 

Brazenly Dalmi presses the slightly ajarred door all the way open now coming into view. His dad’s eyes widen in shock and then pride, the last time he saw that look was when he told his parents he would be going to San Francisco. 

His dad looks even prouder now. 

While his mother looks....smug. 

“Hello, my name is Dalmi. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” She bows low at the waist and he looks away from his parent’s stare, not ready to answer any of the questions in their eyes. 

“You are here very late. I imagine you both were working on something very important.” 

His mother throws them a life preserve and he grabs on to it. 

“Yes! Yes, Dalmi-ah had some questions about her business that couldn’t wait. She’s heading out now. I will walk her out.” Dosan is still a coward, he is man enough to admit that. 

Dalmi easily goes along with his lie, “Yes. My company is working on a self-driving car. I had some questions about the coding. I apologize for coming over so late.”

Both his parents perk up at the mention of her project, his mother quipping that if Dalmi’s project is a success then she will no longer need to take her driving lessons. 

They finally allow Dosan to escort Dalmi out the door only after they have set up plans for dinner the following day, his mother adamant that they formally have a meal with the CEO that Dosan is helping. He almost groans at her lack of subtlety. 

Once they are safely outside, Dosan breathes a sigh of relief. 

“I’m sorry about my parents. They can be.... excitable. If you would rather not come to dinner tomorrow, I can come up with an excuse for you.” He offers, not wanting to scare the girl off before they can fully restart their  relationship. 

“What are you talking about? I’m looking forward to dinner with my future in-laws. I want to hear more about the pretty CEO you want to date too.” 

He hangs his head, groaning as Dalmi giggles dragging him into another kiss, he lifts her up holding her tightly.  

This time, he’s never letting go. 

*******************************************************************************************

“So, do you believe them?” 

Her husband smirks, almost clapping in glee. “Not a chance.” 

There shy little boy wasn’t so shy or little anymore. 

[bookwormsid1015]

BNHA: Midnight Clouds

A CloudNight Oneshot

The wind combs through his hair gently, and Oboro lifts his head to greet the darkened sky. With the sun long forgotten beyond the horizon, all that remains is the faint chill lingering in the air and the silvery brilliance of the full moon above him. Up here, where the sky is endless, the air is colder, and yet it’s also much easier to breathe. Nothing can touch him so long as he remains on his cloud cruising above the shining city of Musutafu, not even his invisible fears and anxieties.

Today had been a particularly taxing day, with his teacher drilling the importance of quick time reactions in himself and his classmates. Oboro’s head still aches from where a baseball had struck him, and although the cut it left had been reduced to nothing but a small red blotch thanks to the nurse’s efforts, Oboro can still feel the ache of it just above his right eye. It was nothing more than a standard exercise, one where he and his classmates had to utilize their quirks to react to having balls thrown their way, and yet Oboro can’t help but think back on it pensively. While his friends Yamada and Aizawa were able to pass the exercise with little to no issue, Oboro struggled so much more, especially since all he could think about was the wellbeing of his peers.

“It’s good that you think about others before yourself, but that type of thinking is dangerous in hero work,” his teacher had told him sternly after class. “If you want to become a hero, you need to figure out how to balance your will to save others with the need to save yourself. You can’t save anyone if you can’t look out for your own skin.”

Those words struck a chord with Oboro. It resonates in the back of his mind, even after the school day ended and he was allowed to go home. It followed him all throughout his time studying, eating dinner with his family, and even as he played video games with his friends.

In the end, Oboro decided to take a flight, just to take his mind off things.

He’s always been that type of person, Oboro supposes. Ever since he was little, he never had much thought for his own wellbeing and instead focused on others. He remembers being no older than six, getting beaten black and blue on the playground for standing up to a bunch of bullies for harassing a kid he didn’t even know. He remembers playing sports in middle school, and somehow always coming home with a sprained ankle or bloody nose, having taken a ball to the face whenever he’d try to save his teammate. He remembers his online friends laughing at him, people jokingly calling him “meat shield” since he never failed to sacrifice his own avatar for the sake of others. It’s always been like that. Self-sacrifice is second nature to him; it’s part of the reason why he wanted to become a hero. Where else would such recklessness be celebrated?

Oboro utters yet another sigh, and cold air rushes to greet his lungs. He’s happy he’d brought a jacket and a pair of goggles with him, in addition to his cozy plaid blue pajama pants and white tee shirt. As amazing as his night flights are, it can get pretty chilly in the air, especially at night.

Oboro glances down from his cloud, and to his surprise, he finds himself cruising through a familiar neighborhood. Kayama only lives a few blocks away from him-- the close proximity of their homes is part of the reason the two became such close friends-- and Oboro’s azure eyes widen slightly at the figure sitting cross-legged on one of the tiled roofs.

Kayama is sitting on top of the roof of her house, her back facing him as she stares up at the dark sky with her glittering cerulean eyes. Her short black hair falls in spikes around her shoulders, and she’s clad in Tinkerbell pajama pants with bunny slippers and a black tank top. Her thin black glasses sit on the bridge of her perfectly angular nose, and Oboro finds himself entranced by the strange stillness surrounding her. For as long as he’s known the girl, she’s been this bright, glowing ball of energy, flaunting her glory everywhere she goes without a hint of shame. Seeing her so still, so quiet and thoughtful just catches his interest somehow, as if this sight that he’s seeing is akin to a wildlife photographer honing his lens in on a majestic deer. 

Before he knows it, Oboro is directing his cloud down to her.

“Hey, Kayama!” Oboro calls to his senior, and Kayama jolts in surprise at the sound of his voice. She turns around to look up at him, and Oboro flashes her a bright smile as he descends toward her. “I wasn’t expecting to see you out and about this late at night! It’s rare!”

Kayama smiles and tucks a stray raven lock behind her ear. Her hair, Oboro notes distantly, is more of a deep indigo color instead of true black. “It’s not being ‘out and about’ if I’m just chilling on my own roof, Shirakumo,” she replies. “Besides, I could be saying the same thing to you.”

Oboro shrugs and his cloud disappears beneath him with a small pomf. “Fair point. Mind if I chill with you for a bit?” he asks, already walking over to her. The red roof tile is cold beneath his bare feet, but Oboro doesn’t pay it much mind. Kayama is his only center of attention right now.

The older girl utters a pleasant laugh. “Sure, sure. It’s nice having some company every now and again,” she says, and pats the roof tiles beside her. Oboro wastes no time in plopping down right next to her.

For a long moment, neither of them say anything. They just look up at the infinite dark sky above them, and Oboro revels in the beauty it has to offer. The night sky isn’t completely dark, he notices with awe, but instead it’s bright with the stars twinkling distantly and the full glow of the pale full moon shining down on the world like a flashlight. Clouds also drift lazily in the heavens above them, and Oboro traces their shapes in amazement as he notices them fade between grey and white, depending on their proximity to the moon.

The night is full of silvery brilliance, and Oboro breathes it in contentedly.

“Ever notice how expressive the sky is?” Oboro finds himself saying. “Like, I know it’s just oxygen and shit, but I just like to think weather is just the sky showing off it’s different feelings. Like, sunny days are when it’s happy and full of energy, while rainy days are when it's feeling down and wants attention. Nights like this are my favorite, though. It’s sleepy, but at the same time it wants to see how us little people are doing.”

Kayama glances away from the sky and back at the teenage boy beside her. Her lips quirk up into a smile, and Oboro quickly realizes with a grimace just how lame he sounded. “Gah! Ignore me, I dunno why I said that,” Oboro rambles, his face heating up in embarrassment.

Kayama just laughs. “No, no it’s okay. Don’t worry,” she assures him with a gentle pat on his shoulder. “I never thought of it that way. I don’t usually look at the sky and look for some hidden meaning; I just take it for what it is.” She flashes him a glowing smile, and Oboro’s heart seizes up in his chest. “I like that about you, you know that? You have a refreshing perspective on things.”

Oboro chuckles awkwardly. “Do I?” he asks.

Kayama nods her head. “Totally do. It’s nice.”

They sit again in silence, though this time, Oboro’s attention isn’t on the sky above. Instead, he sits there for a moment, just watching her as Kayama turns her attention upward. The silvery brilliance of the moon illuminates her high cheekbones, the curve of her nose, and highlights her full, plump pink lips. It reflects silver in her dark hair, and her blue eyes glimmer under its elegance like twin sapphires. Here, under the moonlight’s kiss, she looks like a goddess, even more so than usual.

It’s common knowledge that Kayama is beautiful. In fact, Oboro is willing to go as far as to say she’s one of-- if not-- the most beautiful girl in UA. There’s just something so wholly compelling about watching Kayama strut her stuff down the school halls, her chest puffed out and chin held high, walking forward without a wink of hesitation nor shame. When she speaks, it grabs his attention, and when she looks at him, his heart forgets to beat. Even Aizawa and Yamada-- who clearly have different romantic tastes-- agree that Kayama is undeniably attractive.

Sometimes, it surprises him that he’s one of her closest friends.

Kayama turns to look at him, and all thoughts in his head die the second her stunning blue eyes fall to his azure ones. “Shirakumo?” she asks, and her smile suddenly turns mischievous. “Why are you looking at me like that? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re checking me out.”

Steam literally explodes from around his ears (damn his quirk) as his face turns fifty shades of pink. “NO! Nope, no, nuh-uh! I wasn’t doing anything like that! I was… uh…” he turns his brain around in a panic, looking for anything else to say. “I was just thinking about class today! Haha, yeah! Just kinda got lost in thought and stared off into space!”

“Oh?” Oboro isn’t too sure if he’s imagining the hint of disappointment in her voice or not. “Well, how was it? I know Hokiko-sensei is a real hardass. Or he was when I had him last year, anyway.”

“Yeah, he was. He…” Oboro redirects his attention away from the beautiful girl sitting right next to him down to his hands clasped together in his lap. He utters a heavy sigh. “We, uh, well, we did some exercises today about quick time reactions. Basically, he threw shit like baseballs at us, and he assessed how quickly we would react to them. It was supposed to be an easy class, but I got knocked around more times than I would’ve liked.”

“Why?” Kayama asks, her cerulean blue gaze becoming thoughtful and serious.

Oboro shrugs. “We were all getting assessed simultaneously, so while I had to make sure I wasn’t getting pelted by baseballs, I also had to make sure my classmates were doing fine. Ya know, and vice versa,” he explains.

Something clicks together in Kayama’s stare as realization washes over her pale face. “Let me guess: you were so preoccupied by your classmates that you forgot to look out for yourself?” she guesses, and Oboro balks at the accuracy.

“I-is it that obvious?” he whines.

Kayama’s laugh is somehow reassuring. “It’s obvious because I know you, dummy,” she tells him, and lifts a hand to gently flick his forehead. “It’s how we met, after all. Don’t you remember that time when we were in middle school? Some girl was making fun of me and you came over to chase her away? Even though we didn’t even know each other?”

Oboro’s chuckle is shaky, and he can’t help but cringe in hindsight. “I must’ve looked like a white knight or something… Ugh, and they called us boyfriend-girlfriend for the longest time after…” he recalls with a shudder.

Kayama laughs. “Yeah, it was a little weird, but it was also super sweet. It takes guts to help a person out like that, especially if you’d never met them before.”

Oboro turns to her fully, his smile wide and hopeful. “Then you agree with me, right? Me looking out for everyone else isn’t a bad thing?” he says.

Oboro’s confidence wavers at the clear disapproval in the other’s eyes, and Kayama redirects her attention back to the dark heavens above them. “That’s the thing, Shirakumo. Society has conditioned us to believe that certain traits are black or white, when in reality, they’re a moral grey,” she tells him sagely. “At times, anger isn’t always a bad thing, and while envy is an ugly way to feel, it isn’t always derogatory. They can help us cope with situations that are unfair to us or hurtful to others. In some ways, even kindness can be bad. Unhealthy even. It’s always the good people who are taken advantage of.”

Kayama turns to face him, and Oboro’s heart stills as she offers him a gentle yet firm smile. “There is no good or bad when it comes to our feelings and habits. You wanting to help others can be helpful, but if it comes at the cost of your own health, then it’s definitely not something you should be brazen about.”

Oboro sighs deeply and runs a hand through his cloudy hair, his expression crumpling into a grimace. “I know, I know, it’s just… I don’t know,” he mutters. “Ever since I was little, people have told me the true essence of being a hero is putting others’ needs before my own. And it always made sense, you know? Like, I know you’re right, and I know that my habits aren’t healthy, but…” Oboro utters a resigned sigh. “I don’t know what else to do.”

Kayama scoots closer to him and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re too down on yourself, you know that? I know you, Shirakumo, and I know that you have all the tools you need to become an amazing hero. The only one who doesn’t see it is you,” she tells him, and adds with a small laugh, “Besides, Aizawa and Yamada look up to you, you know? You don’t know it, but you’ve been a really good influence on them. Especially Aizawa.”

Shirakumo lifts his head and turns to face her, his azure eyes wide with disbelief. “Damn, Kayama, how do you do it?” he asks, his words taking the other aback. “You always seem so confident and self assured. When you’re serious, you can spew some amazing wisdom, while I…” Oboro looks away with a sigh. “I’m all about the fake stuff. I’m not even confident most of the time, I just… force myself to act and say things I don’t even completely agree in. It makes me feel like such a fraud.”

Kayama’s smile doesn’t waver in the slightest. “What can I say? Not all of us are perfect, besides…” the light in her eyes dims a bit. “If you really think I was always this way, then maybe you are dumb.”

Oboro scoffs, though his lips betray a smile. “Gee, thanks,” he says wryly, causing the other girl to laugh.

Kayama stands up and stretches her arms over her head. Shirakumo pointedly turns his attention away as her tank top lifts just a bit, exposing a glimpse of her toned stomach. “All this talk about insecurity is kinda draining. Come on, ” Kayama extends a hand out to him, “my mom made cookies earlier. There should be enough left over for you and me to split.”

Shirakumo stares at her hand in awe, temporarily taken aback. Usually, Oboro is the type of guy to keep his insecurities and fears hidden. He wants people to know he’s reliable and helpful, and he wants to be this pillar of reassurance for those around him. And yet, whenever he’s around this girl, he just feels more… vulnerable. Like he can finally look at these hidden parts of himself-- parts that he’s disgusted with-- and somehow feel just a little more content with them. Looking at Kayama now, Oboro can’t help but realize just how amazing she is. Not only is she beautiful and smart, but she’s confident and reliable; she genuinely cares about the people around her, and while her mannerisms are a little weird, creepy even, it also makes her so much more… her.

And Oboro wouldn’t change her for the world.

“I love you,” the words stand at the edge of his tongue, the temptation to risk it all becoming more and more overwhelming by the second. “You make me want to be better. You inspire me. I want to see you become an amazing hero, and I want to be beside you when you finally achieve your dreams. I love you.”

But he doesn’t.

Instead, Oboro reaches up and takes her hand. “Your mom makes the best cookies,” he says with a smile. “My mom has been asking for her chocolate macadamia nut recipe, by the way. Think she’ll be willing to share her secrets with me?”

Kayama laughs as she pulls him to his feet. Although he’s several inches taller than her, she doesn’t seem bothered at all having to smile up at him. “Maybe, maybe not. No promises, though,” she says. Kayama turns around and clambers down to the edge of the tiled roof, where she steps onto her window sill. She smiles back at him. “Come on! I managed to get my hands on one of Bon Jovi’s limited edition albums, the other day, and I’ve been waiting to listen to it with you!”

