#I need my sanity to not be punched into the void every day man

[kihaku-gato]

The internet / social media really is getting super exhausting and really is just making everyone more stressed and angrier and angrier huh

[pinnithin-writes]

Good Jokes

Chapter 2

The Resonance Cascade hurt. Tommy felt the dimensional rift tear open space as if it were a hole punching through his own body. Even with his limited power there was no way he could have stopped something so catastrophic from happening. By the time the convulsions died down, the monsters had already hopped the gap.

Black Mesa was buckled and warped like a Coke can left in a freezer. Tommy wound up somewhere further away from the blast than he anticipated and had to pick his way through the wasted hallways to get back to the explosion site. What a mess. He passed the bodies of humans and extraterrestrials alike, fighting down a growing sense of nausea as he went. Did Benrey do this? It seemed like a stretch, even for him.

Tommy eventually found Gordon, alive and relatively unharmed, and learned that Gordon had picked up three others on his way out of the test chamber. Benrey was unkillable, as was his nature, so that presence didn’t surprise Tommy. Dr. Coomer was always tough, and it stood to reason that he could survive the blast from an interdimensional anomaly. Bubby, well. He wasn’t dead anymore, was all Tommy knew.

Now, they were trucking through the test facility at a steady clip, picking off creatures as they went. Tommy wasn’t armed - he didn’t need to be - but Gordon was making decent headway with a crowbar and Bubby had… located a revolver somehow. Tommy had questions about Bubby. For now, however, he was hanging in the back of the group, keeping one eye on Benrey, because Benrey was always up to something, and one eye on Gordon, because, well, just look at him.

The elevator crash had shoved him off a cliff he was never climbing back up from. That was a hard thing for Tommy to watch; aside from witnessing the death of three strangers, he also had to see something small and fragile snap inside Gordon, like the breaking of a flower stem. He hadn’t killed those people, not really, but he believed that he did, and that was somehow worse. Tommy didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to tell Gordon that a lot more people would die before this was over.

To make things worse, the company they kept was slowly chipping away at Gordon’s sanity. Bubby was insufferable. Coomer was unhelpful. Benrey was… flirting with him. Indistinguishable from harassment, which Tommy knew from firsthand experience. The new guy needed someone in his corner. It may as well be Tommy.

Gordon was at least adjusting relatively well to the supernatural. He had gotten over the idea of aliens invading pretty quickly, and when Bubby had outright told him he was born in a tube in the lab, Gordon took it in stride. That was right before he had clapped a heavy hand on Tommy’s shoulder, sending a shiver all the way through his body.

Wow, that was nice. Been a long time since Tommy felt something like that. He almost forgot to be offended when Gordon jokingly said that he was five. “We love our little Tommy,” Bubby had commented sarcastically. “We love Tommy,” Gordon had agreed genuinely.

Tommy didn’t know what to think about that, his brain glitching out in a pleasant sort of way with Gordon’s hand still on his shoulder. Then he let go and they kept moving, leaving Tommy just standing there, pulse on the uptick.

Get it together, man. You have an apocalypse to deal with.

A brief raid of the break room brought back memories of that morning. Was it really just that morning? The past few hours had felt like days. There wasn’t a lot to be found in there except the drinks from the vending machine. Tommy hung back while his colleagues pawed through the drawers and cabinets.

Gordon glanced at the bulletin board and over to Tommy, flashing a smile of acknowledgement. Tommy returned it with a wordless raise of his eyebrows. So he still had a sense of humor in this nightmare. That was a good sign.

The eye contact between them lingered for far longer than was appropriate. Take a picture, baby, it’ll last longer, was what Tommy’s brain said. “Grab a soda, it’ll help you see faster,” was what came out of his stupid mouth. Nice one, genius.

The laugh Gordon barked out seemed to surprise him. It was tight with stress, but his smile was lovely as ever.

“I don’t know what that means,” he chuckled, hefting the crowbar in his hand, “but sure.”

He really didn’t know what the hell Tommy was talking about and he still laughed at the bullshit he blurted when his brain stopped working. Tommy smiled and shook his head. He was definitely keeping this one.

The vending machine was cracked open like a walnut and they continued on their way.

It became an unspoken game between the two of them. Who could break the other out of reality, startle them into joy at the end of the world. Tommy won points the most often - Gordon wore his emotions on his face and he was already so strung out from stress that the barest attempts at levity set him off laughing. Occasionally, though, Gordon caught Tommy off guard with his wit. His jokes were more orchestrated. Grandiose. Special presents just for Tommy.

One such occasion was after they’d broken into the locker room. After addressing the corpse by the benches, Gordon began rifling through his locker for his passport in a vain attempt to placate Benrey. Tommy watched him carefully as he entered such an enclosed space with the entity. Just in case he tried something. Gordon found his passport, but his attention snagged on a solitary picture frame in the corner.

“That’s my baby,” Gordon informed the team.

He had a baby? Tommy studied the photo with interest. He didn’t strike Tommy as a fatherly person, and the fact that he had a child complicated whether or not he was single. Of course, that wasn’t an automatic disqualifier -

“I have a son,” Gordon insisted, with emphasis.

Tommy belatedly realized that Gordon was staring straight at him as he pointed at the photo. He blinked. Okay, man. He got the hint. Gordon wasn’t on the market - wait.

That was a stock photo. He could see the watermark stamped across the image. Gordon’s stare was still locked onto Tommy, a barely contained smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“That’s Joshua,” he said.

Tommy had to duck into the adjacent room to laugh.

Damn, he was good. Tommy leaned one hand on the wall, holding the other against his ribs in a fit of giggles. Why did Gordon have that in there? Just for kicks? He distantly heard an  oblivious compliment Dr. Coomer launched in Gordon’s direction and a caustic insult from Benrey.

“What did you say about my boy?” Gordon demanded in mock outrage. “Did you call him shit?”

Tommy sagged against the wall, catching his breath. It took him a couple seconds to recover from that one. What a knockout.

---

It turns out Gordon Freeman’s sense of humor is difficult to nail when one is enduring an extraterrestrial apocalypse. Shambling forms accosted them on all sides, and while the party was able to more or less hold their own, the tension in the air was palpable. Each member of the team was paranoid for their own reasons, making their words sharper, their actions heavier.

Benrey had disappeared shortly after after the explosion in the bathroom, and Tommy could see him flickering on the edges of his vision every once in a while. Creep. He’d turn up eventually, on his own terms. Tommy had learned by now that there was no making the entity do what he didn’t want to do, but his presence nearby still made his skin crawl.

Dr. Coomer was on edge as he came face to face with his doppelgangers throughout the maze of carnage. Tommy had put together that this man was either a clone or a base for one, and it was becoming increasingly apparent as his speech grew more and more incomprehensible. Gordon thought he was having a stroke once. It was probably more accurate to say that he was having a breakdown on the DNA level.

Gordon and Bubby were the only two who seemed legitimately concerned about the aliens that were steadily pouring into the facility. Bubby was a surprisingly excellent shot with the revolver, and while Gordon wasn’t exactly a deadeye, he could at least swing that crowbar around with a decent amount of wallop. The adrenaline was running hot through all of them as they lay waste to the creatures in the facility. This was dangerous, and everyone was on edge.

As the situation grew bleaker, Tommy found himself cracking jokes reflexively, just as a nervous tic. He was used to having a pretty good grasp on reality - or, at least, on his definition of it - but the Resonance Cascade had dropped him in an inkwell and he could no longer tell which way was up. What parts of the impossible were planned? What parts of it could be stopped?

Most of his jokes were ignored by his nervous teammates. Understandable. When he dramatically bemoaned the loss of his tic tac drawer and the crucial calories they contained, he wasn’t even sure if he was being serious or not. They had seen so many people die in such a short amount of time. Watching the group’s brittle humanity crumbling apart at the loss of life was not making it any easier.

When the four of them witnessed a stranger plummet from a precarious catwalk to the void below, Gordon stood there, staring at the place he had disappeared from, for quite a long time. Tommy hung back as he always did, leaning his shoulder on the doorway. This poor mortal with a too-big heart. He was not going to be the same if he made it out of this ordeal alive.

“How deep is that hole?” he finally asked, either to find a sliver of hope that the man was still alive or some comfort that he had died quickly. “How deep is that hole?”

Beside him, Bubby folded his arms and blew out a breath. “Uh, I believe this hole has to be about five hundred feet deep,” he guessed.

Gordon’s face went worryingly blank as he processed this. Tommy watched him, feeling a twinge of sympathy tug at his stomach. There was no solace to be found in the catastrophe tearing through the facility, especially when the facility itself was grown from such rotten roots. Things were about to get far worse before they got better.

“We’re trying to dig to the center of the earth,” he told him wryly.

Gordon’s responding laugh was heartbreakingly sour.

They moved on, and Tommy was about to follow the group when Benrey materialized beside him. He only came up to Tommy’s shoulder where he stood next to him, but he still managed to pull off an intimidating leer.

“Dude, quit hitting on the new guy,” he said thinly. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Tommy paused. Slanted Benrey a stare that could cut glass. “Maybe you should take your own advice,” he muttered.

“I’m not hitting on him,” the entity shot back. “I can’t stand him.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes. Sure.

“It’s not my fault he showed me his dick,” Benrey went on, crossing his arms. His voice was like a razor, and it set Tommy’s teeth on edge.

He drew in a long, slow breath through his nose. “Why,” he asked, “would you tell me that.”

Benrey grinned, sharklike, and shrugged innocently. “Just something to think about.”

He blinked out of existence, leaving Tommy there alone to frown at nothing. He scoffed. Asshole. No tact whatsoever.

The fact that the entity had his eye on Gordon, too, made him uneasy. Not enough that Tommy felt the need to interfere - anyone with half a brain cell would know not to trust Benrey and Tommy was certain that Gordon had at least two. But he could see him slowly chipping away at the new guy’s sanity, piece by teeth-grinding piece.

The being had no appreciation for subtlety; winking in and out of this plane, killing indiscriminately, parading around like an interdimensional peacock. Tommy watched it all with a growing sense of disdain. That kind of power was not something to be fucked around with, and that was all Benrey ever did.

Tommy and Benrey’s relationship was like a careful dance in a room full of knives, each step a decision that could help or hurt both of them. They shared a supernatural origin, but their similarities ended there. Tommy didn’t trust him one iota, and Benrey vacillated rapidly between being obsessed with Tommy and outright despising him.

He had to remind himself that while the entity rarely outright lied, his words were often so ridiculously, insufferably cryptic that he might as well have been dishonest. The piece of information he had just dropped could mean anything, deposited in such a way to needle against Tommy’s skin like sandpaper. This was how Benrey worked, feeding people bullshit just to get them riled. Tommy didn’t need to retaliate. Unlike Benrey, he was raised with some fucking manners.

He had no power over him as long as he didn’t let it get to him.

He wasn’t going to let it get to him.

Oh, who was he kidding? It got to him. Tommy made a mental note to let an industrial door slide shut on Benrey the next chance he got. What was it going to do, kill him?

Chapter 1 <-----> Chapter 3

[themissingmarvel]

Tell Him

((I took a lot of liberties with this. I also kept some characters alive because fuck you I do what I want and it fits better. I changed a bit because also fuck you I do what I want and it fits my story. It’s got Endgame spoilers like crazy so if you haven’t seen it and don’t want spoilers, save this and move on. Or read it and get spoiled idc live your best life. I plan on making this a series, depending on how it goes over. Or just in general cause I like this.

Pairing: Steve x Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Angst, talk of death))

 Harder!

Sweat was beading on your forehead as you felt your heart race.

HARDER!

 You could feel your muscles aching, sore. Your body was fighting as hard as it could.

Don’t stop!

 Now you could feel it in your lungs, your breathing hard and labored, panting as you could feel the sweat dripping off your body.

 Keep going!

 Your body hurt. Your lungs ached. Your hair was sticking to your head and neck. Every fiber in your being was pushing you forward, past what you even knew what you were capable of. Your mind was blank, filled with only one thought. One need. One desire. You only wanted one thing as you pushed your body past its limits.

 “Hey!”

 A voice echoed in the gym, snapping you from your trance as you suddenly stopped slamming your fists into the punching bag that had honestly seen better days. Bucky was walking towards you, concern on his features as he looked at you. Your tank top was stuck to your skin, your workout shorts soaked even. What he was most concerned about, however, was the blood seeping through the white hand wraps around your knuckles.

 You hadn’t even noticed.

 It had been six months since the world had returned to normal but you had felt so out of place still. You’d been one of the unlucky ones dusted into oblivion, cast into darkness and a void so dark you didn’t know light existed. You had seen nothing in your final moments except for the sky, laying on the ground and staring into the bright Wakandan world. It had disappeared, just like you had, and the world had moved on.

 When you came back, when you all came back, it had been to a fight to the death. You’d lost a best friend and almost lost a father. You’d watched Pepper hover over Tony, Peter begging in his own way for the man not to leave. FRIDAY had read his vitals as critical and you had thought that maybe this was what true fear felt like. What had Thanos done?

 Now all you could think about was the darkness. The void. The endless fear that came with your final moments and how it wouldn’t go away.

 Bucky knew what was happening as he walked over and placed hands on your shoulders, “You need to stop with this. Hitting that thing ‘till you bleed won’t make it go away. We went through something and now we have to live with it.”

 Tough love, right? He wasn’t wrong, though. Bucky had vanished just like you had. He had collapsed to the ground close to where you had been, and he had felt his form dissipate into nothingness. All of you were trying to make sense of not just a world that had carried on five years without you, but a world where you lived again. It had been moments between the snap and the return, but those moments had been agony. No pain, you’d reassured everyone, but the pain had been mental anguish.

 Bucky knew.

 He also knew you were avoiding the one man you wanted most to hold you and fix this. He had seen the way you looked at Steve and he had known it was more than just a crush. He had seen you get quiet and bashful, and this from a woman- sorry, a warrior, who shied from nothing. You drank with Valkyrie, had trained with Natasha (fuck…) and you had Wanda teach you to control your abilities, the electricity that rain through your veins and made you an asset.

 Moments before you’d fallen and as you lay on the ground, crushed over the snap that echoed before you even knew you were taken, you’d seen Steve. He’d been the last face in your vision and as you lay on the ground, sun bathing you in a beautifully tragic way, you’d thought only one thing: Tell him you love him.

 Even death (if that’s what the snap even was) hadn’t pushed you into Steve’s arms. He was powerful and he was good. He was better than you could be, you had thought, and deserved better. Didn’t he? Who were you? Some test subject that Hydra had let get away before they could twist your mind. You’d voluntarily gone in to change but had escaped once you realized what that place was. You’d practically run to the Avengers begging and pleading and Tony had taken you in.

 Letting you go, Bucky stepped back and sighed, taking your hands and eyeing the damage, “Let’s get you cleaned up, OK? Tony and Steve are out taking care of some business in Wakanda for the week, just left. We need you in shape in case anything happens.”

 You stayed quiet as he let you go and you followed him through the suddenly quiet gym that moments ago had echoed with your panting and yelling, that had echoed with your pain. Tell him. Tell him you love him.

 ________________________________________________

Leave it to Bucky to clean you up. He had envied you for getting away from Hydra, as had Wanda and Pietro, but it had let him trust you. You understood firsthand what they truly were and you were an example of what they were capable of. So was he. So were Wanda and Pietro, frankly.

 Once the water had washed away the blood Bucky had seen that the damage wasn’t bad and that it needed to air out more than anything. You’d thanked him for taking care of you and assured him he didn’t need to, “It’s fine, Buck. I’m fine. Just training too hard is all. Got caught up in the moment, you know?”

 He frowned and turned, beginning to walk away, leaving the living room where you two had been, but pausing before turning his head, “She’d be proud of you.”

 You held back tears, knowing he was referring to Natasha, only watching as he walked out of the room for which you were grateful. You’d only lose it more if he’d stayed. He missed her, too. Clint arguably missed her the most which was why he’d distanced himself so much from the Avengers. He was spending more time with Laura, which was good, and his family was whole. Except for her.

 You walked to the wet bar Tony had of course set up and poured yourself a whiskey, neat. Your plan wasn’t to get trashed, which was good, but you did need something to take the edge off. Tony had seen your pain and begged for you to get help.

 “C’mon, Y/N, this isn’t what sane people do. You… you were dust. You’re back. No one would blame you for needing to talk to someone.” He had sat across from you on the couch at the Avengers base in upstate New York, rather than the tower in the city.

 You huffed, “We don’t live in a sane world, Tony. I can make electricity with my hands. You’ve got a suit of armor that can trash a tank without thinking. We work with two demi-gods from a place called Asgard. Sanity went out the window a long time ago.” You’d eyed him carefully.

 So why was this so hard?

 A part of you was so angry at yourself for not telling Steve you loved him before the snap. Another part was angrier still that you continued to keep quiet about it. Your final wish had been that you had wished you’d told Steve you’d loved him. You’d imagined being held in his strong arms or being twirled on the dance floor, a beaming smile on your face and the world disappearing around you. You were getting that second chance now and still you hadn’t told him? Trauma, you’d told yourself. It was trauma.

 “Didn’t realize you were one for drinking alone,” spoke the voice behind you. Turning you saw a grinning Steve, standing tall with his arms crossed, powder blue button-down shirt on and nice khakis. He paused for a moment before strolling towards you, taking a seat on the couch perpendicular to the one you were on.

 You raised a brow, “I thought you were in Wakanda with Tony. Bucky said you were doing some work out there.”

 Steve leaned back and sighed, “Strange decided to go instead. Makes more sense, really. Strange hasn’t been out there, yet, and I’ve earned a vacation.” He smirked.

 A blush crossed your cheeks for whatever reason and you nodded, “Glad to have you here, then. You know, in case we need America’s Ass again.” You smirked this time.

 Steve laughed, a true and heavy laugh, glad you had remembered one of the stories he had told once you guys had all been back together. Tony had thought it might be good to talk about what happened getting the stones given all you guys had been through. Banner explained how weird it was being out of his own body and you had wondered what it must have been like to see a huge, hulking man shown what-was-up by a smaller woman using only her bare hands. It sounded like they all had quite the trip.