Oboro laughs as he follows her lead down to her window. “Immaculate taste as ever, eh, Kayama?”

Kayama’s giggles are music to his ears, “What can I say? It’s a living.”

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “Trapped” Part 5

Almost one year ago, someone tried to kill The Joker in a speeding car and Y/N pushed him out of the way, getting hit instead. With a fractured skull and broken bones, she was out of business for 6 months; when she finally recovered, The Queen of Gotham wasn’t the same anymore. Trapped inside her own mind and exhibiting severe cognitive impairment, Y/N’s life switched upside down without any hope of ever returning to normal.

Part 1    Part 2    Part 3    Part 4

4 Months Pregnant

“I need customized stickers that say Baby On Board for my purple Lamborghini and the other cars I drive,” The Joker growls at his own idea whilst sharing it with the person fulfilling his wacko trades: Franco Rossi, the leader of best underground supply chain in Gotham.

“When would you like them ready Mister J? After Y/N gives birth?”

“Nope! Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?...” Franco hesitantly inquiries about the sudden emergency since he can’t understand why The King of Gotham demands them so fast.

The Joker hates explaining yet certain people are obtuse thus they necessitate enlightenment.

“Y/N’s pregnant: when she gets in a car, the baby is also. Baby on board! Hello??” the father-to-be loses his temper.

Who can argue with The Joker’s logic? Nobody. It sort of makes sense anyway.

“Of course, Mister J. I’ll have them ready. If you drop by after 6pm, I’ll have your guns ready too.”

“Perfect!” the Joker hangs up among the ruckus coming from the office near the kitchen: sounds of shattered objects and yelling alert Richard aka Panda you’re at it again. He nonchalantly passes by in order to deliver the items to The Clown.  

“Your drinks Mister J,” he gives one cup with Starbucks caramel latte to his boss and the other is placed on the table. Why does your boyfriend require 2 identical containers? It won’t take long to solve the mystery.

“Are the lids glued?”

Strange question but there’s a purpose in it.

“Yes sir. How is she doing?”

“She’s hormonal: breaking things makes her feel better which reminds me we have to hoard porcelain objects for her to wreck. NO glass!”

“Sure, I’ll tell the crew,” Richard leaves the kitchen while texting Frost. “Hulk needs more to smash,” he types the code name they gave you in the last weeks although The King knows about it: J’s the one that came up with it.

“Hey Pumpkin,” you are greeted as soon as you pop up from the office. “How’d it go?” he scrolls down on his phone and takes a sip of hot liquid.

“Ugghh!” a frustrated Y/N swings the yellow teddy bear The Joker stole for her on their first date, hitting his hand in the process. The drink flies near the fridge and splatters on the floor with minimal damage: only a tiny puddle instead of a disaster, that’s why the lids are glued.

Safety measure for The Queen’s unpredictability.

J grabs his reserve cup of coffee, paying attention now hence he dodges your renewed attack and keeps his coffee intact.

That’s why his drinks have the lids glued, in case you catch him off guard the second time it will result in negligible destruction.

It happened before.

“I don’t think so Princess,” The Joker strong grip on the container calms you a bit because you won’t be able to win this round. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” you pout and sit in his lap.

“I bet the baby is,” the secret weapon is unleashed: J discovered such a gem by accident and it works like a charm. How can Y/N say “no” if the baby is involved? She can’t.

A plate filled with a bunch of your favorite breakfast food is placed in front of you and strangely enough you’re instantly hungry.

“Extra bacon,” he purrs. “Plus chocolate dip and honey mustard for your pickled cherries. I added peanut butter olives as a bonus.”

In your defense, you’ve been having weird cravings lately.

You place the toy on the chair nearby and start eating, ogling a Joker texting back and forth with his business partners. He chews the morsel you just offered and shivers: waffle dipped in clam juice is disgusting. Maybe he should look at the food you shove in his mouth.

“Gross,” J washes the terrible taste with coffee and gets a kiss for encouragement, yet he’s aware of the connotations. Another kiss confirms it.

Let’s put it this way: besides the hormonal episodes and food demands, The Queen has had a fresh type of craving recently - The Joker kind.

More than usually.

That’s why he has to clear it up.

“I’m flattered for being the center of attention; we gotta keep in mind that contrary to the popular belief, I don’t have unlimited stamina, Pumpkin.”

You nod in agreement and unbutton his pants, then unzip them also.

“Y/N, pay attention!” J insists since you don’t give a damn about his woes. “Think about it as a two way street: The Joker Street and I Want To Break Things Street. Are you with me so far?” he double checks.

Why is he yapping so much??! I guess you should make an effort to comprehend: he’s even doodling patterns on his phone to emphasize the speech.

“When you get hormonal, Princess, let’s try and walk on the I Want To Break Things Street instead of The Joker Street, hm? The Joker Street is sometimes closed for repairs until further announcement.”

OK, OK, this is a lecture. Something about a Joker Street, he seems upset he doesn’t have one…?... Right?...

If you were him, you would be pissed Gotham didn’t name a street in your honor when you’re so important for the town.

Another peck on his neck, then your lips go down his collar bone.

“You’re not paying attention, are you?” J mutters when it’s clear his shirt won’t remain on his body for too long.

“I am,” you defend yourself.

“Oh yeah? What did I say then?”

“Ummm…” you try to piece together words among estrogen taking over. “No Joker Street?...”

“Bingo, that’s it Princess! No Joker Street, correct! Choose the other street, yes?”

This time he kisses you, excited his idea was well received when in fact, both parties are referring to unrelated concepts.

“Wait,” J dodges your touch, “Richard is calling.”

Because he’s on the phone ignoring Y/N, she is ensuring a nice surprise for later; concentrating to the maximum to avoid misspelling, the following message is sent to Franco Rossi from her cell:

“Make a landmark sign that says Joker Street.”

The King’s conversation is prolonged more than anticipated until he discerns you’re not wiggling: you feel asleep, softly snoring on his shoulder and he definitely can’t afford to wake you up.

The doctors said your body is trying to cope with the pregnancy the best way it can: if you doze off at random hours it means you ran out of fuel and you should rest. After cheating death and surviving the accident, the future mother is at high risk of serious complications which is why each day could lead to unforeseen problems.

The Joker rises from the chair holding you in his arms and after a few steps he realizes it’s difficult to walk: thanks to his unbuttoned and unzipped pants, they keep sliding lower and lower. There’s no way he will make it upstairs so maybe the sofa in the living room is the best option. He almost trips thus he begins to drag his feet on the carpet, the pants at knee level now.

“I’m reduced to a piece of meat,” J grumbles, finally making it to the couch and placing Y/N on it so she can have her power nap.

*************

6:02pm

You accompanied The King to a meeting with Seraphim, the best hacker/strategist J uses: they’ve been plotting for a while concerning D.A. Kevin Winchester. The politician is becoming a huge pain in the butt for Gotham’s underworld and something must be done; either annihilation or blackmail, it truly doesn’t matter since he’s bad for business. Due to a total lack of interest in the subject, you are exploring the surroundings quite angry The Joker dragged you here.

Luckily there’s stuff to do.

Bam! you punch the fragile glass sculpture and it splinters into a million pieces on the lavish marble floor.

Seraphim jumps at the noise, immediately recognizing his beloved possession:

“That’s…,” he gulps, appalled. “That’s a Vitriol!”

Yup, the one and only Degas Vitriol, the latest sensation taking the art universe by storm.

“She’s hormonal,” J sneers. “She breaks shit!”

“That’s valued at 150,000 dollars!” the hacker breaths in much needed oxygen regarding the atrocity unfolding at his hideout.

“So??!!” your boyfriend sucks on his teeth, irritated. “Serves you right for buying that asshole’s artsy fartsy crap!”

The Joker actually has 4 Vitriol masterpieces at the mansion yet you were strictly forbidden to destroy them, alas he gave you the office for your rampages.

You continue your exploration as they talk about God knows what until you perceive an alarming detail: Seraphim is literally screaming having a gun pointed at J.

You sneak behind him then in a split second you strike the pistol out of his hand and your fist lands on his temple with such brutality it knocks him out unconscious.

“What the hell are you doing, Y/N???” The Clown hisses at your erratic behavior.

“Hm?”

“What are you doing??!!!” he repeats, annoyed.

“S-saving  you…,” you stutter, confused on why J is mad. “He was yelling and…mmm, had a gun,” you wince in pain because your knuckles hurt from the impact.

“The guy’s half deaf and sometimes he raises his voice without noticing, or did you forget??!! Now I have to wait until he comes to his senses and that’s a waste of my time, Y/N!!! Seraphim wasn’t threatening me, he was showing me his newest collectible!!! I suppose someone with half a brain can’t acknowledge the mess they’ve created!!!”

A lot of accusations thrown your way still… the last sentence brings tears in your eyes.

“I…” you bite your lower lip. “…I don’t have half of brain…”

“Wanna bet??” The Joker bites more instead of leveling with your logic: you though he was in danger and took action. If it was a real emergency, yes, you would have been the hero; it’s not and apparently he can’t appreciate your fast intervention in these circumstances.

“Y-you’re stupid…” you whisper, frustrated. “You don’t understand anything…”

Here it is -- the cataclysmic event of the century: someone called The Joker stupid. He’s beyond outraged with nothing better to utter besides a very childish:

“You’re stupid!”

Y/N turns around and stomps out of the house leaving a trail of destruction outside: she slaps the bottled water out of The Shark’s hand, kicks Panda’s shin and snatches Frost’s donut basically inhaling the sweet treat.

“I want to go h-home!!” you shout and enter the first vehicle you see, slamming the door so hard the window on the passenger side cracks.

“Jesus…” Jonny mumbles and being the sensible man that he is you are offered the whole box of pastries he purchased for his family. He can acquire more, but there’s no way in hell he wants to endure Y/N in the state she’s in.

Gotta keep Hulk calm somehow…

**************

3 Hours Afterwards

You sulk when The Joker strolls in the master bathroom frantically searching the cabinets.

“Did you see my shaver?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“Did you see my shaver?”

“I…I wouldn’t know. I only have half a brain,” the surprisingly eloquent phrase queues J his woman is holding a grudge for his earlier statement. Why wouldn’t she? He was a complete jerk.

At least you didn’t catch on to the obvious: The King of Gotham doesn’t own a shaver; hair just grows on his head.  

He glimpses at Y/N soaking in the bathtub with a kid’s book in her left hand and the right hand fingers sunk into a bowl filled with ice placed at the edge of the Jacuzzi. The Joker leans over and switches your book since it’s upside down.

You huff at the unwanted help and stare at the pictures expecting he’ll look for his shaver and disappear.

You’re not that fortunate today.

“Imagine my surprise when I drove the main alley and detected a sign that says The Joker Street,” he brings up the topic.

Franco Rossi was super-efficient …sadly you ordered the item before J ran his mouth at the hacker’s place, otherwise you wouldn’t care he wants a street with his name.

“You said no… no Joker Street,” you stammer. “Now you have one,” the bitter tone makes him roll his eyes: Y/N’s brain got what it could from his monologue, he should have known better than to make it complicated.

“Excellent…” The King starts rubbing your tummy, “… precisely what I was aiming for. I’m washing the baby, not you!” he underlines when you move farther from him.

You scrunch your face displeased but let him do it because it’s for the baby.

“I know what you’re doing,” Y/N gives him a cold gaze. “U-using the baby… I’m not stupid!”

Busted, The Joker thinks. The schemer in him won’t accept defeat though.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Yes you did!”

“You said it first!!!” he reckons, antagonized. “Therefore two stupid people put together gotta make up for a smart one!!’

“I… I don’t wanna make out…” you frown at his suggestion.

The Joker sighs, deciding not to correct the trajectory of your judgement; it sure sounds like an opportunity.

“Why not?”

“I’m tired and…and I h-hate you,” your heavy eyelids close.

“Both viable reasons, even if I have to admit you striking Seraphim like that got me quite worked up. He’s no small fry! I had to wait for one hour for him to recover; you got a mean punch, woman! The more I reflect on it, the hornier I get. Which reminds me, Pumpkin: guess what?... … … I’m hormonal too.”

No answer, Pumpkin’s out.

“Of course nobody gives a damn if I’m hormonal!” he complaints while grabbing you from the bathtub. You cling to him for a few moments prior to drifting back into your dreams.

“Thanks for getting me all wet,” J snarls at the cruel reality of having his favorite Prada suit ruined.

“You…you’re welcome…” his Queen replies in her sleep, somehow her mind clutching to reality amidst pure relaxation.

This is what two hormonal individuals are reduced to: one’s dozing off, the other is suffering in silence, although being the proud owner of the tiniest road in Gotham compensates for the mishap.

It’s a two way street.

 Also read: Masterlist

You can also follow me on Ao3 and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho. 

[welllpthisishappening]

One Foot In (6/7)

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: 9K’ish this chapter and some ‘ish is going to happen AN: Hello, hi, here are some explanations and feelings and then some more feelings and drama and stuff is going to happen, guys. Thanks for being top notch and excellent and reading all these words. I think you’re swell. 

|| Also on Ao3 or you can read all those words from the start ||

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

—–

Emma Swan is twenty-nine years, six months, twenty-four days and, approximately, eleven hours old when the Earth appears to lose its entire atmosphere. 

She doesn’t gasp, which is kind of disappointing. She just, kind of, sort of freezes, muscles tensing and body going taught with the tension that had been lingering just under the surface of everything since she made the one decision that changed everything. 

Someone curses. 

Emma can’t tell if it’s Ruby or Shakespeare, but there’s some kind of scuffle happening just out of the edge of her vision and there are goons in the living room she hadn’t noticed before. 

She still hasn’t moved. 

She isn’t entirely sure she can. 

Coward. 

The Darkness laughs gleefully, a sound that grates on Emma’s ears and feels a bit like nails on a chalkboard or just, actual, literal nails. He’s moving his fingers, a quick tap against each other, bouncing from one foot to the other and it’s as unnatural as it is disturbing. 

“Oh, I knew that would be good, but I never expected it to play out like that,” he says. The words rush out of him, as if he can’t say them quickly enough to keep up with whatever dance he’s doing in the middle of the rug. 

The rug has tassels on it. 

“Beautiful,” the Darkness continues. “Absolutely beautiful. Tell me, Savior, how does it feel to get that off your chest? I’d imagine it’s a relief.”

Emma exhales, another mistake, but she’s piling those up faster than she can count them at this point and the space between her and Killian feels as vast as several Grand Canyons. She turns her head slowly, not trusting herself to go any faster and he’s staring straight ahead. 

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t close his mouth. 

She can see him breathing, shoulders shaking with the effort of doing it consistently and she understands that. She assumes the oxygen levels can’t possibly be the same once the atmosphere has been compromised. 

“Although,” the Darkness says, leaning towards Emma with a very specific glint in his eyes. “It appears to be quite a shock to both of you. Thoughts, dead man?” Killian doesn’t answer him. His gaze snaps towards Emma, darker than she can remember it and that’s not right at all. 

He’s not supposed to look like that. 

He’s not supposed to feel like that. 

The buzzing in her head is barely more than an echo now. 

“Say it again,” Killian mutters, and at first Emma doesn’t understand. She’s half a second away from mumbling what under her breath, but then he’s half a step in front of her and it somehow feels even farther away. “Say it again. The truth, Emma.” Her eyes flutter closed at the sound of her own name, the pain and disappointment and absolute hurt obvious in all four letters. 

“I’m the reason Liam is dead.” “How?” The question catches her off guard, an edge to his voice that’s brand-new as well and maybe they’ve just been teleported to a different timeline entirely. That would almost make more sense. 