 Taking a sip of the whiskey you relished in its gentle burn. You supposed that if it had been five years then you’d earned at least more than a drink. But it was a struggle to remain cool in the lone presence of the man you pined for.

 He narrowed his eyes a bit, suddenly leaning forward, “Hey, what happened to your hands?” He reached out, taking the hand not holding the whiskey, eyeing the skin that had been etched away leaving your knuckles raw.

 What’s happening?

 You snatched your hand back, inadvertently knocking the whiskey out of your hand and onto the floor, those words that had passed through your mind in your final moments passing through once more.

 Please… not with Steve…

 The liquid hit the hard floor and the glass shattered into a million little pieces. You felt the same. Stumbling to your feet and glad you had on shoes you felt yourself shaking, “I’m-I’m sorry. I have to go. I’m sorry.” You mumbled, repeating your words as you stumbled out of the room and towards the one you had called your own.

 Somewhere in your mind you could hear Steve calling out your name and you had wished for a moment you were able to tell him to make it better. You had wanted to run into his arms instead of leaving him with shattered glass and a concerned look.

 Entering your room, you about fell apart. You made it to your bed before the tears fell hot down your cheeks. That same pain you tried so hard to push away was flooding your vision. You saw that Wakandan sky again, felt the dirt beneath you, heard a voice that was so far away, “Bucky? Y/N?”

 It was beyond unexpected, then, to feel a pair of strong arms suddenly wrapped around you, head against your own as you heard him whisper, “Hey, hey… it’s ok. You’re safe, Y/N. I promise you, you’re safe, ok?” The words were gentle and healing, little pieces that were working to clean up the glass that had just shattered into a million tiny pieces.

 Opening your eyes you saw that it was Steve holding to you and without even thinking you threw your arms around him as well. It just felt so good. It felt like a relief, like letting out a breath you’d been holding in as he held you to his warm chest. His smell, a soft cologne, wafted up and you felt comforted more.

 But there you sat, unsure for how long, as he let you sob. You were certain tears were staining that nice shirt of his and you knew how he was turned it must not have been comfortable. But he held you. He held you close and he didn’t flinch as you sobbed. It was compassion from a man who had been through so much himself and still he was letting you unravel, keeping you centered as best he could while you finally let go of what you’d been holding onto.

 So why can’t I say it?

 When he finally did pull away you had calmed considerably, soft whimpers escaping over loud sobs, looking at him as he smiled warmly and brushed your cheek gently, “It doesn’t feel like it now, but I promise you it’ll be ok. And I promise, more than anything, I’ll keep you safe.”

 You nodded, wiping at your tears a bit as you looked away, “Thanks, Steve… sorry for falling apart there. I think I’m feeling better now, though,” you forced a smile and he leaned in, placing a chaste kiss upon your forehead.

 Tell him!

 He stood slowly, “I’ll be a few doors down if you need me, OK? Wanda said she’ll make us some food tonight. Vision is helping, though, so not sure how it’ll be,” he smirked. You couldn’t help but chuckle, only nodding as you watched him leave.

 If only you’d known. If only you’d heard his own voice screaming at him, his internal dialogue that never ceased once more at attention as he shut your door and moved smoothly down the hallway.

 You were the last one he saw. He watched as your form, the one he had memorized so perfectly, began to disappear. Without a word he watched as you slowly vanished into the air. He watched as your perfect eyes, your perfect hair, your perfect everything slipped from his fingers. Another missed chance. Another dance he would never get.

 Tell her you love her.

( @skymoonandstardust @spookydefendordreamer @luckynumber1213 and lemme know if you wanna be tagged or untagged w/e)

[dexcidium]

Childish

I will never forgive you for making the mistake of teaching me that a happy world does exist

Three years. It’s been more than three years since I jumped into a world that I knew nothing about. Into a job that I was clueless about. And  into a role that I wasn’t truly capable of.

I still don’t believe I am.

And I don’t think I’ll ever believe that I was the best person for this role. But I’m the only one they had left. As if by some cruel twist of fate, the only one left alive was the one who knew the least. It was painful to know that out of everyone who was infinitely more capable, I had the privilege of staying alive and able-bodied. Never in my life did I think that I could do it.

But I was constantly wrong.

Time after time again, the façade that I force myself to live through no longer became that. Soon enough, I was that optimistic child that my servants saw me as. Everyone’s Master. I find myself becoming more and more confident. With each Singularity, there were losses but it was humanity’s ultimate win. Again, and again, and again. The person that I forced myself to be was now just me. Somehow, we were able to do it. Da Vinci, Mashu, Fou… the Doctor and I… we continued to survive and thrive. There were prices paid time and time again. But they were necessary.

Until we had to pay the ultimate price.

The feeling of anguish I felt that day almost left me as a void. If not for the fact that I was leading the charge to the final confrontation against Goetia… all my sadness, my frustration and my rage… it was all poured into that single punch. And with Mashu’s shield on the other hand, and a weakened foe thanks to the hard work of all the people I’ve met on this journey… we were able to win.

I thought that… that would be the end of it. That I’d get to rest.

But this new world that I jumped into was far darker than I initially realised.

Magi politics took over and I was about to be named a criminal. Honestly, as long as the people that mattered to me knew about the fact that saving the world was our doing… that would have been more than enough. But there was always that lingering feeling of spite. How ungrateful of the very people we saved to brand me as a criminal…!

I was exhausted from the year and a half I spent fixing the singularities. But, a Master’s job is never over. It’s a twenty-four hour job. And I always took some form of pride in taking great care of my Servants. But the timeline still needed a little clean up. And over the next year, that’s what we spent doing. It’s strange though… I feel like there was a small part of that year that I’d forgotten. I’m surprised I hadn’t perished back in 2015 and 2016, but even in 2017, I will never stop being surprised that my death count is still zero. Near death counts, however… well, how many slices of bread have I eaten in my life? Roughly that.

And thus, that year approached end… I remember dreaming  of a purple-clad boy. He told me that my efforts were futile. That I ought to have let the world burn, and he showed me a world devoid of anything but white sand. He told me that this was all that was left…

And soon enough, this dream came true.

I was interrogated, my servants were forced out and once more, I lost another piece of what held myself together. If Mashu were to be next, I wouldn’t know what would happen to myself. Truly, and surely that time…

My sanity could only take so much.

I’m just one boy.

Barely a man.

I hadn’t broken yet. No… not once, I hadn’t taken the time to completely break down and become devoid of hope. Not once in that Temple of Time… not once in the constricting cages of the Shadow Border…

But back then… back then when the Lightning Emperor exclaimed that he wanted to protect his world… I realised that I was a hypocrite.

Back in the years before… I believed that what I was doing was merely making things right. Returning things to how they were before.

Several servants who had memories of their past summoning told me of the phenomenon known as the ‘Holy Grail War’. The very basis of the FATE system that gave humanity the fighting chance it needed to prevent its extinction. They told me how cruel it was… that it was, in every sense of the word, corrupt. There was nothing holy about it. Of course, the very being that corrupted it in the first place happened to be a resident of Chaldea. But… in those times that it hadn’t been corrupted… something else did. The hearts of man, their desires took over their reason… and greed won out.

With these Lostbelts… surely, it was a crueller form of the Holy Grail War. It wasn’t born from the greedy hearts of man. But this time, it’s born from a desire to continue to exist. What was required wasn’t a mere six deaths. No… this time, it required the death of entire worlds. And the responsibility… it all laid on me.

It was at that moment. That very moment was more than enough to stop my seemingly unyielding spirit. The fire in my heart that I had desperately shielded from my own doubts was doused in one fell swoop. I had lost all will. Even in the countless times that where all hope seemed lost… I knew that I had to keep going. I had my own justifications. It was undoubtable that protecting one’s world was the right thing to do. However… the price of other worlds… other existences where people lived their lives; no matter how cruel the conditions may have been --  who the hell was I to decide that my world was better? That my world was the only one that deserved to live. Even then… everyone had died. My parents who I hadn’t seen in years… friends who would have welcomed me back in the normal world; far away from the politics of the magi… and even those same magi that prosecuted me…

They were no longer there.

All that was left was a white void.

And there was no guarantee, that even if we beat all the other Crypters and destroy all those other worlds that our world would return to the form that I knew. That I lived in. That I struggled for years to protect… the world that I so arrogantly believe was far deserving of staying in existence…

But… do I truly think that now? That world full of war, death and atrocities that I couldn’t even begin to imagine because I can’t look at something at a smaller scale? All I saw was the entirety of it all.

Just... who am I to decide that this flawed world was the best?

Once again, a dear friend from the very world I decided was inferior… his words rang inside my head once again.

I will never forgive you for making the mistake of teaching me that a happy world does exist

So stand up. Stand up and fight.

Haughtily claim that a world where you can laugh and live is superior, that such a world deserves to survive.

Hold your head up high. Hold your head up high and fight for that weak and feeble world.

…Don’t lose. Don’t lose to this world where only the strong can live.

I won’t lose… I can’t lose. Arrogant and selfish I may be…

This is the path that I’ve decided.

This is the path that I have to take.

Even if by some chance, that amongst the worlds that I have to destroy in order to survive, exists a eutopia… where all the problems that exists in mine have been remedied…

No, there’s no such thing as a perfect world.

Where there’s order, there must be chaos.

A world devoid of either doesn’t exist.

And so, I continue on a path of destruction. For I am the biggest hypocrite and the most arrogant being in existence. I will selfishly proclaim that my world is better. After all…

I’m nothing but a child who’s selfishly decided that that is a fact.

My world is the best. Faults and all.

Where chaos and order are in coexistence. As well as everything else, and its opposite.

I am the forty-eighth provisional Master of the Chaldea Security Organisation, Gudao Shimazaki.

A selfish child who arrogantly believes that my world is the best world.

[laschatzi]

The Past And All Its Scars

A post 6x17 fix-it fic from me, because I think Killian was treated a bit poorly throughout season 6, and he deserved a little more than being forgiven.

title: The Past And All Its Scars

summary: After his return from Neverland, Killian finds that Emma has already packed away his belongings, and he’s upset. So much for always believing the best in him.

word count: ~7,4k

rating: G and A for... angst? The hell am I doing??

also on: ff.net and ao3

Despite them having been under a sleeping curse for weeks, the spontaneous celebration for the happy breaking of that curse with the participation of basically the whole town exhausts David and Snow. Taking turns in cuddling their baby son throughout the evening, they are heading home soon, making up for lost family and couple time.

Emma and Killian don't stay at Granny's much longer either; they, too, feel the need to retire to their private bubble of happiness, at least for a bit (because obviously, they will have to face an ominous final battle, whatever that means), after all the emotional turmoil of the past weeks and especially the past days' separation. Without needing to talk about it, Henry simply hugs them goodnight and says he'll be at Regina's for a few days, not before whispering to his soon-to-be stepfather, “I knew you'd be back.” A warm wave of happiness washes over him at that display of trust from the lad.

At home, Killian insists he needs a shower to scrub Neverland off of his skin, but Emma just changes into her pajama pants and is humming contentedly while she brushes her hair and ties it into a loose ponytail. With an incredulous smile on her face she looks at the ring on her left ring finger and touches the diamond almost reverently, admiring the way it catches the dim light of the bed stand lamps and turns it into something pure and blinding. Just like the love she feels in her heart and soul for that man in the bathroom she's so endlessly grateful for having back. Happy tears well up in her eyes, and she thinks how lucky she is that she managed to find him and bring him back with her again (for the umpteenth time, honestly, she's lost count), and that their reunion was perfect, that they did it the right way this time, without barriers and secrets.

She hears that the water in the bathroom is turned off and smiles in eager anticipation that he'll be with her soon, looking forward to snuggle up to him and feel him near after the last few horrible nights alone that almost cost her sanity. A shiver runs down her spine at the memory, and she lifts her shoulders in a gesture of self-protection without even noticing. Quickly, she walks over to the large bed and pulls back the comforter, ready to slip into the warmth.

The bathroom door opens, letting out a little cloud of scented steam, and Killian appears in the doorway, clad only in a fluffy white towel slung around his hips. Suddenly, the temperature in the bedroom rises a few degrees. His hair is still damp from the shower and wildly sticking out in every direction, like always looking black as a raven's wings when it's wet. He frowns in in confusion, and even if she's drop dead tired, she has to fight the urge to jump him. She licks her lips subconsciously.

“Emma, this is weird,” he says, “but I can't find my razor.”

That is weird indeed, because usually she's the one to misplace things, whereas Killian – no surprise there, to be honest – is the neat one whose stuff is always orderly. And really, how would he misplace such a huge thing like the impressive, ancient cut-throat razor he uses to keep his scruff trimmed and as irresistible as it is.

She shrugs at first. “I don't...” Suddenly, she falls silent when it hits her, a feeling of dread piercing her gut. Because she remembers now, all too vividly, why Killian's razor isn't in the place where it belongs and where it's always been since he moved in with her. He tilts his head, brow still furrowed, while he waits patiently for her to continue – because judging from her reaction, he can clearly see that something's off. “Uh... I think it's... it's in your chest,” she offers and licks her lips nervously.

Killian just raises one eyebrow. He's never been slow on the uptake, unless he's dealing with some weird 21st Century contraption. Right now, he understands right away what her stammered explanation means, especially in combination with that conscience-stricken look on her face, but he decides not to comment on it – yet. Glancing around he quickly scans the room before his eyes come to rest upon Emma's flaming face again. “And where might my chest be?” he asks in a controlled voice.

She squirms under his scrutiny and curls her toes in her fluffy socks, pressing them into the hardwood floor. “Uhm I think it's...” Subconsciously, the fingers of her right hand  start to twist the ring on her left, clutching it firmly between thumb and index finger. She draws a deep breath. “You see, I thought...” But her mind is blank, can't come up with an explanation or even an excuse for what she's done. “It's downstairs,” she finally admits in a small voice.

“Downstairs.” he echoes, his voice incredulous and grave.

She could slap herself for not thinking about moving his things back to their bedroom before, right after she'd learned that he hadn't left her and was doing everything he could to fight his way back to her. But ever since then things had gone all upside down with a new catastrophe nearly every hour, she had to worry about Gideon, about her parents and the evil Evil Queen, and with Killian being separated from her she nearly lost her mind, so she simply forgot about it. She had the shell phone, and that was enough. Now she deeply regrets it, but he'll surely understand, he always does. “Killian, you were gone,” she argues, “and I–”

Killian holds up his finger, and the words get stuck in her dry throat. “Wait. Just so I understand this.” He narrows his eyes, and her heart sinks when she feels the anger radiating off him. “I was gone for two days,” he growls in a rising voice, “and you stowed away my belongings and took them out like waste?“ The last word comes out as sharp as the missing razor blade, and Emma flinches at the sound of it.

Deathly, deafening silence descends heavily upon them, and while dread settles low in her belly, Emma searches her mind for words that make sense, but all she can do is go into defense; all her energy seems to have been drained from her, and it takes every little bit she has left to attempt to just keep breathing, somehow.

“It wasn't like that!” she finally claims tonelessly, frantically trying to scramble together her whirling thoughts. Her eyes, wide like tea cups, are fixed on him, desperately searching for a hint, a sign that he believes, that he understands her, like he always has – how many times has he told her that she's an open book to him, for fuck's sake? He will now, won't he? He needs to understand what she went through, that it was just a knee-jerk reaction, born from her stupid fear and the immense heartbreak...

“Two days, Emma!” he repeats and slowly shakes his head, clearly shocked. His voice is very quiet now, seemingly bare of any anger, and that really terrifies her. Like in slow motion, she sees his Adam's apple bob when he swallows before asking incredulously, "Am I really that easy to move on from?” The telltale muscle in his jaw clenches, a sure sign of his inner uproar.

“Easy?!” she gasps, feeling sucker-punched. That's what he thinks?! “It wasn't easy!” she protests and feels the tears sting in her eyes again, but they're not happy tears this time. “It nearly destroyed me!” she continues, her voice on the verge of breaking. “But I thought you'd left me, it was like a déjà-vû of–”

“Yes, I know, Emma,” Killian cuts her off almost briskly. “I know you've been abandoned way too often, and you lost everyone. I know.” Absentmindedly, he rubs his hand over his stump in a slow, circular motion, like he often does to smooth out the faint marks left by the leather sheath of the hook. “My own father sold me and Liam into servitude when we were children, so he could flee from justice for his misdeeds,” he recalls in a crisp voice, his gaze drifting into the void for a moment, before he focuses on her again. “My brother managed to save us from that hell only when we were grown men, and shortly after that, he died in my arms.” A faint tremble in his voice shows how painful the memory still is and always will be. “So did a woman I loved,” he continues, “and after that, for centuries I had no one to care if I lived or died. So yes, I bloody know what it means to be alone in this world.” With his last words, his voice rises, the anger back for a moment, before he exhales slowly, deliberately through his nose and swallows. “I just...” He snorts a sad little laugh and tilts his head. “I just hoped that I'd never have to feel like that again.”

His words cut her to the marrow, almost paralyze her – because, honestly, what can she say? With sheer willpower Emma keeps the tears from falling, not wanting him to think she uses them to mellow his anger or manipulate him into empathizing with her. So, they're choking her voice instead. “I'm so sorry, Killian,” she barely manages to get out, taking a tentative step in his direction and raising her hand as if she's about to reach out for him, “that's all I can say.” When he doesn't reply and doesn't make a move to step closer to her, she pulls her hand back and clutches the ring again between her fingers. “Do you... do you want me to give the ring back?” she asks tonelessly.

“What?!” he snaps and narrows his eyes in disbelief. “Hell, no, I don't want you to give the ring back!” He rakes his fingers through his still damp hair, disheveling it even more, the angry spikes mirroring his mood, clearly. “Remember, a few hours ago I promised you I'd always be by your side?” he reminds her, and stern, acid sarcasm seeps into his voice as he tilts his head to the right. “Well, surprise, the pirate meant what he said.” His words sting, as if he slapped her, and Emma has the impulse to fire back how unfair he's being, because he damn well knows she stopped treating him like an untrustworthy pirate a long eternity ago, and since then, she has never acted like... like... like she was seeing the worst in him. Her shoulders slump a little, and she averts her eyes when she realizes that she's done exactly that.