“I don’t—” Emma starts, but Killian’s already shaking her head and a goon groans when Ruby, presumably, kicks him in the heel. “Yeah, that’s not fair, is it?” “You’re asking me about fair? Honestly? With a goddamn demon a foot away from us?” “Oh now, I resent that,” the Darkness chides. Ruby sounds like she’s trying to actually beat several people with her Louboutins. “I’m hardly a demon.” “What the hell are you then?” “Something the world has been waiting a very long time for. But you haven’t gotten your answers yet have you? And you want them. Oh, do you. I can feel it you know, dead man. The need and the questions and the certainty that something was wrong since the start. Because you’ve always believed that haven’t you? It was wrong. Everything about it was wrong.”

The Darkness grins again – slow and reptilian, the movement snaking across his face until his entire expression looks twisted and inhuman. His eyebrows jump and twist, certainty in every shift as the lights flicker around them. 

Emma does her best to stay upright, but it’s becoming an increasingly difficult challenge. The words keep bouncing around her head, ricocheting off nerve endings and synapses and whatever else makes up the human brain. 

It’s like a scratched CD, stuck on one string of lyrics and one sentence, a few words that play on repeat and threaten to drive Emma even more insane than she already is. 

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. 

She’s been wrong since the start. 

“It didn’t make sense,” the Darkness whispers, leering at Killian with wide eyes that have suddenly taken on a distinctly yellow pallor. “Even then. Even now. He was young. He had his whole life ahead of him and she stole that from you.” Emma must make a noise because she can feel Ruby’s eyes land on her, but she’s not entirely sure what it is, just knows that it hurts every single inch of her. She wraps her arms around her middle, desperate to keep herself together in a metaphorical and literal sense. 

Killian keeps blinking. 

Like he’s trying to figure out what is and isn’t real.

“How, Swan?” 

Her breath catches when he looks at her – pleading and desperate and so impossibly blue she knows she’d never be able to forget it. He called her Swan again. 

“Ingrid,” Emma whispers. “She, um...well, she died. I went back across the street, remember? It was..it was lunch and I was soaking wet and—” “—You kept trying to spray me with the hose.” “That’s not what happened at all.” Killian doesn’t quite smile, but there’s almost an attempt and Emma appreciates that. “We were going to go ride our bikes down the hill later.” “Yeah, yeah,” she nods, and her tongue feels far too big for her mouth. “I went upstairs, to change and get the mud out from underneath my fingernails and I heard a crash and I...I got back to the kitchen and Ingrid was dead.”

“She wasn’t later, though.” “Yeah, I think you’ve already figured out how that happened.” “Did you know?” “That touching Ingrid would bring her back to life? Or that she could only stay alive for a certain amount of time? Or that when she kissed me goodnight later I’d kill her?” 

Killian’s eyes flash, another string of fairly impressive curses from the peanut gallery and, maybe, one of the goons and the Darkness is frustratingly silent. Emma drags her hand roughly over her cheek, no doubt leaving an angry red streak in her wake, but the tears have started to fall or are still falling and she’s kind of angry now. 

She’s kind of furious. 

And so goddamn alone she’s positive she reeks with it. 

“Any of those actually,” Killian mumbles. He doesn’t reach towards her, but he doesn’t back away again and Emma’s really starting to cling to these half victories. 

“No. That was—” “—That was the first time.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact and a little pitying, which is a little disappointing, but Emma barely musters up a nod of agreement so maybe she deserves the pity. 

“And you,” he whispers. “You didn’t…” “What was I supposed to say? I had no idea what had happened. It was all...everything happened so quickly. Ingrid was dead and I didn’t want her to be dead and then suddenly she wasn’t and—God, I didn’t want Liam to be dead. I wouldn’t…” Emma runs out of air, lips dry from breathing erratically through her mouth “I couldn’t do that to you,” she whispers. “Not when—” “—Not when she was so consumed with several other very important emotions,” the Darkness interrupts, a note of impatience in his voice that seems more unfair than just about anything else that’s happened in the last few minutes. 

One of the lightbulbs in the nearest decorative lamp shatters. 

“And that, of course, is the crux of our little meeting here.” Killian tilts his head. “It’s a meeting then, is it?” “Have I brought you here against your will, dead man? Have I bound you? Gagged you? Dragged through the streets kicking and screaming?” “You did kill me.” “No, no, no, that wasn’t me. That was Mr. Teach. We’ve covered that already.” “Seems a little bit like splitting hairs,” Emma grumbles, a hint of decidedly out of place sarcasm. She knows Ruby is smiling at her. 

“It’s a fact, Ms. Swan,” the Darkness corrects. “And very important to our little tale. Are you and the dead man done discussing things? Because I’d like to get to the point of all of this.” “There’s a point?” He scoffs, almost amused. “Of course there is. And it’s a very important, very sharp point that will change the course of everything.” “Why did you bring up Liam?” Killian asks. “That—Emma hadn’t told me before.” “You know it’s rather disappointing to be proved so incredibly wrong in such a short span of time. You’re quite lacking on the intelligent front. I explained that already.” The last few words come out a bit like a hiss – more reptilian jokes and puns and allusions and Emma can hear the disappointment lingering in Killian’s voice. She licks her lips again. “And you seem like you’re wasting time,” Emma challenges. “Teach said you were trying to bring someone back. Someone important to you? A kid, maybe? Where are they?” She regrets the question as soon as it’s out of her mouth. 

The Darkness doesn’t yell. Doesn’t say anything. But his eyes go impossibly dark, no color, just a vast expanse of nothing that seems to stretch out in front of Emma and she can feel the rage ripple in the air around them. 

It tastes like rotten eggs, a stench that doesn’t remind her of anything and yet somehow feels impossibly familiar, as if it’s always been lingering just on the edge of her consciousness, an almost that threatens to drag her away. 

“Don’t talk about him,” the Darkness seethes. “Not yet. Not until I explain what has to happen.” “And what has to happen, exactly?” Ruby asks, twisting against her own strand of rope and there’s suddenly a gag in her mouth. She flinches at the fabric, stuffed in between her lips, and both Emma and Killian lunge forward at the same time. 

The Darkness clicks his tongue. “No, no, none of that. I have the upper hand here. I do.” There’s a distinct lack of confidence in the sentence, like he’s convincing himself or reminding himself and the realization sends a rush of something that may almost be misplaced confidence down Emma’s spine. 

“Of course you do,” she says, doing her best to keep her voice even. “Why did you bring up Liam? And what...you keep calling me different things.” “I’m not.” Emma opens her mouth to object, but reconsiders it as soon as she sees the look on his face and the floor creaks under Killian’s feet when he shifts towards her. Her lungs appreciate that. It’s easier to breathe when he lingers in her space. 

“I’m not,” the Darkness repeats. “I’m telling you what you are. This is the start. This house and the belief it fostered in you. You’re brimming with belief, Savior.” “That’s not true.” “Ah, but isn’t it? You grew up here, trusted everything that happened here and even after it all disappeared, you remembered it, didn’t you? Knew it was true and honest and it kept you both of those things. It made you even more powerful.” Emma blinks. “I don’t—” “—I know, I know, you don’t understand and it can’t possibly be real and you couldn’t be more wrong. Haven’t you ever wondered what happened to your parents?” She stumbles over her own feet, an impressive achievement since she doesn’t really move, but it feels as if the foundations of the entire goddamn house shift underneath her. Killian’s breath is warm on her neck as soon as Emma rolls her shoulders, desperate to maintain her flimsy grip on the situation. 

“Just keep breathing, love,” he whispers. 

“Yeah, easy for you to say.” He chuckles, and Emma isn’t sure if the brush of something she feels on the curve of her shoulder is his lips or just her own misplaced and decidedly wishful thinking, but it’s nice either way and she inhales until it feels as if her lungs will burst. 

“Jokes at the end of the world, Swan? That’s impressive.” “Something, something full of surprises.” It’s definitely his lips. 

Ruby groans through her gag. 

“You know they loved you quite a bit, Savior,” the Darkness says, seemingly unperturbed by flirting at the end of the world. Emma assumes that’s not exactly how he sees it. “Your parents, that is. Fought tooth and nail to protect you.” “My parents gave me up,” Emma argues. She’s been told the story hundreds of times, heard it in every house and from every social worker, the ones she barely remembers before Ingrid and the ones that are ingrained in her memory after. 

The story never changed. It only ever seemed to get worse, more proof that she deserved everything she got and needed to push and run and the Darkness shakes his head deftly. 

He’s got that amused look in his eyes again. 

“Tell me something, Savior, what do you know of magic?” “Aside from my ability to wake the dead?” He hums, stuffing his hands in his pockets and Emma only just notices how unkempt he looks. There are wrinkles in his pants and a few tears in his jacket, a hole in his right sleeve that looks large enough to stick several fingers through. The hem of his shirt is frayed and he’s missing a button on his waistcoat. 

He’s wearing a waistcoat. 

That seems strange. 

“Yes, aside from that.” Emma shrugs. “Nothing. This is...this is the real world. Magic—” “—Oh, don’t tell me you believe magic isn’t real, Savior. Don’t insult both of us like that.” “Explain it then.” It’s more misplaced confidence – a demand Emma can’t possibly make, but it makes the Darkness laugh again and half a dozen frames fall off the wall by the staircase. Killian shifts, fingers brushing over the side of Emma’s arm and it’s selfish and greedy and absolutely, positively wrong, but she twists into. Like a selfish, greedy asshole.   “That,” the Darkness says, nodding at their hands. “That’s it.” Emma tries not to growl. It does not work. “What’s what?”

“Magic. We live in a world where magic used to fill the air. It lingered in the wind and the trees, grew out of certainty and feeling and love. It was...rampant. It was a wonderful place.” “And then?” “And then something happened. The world grew too lopsided. There needed more of a balance and magic started to grow more and more scarce. It started to change as well, a twist and a bastardization to it that shifted the very fabric of magic as itself. There was a split, Savior. Between light magic and dark, between those with power and those who understood it. And for quite some time that was acceptable.” “Who accepted it?” Emma asks, but she’s got a horrible feeling that she already knows the answer. “You? The Darkness?” “In the flesh. As they say.” “Did you twist magic yourself?” He waves a dismissive hand in the air, as if he’s almost embarrassed, but Emma can feel the surge of power and she’s certain the walls have started to shake. A few of the goons mumble something that sounds like master and power and the whole thing has taken a rather cultish turn. Killian’s fingers tighten against her sleeve. 

“How old are you?” he asks. “And how long has your son been dead?” The rest of the frames fall off the wall. A few more lights shatter and one of the chairs not currently being occupied by someone who may actually be a hostage at this point, topples over. 

Killian arches an eyebrow. “It’s been quite some time hasn’t it? That’s what Teach said. You’d been looking for something...something that would be able to bring him back. How long has it been? How many times have you been wrong?”

“Enough,” the Darkness shouts. “We’re not talking about Baelfire yet.” “Yet.” “You’ve already been dead once, I wouldn’t try to push my luck. Not when you’re standing so close to your own personal noose.” Emma hisses, the words slamming into her like shards of glass and she actually has to look down to make sure she’s not bleeding out on the rug. She assumes neither Shakespeare nor Nemo would appreciate that. 

And she’s already done a shit job of making a good first impression. 

“What happened to my parents?” she asks. “Everything I was ever told was that they were gone, gave me up and didn’t—didn’t want me. That’s...there was no one there.” The Darkness shrugs, rocking back on his heels and his confidence appears to have returned as soon as Killian tensed at his threat. He moves, circling around the room like a goddamn vulture and the death puns really need to stop. 

Emma wishes she could sit down. 

“Some of that is true,” the Darkness concedes. “But I suppose part of the reason there was no one there had to do with me. And, well, as the dead man says, I’ve been looking for something that will fix things for quite some time.” “You’re still talking in riddles.” “And you keep interrupting. Where was I? Magic changing?” 

Emma nods, and it feels absurd, a hint of normal in a conversation that is anything but. She can see Nemo trying to unknot the rope twisted around him out of the corner of her eye. She bites her lip. 

“That’s right,” the Darkness muses. He tilts his head up towards the ceiling, a forced casualness to it that Emma couldn’t possibly hate more. “The universe is big and vast and obnoxious, Savior. It has rules and regulations and power is never given to those who really, truly deserve it. There are limitations to all magic, always some kind of price that must be paid, but there was also a rumor, about a magic that was stronger than anything else. That could defy the laws and exceed expectations. That might be able to change things that otherwise ought not to be changed.” Emma’s throat is shrinking. She’s positive. “And what was that?” “Why, True Love, of course.” “That’s impossible.” “Is it?” The argument is sitting on the tip of her tongue, begging to be made. It’s there and real and rational, a hint of normal, but Emma’s never been entirely normal and she can’t bring herself to actually say anything. 

The Darkness grins. “It’s nice when I’m right.” “What does that have to do with me, though?” Emma asks. “I’m—I’ve never seen anyone else go around waking the dead or—”

“—Being the product of True Love with her own True Love, makes the power run twice over.” It’s honestly a miracle she hasn’t fallen over once during this conversation. In the grand scheme of almost victories and emotional upheavals, Emma might be most proud of that one, particular thing. Her knees feel like they’re made of granite at this point. 

“Excuse me?” she breathes, and Ruby might try and laugh at her poor attempt at polite. 

The Darkness stops walking. “What part of that was confusing?” “Well...I mean, all of it?” “Ah, this is why it would have been better to find you earlier, Savior. You’d get your answers, I’d get my boy and we’d rule the cosmos.”

Emma still doesn’t fall over. She makes the single most ridiculous noise in the history of any noise made by any living organism, but she doesn’t actually fall over. She does, however, sag slightly, a rush of oxygen and emotion and hair in her eyes. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Emma breathes, voice turning manic and she’s started looking for escape routes and windows to jump out of. 

She’s fairly certain they can’t outrun the Darkness. 

The Darkness shakes his head in frustration. They are all in desperate need of haircuts. “It’s growing incredibly difficult to spell out every single thing to all of you,” he sighs. “There was a rumor, of a magic that was going to change everything, a strength that had previously never been seen and, very likely, would never be seen again. It was a convergence of everything, a happy accident that could change the fates with a flash of her fingers. And, well, I regret to tell you, Savior that, at first, I didn’t realize it was you.”

“You thought it was my parents.” “I did. That kind of love, oh—” He lets out a low whistle, shivering exaggeratedly and Emma has to bite down on both of her lips to stop herself from doing something foolish. “It was potent,” the Darkness continues. “Like a field of flowers and sunshine and all those particularly good things. Nauseating, if not useful. They loved each other and they loved you. And I believed if I was able to bottle that, then I’d be able to bring my boy back.” “It didn’t work, though.” “Obviously not,” he growls, and Emma doesn’t think she imagines how his teeth have been growing sharper every time he flashes them. “I’d never dealt in True Love before. It was intoxicating, that kind of power and the rush of what I could do. But it was also volatile and it knew that I was, well, not of the same cloth shall we say.” “You’re talking about it like it’s alive,” Killian says. The accusation in his voice is obvious and the Darkness laughs softly at it. 

“Because it is. Magic is a living, breathing entity that’s part of everyone in possession of it. The people are alive, why shouldn’t the magic be?” Emma considers that for a moment, loathe to admit that it makes more sense than just about any of the shit the guy has been spewing. She’s never been entirely sure what happened that made her this, but ever since that first moment on the other side of the street, she’s been aware of it, of the hum beneath her skin, the rush in her veins and the buzzing in her ears that roars to life every single time Killian glances her direction. 