In a sudden move that makes her almost jump out of her skin, Killian snatches her hand with the ring and holds it up between them. “With this ring, with me offering it to you and you letting me put it on your finger, we made a commitment to each other,” he clarifies, “and for me it's worth as much as a marital vow itself. We can't renounce that every time things get a little rocky or don't go like we expect.” His voice has softened the tiniest bit now, and he lets go of her hand. “That's not how it works, Swan.” He sounds more disappointed and sad than angry now, and that's even worse – she can handle him being furious at her, but seeing him so raw and hurt and knowing she's responsible for it... that's almost more than she can handle. She's unable to reply and just looks at him in pain. He sighs and squares his shoulders. “If you excuse me, I'll just go and retrieve my things.”

He turns around and leaves the bedroom while she's left standing in the middle of the room like someone who's utterly lost. He doesn't slam the door behind him, it's more of a quiet, determined click, and Emma finds that almost even more devastating. She resists the urge to run after him, to stop him, because, she tells herself, there's nothing to worry about. Oh, she knows she screwed up, badly, and she knows they'll need to work through this, really work through it, and not just ignore it. She knows she's hurt him and disappointed him, and he's angry, but he's not gonna leave her – he's not. He didn't ask the ring back, he sticks to his commitment. That's more, an evil little voice whispers in her head, than you were willing to do for him. No, he's not gonna leave. He's just going downstairs to look for his chest.

When Killian comes back, balancing his chest on his left forearm and steadying it with his hand, his spontaneous fury has boiled down again, but the anger and disappointment are bitterly simmering low in his stomach. His gaze falls upon Emma, she's sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to the door, and she doesn't turn around when he enters the room. But he can clearly see how her shoulders sag a little in relief, as if a heavy weight falls from her, and he knows: She's relieved that he's come back, that he hasn't left the house. It makes him even angrier that she still even contemplated this, and he has the momentary urge to lash out at her again with some sarcastic remark, but then he notices how fragile she looks, even if he can't see her face. Ruefully, he decides not to let his momentary ire get the better of him and make him say something he'd regret, and so he lets it pass and just quietly returns to the bathroom.

Meticulously, he trims his beard, and the controlled, practiced movements help him to put some order into his thoughts and, which is far more difficult, into his feelings. The routine calms him down and keeps his emotions from overwhelming him, even if that's hard.

That evening, when she walked in on him as he was trying to burn the dream catcher, and his dirty, despicable secret came out, he was far too overcome by his own guilt and self-loathe to feel anything else – but deep down, it kept nagging at him like a poisonous vermin: she had refused to hear him out, refused to even try to understand him, understand where he came from and why he'd wanted to erase his own memories. She'd accused him of not trusting her, of not trusting in them to overcome this together... when it had all been a problem of him not trusting himself, not trusting that he ever could be that man she deserved, because every time he thought that maybe, just maybe he was getting there, something happened to painfully remind him of the pure evil he was capable of, and it just killed him. Afraid that he would never be free of the man he'd been for a long time, he'd thought it was better to just erase the memories of him.

A bad decision, he knows that now, but in that moment, he just wanted to forget, he couldn't bear to destroy the happiness that was radiating off her ever since he'd put that ring on her finger. But Emma couldn't understand – and what was worse, she didn't even try to. She had once said to him she'd always choose to see the best in him, but in one of his darkest moments, when he'd have so desperately needed someone to tell him they believed in him, when he himself couldn't, she chose to see the worst. She chose to accuse him of not trusting her, chose to send him away. And when he didn't return to her when she'd expected him to, she chose to see the worst again, disappointingly ready to believe he'd abandoned her like everyone else had, and she simply erased every trace of him in her life, as if he'd never existed. Oh, he doesn't doubt that it pained her to pack away his belongings, but obviously she didn't even contemplate the possibility that something had to be wrong – the thought that he would rather die than willingly leave her, didn't even cross her mind.

And that bloody hurts like a bitch.

Killian almost cuts himself when he clenches his jaw involuntarily, and he quickly finishes the deed, as the exhaustion from his latest travel through various realms is starting to kick in. Thankfully, the physical debilitation helps to numb the emotional uproar, and finally he puts on a pair of sweatpants and a worn t-shirt and opens the door again. Reluctantly, he admits to himself that he's been avoiding returning to the bedroom for as long as possible, since he wasn't ready to face Emma's presence yet – he isn't, actually. Isn't ready to hear more explanations from her – excuses, whispers a tiny voice in his head – nor see pain and tears of self-deprecation on her face. He doesn't want that for her, she's suffered enough, and he doesn't want her begging for his forgiveness either, because it's pointless – of course he's going to forgive her, but he isn't ready to soothe her pain just yet; it might be selfish of him, but he feels the need to indulge in licking his own wounds for a bit first.  

The bedroom is only dimly lit by the lamp on his bed stand; Emma's obviously left it on for him. She seems to be already asleep, or she pretends to be. Her back is turned on him, and she doesn't give any sign that she hears him walking through the room or feels the shifting of the mattress when he climbs in bed.

Killian looks at her back and sighs, on the verge of being overwhelmed by his feelings again. He's still hurt, of course, and yes, also angry – but his love for this woman, it's ingrained in the very core of his being, he loves her so much... and he understands. Yes, he understands what went on in her mind and in her heart in those moments. The walls she once had – he's brought them down, made them crumble to dust, but... he remembers what he himself told her once, that those wounds inflicted on people when they're young, they tend to linger. His own, bitter experience had spoken from him then – and he knows now they both have made the mistake to just pretend all their traumas never happened. Alas, ignoring them could not erase them, because they have left an entire map of scars and need mending and healing. And this is something they need to do individually, but also together.

She's rolled into a miserable ball almost at the edge of the mattress… as if she's deliberately putting distance between them, as if she's trying to give him space – or as if she's afraid he might shy back from her, show rejection. He sighs again and slides close to her, and after the tiniest hesitation he wraps his right arm around her from behind, spooning her like they do so often. He notices that she clutches her hand with the ring with her other hand, and his chest clenches painfully. He puts his hand on top of hers, his fingers cradling hers, and she seems to relax the slightest bit against his body, painfully sighing in her sleep, murmuring his name like a prayer.

He tries not to think about her lying alone in this bed, their bed, crying herself to sleep and thinking she might never see him again – for whatever reason. He's had enough pain for today, for both of them, and he murmurs “I love you” into her hair before the sheer exhaustion overtakes him and he falls asleep.

***

When Emma wakes up the next day, it's almost noon, and a cold hand grips her heart as she finds the bed beside her empty. Her eyes scan the room in alarm, and she immediately spots the folded note on her bedside table. I'm on my ship, it reads in Killian's old-fashioned, bold and elegant handwriting, I'll be back in a few hours.

She sighs and drops the note on the sheet, rubbing her hands over her face, covering her eyes as the full impact of what happened last night hits her. Without being aware of it, the fingers of her right hand find the diamond ring on her left and start to rub the golden band, its smooth texture soothing her aching troubled soul a little. She knows that it's time they really work through this – which they should have done way earlier, she knows that, too. All the things that have happened to them, that have been happening constantly since they became a couple – they have never dealt with any of it in a healthy way. Mostly because there was never time for that before the next disaster came along, and in the brief moments of peace it was just all too tempting to simply try to enjoy those occasions, live those moments. But all those terrible things – the loss of Killian's heart and almost death at the hand of Gold, Emma taking the darkness and then infecting Killian with it to save his life, the hurt they inflicted on each other while being possessed by it, Emma freaking having to kill him and then following him into the Underworld, losing him again and again, enduring separation after separation... these things actually happened, and both of them just ignored them, just carried on, carrying invisible burdens that would have broken and destroyed others a long time ago.

Over a very short frame of time, they both have kept secrets from each other, outright lied to each other, and she realizes now that this could only happen because they both have never really tried to actually deal with their traumatic experiences instead of just glossing them over. Emma didn't tell him about the shears of destiny, because she was so used to always having to deal with problems on her own.

And Killian's hiding of the truth... she understands now that his initial hesitation to tell her about his discovery of the murder of David's father right away had nothing to do with him not trusting her or not trusting in their love or being afraid of her family's reaction. No, it was all about him: he just had started to believe in and forgive himself, accepted that he'd left his nefarious past behind and become the man he'd always wanted to be. Learning what he'd done to David's father was like a flashing signal to him that he'd never be able to escape his past, that it would always be there and come back to haunt him.

He was trying to figure out how he'd be able to live with that memory and with himself, and in his very own knee-jerk reaction he'd come to the conclusion that he just couldn't bear to live with the knowledge of what he'd done, and so he tried to erase the memories of his ruthless act.

For the first time, Emma understands what her immediate reaction had really done to him: he'd never really felt worthy before anyway, that had always been his trauma – just like her fear of abandonment had been hers – and with her reaction, her sending him away when he'd needed her reassurance the most, she had confirmed what he thought he'd always known: that he just wasn't worthy.

And whereas in the most desperate times he'd assured her that he loved her, no matter what she'd done and that he'd never stop fighting for them, she'd sent him away to sort out his problems on his own and by himself. She'd promised him to always choose to see the best in him, and instead she'd jumped to believe the worst. Twice. First, when she'd accused him of not trusting in their love, and a second time when she was ready to believe he'd just packed up and left her. Like Killian Jones had ever left her since the day he'd admitted that he'd just needed reminding that he could care for someone else.

Words echo through the back of her head, spoken some time ago, spat almost... words full of malice, aimed to hurt, yet spoken by a beloved voice...

You're so afraid of losing the people that you love that you push them away...You don't need some villain swooping in to destroy your happiness, you do that quite well all on your own.

What he threw at her when he had given into the darkness she'd forced upon him was painfully true then and seems to be dangerously close to the truth even now. Those damn fears she thought she'd overcome, they raised their ugly head again when she least expected it, and now she wonders if she ever will be able to get the better of them.

Emma sighs and swings her legs out of bed, fighting the urge to go and find Killian, talk to him. She knows he needs a bit of time and space to process his own feelings, and his ship is the best place to soothe his soul, or so she hopes. She can't run after him now and maybe let him think she's doubting him again. And she isn't. He told her he'd be back soon, and he will be. Surprise, the pirate meant what he said. His sarcastic words from the previous evening weren't much less hurtful than those spoken by The Dark One Killian Jones, but they were not filled with much spite – this time, it was more pain and disappointment that rang in his words.

All she can do now, anyway, is fight the anxiety and wait. So, she forces herself to get up and go to the bathroom to take a shower, take care of herself, soothe her nerves with everyday routine. She gets a bit calmer as the hot water rains down on her. What does Killian always tell her, basically since she's met him? You can do this. She knows she can. She can work through this and work her way back to him. She knows he will not make it unnecessarily hard for her, because he loves her.

When she's ready and finally leaves their bedroom to face whatever the day (well, the rest of it) will bring, the warm scent of coffee fills her nose, and her heartbeat picks up a beat. She hurries down the stairs and slows down only when she's crossed the hall and has almost reached the kitchen door. Stopping for a second, she draws a deep breath before she enters.

Killian is standing at the kitchen counter and turns around when he hears her, a steaming mug in his hand. He doesn't smile, but the expression on his face is soft and open.

Without being aware of it, she raises her shoulders a little, a self-protective gesture, and smiles nervously, hopefully. “Hi,” she greets him tentatively.

“Hey,” he replies, and she's relieved to hear his voice isn't cold or curt, there's no distance in it, not even a trace of rejection. He puts the coffee mug on the table and gestures a vague invitation in her direction. “Here. I thought you could use it.”

“Thank you.” She steps nearer and takes the cup with the steaming beverage in her hands, but doesn't sit down.

“I went to see your father,” Killian explains and runs his hand through his hair. “Felt like I should... talk to him.”

“And?” she asks, not really anxious about his answer on that one. She knows that her father has made up his mind about the tragic events of the past.

He tilts his head. “You were right,” he just replies and averts his eyes for a moment.

Emma's heart grows heavy. “Killian, can we–“

“Care for a walk?” he interrupts almost brightly and raises his eyebrows in question.

“Uh... yeah, sure,” she answers, thrown off track a little and confused, because she didn't expect him to avoid a conversation; but then, maybe, he isn't trying to. A walk seems like a good occasion to talk, especially if they're heading to the docks, like she suspects they will be. The horizon, she thinks. Yes, that's a good idea. The fine skin around his eyes crinkles the tiniest bit in the hint of that special smile that's reserved only for her, and he tilts his head in an encouraging nod. Her heart is a little lighter, and coffee, still untouched, is forgotten immediately.

Quickly, she puts on her boots and deliberately leaves the red leather jacket in the closet, choosing  the soft, sandy brown one instead. It's the one she was wearing when she opened up to him about her feelings towards him for the first time, when she told him that she couldn't lose him, too.

After the first few steps, she tentatively laces her arm through his. He doesn't pull away, of course he doesn't, but nevertheless she breathes out a quiet sigh of relief when she feels the muscles of his forearm tense and trap her hand between his elbow and his ribs. Instinctively, she doesn't start a conversation but lets them adjust to just being close like that again. Some sort of tension is still unmistakably there, but she can almost physically sense it dissolve a little.

Just when she finally feels they've waited long enough, and thinks now the moment's right to start talking, she realizes where they've been heading: of all places, they have ended up at the cemetery. While she's still trying to process what's going on and to find a way to start, her eyes widen in dread: Killian has led their path to the very place where she once – not long ago – had to bury him. The stone with the inscription of his name has been removed, thankfully, but the sensation of standing here is still eerie, painful. Her mouth is dry all of a sudden, and she has to swallow before she is capable of getting out a single word.

“Killian, why are we here?” she asks tonelessly and pulls her hand away from his arm, instinctively rubbing her own arms with both hands to warm her for the chill that comes from her very marrow.

Killian steps in front of her, facing her and thankfully obstructing her view on his former grave. “Do you remember when I came back?” he returns the question instead of giving an answer.

Emma looks at him, bewildered. What kind of question is that even? How could she ever forget any of that ordeal? “Of course I remember,” she replies in a shaky voice, not knowing where he's aiming at.

“So you know that the ruler of all the Gods sent me back here, right?” he continues. “He told me he'd send me where I belonged.” He tilts his head, his eyes searching hers, his intense gaze capturing hers, burning right into her heart and down to the bottom of her soul. “But he didn't send me just anywhere in Storybrooke,” he points out and reaches for her hand, “he dropped me off right here in front of you, because that is exactly where I belong – not just here, but here with you.” The telltale muscle in his jaw twitches, and he raises his eyebrows, giving her an encouraging nod.

“I know that!” she exclaims and squeezes his fingers, so grateful for the long desired contact of skin on skin. “I know you'd never leave me,” she affirms, “I know it in my head, I know it in my heart – hell, I even know it in my guts!” The wind blows a strand of her hair into her eyes, and she furiously combs it away, wishing for nothing to break the eye contact with Killian, because she needs him to understand, even if it's so hard, barely possible for herself to understand. She starts to nervously shift her weight from one foot to the other. “But then... suddenly, out of the blue, there's this fear,” she shakes her head, her gaze wandering around, trying to find an explanation somewhere, where her mind can't, “and it feels like it's invading me, eating me up, like a fucking parasite...” her voice drifts off, and her panicked eyes fly back to his. “And there's nothing I can do about it!”

Killian nods and takes a step nearer, invading her personal space, and that old habit of his has the effect on her it's always had: it calms her down, immediately. “I know what you mean, love, believe me,” he replies in a controlled, calm tone. “I really started to feel like I was... on the right side,” he tells her, and she frowns in confusion. “Part of the heroes. But then...” he looks down on their joined hands and swallows. “I fell back into the darkness in a matter of moments.” Emma opens her mouth to protest, but he quickly cuts her off, “Yes, I know, in the end I was stronger, but only when it was almost too late.” She lets out a shaky, broken sigh when she remembers once more the moment of his sacrifice. He tilts his head in the direction of his former grave. “But apparently, it was enough to earn me a second chance, in spite of the life I'd led.” His shoulders sag a little, as if a huge weight is pressing on him, bringing him down. “And yet, when I learned what I'd done to your grandfather...” He lets his voice trail off and shakes his head.

She squeezes his hand even harder than before, ignoring the pain in her fingers when his rings press into her flesh. “You didn't know–“

“Emma,” he interrupts firmly, “I killed an innocent man without a second thought when I didn't have to, and I bloody well knew it.” She doesn't know what to say, because he's right, of course. She's seen it in the memories he tried to destroy, and what she saw was cold-blooded murder, nothing to justify that. “But you were right,” he goes on after a moment, “your father didn't even have to think twice before he forgave me. It's just that...” He looks down at their hands again and rubs his ringed thumb over her knuckles. “I'm not there yet,” he says finally and tilts his head in a shrug. “I can't forgive myself.” He draws a deep breath and looks up at her again, a sad smile tentatively lifting the corners of his beautiful, sorrowful mouth. “But I will, eventually. It just takes time.”

Emma feels hot, bitter tears sting in the corners of her eyes, and finally she speaks the words he needs to hear so badly, the words he needed to hear from her on that fateful evening. “Killian, you're not alone. I promise.”

He nods once, almost solemnly, and his eyes glitter for a second before he blinks his tears away. “I guess that's something we both still have to learn.”

She doesn't know what to say, so she just holds on to him, reaching out for his hook with her right hand. He smiles briefly when he notices and asks softly, “Do you want to go see your parents? Make up for lost time?”

“Not with them,” she replies immediately, “not today. I want to make up for lost time with you, and I'm not yet ready to share.”

That touches him, and secretly, he's glad about it. They do need a bit of time to themselves, and for once, today's the day when they just take that time, Black Fairy and Final Battle be damned. So, they walk around and spend some time at the docks, have a light super-late lunch or super-early dinner at Granny's and then walk home again through a for once quiet town. It's not that they talk much, but that's okay; their souls connect, and their hearts are opening up to each other. It's a start, one step at a time.