The Darkness makes another noise of triumph. 

“Oh, this is going to work,” he says, sounding as if he’s half talking to himself again and possibly doing his best to psych himself up. “Where was I?” “You’re a shit story teller,” Killian hisses. He’s moved again, turning his back on the villain and staring at Emma with a look that’s different and the same as all the other ones, treading a line that feels impossibly important. His lips twitch slightly. 

“And you’re incredibly rude, dead man.” “Did you kill my parents?” Emma asks. She reaches out again, more instinct and want and less-than-good adjectives, but she swears she can feel the warmth radiating off Killian and he feels so goddamn alive, she’s got to make sure he’s real. 

“Not on purpose.” “I’m not sure the universe gives a fuck about that.” Emma jerks her head towards him, almost prepared for the slink of a smile that moves across his face. “I suppose you’re right,” the Darkness shrugs. “It wasn’t my intention to kill them. That would have been foolish. I wasn’t sure how any of this was going to work, why would I use my entire magic supply in one fell swoop?” Her stomach leaps into her throat as soon as the weight of those words settle into every single corner of her brain and the sob that wracks through Emma’s entire body hurts more than those metaphorical glass shards from a few minutes before. 

She can’t catch her breath, feels like she’s run several marathons and sprinted up and down the hill on the other side of town. Her vision swims in front of her, black spots appearing in her eye line and everything feels as if it’s flipped over and then being kicked for good measure. 

And it’s everything she’s always feared, the deepest, darkest worries in the deepest, darkest corners of her, the certainty that someone, eventually, would find her and keep her and make sure they wring every last bit of magic out of her, until there was nothing left, just a shall of a something that maybe belonged to someone at some point. 

“It was admittedly a little frustrating when they went and died like that,” the Darkness mutters, no trace of actual remorse in the words. 

Emma isn’t sure who tries to move quicker. 

Ruby kicks at the goon closest to her, drawing a hiss of pain out of him when it appears her heel has actually made him bleed. Her eyes are no more than slits, but the anger is practically reverberating around her, and Nemo has gotten rid of the knots twisted around his wrists with relative ease. 

He slams his right fist into the face that lunges towards him. There’s a crack of skin and skin and more yelling, something that sounds like a jaw snapping and Emma can’t stop shivering. Shakespeare doesn’t bother undoing anything. He just stands up with the chair still strapped to him, swinging it around like it’s an actual weapon and managing to take down three men twice his size in the process. 

Killian, for his part, hasn’t moved away from Emma – or turned back around to the scene that’s dissolved into absolute chaos behind him. He drags his hands over her jacket-covered arms, scrunching fabric under his fingers and she can’t blink, can’t look away or breathe or do anything except tilt her head up and try and remember that there's something good and something to believe in and it’s not the right moment, is the absolute worst moment, but there might not be another moment and—

“I love you,” Emma whispers, barely loud enough to hear herself. She knows Killian does. 

The force of his smile is so strong she swears it settles into the pit of her stomach and the base of her heels, a weight that doesn’t threaten to yank her down, but steadies her and calms her and his grip on her arms tightens slightly. 

Like he’s making sure she’s there too. 

Killian’s eyes flutter, Emma’s nails digging into her palms again to stop herself from tracing her thumb over the scar on his cheek. He doesn’t sigh, but he might exhale, letting go of something that might just be everything and—

“Thank God,” he mutters. “I love you. I can’t...I can’t remember when I didn’t.” Emma’s relief is wrong. It’s out of place and ill-timed, but that could probably be the subhead of her life at this point and she needed him to know. 

At least once. 

And she doesn’t realize at first, can’t hear anything over the rush of magic and belief, but then Ruby yells her name and some goon slams his foot into her stomach and everything that might have been good suddenly comes crashing down. 

Literally. 

Another lamp falls over 

“I’d hate to interrupt and I really do loathe rehashing plot points, but I do love being right,” the Darkness says, slow and measured and so victorious Emma is certain it will be the reason she can’t ever get the goosebumps off her arms. “Now, none of you are going to try that again are you?” he asks, glancing back over his shoulder at the re-tied rope and upright chairs. 

There are tears on Ruby’s cheeks. 

“I’d hate to have to take steps,” the Darkness adds. “Savior, please tell your friends not to distract me again.” Emma swallows back the lump of emotion sitting in the middle of her throat. She tries to take a step towards Ruby, but two different goons move into her space and they must be multiplying somewhere. Maybe they’re actually clones. 

Magic clones make sense at this point. 

“It’s ok,” she whispers, a lie that makes even more tears spring to her eyes. She must be close to setting a record. “It’s...we’re going to be ok.” The Darkness hums in agreement. “There, now that that’s settled. Let’s get back to the task. True Love, dead parents, a missing baby who just...disappeared as soon as I turned my back.” “What?” 

“I genuinely do not know how to make that any clearer.” “Your magic, love,” Killian mumbles. “You must have...have you ever teleported before?”

She gapes at him. “Are you serious?” “I have no idea, at this point.”

“It’s entirely possible that you did,” the Darkness says. He’s stopped walking, perched instead on the top of the slightly ornate couch in the corner of the room. Every kick of his legs out makes Emma grit her teeth. “As I said, your magic is quite a bit different than mine. It might not have appreciated being, well, targeted like that. Although it did set us on this path now.” Emma lifts her eyebrows. “And what path is that?” “I need your magic, Savior. The same magic that was prophesied as the strongest of any magic the world has ever seen. You see, it’s taken a very long time to make sure that that happened, but your little display with the dead man helps explain it.” “Why did Killian have to die? That’s...that’s the one part I can’t figure out.” “That’s the one part you can’t figure out?” Killian mutters, grunting slightly when Emma steps on his foot. His grin is absurd. It makes it easier to breathe. 

God. 

“You met Cora again recently, yes?” the Darkness asks, Emma nodding before he’s finished the question. “Then you know that our former Madam Mayor had quite a talent. She could see what people wanted and was particularly good at discerning those with other abilities. I’d almost given up on finding you, Savior. I’d been searching for so long and, well, it’s not as if True Love happens every day. In fact, your parents are the last case I’ve found until today.” Emma’s knees finally give up. 

She crashes to the ground in a heap, a twist of limbs and Killian’s distinct inability to hold onto her when she moves. The tears on her cheeks feel as if they’re burning their way down her skin.

Killian’s head snaps towards her, eyes wide and that same pleading look from before. As if he’s desperate for more confirmation or more magic and Emma is loath to realize she can’t bring herself to produce either.  

She feels drained and exhausted and the Darkness is still talking. 

“Is that surprising?” he asks lightly, another leg kick that ends with his boot ripping the back of the couch. “I’m honestly a little disappointed in myself that I didn’t realize from the very beginning. As soon as I got to this charming little hamlet, it was obvious. The feel of it. It hangs here, like a blanket. But, as they say, when you want something done right, you have to do it yourself and, well, I trusted Cora. That was foolish of me.” “Is that why you killed her?” Emma rasps, voice scratching its way out of her. 

The Darkness quirks his lips. “It was certainly part of the reason. A large part. Cora was positive that Mr. Jones had magic. She told me he was desperate to leave this life behind, couldn’t stand to be holed up in this house for a moment long and, oh—” He glances at the stunned expressions on Nemo and Shakespeare’s faces, another smile and press of his tongue against his cheek. It’s disarming, the confidence there and the evil that makes the word evil seem less absurd in context. 

“Touchy subject, isn’t it?” Killian can’t seem to decide where to move. He wobbles on his feet, jerking between Emma, still on the floor, and his uncles, still tied up in their own goddamn chairs. His hand shakes when he reaches up to tug on his hair. 

“That’s not,” he starts, but the rest of the sentence gets caught in his mouth. “I’m so sorry.” “Can I get back to my story?” the Darkness asks lightly, and Emma doesn’t think before she reacts. She throws her hand out, swiping it through air that suddenly feels a bit like soup and the rush that flashes through her veins is as overwhelming as it is intoxicating. 

She’s got no idea what she’s trying to accomplish, only knows that she has to do something, anything, and Killian’s strangled Emma as soon as it happens seems to slink down her spine. Right next to the promises and the guarantees and that one, particular smile. 

Emma’s never actually seen a body fly across a living room that’s decorated well enough to belong in several different magazines and someone gasps when the Darkness slams into the far wall. It might be her. She might gasp. 

The Darkness laughs. 

Loudly. 

He stays down for a moment, shoulders shaking until he lifts himself up, sitting cross legged on the floor with his chin resting on his fingers. It’s ridiculous. 

“Power,” he says simply. “And it was never the dead man’s.” “Explain that,” Emma demands. She doesn’t remember standing, but her knees crack with the effort of it and there’s sweat pooling at the base of her spine. 

“Cora was wrong. Well, not entirely wrong, but not entirely right. You’ve always had magic, Savior. The power of your parent's True Love passed onto you. And that would have made you a valuable ally. But then you ended up here, in this town and in that house, with this very specific house across the street. 

“You grew up and you believed and you trusted and you fell in love didn’t you? You didn’t know what that would mean, but you were only a child, so I suppose it’s an acceptable naiveté. It festered in you and grew, every single time you were here and every single time you promised. That’s why it’s stronger in some places than others in this town. This house, the hill—oh, it’s rife with magic, that sort of thing always leaves a mark behind.” “You’re avoiding the answer,” Emma accuses. Her fingers twist at her side, something that feels like actual sparks shooting out the ends. 

The Darkness shakes his head. “I’m prefacing. There’s a difference. I’d hate for the dead man to accuse me of pitiful storytelling again. Your magic grew here, Savior and it latched onto the subject of your own True Love. That’s what Cora felt. That exchange and that want. It took root in him, even after you were gone.

“She believed that the dead man could do a job for me. Use his magic to help me retrieve a water that would bring my boy back. I needed magic to transport that water, and then if it didn’t work, I had his True Love power. Of course none of that was true, and the dead man was a stubborn fool.”

Emma sighs again, not sure where to look. She hates that it makes sense. She hates that she wants it to make sense even more, but she’s been on some kind of greedy kick over the last few days and a mythical, magical connection with Killian would almost be reassuring. 

The floor creaks when he moves. 

“Something about the sun, probably,” he mutters, and Emma’s laugh isn’t really that. It’s an exhale of disbelief and the absolute opposite of that. 

“Orbiting or whatever.” “It’s really not helping my non-stalker claim.” “Yeah, I’m kind of almost ok with that.” “That’s good news.” They really are very good at flirting at the most inopportune times. And the Darkness is standing up again, moving across the room with measured steps and a hint of magic that casts a shadow on the edge of Emma’s vision. 

“He’s a bit like a puppy dog, isn’t he?” the Darkness asks, and Emma doesn’t miss the acid there. He may be right and True Love may be a real thing that can alter the fate of the cosmos, but the villain of the story is very clearly starting to grow impatient with all of them. “Following you around as easily as if there’s a leash there. Doesn’t that bother you, dead man? It’s made all of this almost too easy.”

Emma lowers her brows in confusion, startled by the distinct lack of consistency in this conversation. Killian flinches, grimacing in something that might be pain. 

Of the excruciating variety. 

“Hey, hey,” Emma says, already drifting dangerously close to desperation. “What’s happening right now? Hey, look at me.” She can see every one of his teeth when he shifts his head, the cords of his neck standing out and the pinch of his forehead will probably last weeks. 

Emma hopes they have weeks. She’s suddenly not so sure. 

“C’mon, look at me,” Emma presses. She rests her hands on his chest, pulse racing under like it’s trying to prove a point. 

He might shake his head, but it’s difficult to tell, everything coming to some kind of metaphorical head and the Darkness is frustratingly silent. Emma’s eyes drag across his face, trying to find something or a clue and she can’t believe she just thought the word clue, even in her head. 

She gasps when Killian moves, wrapping his fingers around the end of his left arm and Emma wishes she’d stop just realizing things. 

It’s jarring. 

Particularly when the villain of the story has stopped being silent and started laughing again and he’s definitely taken lessons from comic books. 

“Magic,” Emma mumbles. Killian still hasn’t opened his eyes. And the Darkness is getting stronger – metaphorically and literally and it’s hard to see her own hand on Killian’s shirt. 

“Leaves a mark,” the Darkness says. His skin glitters in the shadows, a hint of light that doesn’t do much to help the twist of Emma’s internal organs. “I’d imagine feeling the loss of one’s hand when one isn’t, in fact, dead would be rather traumatic.”

He moves his eyebrows, letting them fly up towards his hairline and Emma has no idea what to do next. Her own magic feels like it’s fizzling out in her right foot. “What say you, dead man?” the Darkness continues. “Does it hurt a little bit?” There’s a muffled groan, but Emma isn’t sure if it comes from Killian or one of his uncles and she has to lean back when his head drops forward. 

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” Emma chants. She also wishes she could stop lying. “Just look at me. I’m right here. You’re fine.” She casts a glance towards Ruby, not sure what she’s looking for but the edge Emma suddenly finds herself perched on feels perilously steep. Ruby does her best to mumble something against the gag, jerking her shoulders and twisting her head until the fabric falls to her chin. 

She’s definitely kicked another goon in the process. 

“God, shit, fuck,” Ruby hisses, and Shakespeare may actually snicker. “Why’d you cut off his goddamn hand? Jeez, Em, the question is obvious.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “I’ve been a little busy.” “Yeah, yeah, sure. Hey, over here, Dark One—” “—You know, I do have a name,” the Darkness quips, easy as ever, but Emma is far too busy trying to avoid as much of Killian as she can to be bothered with it. 

“Yeah, I genuinely do not care. Why’d you have to cut off his hand? Wasn’t he already dead?”

“Oh yes, exceedingly dead. Six feet under, metaphorically speaking. As dead as a doornail. One foot in the grave. Several other clichés. But I needed to know why Cora was wrong. I could feel it you know, when I saw him, the magic—” “—Wait, you felt it?” Emma snaps. The Darkness smirks at her. 

“I wouldn’t have trusted Mr. Teach with a task quite that critical. After all, the water was gone and I still wasn’t sure where to find you, Savior. But then Mr. Teach summoned me and what did I find? A man with True Love magic practically percolating off him and, well, True Love has to work both ways, doesn’t it? So I took a little souvenir. It’s been a rather expansive plan, dearie, I’d think you’d almost be impressed.”

“Only if you explain it.” The Darkness’ eyes, well...darken, and Emma can feel her own magic react to that, a pleasant return, although the power she can tell is simmering in the pit of her stomach isn’t particularly good. It’s anger and something drifting closer to hatred and she wants to do something, wants to destroy and ruin and— “Emma,” Killian breathes. He’s still bent awkwardly in front of her, hair hanging in the minimal space between them, and his voice is barely that, but his fingers reach for her and that may be something. 

Or everything. 

“I’m here. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to...we’re going to figure it out, babe. It’s going to be fine.”

He makes a noise at the endearment that she absolutely, positively was not planning on saying, although, to be fair, she also wasn’t planning on telling him she loved him, so Emma can’t be all too frustrated with her own subconscious. It felt kind of nice to say anyway. 

“Don’t,” he says, a contradiction she doesn’t entirely understand. “Please.” Oh. She understands. 

And the shadows on the floor are getting longer – she’s positive. 

“I’m not leaving,” Emma promises. “Right here. I’m staying right here. No more running. I wouldn't. Not...we’re going to be ok, right?”

She means it as a confirmation, but it sounds like she’s double checking too. Killian grimaces. HIs hair is matted to his forehead, moisture on his cheeks that may be sweat or tears and Emma’s fingers tingle. 

“It hurts.” “I know it does. I know. I…” Emma’s head snaps around, trying to find something, anything, that will help but the Darkness is back on the couch and the goons are moving closer to them and she’s only like sixty-seven percent positive Ruby is trying to untie Nemo. 

Killian cries out, a flash of pain that Emma feels in every inch of her. His eyes fly open, not quite clear and not quite looking at her and something is very, very, inextricably wrong. 

He stumbles, wobbling on his feet as his knees buckle under him and Emma takes another step back, twisting her arms behind her. One of his uncles tries to move, but there are more punches thrown and Ruby’s heels should be marked as their own brand of weaponry and the tears on Killian’s cheeks feel as if they’re branding themselves on Emma’s soul. 

“What the hell is happening right now?” she demands. 

The Darkness giggles. Honestly. It’s a giggle and it’s horrible and horrendous and some other words that starts with the letter ‘h.’ 

Hopping off the couch, his feet barely making any noise on the carpet. They’re going to have to buy a new carpet. This one is probably marked or something now. 

And the shadows have started creeping up the wall. 

Emma can hear her pulse hammering in her ears as the Darkness moves towards her, slow measured steps that don’t match up to the sneer on his face. She ignores that for a moment, dropping to her knees instead to try and work her way back into Killian’s eye line. She can’t – his head is pressed against the floor, body taut with tension and an impossibly straight spine, a few noises every other second that sound like complete and utter agony. 

“It’s not real,” Emma says, another lie or promise she can’t keep and she doesn’t mean to gasp when he looks up at her. 

The expression there doesn’t make any sense. It’s not hatred, it’s more, the opposite of everything she’d felt during impossibly out-of-place declarations. The blue in his eyes has turned nearly black, everything a hint darker than it was a moment before. 

“You left.” Emma swallows, terror climbing up every one of her vertebrae and taking root at the base of her spine. Her eyes are ridiculously dry. It’s probably because she can’t remember the last time she actually blinked. 

“You left,” Killian says again, voice not quite as gruff as it had been. “You left. You said you wouldn’t and you did. You never came back.” “Killian, I…” “No, no, no, you left. You said you’d come back and you never did and then it was too late and everything got so quiet. It all stopped. Like I stopped. Just...drifting on waves.” Emma’s breath is coming in pants, not doing much to help the sting in her lungs and the possible crack forming in her heart. There are still tears on Killian’s face, falling over skin and into the scruff of a beard that’s become almost familiar and oddly comforting in the last few days. 

God, she wants to touch him. 

She wants to kiss him and fix this and stop whatever the hell is causing that look on his face. 

Like he hates her. 

Like he knows she’s wrong. 

“It got so quiet,” he whispers. “It was...I knew it was wrong and I...it was too late and I…” Killian trails off, face contorted in pain again. Emma’s hand darts out, a mistake and an instinct and those two words don’t seem like they should go together. 

The Darkness clicks his tongue. 

“I think,” he starts slowly, feet moving in front of Emma’s outstretched fingers, “what the dead man is trying to say is that he thought of you in his final moments. Isn’t that interesting? Some would almost say romantic.”

She doesn’t stand up easily, which is a little frustrating because Emma assumes the hero of the story should be able to support her own weight, literally and metaphorically, but she eventually gets back to her feet, rolling her shoulders and shaking her hair onto her back. 

It’s fake confidence, a mask and another, slightly more necessary, lie. And she knows she’s not fooling anyone, but she doesn’t have another plan and—

“Why’d you take his hand?” The Darkness laughs. “I needed it.” “Why?” “Several reasons. The first, and most important, was to find you. As I said, I could practically taste that magic. Sweet on my tongue as soon as I set foot on that deck. It almost made the blood less obvious.”

Emma bites on her lip to stop herself from making any noise – and the peanut gallery is doing enough of that anyway, low curses and louder grunts and Ruby’s taken one of her heels off, swatting at goon hard enough that it will definitely leave a mark. 

“There was quite a lot of blood, Savior,” the Darkness adds, nodding towards her like he wants to make sure she’s still a rapt audience. “Did you know that True Love magic has a tendency to focus itself in certain locations?” Emma shakes her head. She thinks she shakes her head. She’s not entirely sure how she’s still standing. “It does,” the Darkness guarantees. “Settles into something that’s of relative importance to the person. Of course, that’s usually the heart, but occasionally, it’s something else.” “And I couldn't take the dead man’s heart. People knew he’d left Storybrooke. He still had a family and Cora...oh Cora. She’d made so many mistakes, she severely limited my options. Luckily for her, there was another spot that felt particularly magical, maybe even more than the heart. I was pleasantly surprised.”

Emma falls over. 

It’s disappointing. 

So I can hold your hand. 

“His hand,” she mumbles, and the Darkness honest to God winks at her. 

“His hand. Chock full of magic. To an almost absurd degree. I knew that it would lead me to the true source of the True Love magic and, well, I’ll be blunt with you Savior, I had hoped it would lead me to you. Because, still being blunt of course, holding your True Love’s hand may be your greatest undoing.” Emma is never sure what happens next. She can feel the surge of something wash over her, a snap of fingers and rush of power and every single light on the entire goddamn street goes out. 

Killian screams. 

It feels a bit like being thrown into boiling pitch, every single one of Emma’s nerve endings jolting under her skin until she’s certain she’s being ripped apart at the seams and nothing has ever felt worse. Her head is on a swivel, looking for an ally or a friend or those people from her dream that she’s fairly certain she understands now, but there’s only darkness and a hint of laughter that lingers on the edge of everything. 

She crawls forward, trying not to get too close to Killian while also getting close to Killian. 

His whole body is shaking, vibrating with pain and the distinct feeling of being alone and trapped in that house for the rest of his life. 

“Killian,” Emma breathes, but he doesn’t look at her. She’s not sure he even realizes she’s there. “Killian, please! I’m...here. I’m not going anywhere. This isn’t real. None of it is real.” “Ah, I wouldn’t be so sure about that Savior,” the Darkness contends. “Because, you see, having that little bit of the dead man in my possession has made it very easy to get, well, forgive the pun, but to get a hand on that same dead man. He’s not magic. He’s been holding onto it, trying to remember and linger in it, a hint of a memory I’m certain was very comforting in his final moments. Did you think of her when you died, dead man?” The question hangs for a moment and Emma can’t hear Killian breathing. Until she hears him speaking. “That was…” he mutters, every letter an obvious pain, “all...that was all…” “That’s what I thought,” the Darkness says. “Would you look at that, Savior? You’re right smack dab in the middle of both of the dead man’s worst moments. Losing his brother and losing himself. And now I’ve got that as well. Right in the palm of my hand. Or his hand? Ah, the specifics don’t matter.” “Speak goddamn English,” Emma shouts. 

The smile disappears. Any sense of polite disappears. And Emma sees the Darkness for what he is, just that. The villain of the story and a man who’d stop at nothing for his magic and his power and the chance to have what he’d already lost. 

“I can control him,” he says softly. “Twist those feelings, that hint of magic to my own being. That’s why he had to know what you’d done to his brother. To clear your heart and purify your magic and make him absolutely, completely mine. Because you see, Savior, True Love is a two-way street, but I’ve just washed out his side of the road. You’ll still feel it, and he’ll have wisps of it, when I let him. So you’ve got one option now. Help me, bring back my son and, occasionally, I’ll let your dead man remember you.” “Or?” “Or, I’ll spend the rest of eternity making him live this moment on loop. And I’ll take you without your permission.”

Emma scoffs. It’s ridiculous. Although she isn’t certain she’s ever been more pissed off, genuinely and completely furious, the kind that burns straight through her and lingers in her toes, so she figures it kind of, almost makes sense.

“Fuck you,” she sneers, gaze snapping back towards Killian. He can’t look at her. Emma licks her lips, mind racing and heart racing and the magic she’s apparently full of feels as if it’s crackling between every strand of her hair. “Killian,” she says, softer that time and she’s got half an idea that may work. “How often did you go to the hill? After, I mean. When it was...when you were a kid, after me, and after I left. Did you go to the hill a lot?” He winces. 

It’s honestly not the response she was hoping for. 

“There’s got to be something good, Killian,” Emma presses. The floor creaks underneath the Darkness’ feet. She assumes that’s a sign. This might work. “Some memory or some moment. It wasn’t all bad, was it?” He can barely shake his head, eyes screwed shut in pain, but his hair shifts slightly against his forehead and Emma’s laugh rattles out of her. “No,” he breathes. “It wasn’t.” “He went up there all the time,” another voice adds, and Emma looks up to find Nemo's eyes serious and gaze intent as Ruby tries to work the gag away from his chin. “Every other day at least. If we couldn’t find him, he was there.” “Yeah?” Nemo nods. “He’s got a picture of you. Stuck in the back drawer of his dresser. I know—I know he doesn’t think we realize it’s there, but, well...we knew it was there. The whole time. You’re young and you—you’re holding—” “—A stuffed animal,” Emma mutters, another nod from Nemo. 

“I won it,” Killian adds. His voice is still questionably soft, as if it’s a struggle to even open his mouth. “It was one of those fair games. Knock over the milk bottles and win a prize.” “But I thought it was fixed.” “Yelled at the guy until you turned beet red.” “I did not,” Emma argues, and she can’t believe she’s arguing with a man who’s already died and feels like he’s dying and the Darkness sounds like it’s suffocating behind her. She can see Killian’s eyes a little clearer. They’re the right shade of blue. 

He shakes his head, half a smirk and all her smile. “No, Swan. You yelled and shouted and called him a downright dirty liar and you stomped your foot.” “Yeah, that might be true.” “And he gave me another round for free.” “So you could win me a stuffed duck with a lopsided bill.” “Ah, not everything is perfect.” “It felt like it was.” Killian hums – a sound that quickly turns back into pain and Emma’s breath hitches loudly. “You still left though,” he whispers. “I never—Liam was gone and no one could ever tell me and—” “I kept those pictures too,” Emma interrupts, and the light that flares around them is practically blinding. “The duck was...I think the duck got lost somewhere between Florida and Minnesota and a string of houses, but I kept those pictures and they’re—they’re in my room. Now. I always wanted to come back. For you. Because—” She doesn’t get the rest of the sentence out. Eventually that will frustrate her quite a bit. Eventually that will feel like the single worst thing to ever happen to her. 

The Darkness doesn’t scream. He doesn’t roar. There’s not much more than a low growl in the back of his throat, but Emma isn’t sure she’s ever heard a more threatening noise and his eyes look almost yellow when she turns towards him. 

Not entirely of her own free will. 

She almost misses the snap of fingers, any hint of light from her or the power of True Love of whatever gone in an instant and there’s a bottle of something in his hand. It’s liquid, that much she can make out, inky black and sloshing against the side of a glass vial that looks like it came straight out of an 18th century apothecary. 

It honestly may have. Emma has no idea how old the Darkness is. 

“I’ve had enough of this,” the Darkness says, deceptively even. “You’ve clearly picked the wrong option, Savior. I’d rather not spend much more time fighting against you and that stubborn streak of yours. Luckily,” he shakes the vial and Emma swears her blood runs cold, “I’ve got enough of this to keep you on your own leash for quite some time.”

He tosses the cork carelessly over his shoulder, suddenly in front of Emma and she kind of resents that everything seems to slow. 

It makes it far too obvious that Killian is also moving. 

And that there is not a single glove in sight. 

Emma shakes her head dumbly, a mumbled no that barely makes it past her lips and if Killian is certain her hair is capable of reflecting the sun, then she can come up with some equally sentimental nonsense about his eyes – something about the ocean and waves and the suddenly peaceful moments after a storm has cleared. 

“No,” Emma murmurs again, the lump in her throat too large. Her heart feels like it’s about to explode. “Don’t, don’t—” “You came back, Swan,” Killian says. He smiles at her. And wraps his fingers around hers, jerking her closer to his side when the Darkness flips the vial of something towards Emma. 

Or where Emma was. 

The liquid misses her completely, body flat against Killian’s chest. She doesn’t move at first, can’t bring herself to know what is already there, but someone screams and she’s fairly certain it’s Ruby. 

Emma digs her teeth into her lip, and he’s already colder than she expected, but he’s also just as solid and certain as she always imagined he’d be and his eyes are closed when she sits up.

“Killian,” she whispers, dragging the tips of her fingers over the curve of his cheek. He doesn’t move. He won’t. Because Killian Jones is dead – and that’s not going to change. 

[nico-idc]

random vent because i'm numb rn and feel like it

This is a vent post, ill probably talk about su!cide, self h*rm, eating disorders and depression. I’ll also cuss a lot, and things will not be censored. Also, this may seem insensitive to people experiencing any of this, sorry about that.  Dont read this if youre triggered by that.

Also, this is my experience with mental health. Everyone deals with it differently. 

So, If anyone doesnt know, I have depression and anxiety. And right now, I’m feeling numb as it’s often described by people with depression. But, numb isn’t a very good description. I can still feel. I’ll still smile if you tell me a joke, or if something funny is on a video. I’ll still cry if there’s something super sad. Emotion is just watered down. I feel it, but not as much as I should. Me and my boyfriend were talking, and i couldnt tell him I loved him. It’s not becuase I dont love him, but I just cant feel much of anything, so I dont want to tell him I loved him. Becuase If i did that, I felt as though I was lying. The funniest thing is, I randomly started crying. Still felt nothing, but hey, I had tears streaming down my face. Who fucking knows why. 

I havent been doing to great for a while now, but this is the worst i’ve ever gotten. Ive never felt numb before. I mean, I’ve felt myself starting to go through the motions, but i’ve never gone completely numb before. And before this i’ve had a few mental breakdowns. Hell, I’ve sat in a corner twice in the past month or so doing nothing but sobbing and begging myself not to move so I dont grab something sharp and cut myself. (I did not relapse, don’t worry). and recently I completely broke down over simply eating a cereal bar, got through it, ate it. I’m good now. 

Figures. That does seem to be my experience. Oh no, big bad issue one time, then magically I just talk myself out of my bullshit, and im fixed. Ha ha, yet I act like I have all these issues. I mean, I didnt even attempt to starve myself, just thought “oh, friends and family wont let me” and didnt. Had a breakdown about a year later, been fine since. Cut for a few months, went to therapy for a few months, stopped cutting. had a few breakdowns about a year or two later, then was fine. was suicidal for a while, went to therapy for a bit, was happy for months. Had breakdowns every now and then, fine now.

ha ha, first time I say alot of this is online. Figures. I’ve done that a lot too. My boyfriend has found out a bit about my depression through this site. Becuase I cant talk to my boyfriend about my shit, but hey random people on the internet! hear about my problems.

So on another note, I recently found a song that describes part of depression pretty well. It’s called “i’m not dead” by boyinaband. it’s linked below, I’ll copy paste the lyrics, and explain how I relate, and what the lyrics mean to me, becuase why not? (lyrics will be in bold)

undefined

I'm not dead

I'm not fixed, but I'm not giving up yet

Basically, this means that im still here, im still depressed, but I’m still trying to fight depression. 

I'm sick of saying that I still don't have anything done

I hate telling friends I'm trying something just to give it up

I never commit to anything, I just say I’ll do something, then decide I dont want to.

I'm still unsure of my emotional state

I'm still incapable of focusing lately

I don't feel like creating

I'm tired of asking Google how to find motivation

I’ve been on break from writing for months now. tried to get back to it, lost concentration. I think this is self explanatory. 