Afterwards, they get home to a quiet, empty house, and Emma feels a little guilty that she's relieved, but again, she's determined to take that time. Because she knows, sometimes a Savior needs to save themselves first.

When they get ready for bed, Killian takes off his hook and its brace and sets it aside to its usual place on the bedside table, and the familiar, domestic gesture finally makes Emma crumble. While she watches him, she realizes how close she was to losing him again, and how it was – at least partly – her fault that he was at the wrong place in the wrong time. Hadn't she sent him away, Gideon could never have arranged for him to be carried away to another realm.

Killian turns around when he hears her choked, shaky sigh, and he can see that she's fighting to hold back tears. The way she wrings her hands and chews furiously on her lower lip breaks his heart, because he knows exactly how she feels. Guilt and self-deprecation, two of his oldest friends, together with darkness his very own trio infernal of demons. There's not much he can do for her right now, though, he's aware of that. She needs to fight her way through it.

He takes a step in her direction. “Emma–”

“I'm so sorry I failed you,” she breathes.

He shakes his head. "You didn't fail me, love,” he contradicts firmly. “You tripped. Made a mistake. I made them, too.” He puts his hand on her shoulder in a reassuring touch, or so he hopes. “It's human.”

There's panic on her face. "But what if... if it happens again? If my fears get the better of me?” She shakes her head furiously. “I never should have doubted you, I know you'd never leave me. I know that. And yet, I–” She falls silent and combs both hands through her hair in a desperate attempt to calm her nerves and order her thoughts. “What does that say about me?” she asks in a pleading voice, “About us?”

“I'll tell you what all this says about us,” Killian replies resolutely. “That we're not perfect.” She snorts at that and averts her eyes. “That we were both wrong to think our wounds would just miraculously disappear when we found each other,” he continues and inclines his head a little so he can make direct eye contact. Her expression is tormented, but also hopeful, and she's listening to him like her life depends on it. “Your fear of abandonment doesn't just cease,” he tells her quietly, “and neither does my feeling of... worthlessness.” She flinches at that and reaches for his hand. Accepting her silent support, he squeezes her fingers and goes on, “No matter how many times I tell you that I'll always be by your side, or you assure me that I'm a hero.”

Emma feels tears well up in her eyes when she realizes that what he says is true: no matter how much love she will be regaled with from him, from her family and friends – the lost little girl from a long time ago is still living somewhere deep inside her soul, and she will always continue to, having that unquenchable need to be reassured of that love, again and again.

“Those wounds,” Killian says now, “they heal eventually.” He lifts his stump between them. “But the scars remain.” He lets go of her fingers and pensively runs his thumb across the scarred skin, and for a moment it's like he's more talking to himself. “And from time to time... they hurt.” The moment flies by, and he's back with her. He reaches for her hand again, brushing his lips over her knuckles with unspeakable tenderness. His voice has almost dropped to a whisper. “But when they're taken care of and tended to...” In an almost solemn gesture, he puts her hand on his wrist, and the comparison of his own, very physical wounds to those suffered by their tormented hearts and souls almost brings her to her knees. “In the course of time, they soften and become smooth,” he says and covers her hand with his, “and even though they'll always remain a part of you, they don't bother you anymore.”

Emma nods through her tears. “I love you, Killian, I really do,” she tells him in a thick voice, “So much.”

“I know,” he reassures and grasps her hand in his, “I know. And I, you.”

She sinks her gaze into his eyes and finds nothing but unabated love in those blue depths she wants to get lost in. He is her safe haven and her anchor, and she wants nothing more than to reassure him that she is also his. She wants nothing more than to learn how to be that for him and not falter, ever again. She exhales deeply, letting go of the tension.

“And what do we do now?” she asks.

Killian shrugs. “We forgive each other, and then we try to forgive ourselves,” he points out, and Emma nods slowly. That will for sure be the hardest part, for both of them. But she knows, if they have each other's back, together, they can face it. “We fight for each other,” he continues firmly, “take care of each other's scars.” He motions between them with his hand. “We're both not good at accepting help from others,” he admits, and she can't contradict – it would be a lie. “But maybe we should be more open to that, too,” he suggests. “Turn to our family in times of need instead of trying to deal with everything on our own. Talk to people.”

Emma frowns in question. “You mean, like Archie?”

He tilts his head. “I found my recent conversations with him surprisingly... helpful, and also encouraging.”

She nods in agreement. “Yeah, me too.”

He puts his index finger under her chin and lifts her face a little to him, searching her eyes. “We'll be alright, love,” he promises.

She presses her lips together, suddenly overwhelmed by her pent-up emotions, her voice broken as she all but sobs, “I lost you so many times...”

Killian pulls her into his arms, her heartache almost unbearable to him, and cradles her head in his hand in a soothing, protective touch. “I'm so sorry, Emma.”

She tries to melt into him, to shut out the pain, and buries her face in the crook of his neck. I'm not losing him, she tells herself firmly, not to death, not to the darkness, and surely not to my own demons. The thought helps, the determination feels good, reminds her of the things she's overcome to be with this man, her True Love. Slowly, her breathing calms down, and his scent engulfs her. She knows she's home. “Let me feel that you're here,” she murmurs, “that you're real.”

He tightens his embrace and swears to himself he won't let any ghosts of his past get between them ever again. And that includes that he'll start to take care of himself as much as of her. “I held you last night,” he tells her, regretting now that he let her fall asleep thinking he was deliberately distancing himself from her, even rejecting her.

“I know.” Emma leans back a bit in his arms so that she can look into his eyes. Even if hers are still glittering with the tears she's only partly shed, he can see that they are full of life. “Let's smooth our scars and make love until we fall asleep,” she demands fiercely.

He huffs a little. “Aye, well...” he raises his hand and smooths her hair behind her ear, letting his fingertips rest against her cheek. “There's just one problem.”

Too soon? She thinks, and a trace of disappointment touches her. It stings. Of course, he needs time. “What's that?” she asks, and try as she might, she can't keep the sorrow out of her voice.

But he smiles and tilts his head in a lovingly teasing apology. “That might take a while. I'm not sleepy at all.”

[dawnkiwi-blog]

A Beautiful Mind Chapter 2 - Tony Stark fanfiction

A Beautiful Mind - Avengers fanfiction | Iron Man / Tony Stark-centric | #1 in the Wretched Adrenaline series

Summary: 'Prodigious clarity conceived', Tony Stark is the most enlightened mind of this existence. Like an elastic band, his mind expands to encompass all knowledge he comes across. Bands snap.

Genres: Drama/Sci-fi

Word Count: 2,200 Chapters: 02/05 Status: Finished prior to publishing

Trigger warnings: Allusion to schizophrenia / mentions and explorations of mental illness + suicide / familial abuse and trauma / mentions of sexual activity.

Sincerest apologies for this late update! I had this posted on ff.net some days ago but this has been a hectic time for me and I forgot to press ‘post’.. I should probably queue these things.. 

Chapter 2: Gods

It had been days now. Thousands of minutes in which he had hidden himself from the world and all interaction, with only the precious indulgence of the most artificial mind- his own creation, and thus the safest option, as Tony innately knew that only he and that which he could completely dictate could be trusted.

Days since Tony had found the courage to face them.

He had suspected when he ventured upstairs- to his own kitchen- that it wouldn't go well, but the need for food had won out. And inevitably he had been humiliated. Perhaps they didn't see it that way. In fact, for all Tony knew, neither Steve nor Vision had picked up on how 'out of it' he had been. But the days taken their toll and his sleep deprivation had culminated in one of those dreaded flashbacks.

At least this time it had not been of Afghanistan.

"JARV, can you copy this template and store it on my private server, please."

His lab was washed in a soft natural lighting, creating a calming atmosphere. Controlled chaos reigned in his most precious space; his modus operandi flowed in a maze of questionable ideas. Each time he was struck with another moment of euphoria, it had to be jotted down by hand and plastered up in a string-board flow chart that coated every surface and space available.

Tony worked like a madman, never entirely still. His hands shook and his eyes wavered. Almost wordlessly he spoke to himself, reciting formulas, theories, and mashing the very fringes of theoretical science together in a corroded version of logic.

"Of course, sir."

He snapped his fingers, twirling around to snatch up another hot cup of liquid energy. $60 a cup. Because he's Tony fucking Stark.

"Sir, the synthesized element is now complete."

Tony let out a shaky breath. "Bring her up, JARV."

His beloved AI did as requested and the newly synthesized component emerged like an infant Jesus, or Simba. The steaming mist rose up, slowly evaporating into the air ducts. The theatrics of it all did nothing but exacerbate his irregular heart beat and warm his hands with nervous perspiration.

"Perfect," he murmured, gingerly plucking it from its perch. His latest attempt at recreating one of the many Chitauri 'elements'. Once he'd come to terms with whatever materials the Hoard consisted of essentially being out-of-this-world, he'd set about making his own. PTSD prevented him- no, reminded him of why space travel is a bad thing- a terrible, most dreaded, and utterly anti-human endeavor- so the safest option he had was to simply create it all.