I don't think I've ever made

Something that's as good as I'm capable of

Ha, I dont put in enough effort and commitment to make something as good as possible.

I hate not having a reason to look my best

I only ever take care of myself with the intent to show the internet

I mean, I dont try to show the internet, but I only take care of myself when other people will see me.

If what made me successful was an imposed sense of stress then

I am so so glad that I hated myself

The only thing that makes me do things is extreme stress.

I didn't luck into this position

I struggle with decisions

I mean, im not in any high position, but I do struggle with decisions. 

I wouldn't be my own friend

I'm too inconsistent

I’m inconsistent as hell. I’m in like 10 group chats, don't talk in any of them for months, then just show up like “hi, havent talked to you all in ages, but hi”. 

Without immense pressure nothing ever gets finished

If these words make it to your ears it'll be a fucking miracle.

Yep. I went on  whole rant about this on wattpad. Without pressure to do something, I don’t do it.

I'm fortunate to know more good people than most do

I wish I had more friends I could be physically close to

I dont personally have a lot of friends that dont live in my city, so the last line isnt an issue, but I do know a lot of good people”

I'm pretty good at like 20 different skill sets

At the expense of never being great at any one of them

I’m good at quite a few things. Drawing, math, even writing. But im not great at it. I’m average.

I wish this beat hit harder

I wish more syllables rhymed

I know 99 percent of people really don't mind

I dont personally relate to this, seeing as I dont make music.

I think collaborating forced me to finish things

'Cause I was terrified of wasting famous people's time

Oh yeah. Group projects would not get done if i wasnt scared of wasting my partner’s time.

I wish I could focus on what I define priority

I wish I was as grateful as I want to be

Dont really relate to these things

I wish I knew more people who were mentally stable

But if I did,

I wouldn't let them waste their time on me while I'm disabled

Oh yeah. Id love to have a friend who isnt depressed, but I wouldnt let them see that im fucked up becuase i dont wanna drag them down.

I feel alone

I know I'm not

I have a lot of friends, but I still fell alone in this world

I used to talk to lots of people.

Lately I've stopped

They didn't deserve it,

I've been a terrible friend.

But I couldn't bear to let myself become boring to them

I ignore group chats all the time. no reason. Probably shouldnt. 

I don't let myself get my hopes up.

I love people who do.

Something good happens? what could go wrong? that is my thought precess.

I never know if what I say I feel is the truth

I have no damn Idea what I think, so its so hard to know what the truth in my head is.

I wish I didn't instinctively try to be less specific

So more people could relate, when they read along with the lyrics.

Not lyrics, but if i write/explain something, I immediately generalize things so its relateable.

I can be happy in the moment

I am not when I reflect

I smile watching youtube, but then I look back and think about how I wasted time.

I distract myself with gaming, waiting to get better

I hate it

Youtube will cure depression right? /s

I wanna do the most good, and prevent the most hurt

But I've gotta put on my own oxygen mask first

This is just an important phrase I try to remember when I’m down. for people who dont do well with metaphors, he’s saying that if you want to help people, you need to help yourself first. 

I can't predict what I'll do.

I can never be sure

I am terrified of making promises any more

I can't face my work,

I feel sick from the word

I genuinely believe I'm capable of changing the world

Don’t relate much here, except for the more positive, upbeat tone the song takes on, and i feel that this part, the part above and everything below is dave fighting his depression.

I still think I can get better

I’m holding onto hope.

I still think I can create and get pleasure from it

I hope so, I want my art and writing to improve.

I'll keep aiming to make my emotion and my logic agree

The eternal stuggle. I always try to get the two to line up, it rarely works. I try to use logic more often though.

And become the best version of me

Always trying to improve myself.

I don't want to stop!

I don't want to stop!

I don't want to stop!

I don't want to stop!

There’s alot this could mean. I dont want to stop creating. I dont want to stop fighting. I dont want to stop getting better. I dont want to stop living. I relate to all these things.

I’ll expand on this more later, it’s too late now for me to continue this

[calypsoff]

Five. Part 3

I will not let him put me in that place where I am getting annoyed, he doesn’t care he really doesn’t and here I am offering my pussy to him, I don’t know I really don’t. I can’t be playing these games; I certainly can’t have him paying near enough a thousand dollars for dinner that I offered to take him on “do I put you as Rihanna on my banking thing?” glaring up from my phone “put me as anything you want ok?” he raised eyebrow soon dropped “Rihanna the singer then” he mumbled “Chris the ex-convict then” I retorted, I may as well do the same as him, he let out a low chuckle which I don’t see how anything is funny but he sees the funny side to it “I sent it you anyways, keep the change” I got up from the table “did you have a good night here madam?” the waiter asked “oh I did, thank you so much. As always you do the best for me as such little time” he is always my waiter “I will probably see you again, soon” he bowed his head “follow me madam” smiling at him as he walked off, if Chris wants to follow on he can or he can sit there. Stepping down on step, I actually look so good and I wanted to be good and look good for him and what did I get? Nothing, I got nothing, and I should stay with Rakim least one of his boys check me out to make me feel I am good, I am just annoyed. Chris is doing too much, too much for me to just take it, it’s wrong and I don’t deserve the treatment, I want to take him out and I want to do things for him because I know him, I do. I make sure all my people are good, I never throw anything I do for them to their face, I came from a poor background and I knowhow it feels but he is trying to chase what he don’t got and I know it, I am only dealing with him once her can let that go, the bitter taste he has when he calls me Rihanna, I hate the feeling he is giving me.

My driver opened the car door for me, climbing into the SUV. I haven’t even looked to see if Chris is behind me, shuffling across because he is there. I mean I would have left him here if he didn’t, who am I to just wait here for a man that is being an asshole. Speaking of asshole men, I have Rakim facetiming me, facetime of all things but I will answer it. Answering the call and waited a second for it to connect “and where are you going with red lipstick? You always up to something when you got that on?” holding the camera up “am I? I just thought why not” Rakim smiled wide “I like it, you look good. You shining in this winter weather wow, I just thought I would call to see how you are, where you going? Actually, I seen you went on dinner with a male” I kind of figured “I did, nothing major just an old friend, nothing serious. Promise you, you know what they say about old friends, you got to keep them in the past” Rakim doesn’t understand my bitterness but I don’t care “you have to sometimes, they don’t know the person you are now. Cut them off, so I have a surprise for you. But, I ain’t telling you now” I wonder what the surprise is “right, I am scared now. But when will I see the surprise, do I get to wear red lipstick?” Rakim smirked “possibly but on Christmas day, you wear red. Just red, with the red lipstick. I promise you won’t be disappointed” either he’s coming to Barbados or he’s got me something that matches this red theme he got going “I will, I will call you tomorrow. I will be leaving for Barbados, I need some company on the lonely fight there” Rakim winked at me “I got you, bye” he disconnected the facetime “sorry, where are we going?” my driver asked “to the apartment thanks” I was wondering why my driver wasn’t moving.

I am glad he facetimed me, I am glad Chris is sat there quiet. I am not going to fuss over him like I was, I have been too nice to just be throwing the love word around when he just isn’t giving. He will always be a friend to me, even after this weekend I won’t hate him but it’s just sad that he’s letting his ego get the better of him and yes I did fall for that cocky Chris, his cockiness really made me crush on him even more but we are grown now, we are not like that, he doesn’t need to be that way. We wasted years, he wasted years and to know what I want and probably he does too to still be playing around but I am not giving. A smile formed on my face; I sense the anger from Chris. I can feel it, he is angry, and it’s made me smile, I am glad it bothered him so much. I am not crying about shit anymore, tomorrow once he is gone he can either jump or not jump and we will meet again one day. I can feel Chris’ eyes on me, I can feel the gaze and where he is even looking. He is staring at my legs and I can sense it, I want to know if I am right, dragging my eyes away from my phone and at Chris, he is looking at my legs and his eyes darted to mine, he is angry. I just smiled, he wanted me to not care and look at that I don’t “I hope you had a nice time here” I said “you’re funny” he said “I am funny? Says the man that can’t admit to what he wants because he sees a woman is doing good and he hates it, don’t give me that” his anger is getting the better of him “fuck you Robyn” I laughed “do it, fuck me then?” he is so funny.

This will be interesting, I mean I am not going to sleep in a different bedroom either, I like this bed. Taking my heels off, Chris hasn’t bothered to speak to me, and I prefer it that way, I am not going to bother to speak to him and he ain’t going to speak to me so there is that. Throwing my heels to the side, here I am looking good as fuck and I am back here already. Getting up from the bed, Chris walked into the bedroom, such an attitude and I can tell “I am actually sick of your shit” he has got a nerve “sick of my shit!? Oh my god, I have done nothing but want some loving from you, but you just give me shit and act like everything is ok” Chris looked so offended “are you fucking kidding me? Right, I made love to you! You and I both know this, now what huh? I am trying to make the fucking effort, what do you want? Tell me, what do you want from me?” staring at Chris “leaving you to it” I shrugged “I am going to do what you are doing, not caring” that is what he wants “but you are being malicious with it” walking off to the bathroom, screw him.

“Really, Chris?” I gasped; he is stood right in front of the bathroom door. I stepped to the side and so did Chris “what?” looking up at his face “it’s the last night, seeing as we ain’t speaking we can still have sex” he is being bold “mhmm sure” walking around him but he blocked me inside the bathroom “what you want and need is different” he lowered his head to me “the need is different to what you want and you will learn” his eyes not leaving mine as he gripped me by the waist and pulled me in into him  “don’t disrespect me in front of your midget man either” he pushed himself up against me “what you going to do about it?” I retorted “you will see” his lips a breath away from mine, I smiled closing the distance between our lips. Chris leaned in, wasting no time thrusting his tongue into my mouth, sucking down on mine. I moaned into the kiss, he picked me up and swinging me over, he slammed me hard against the wall. I winced and broke the kiss, Chris hiked my dress up and pulled it off me, quicker than I could have, exposing my nipples. Taking one into his mouth, he roughly sucked and pulled on the bud.

Setting me on my feet, he dragged my panties off, leaving me completely naked against the wall. We continued kissing and sucking on each other’s mouths with fierce urgency. As if we were the source for each other’s oxygen supply. He lifted me up and carried me to the bed, tossing me down, I momentarily sat back, quickly trying to catch my breath “I will remain with him just like you are with her” I said breathless propping myself up on my elbows watching Chris remove his belt and drop it to the floor “you talk too much, you all talk. Just trying to poke at me, keep poking. I am going to have you so hooked you ain’t going to be looking at that pretty boy like you do, speak on that” Chris continued to strip down, letting out a sigh of relief when he dropped his pants and pulled down his boxers, letting his erection go free “bet” I said looking down to his manhood. I licked my lips watching Chris’ dick twitch and slightly swing from side to side as he walked around to the other side of the bed “I am pissed off” raising an eyebrow, he is pissed off and he is doing this “turn over” who is he demanding things “no” I said laughing and I laid back down, I yelped out as he flipped me over and I was not ready for that.

I breathed out a little as Chris climbed on to the bed, I have never felt like this having sex with anyone, I am maybe a little nervous now. He is positioning himself behind me, he lifted me up onto my knees, arching my ass up. My hands gripping the sheets already, nothing has happened. Chris leaned forward, his dick grazing my opening and I whimpered, growing anxious. I did assume Chris was going to say something because he did lean forward but he didn’t, he ran his hands around my ass and he griped my cheeks, squeezing it hard. I gasped feeling two fingers inside of me, he started finger fucking me slowly before removing them “mhmm” I heard behind me, without a warning he stroked inside of me, stretching my walls to accommodate him. Pulling out all the way, Chris teased my opening again before ramming into me hard.

Gripping the back of my neck tightly, Chris pushed me face into the mattress, plunging into my heat, long and hard. Each stroke deeper and harder than the last. His balls slapping against my sensitive core, I buried my face into the mattress biting down on the covers, muffling my screams. Still holding on tightly to the back of my neck, using his free hand he slapped my ass. I threw my head back, screaming loudly “ahhh! Yes” I cried out as my walls gripped him tightly. I am dripping wet, my juices running down my legs. Chris grunted, the grip on the sheets were becoming harder and harder, my toes curling. Both his hands are now around my neck and Chris pushed my face down deeper into the sheets. Fucking me with full force “shit!” he spat, the bed rocketing forward, beating against the wall. Chris thrusted into me deep and wild, with each stroke he laid into me, I was experiencing a mixture of pain and pleasure. I bit down on my bottom lip, almost drawing blood to hold in my screams. Letting go of my lip I cried out, my toes were involuntarily curling up and I felt each stroke hit my gut from the inside out. Each thrust after the next sent shock waves through me, I can’t even bring myself to say a word.

Chris slipped out of me, letting go of my neck. I fell flat on my stomach, but Chris turned me over, lying me on my back. Spreading my legs open wide, my stomach flipped as I looked down at him aligning his dick up with my opening. Beads of sweat were dripping down his chest as it rose up and down heavily, my pussy is pulsating, anxiously waiting for him to plunge into me. Finally he slid into the heat, we both let out a loud moan. Chris’ hands are on my legs keeping them spread far apart as he stroked into me, pouring all of his energy into fucking the life out of me. My breast vibrating and bouncing to the beat of his thrust, his face is contorted up in pleasure, but there was also a certain determination mixed in his facial features. I looked into his dark eyes and didn't see Chris. The man plunging in and out of me was almost mechanical, his movements sharp and fast. Every hard thrust deliberately made so that I would feel it all over my body. I arched my hips up, his movements too rapid and my body too drained and exhausted to keep up. To be honest I didn't know how Chris is still going or where he got this sudden burst of energy from.

I clenched my eyes shut, soft whimpers falling from my lips. I was so close “Chris” I cried out, his hips bucked forward, and his movements became wild. Slipping one of his fingers between my legs, he lightly grazed his finger over my centre, and I squealed. He pressed down, slightly pinching her centre between his two fingers. I screamed out his name, my eyes rolled back, my body arched up, enjoying the tingling feeling traveling through me. My orgasm taking over my body. Chris still stroked my pussy, before he came inside of me. His adrenaline run was over, exhaustion suddenly hitting him, and he crashed down on top of me. Not minding that he did I ran my fingers up and down his back until he rolled over, lying next to her. I am so out of breath, Chris and I breathed out ever so breathless. I turned my head to Chris; he is staring at the ceiling, so I carefully scooted over closer to him to cuddle up against his side. My body sore and stiff, laying my head on his chest, I could hear his rapid heartbeat decreasing as his breathing went back to normal.

Chris and I haven’t spoken about that night and thank heaven, this is the last night and we can go back to our daily life, we just got changed in silence, we passed each other in silence. Chris practically got changed and shoved his things in the duffle bag and ran out of the room, I am going to try and pack slowly because I am feeling so sore, I am so fucking sore that I feel uncomfortable, I am not having fun at all. But I am pushing through, I need to get my make up done before my car arrives. I am not even sure if Chris is in the living room, I mean he could have gone by now but that was shut up sex, that had to be because that has really shut me up, I mean besides whimpering in pain as I do things, I wasn’t ready, I wasn’t ready for that I wish he went back to the love making because my pussy cannot take it, it really can’t. Let me get on with this make up, my mind is just a mess, he really knows how to get me screaming. My throat is so sore, I really was screaming out, I am surprised nobody came to check on me because I was loud, well I won’t be getting him angry again, maybe I will, but it depends.

Pulling my suitcase along, Chris is still here but he is quiet. Not even the TV is on “I thought you left” I said, he shook his head “you want me to drop you off in Virginia? I mean I have the jet, it makes no difference” he shook his head again “I am ok” he is stubborn, of course but I asked “ok, I mean do you want me to at least drop you off to get your greyhound? The least I can do?” I mean I can imagine him saying no but he didn’t “thanks” that is something “I see you wearing the bracelet, erm. We need to talk, without stupid comments. Can we?” I guess we need too “sure” walking around the couch across from him, sitting down slowly I paused before I sat slowly, this soreness is kicking my ass “sorry if I made you sore” rolling my eyes “whatever happened here will remain here, I am not going to tell anyone really. I am sorry if I have hurt you and also if I have upset you, this was supposed to be us spending time together and get to know each other but we have had sex, tears, arguments well a little one, and a disagreement. It’s been an eventful weekend, but I am still happy we have reconnected, like I don’t regret any of it but if I have done something to upset you then I am sorry about that” nodding my head “it’s ok, I don’t hate you for anything, annoyance probably. And I will leave Rakim, and I am doing it for me because I am happier that way, alone” I shouldn’t need a man to make me happy and I think I need to put that first.

Chris and I are so quiet with each other which is a shame, but a lot has happened, and I think there is one think I have realised; I need to think of me. I got too excited to see the man that I genuinely do love and I will not regret it because I do but I will keep that close to my chest, what I have been doing for all those years but I got excited to see him again, and it got the better of me. He is stubborn, I tell you that “I will come out” I said, there is nobody really outside so I can get out “I won’t be long” I said to my driver as I got out of the car, pulling my dress down. I don’t know why I wore a dress, but I did. Walking around the car but he was already there “when is your greyhound coming?” crossing my arms across my chest, more like a barrier between us “uh, like in an hour. I will just wait in the station. Thank you for this weekend, it’s been good to see you” smiling at him lightly “you should come to Virginia, hang with the boys” I think the hell not but you never know “if only life was like that, I miss the mischievous things we did together. Tell TJ and Barry I said hi, I am sure you will tell them, stay safe” moving my arms as Chris opened his arms to me “have a safe flight” wrapping my arms around his torso “I will miss you” he admitted, it made my heart flutter but I am going to keep that to myself “take care” moving back, staring up at Chris he put his head down, turning away from him and our hands got caught as we did, I am not sure if Chris grabbed my hand which made me look behind me and at him, we both smiled.

[monchikyun]

03.My heart is cold

trigger warning: Gavin is suicidal in this one, so that, also references to self-harm

He doesn’t know how many times he’s done it already, the exact number keeps getting away from him. Must have been somewhere between ten and twenty. It doesn’t matter anyway, nothing does to him. Cowards don’t die easily. But Gavin is a persistent one. 

The first time he tried to stop breathing was when he was just fifteen. It wasn’t because he was bullied or because his parents didn’t love him enough, he was just tired of living with himself. And maybe the fact that he was a dumb teenager who didn’t have the word ‘responsibility’ in his vocabulary might have contributed a bit. Getting wasted every chance that presented itself and even when it didn’t he’d find a way to ruin his body some. His mental health didn’t appreciate this self-destructing behaviour and one mistake lead to another… but it didn’t work in the end, just one of the myriad of failures to add to his ever-growing collection. 

The second attempt was more of an accident, running at a speeding car without really trying to stop. He tells himself it was his carelessness that made him spend the winter in hospital, but he knows that he’d do it again if he had the right reason. That had been before he decided what he wanted to do with his bleak life. It was either becoming a criminal or hunting them down. He wants to say that he chose right but truth be told it still doesn’t sit right with him, even after all those years.

 Nothing got much better after he had obtained a secure position in law enforcement, other than not having to struggle financially. It’s a miracle that he was able to pass his psychic evaluation, but considering the sort of scum he has encountered during his service, he’s not all that surprised. Maybe he belongs among them too. Even if he hasn’t killed someone who smelled of innocence, he’s still done some pretty fucked-up shit. Not that he can remember ever being nice to anyone (does his cat count?) - tolerable, at most. The one who gets the worst of it being none other than Gavin himself. There is not a single drop of self-love inside of him, quite the opposite. If there is someone who he unconditionally despises, it’s him and his stupid, weak, aggressive self. No amount of pain and blood could ever fix him. He tried punishing himself in any viable way, splitting himself open for the demons to leave him but it only made things worse. Even when other people justifiably hurt him it did nothing to alleviate his pain. So he increased the force of which to harm his body - he tried to remove his soul. If he became nothing but an empty shelf maybe than he gets the coveted relief. His flesh burned and drowned and bled, got poisoned and infected, yet he’s still here, filling his lungs with ashes. There is still one option he is too afraid to try, lest it actually steals his life away. 

It feels like his heart has died a long time ago, becoming nothing but an icy hole leading nowhere, but at times he can see something there, something that isn’t rotten and veiled in hatred. And it’s all the prick’s fault. 

Androids pissed him off enough as they were, but something about the plastic that sauntered to the department like he was to be just another new addition to their force set off his super-destructive tendencies. He had made an effort to hold back before, shutting out the merciless voices in his head by means that wouldn’t cause harm. But Connor made him regress. And he hated him because of it, for the longest time. In reality, it has only been till the revolt happened and the time it took him to accept that there is more humanity hiding in those machines that there has ever been in him. 

When spring arrived, something else took a turn to the unexpected. The android (who has resumed his work at the DPD) started paying attention to him, which came as a volatile shock to Gavin. At first, there were just random glances, whose meaning he couldn’t begin to understand. Then there were exchanged messages, disguised in casual interest. He was aware the Connor was treating everyone in the department with equal congeniality, wearing that aggravating charm and spreading politeness everywhere he could. Still, Gavin started feeling regret, a vile little thing he somehow managed to avoid till then. Maybe if he had treated the guy with little less hostility, they could have become… what, friends? That thought was too idiotic even by his standards. 

This all had happened when he didn’t have the slightest idea what impossible things would follow next. The messages turned into spoken words and he was eventually coaxed into apologising. He mustn't even have faked it, since he observed his world getting fractionally brighter right after. Something inside of him must have snapped. Whenever Connor was near him, the desire to die would diminish sometimes it would even completely disappear.

One day, the android brought him a cup of coffee sprinkled with the most brilliant smile he has ever seen, to which he reacted by running to the bathroom and sobbing like a baby. He didn’t know how to handle those feelings that made him this outwardly broken, so he did what any sensible person would do. 

He screamed at Connor, in anger or agony, he couldn’t tell. The hurt look he received from him created a crack in his frozen heart, allowing the accumulated ache to leak out, tainting the small quantity of good he had borrowed from the person who made him want to live.

 Since then their mutual tolerance has been reset. Must have been a week already. It feels more like a year to Gavin, for every second of his existence has been much more unbearable from the moment he let his stupid problem affect Connor too. But there is still the one option, one escape route he hasn’t dared to take yet. Maybe because it’s too often irreversible, too final for his cowardly taste. The longer he waits the more oxygen gets wasted on him and so he stands up from his desk, abandoning the mundane paperwork that doesn’t need him to be completed and runs for the nearest highest place. 

The roof is eerily silent, despite the noise coming from the busy streets below. He comes here regularly to have a smoke, so he’s certain that no one will bother him when he gets to it. 

Nobody comes here, it’s too out of reach, too inconvenient. That’s why he likes it. 

He stands at the edge, looking down at the blur that might be cars or people, he doesn’t care. The tears won’t let him see and for that he’s grateful. All it takes is one step. One little movement and it’s all over, no more pain. 

He won’t be able to hurt anyone, not anymore. 

But that’s a lie, isn’t it.

 “Move away from there, it’s dangerous.” 

Connor’s soft voice. His favourite sound in the world. That’s why he has to, b̶u̶t̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶’̶t̶,̶ ̶C̶o̶n̶n̶o̶r̶ ̶w̶i̶l̶l̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶s̶a̶d̶.̶ So tired. If he turns around and looks at him, his resolve will vanish. So he doesn’t. He just stands there, eyes transfixed by his imminent grave. 

“Gavin. Look at me.” NO!

 “Please.” 

Gavin is a coward with a heart made of snow, but it’s spring now and all that is cold must make way for beautiful, warm things. 

He doesn’t resist when he’s being pulled away from the death trap he made for himself, melting to nothing when he’s being held like there’s something worthwhile inside of him

. 

“You… you didn’t take your lighter with you, so... so I thought…” 

The words disappear in his hair and he wishes he could speak right now because there are a thousand ‘thank you’s he owes.

 “I don’t hate you, Gavin, I promise.”

 He just hopes the tears he’s leaving on Connor’s body are enough of a response. 

@convinseptember hope it wasn’t too bad xD

[sarissophori]

Forebode, Chapter 5

Captain Hindel sat in the bridge as the shuttle maneuvered in for docking. She had since muted the feeds to spare her crew the sound of Varrez’s crying, though allowed the feeds to continue playing. Protocol aside, she decided against hiding this from her officers; even if she wanted to, it was well past the point.

       She still couldn’t believe it on some level. Her first mission as captain, in charge of a new crew, and she already suffered a fatality under her watch. A gruesome one at that.

       “Someone better tell Dr. Walsh to cancel that surgery” Komev said, finally looking away.

       “I sent them in” Hindel said softly. “I told them to go inside.”

       “You didn’t know this would happen” Ellson said.

       Hindel scoffed. “Oh yes, go investigate the strange alien ruin on an unexplored moon, what could possibly go wrong?”

       “Captain” Tajmaran said. “The power surge from the structure has gone off our charts, still rising.”

       On XH-Ld’s surface, from the midst of the fossilized forest, a point of light shone and grew, flickering in a pulse that emitted a bright band of energy that spread across the moon like a ripple on a pond, racing over plains and mountains, vainly annihilating a world already dead, until it overlapped itself on the opposite end, breaking against its own wave. The pulse stopped, the readings dropped, and XH-Ld was sterilized once more.

       The bridge crew watched, though found little amazement in it. They felt like children uncovering a harsh truth hidden from them by cautious parents, stumbling blindly into it without context, all the more scarred by it.

       “Shuttle’s docked, ma’am” Ellson said.

       “Tell them to meet me in my quarters when they’re able” Hindel said. “You have the bridge, Ellson.”

 Word spread through the ship about Talgold’s death, creating an air of confusion and sadness, especially with Dr. Walsh. Hindel waited at her desk, equal parts patient and anxious, wondering how she would inform Sorenson of this, and how the company would inform his family.

       Her console chimed.

       “Captain’s quarters.”

       “Hornens reporting, ma’am. Let me start by saying I’m sorry to hear about Talgold.”

       “Thank you.”

       “I’ve got the flight recorder sorted out” Hornens said. “And the damn thing’s encrypted. Most of it, anyway. Code Three.”

       “Three?” Hindel said. “That’s company eyes only.”

       “Sure is” Hornens said. “So unless we’ve got a high-ranking CEO onboard, this has pretty much been a waste of time.”

       Hindel thought a few moments, keeping him on the line.

       “Captain, you there?”

       “Do you have any experience with such encryptions, Mr. Hornens?”

       Hornens scoffed. “What?”

       “I’ve read your file. You used to write code for Sorenson’s security division before transferring to engineering, not on the happiest of terms either.”

       “That was years ago” Hornens said. “Even if I did, accessing those files without executive approval is a felony offense. We could lose our jobs just talking about this.”

       “One of my crew has already lost his life” Hindel said. “And an entire ship was lost before that. I’d say those are circumstances warranting a peek behind the curtain, wouldn’t you?”

       “I don’t think they will.”

       “If they bring down the hammer, tell them I threatened you with insubordination and confinement; I’m a first-time captain gone hysterical who almost had you thrown out the airlock; I’ll make up the story, all you have to do is back me up on it.”

       Hornens laughed nervously. “I’d never ask you to do that.”

       “What would you do if you were in my position, Mr. Hornens?”

       Now he kept her waiting on the line. He sighed. “Give me an hour. Hornens out.”

 A few minutes later Varrez, Han and Barrens entered her quarters, their faces pale and sunken. Dr. Walsh was with them, standing to the side as an impartial listener. Their debriefing started at when they first lost contact in the structure, going methodically and painfully over the details up to the point communications were reestablished; Talgold’s activation of the structure, how its interface injured and affected him, and the creatures that attacked them. Here the debriefing lingered, having the hardest questions and the rawest emotions.

       “We can’t tell you what they were” Han said in summary. “Animals, aliens, if it was the builders of that ruin mutated by infection, or if that’s just how they naturally looked.”

       He shuddered. “I’d hate to think anything like that could be natural, though.”

       “But now what happened to the Wanderer makes more sense” Barrens said. “The growth in the lab, the blood on the walls; it must’ve infected some of them. It wasn’t a mutiny; it was an outbreak.”

       “Do we still have samples of this onboard, Dr. Han?” Hindel said.

       “Not anymore” Han said. “As soon as we returned, I vaporized all the samples. I sterilized the containers and vaporized them too, just in case.”

       “I guess procedures were less strict on the Wanderer” Varrez said flatly. “Didn’t know what they were dealing with, treated it like another benign specimen.”

       “And it was one of the infected crew that attacked you, killing Talgold?” Hindel said.

       Barrens shrugged. “As far as any of us can tell.”

       “Where is his body?”

       “In one of the pressurized rooms by the hangar. He got decontaminated with the rest of us, but I’d keep him in there just in case.”

       “Doctor” Hindel said, turning to Walsh. “Given the nature of what we’re dealing with, keeping his body for an autopsy or any other reason would be putting the crew in unnecessary danger of infection, would it not?”

       “Agreed” Walsh said. “Best to give Talgold his proper send-off, seeing as we have no way to vaporize an entire body. Sooner, rather than later.”

       “Very well” Hindel said. “If there’s nothing left to discuss, I declare this briefing, and this mission, over. I’ll notify the company, and set a course for home.”

       “Roger that” Barrens said. The others silently nodded.

       “I’ll personally see to Talgold’s remaining affairs, if you don’t mind” Walsh said. “Least I can do, being his former superior.”

       “Not at all” Hindel said. “And I’m sure it goes without saying that everything that happened on the surface, and this debriefing, is to remain classified, especially when we return to port. Understood?”

       “Yes ma’am” they said.

       “Good, I’ll inform the others as well. Dismissed.”

       They filed out in a somber mood, returning to their stations or to their bunks, whichever seemed better. Varrez remained, sitting quietly, looking beyond where eyes could see with unbroken concentration.

       “Varrez?”

       She blinked. “Captain?”

       “Do you need anything?”

       Varrez smiled thinly.

       “No ma’am, I’m sorry, it’s just…after what happened, I never thought I’d actually look forward to a cryo-pod.”

       “I think we all are” Hindel said. “Remember, if you do need anything, I’m right here.”

       “Of course, thank you captain.”

       Varrez excused herself and left, leaving Hindel alone. One heartfelt sigh and music request from her console database later, her chime went off.

       “Captain’s quarters.”

       “Hornens reporting, ma’am. I’ve accessed the logs and have them on file. Should I send them over?”

       “Please.”

       “Transferring…”

       An icon appeared on her screen. She tapped it and opened a catalog of feeds, reports, archives and personal logs, arranged from oldest to newest.

       “I owe you one, Mr. Hornens.”

       “Let’s hope it was worth it, Hornens out.”

       The catalog began with the Wanderer’s entering of the XH system and ended, rather abruptly, after a few dozen logs, the latest dated a week after the crew’s waking. Hindel chose a written log mid-way through the list and worked her way down.

 <Log 5

 Anderson, Samuel M. manual report

 Mission time: 4,452.17.03 hours

 Northern hemisphere fully mapped. Found several promising sites for

 further exploration; schedules already made and preparations underway.

 Results should be interesting.>

 It came with a list of attachments, scans of the promising sites: basins, dry river valleys, et cetera, and one Hindel recognized. She tapped to enlarge the image, and felt immediate dread. It was the fossilized forest where the alien structure was hidden. She flipped through more logs and reports.  

 <Log 8

 Anderson, Samuel M. manual report

 Mission time: 4,467.37.11 hours

 Site 15-45 checked out today. Quite the anomaly. Samples taken and studied.

 Wanted to investigate strange readings inside, but sudden storm caused

 mission abort. Will return on better conditions. Content with samples

 until then.>

 So they didn’t find the structure? How did they encounter the creatures then? She opened an audio file from their science officer, dated a little after Anderson’s eighth entry.

         Science division, Dr. Alder recording. Following a hunch about XH-Ld’s previous climate conditions, I’ve placed some of the samples in a nutrient-rich bath inside a container of oxygen. An hour into the test, and already I’m getting signs of revitalization. If it keeps going this well, I might do similar tests with the other samples. Who knows what we could learn from this tough little son of a gun? It would be worth a lifetime’s worth of work to see what kind of flowers bloom from that forest once we get a colony going. End report.

 She read her way to the two last entries on the file. The next to last was the final audio log from Dr. Alder.

         Science division, Dr. Alder recording. A day into the test and the samples are getting too big for their containers. I had to move them to the largest ones I’ve got. Their rate of growth and regeneration is astounding; just imagine the medical applications. Also, they’ve begun to sprout fungi-like protrusions; I plan on testing those as well, as soon as I find more containers. End report.

 Then, the last entry. It was a video recording from a personal log, with no date or description. After a little hesitance, she played it.

 Through the initial static, it showed the efforts of two people soldering a pressure door shut, breathing heavily and muttering worriedly.

       “Think that’ll hold?” a man said off-camera.

       “No” a woman said, also off-camera. “None of the others did.”

       The perspective then went bobbing down a corridor, held by shaking, nerve-wracked hands.

       “Oh-kay…” the male voice said. “This is Captain Sam Anderson recording what will likely be my final log. The sample, the thing…it’s devoured most of my crew by now, turned them into, into…”

       He paused for a breath, swallowing the knot in his throat.

       “They swept through the ship so fast, it’s only me, Tanaka, Gavin and O’Keeffe left. The rest are gone. If the company sends a rescue party, if someone comes looking for us, get out of here…get the hell out of here, before it devours you too…”

       His frayed composure slipped for a second, and he began to sob. Fighting his pending breakdown, Anderson continued.

       “I’m going to crash the ship and jettison a pod with the flight recorder inside. Hopefully, that and the high-level encryptions will keep it intact until someone finds it. Please find this. For the love of God, find this. It’s too late for us. This is Captain Anderson, signing off.”

 Static, then nothing.

Heart pounding and herself on the brink of tears, Hindel jumped from her chair and ran out of her quarters, sliding down the ladder to C-deck. Pausing only to catch herself from slipping, she barged into the rec room where Barrens, his men, and doctors Han, Varrez and Walsh were gathered. Her haggard stance immediately put them on edge.

       “Barrens!” she said. “You and I are getting into pressure suits and spacing that body, right now, do you understand?”

       Barrens, flat-footed, gave a quick “Yes ma’am.”

       She ran back down the corridor, Barrens following close behind. Varrez’s fingers started to tremble. She glanced at Han and Walsh.

       “This just won’t end, will it?”

[stareyedplanet]

Loyalties Lie [01]

beta read by @buckybarnesbeans​ so thanks for that, rae!

warnings: canon typical violence, some language, fluff, angst, slow-burn

Her bow glided effortless against perfectly tuned strings. She had never seen the music before, yet it was as though she had been practicing for weeks. Eyes never settled in one place, hardly paying attention to the notes on the pages before her. There was a much more important task than the music at hand.

“I’ve got eyes on the target,” she said, spotting the exact man she was looking for by the entrance.

“Simmons, do not engage,” a voice responded in her ear.

“Copy.” Simmons replied, her eyes now flicking between the black-haired man and the black notes on the white page.

All was well, at least until the security guard had attempted to stop said target. That was when all hell broke loose.

With the cane he had in his hand, he hit the guard across the face, grabbing one of the scientists attending the event.

The guests were already scared, and their fear only deepened when the dark-haired man shoved something into the scientists eye, a sort of morbid excitement overtaking him.

People screamed and ran towards the exits, and the man just watched, a smirk on his face.

Violin abandoned, Camryn disobeyed orders. Unstrapping the gun hidden underneath her long black dress, she unclipped the safety.

“I’m engaging,” she said hastily, ignoring the protests of the woman on the other end.

“Do not engage! I repeat, do not engage with Loki!”

But it was too late.

“Hands up!” She shouted at the god of mischief.

Loki seemed to comply, but only for a second before his anger was directed at her. She dodged his attacks swiftly, taking a shot, only to watch the bullet stop in midair and fall to the ground.

Loki grabbed her by her throat and slammed Simmons to the ground, her head hitting the floor painfully, stars dotting her vision. The gun was knocked from her hand and she grasped desperately for anything she could use against him.

Her fingers grasped something thin and she recognized it to be a Violin bow. It was all she had so she hit him with it.

It wasn’t particularly painful, but it was effective enough to distract Loki with mild confusion. It gave Simmons enough time to get her feet underneath his body and push him away, rolling out of his reach.

She was back up in an instant, desperately catching her breath.

“Weak mortal. Your attempts are futile,” Loki hissed, glaring at her. She was wasting his time.

Simmons' head was swimming, the lack of oxygen having taken a toll on her body.

“At least I’m one of the good guys,” she bit back.

“Good and bad is subjective. Kneel, and I shall let you live.”

Simmons spit at the god. Her first mistake.

Her second mistake came when she allowed herself to become distracted by her earpiece. It was all Loki needed to grab her harshly by the arm and throw her.

For the second time in the short fight, she found herself face to face with the ground, blood spilling from her busted lip. She groaned, the sound making Loki scoff and walk away from her, leaving her on her own.

“Simmons! Camryn?” The same voice shouted, causing Camryn to wince. “Camryn do you copy?”

“Natasha could you do me a favor and shut the hell up?” Camryn asked, her body still on the ground. She slowly pushed herself up, ignoring the spots that danced in her eyes at the movement.

“What part of do not engage do you not understand?” Natasha asked harshly.

“The do not part?” Camryn suggested, gathering her gun from the ground. “Where is Loki?”

“Outside. Don’t worry. Cap’s got him.”

“Oh, because I was so worried,” Camryn said sarcastically. She had nothing against the Captain, but it got quite tiresome hearing about him every day from Coulson, her supervising officer.

“Just get your ass outside,” Natasha ordered her, a muffled sound occurring as she spoke to someone else.

Running outside, despite her six inch heels and swimming head, it was no difficult task to locate Captain Roger, red white and blue shield flying. Taking off her heels and watching as they released a wire, Camryn tilted her head in consideration of her options.

Loki’s back was turned to her, focused on Rogers. She took a running start and jumped on his back, looping the wire around his neck.

She had shocked both Rogers and Loki, the latter fighting against her. The wire dug into his skin, momentarily cutting off his air flow until he managed to throw her over his shoulders.

“You little pest,” he hissed, his voice scratchy. “I should have killed you when I had the chance, or, I suppose you do have a good heart.”

Loki moved to place the scepter over Camryn’s heart before Captain Rogers hit him away from her. Camryn couldn’t do anything but lay there, her head absolutely pounding.

I’m going to get absolutely so much shit from Natasha and Coulson. She thought to herself.

She closed her eyes, trying to calm the ringing in her ears. She most definitely had a concussion.

“Ma’am? Are you alright?”

Camryn popped one eye open to see none other than Steve Rogers standing over her, his shield fastened securely on his back. He crouched down next to her, offering his hand to help her stand.

Camryn rested her hand in his and sat up slowly, trying not to cause herself to pass out.

“So you’re the inside eyes Fury was talking about?” He asked her.

She nodded, barely.

“Agent Camryn Simmons,” she told him, her voice raw, her throat burning.

Steve blinked. He hadn’t expected the British accent to flow from her lips. His heart ached as he remembered Peggy, and how it hadn’t been that long since he had woken up 70 years into the future.

He regained his composure.

“Well, Agent Simmons, thank you for the help.” Captain Rogers told her. While she may have just gotten hurt, her attempts were valiant in effort.

Camryn snorted.

“I did a shit job. I was improperly informed about what exactly I was up against it seems.” She told him, standing up and wobbling a little. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get on the jet and try not to throw up.”

Camryn took a step forward, only to lose her balance and nearly fall again. Steve had grabbed her before she could, his arms looping under her shoulders.

“Not that I don’t think you can handle it, but do you mind if I get you to the jet myself? You seem to be a little unsteady on your feet.” He told her, remaining as polite as possible.

Steve was truly worried about her health, as he would any agents. It was clear she wasn’t completely okay, and if just walking was a struggle, something was undeniably wrong. It would make him feel better if he knew she was alright.

The young agent waved her hand in approval and Steve carefully led her to the awaiting Quinjet. Loki was already sitting on one of the benches, cuffed. When Camryn boarded, she was immediately met with the disapproving gaze of Natasha.

“Next time I tell you not to do it, you sure as hell better not.” Natasha scolded, coming to Camryn’s other side.

“I feel that with my prior exhibitions of not following orders, it was to be expected. Not to mention, one could blame the fact that I was improperly informed about the nature of the target.”

“Good. Still as snippy as ever. Means you aren’t too broken.” Natasha rolls her eyes. “Still, you're going to the med-team as soon as we get back.”

“Like hell I am. I’m fine. Besides, they’ll just give me an ice pack and send me on my way.”

“Camryn,” Natasha said with warning.

“Natasha,” Camryn sniped back, crossing her arms.

“Just sit down and be quiet.” The woman eventually sighed, taking her place back in the co-pilot’s seat.

Camryn complied for once in her life and sat in the seat furthest away from Loki. She didn’t like the way he stared, and even if she could never truly escape from his gaze, it was more comforting to not be sitting right next to him.

The Quinjet took off and started the lengthy journey back to the Helicarrier. All Camryn could think about was getting into a bed and sleeping. She had been awake for 27 hours and she was exhausted. So she planned to nap on the plane ride. But it seemed the others on the jet had different plans.

“You know, I was wondering where I had heard your voice before. Then I remembered, about a week ago, this woman was in a hurry and ran straight into me. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Steve asked her, leaning against the wall.

“That was you?” She asked, recalling the memory.

Camryn had been running extremely late for her mission in Germany. She had been given ten minutes before Coulson was due to pick her up, and it was verging on thirty minutes. So she had grabbed her bag, said goodbye to her cat, left a note for her roommate, and ran out the door.

She rushed down the stairs, taking them two at a time before she slammed straight into someone, sending them toppling down a few stairs and onto the landing below. Luckily it was only about three steps, but it hadn’t stopped the man from wrapping his arms around her and cushioning her fall.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry.” She blabbered as she climbed off of the man. She didn’t even have much time to focus on his features, picking up her bag and glancing as he stood.

“It’s alright. Nothing got broken.” He tells her.

“Well, if anything is I’m in apartment D7. Just bill me. I’m sorry. I really have to go.” She says again, walking backwards down a few steps before turning around and continuing to the lobby of the building, grumbling as she made her way to the car that held Coulson.

“Did you bill me?” Camryn asks, looking up at him.

“What?” He asked, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “Oh. No, I didn’t. It was just my gym bag. Nothing was broken. Though I do understand now why you were in such a hurry. A mission. To Germany?”

Camryn nods. “I was on assignment, and had just finished up when they located Loki. It wasn’t hard to slip me in undercover. No one ever pays attention to who is in the orchestra.”

“Well, that’s a pretty impressive switch. You had only maybe an hour to get ready. We only located him about two hours ago.” Steve comments.

“Yeah, well, it’s the life of an agent. Coulson trusts me. I do what I need to.” She tells him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve been awake for over a day and I would like some sleep.”

“Of course, Agent Simmons.” Steve nods before pushing off the wall and going to talk to Tony.

Camryn closed her eyes again and rested her head back. She had a very stressful and physically straining job. There was hardly a day in her life when she returned home not exhausted, or sore, or injured in some capacity. But she wouldn’t have it any other way.

She wasn’t sure how long she had been asleep when thunder boomed and shook the plane. She opened her eyes, immediately on alert, something in her gut telling her this was no ordinary storm.

“What’s going on?” She asked.

“Not sure. But it’s putting him on edge. He’s scared of a little lightning.” Steve replied.

“I’m not scared of the lighting, I’m just not overly fond of what follows.” Loki explains, looking pale as he spoke.

“What? Thunder?” She asks with a roll of her eyes.

A loud thud sounded from the top of the plane, causing Camryn to jump. They were in flight. Nothing should be able to land on them, especially not with that amount of force. There is the faint outline of a figure on the top of the jet, entirely shocking to the entire group.

She stood up and grabbed her gun as Steve and Tony put on their respective helmets, preparing for a threat they didn’t know much about. Tony slammed a hand on the button to lower the hatch.

“What the hell?” She mutters, both hands gripping her weapon tightly.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks stiffly.

Tony was about to reply when the figure landed on the ramp, hitting Tony into Steve and causing the both of them to fall backwards, nearly hitting Camryn in the process. She made a split second decision and stepped in front of Loki, gun raised. The man practically towered over Camryn, but wasted no time in roughly shoving her to the side, and on top of Steve who was still trying to recover from his fall. She groaned as she landed, Steve‘s arms shooting out to catch her and soften her fall.

Camryn grabbed her gun that had fallen from her hands aiming for the new addition to their little group. She pulled the trigger, barely missing him as he jumped out of the jet.

“Who was that?” She asked, hoping someone else on this jet had an answer. She moved off of Steve, who had been kind enough to not immediately shove her off of him.

“Another Asgardian?” Natasha suggests.

“Doesn’t matter who or what he is. He has Loki. Which means we need to get him back.” Canryn sighed, rubbing her head to ward off a worse headache.

“Stark, we need a plan of attack.” Steve reasons as Tony walked to the edge of the ramp.

“I have a plan.” He says, turning and looking over his shoulder. The front of his mask clicks into place as he utters the next word. “Attack.”

He flew out of the jet, Camryn rolling her eyes. Tony was going to be a pain to work with. ‘Attack’ was not a plan. It was a reaction. One that ended with more destruction and collateral damage than necessary.

“Well, he certainly has a flair for the dramatic.” She comments. “Now what are you doing?”

“Going after them.” Steve says, strapping a parachute on his back and grabbing his shield.

“I wouldn’t. These guys are basically gods. No offense, but you’re human.” Camryn scoffs. Why were all the men on this jet extremely dumb? At least she and Natasha had some sense.

“Super human, ma’am. And I can handle myself.” He tells her before jumping out of the plane.

Camryn looked to Natasha, her features showing her utter exasperation with what had just transpired. This was putting a damper on her sleep. That’s all she wanted. A chance to sleep in a real bed. Or the poor excuse for a bed that the Helicarrier provided.

“Ten bucks the overload of testosterone causes a lot of damage.” She steps to Natasha’s side, holding on as the woman helped to pilot the jet back around to pick them up.

She grins. “Deal.”

——

🏷 @parkerpeter24​