He'd done more difficult tasks before. Like in caves, with a car battery wired into his chest.

Tony repressed a shiver but was unable to stop the frown which settled upon his face like scar tissue. Even during his most poignant moments, the repressive and plagueish feeling gnawed at him, chewing him to pieces and scattering his sanity like dollar bills from a blimp.

His new element glinted in the soft lighting. Iridescent like a polished pearl, it held his hopes, his fears, and his obsessions.

Snatching up his scanner, he let the holographic wave flow across it before processing the data.

Tony stood quietly with shaking hands, lost in the swirling mist of his coffee.

"The element does not match, sir."

Tony cursed, nearly throwing his cup against the wall. Instead he discarded it behind him, unaware of the blistering liquid splashing his bare feet. In a rare moment of ill-restraint, Tony let out a frustrated scream, sweeping his arm across his desk and sending it's contents scattering across the polished floor. Glass shattered and sprayed him with thin, nearly invisible cuts. His chest heaved, pumping out gutturally anguished grunts.

"Sir?"

"Does any of it match?" Tony screamed into his hands, fisting his hair into painfully tight clumps.

His shaking increased with his shoulders hunching and tensing more as he waited for JARVIS to calculate the difference.

"There is a 52% match rate, sir."

"Fifty-two percent," he enunciated to himself quietly, "It's never enough."

Tony straightened up to stare blankly at the mess covering his lab.

Post-it notes dotted the walls, his tables, and even his cars. He didn't need them. In fact he had only ordered them last week thinking perhaps it would ground him, and remind him of the necessity and fruition of such an ambitious dream. But now it slammed into him with a splitting ache, his eyes scrunching up as a blinding pain coursed down his head. It reminded him of how fucking ruined he was.

"Never fucking enough," he muttered.

Fifty two percent means the elements, the material, whatever the fuck he labelled it- it all boiled down to having the same matter which existed for tangible forms, but beyond that, whatever accumulation of atoms formed the mysterious armours, 'flesh', and weapons of the Hoard simply did not exist as an Earthen configuration, and if Tony dared to press his mind into the darkest corners of his intelligence, he would be forced to consider that potentially, the elements he searched so desperately for were beyond his highest form of science.

Beyond science itself and perhaps into the realm of speculation and, he shuddered, magic. The horror.

Horrible potential. One would believe Tony Stark idolized magic. His own creations all embodied the most human form of magic. Technology so advanced he could craft his suit from the air (seemingly) and power his tower from a self-sufficient source. All ideas that scientists had salivated over, but truly, few had the brains capable of processing such advanced theories.

"JARV," he ground out through gritted teeth, "What does the two-percent signify?"

Another moment of silence while JARVIS considered his readings. "I believe, sir, that the two percent is evidence of a nuclear-bonding between the armours of the Chitauri Hoard, and their 'flesh'."

That means their armour is really an exoskeleton..

Which again meant he was no closer to understanding their technology or their ability to breathe in space.

Tony wanted to cry but he settled for sinking to his knees and gasping for air. Imagining space without his suit.. imagining floating in that awful, endless void..

He couldn't breathe.

Grasping at his throat, his vision swam.

"Sir, you are experiencing an anxiety attack. Code Beta. Sir, you are experiencing an anxiety attack. Code Beta. Sir, you are experiencing an anxiety attack. Code Beta..."

Code Beta.

Tony's self determined code word broke through the haze, allowing him enough time to stagger to his feet and slump towards his coach. Barely mustering the strength to pull his suddenly lead filled body onto the expensive leather, he never heard had a chance to fight he sleep which wormed its way into his deprived and demented brain.

Burning cinders drifted through the air lazily. Such beautiful hues of orange and magenta glowed behind the thick, black smoke. They danced like peacocks of death.

Plumes of the smoke filled the skies and suffocated him, working its way down his throat and filling him with trepidation.

Her voice chanted above the carnage, "Cinis praecepto cadunt acie retro.."

Screaming metal cut through his dazed thoughts and he raised his head, vision blurred by red, to see a ship leaning to left. It groaned ominously, straining against gravity, but inevitably, it lost. The dull silver wings tipped downwards and the ship fell headlong into a spiralling descent.

"In acie retro faciens iter sonitu.."

He tried to cry out in pain but the sound lodged in his throat. His entire body ached like he had been beaten for all eternity. He had to press on. Desperation clawed at him.

A spindly hand shot towards him and tightened around his throat. He thrashed violently before regaining his senses. Lifting his hand to fire a propulsion, the being was swept away in with a loud bang, landing sickeningly against a stone wall.

Everything blurred together as he fought them. There were so many. Everywhere. They swarmed like roaches, never ceasing, never lessening in number despite the culling blows they were dealt. Slate coloured skin, red eyes, and horrible, repulsive green mouths like moss and mold.

Somewhere far from his vision the Hulk let out an almighty roar, shaking the earth he lay on with a bellow deeper than he had ever heard.

"Rumpitur sanguine filiorum tuorum implebo tympana.."

They were losing. Vision hovered above one of their mother-ships surrounded by an unearthly red glow. Another mammoth beast fell from the sky with an almighty crack as lightening touched from the heavens and split it's skull from it's monstrous body.

Agony seared from his chest and as he looked down he nearly passed out. Luminous green shards jutted from his reactor like pins in a doll. They leaked a foul odorous discharge and his reactor sparked, sending blinding spots cascading across his vision.

He sent another energy charge at an approaching Chitauri goon, before commanding JARVIS to launch a rocket at the mother-ship closest to him.

"Sir, your arc reactor does not possess the energy needed to fire the rocket and continue to power your suit."

He forced JARVIS to do it.

The air in his lungs left him like a swift punch and he collapsed in the rubble, unable to breathe or scream or think. JARVIS said something but it didn't compute and he felt a blissful numbness encompass his left side. In the back of his head, he registered a stroke.

"Errorem suum pure et crucifigetis.."

Inhuman shrieks filled the air but it barely registered to him. JARVIS continued to bleat in his ear. All he knew was agony. Unfathomable and unnatural pain.

As his eyes slid shut slowly, the last thing he ever saw were the rising forms of those they had so valiantly tried to slaughter. They stood slowly, heads tipping back to join in the unearthly shrieks, bodies convulsing nauseatingly.

Darkness filled his vision.

Tony woke with a scream.

Silence. Then his ragged breath.

Another fucking night terror. It had been so real. So clear. But it was just a dream.

They were usually quite similar. It always featured the Chitauri. Plenty of death. The Avengers, naturally.

And that haunting voice.

It was so familiar that Tony was sure it belonged to a real person he had met before. But for the life of him he couldn't think of who. And that drove him fucking mad. Despite his near perfect memory, whoever possessed that lilting voice escaped his stranglehold grasp. He eventually concluded the voice manifested as a distorted version of a real persons voice. He then banished it from his mind before it sent him raving mad, and falling over his already precarious balance on the edge of sanity.

Tony had defied nature most nights but the fatigue had gone beyond his previously known limits, and once something as mere as a thought had triggered his fears, the need for rest wormed in like a disease and wouldn't let go.

Drenched in sweat Tony had summoned his latest suit models frantically, despite being barely conscious. Nine feet tall each, separately colour coded, they smashed through the concrete walls hiding them from any potential intruder. Ironically, when he had woken to tall and menacing figures looming above him, he had once again descended into a panic attack.

Sometimes Tony wanted to die. To kill himself. But he couldn't.

If space held such terrible things, then death.. death would be unimaginable.

He would suffer, and suffer happily as only the truly mad can.

The latin translation from Tony's dream;

"Commandment of ashes, fall in line behind your maker, march to the sound of their cries, fill your beating drums with the blood of your broken children and crucify the pure for their aberration."

Enjoy.

[demondeanismybaby]

Start Your Free Trial

Pairing: Dean x reader, Sam, Kevin

Word Count: 1624

Summary: Coda for 8x14

Warnings: Angst, language, canon typical violence

A/N: This is for my 30-day Supernatural challenge, day 3: Favorite Season. Mine has to be Season 8 because I love the character development for team free will this season. 

You could at least understand, in theory, where Sam was coming from. It was hard to believe that Dean, would suddenly be trusting monsters, after his little stay in Purgatory. Although, another part of you, kind of thought Sam’s idea of quitting the life for some girl and a dog was even less likely. It was like the two of them had both become different people in this last year. Not just because your boyfriend had been sucked into a different dimension and spent it battling for his life, or that his little brother had just vanished overnight.

Suddenly, the two brothers who had done nothing, but fought to keep the other around, they could hardly look at each other, much less you. Even Cas was acting stranger than before. You felt completely alone. Fighting pointlessly to try and keep your makeshift family together.

In the weeks since they had been back, every small decision was causing friction between the three of you. In one moment things would appear calm, maybe one of the boys was accepting that things were different now, and then it was back to everything being in shambles. Leaving you wondering how people in the real world were able to function, without an epic disaster every few days, like you had grown accustomed to. When Mr. Advanced Placement called, you were ready to have something to tally in the win column.

Once Kevin had told you about the trials, you knew it would be a total Winchester-off for which brother would be able to sacrifice themselves first, and the bug in your brain about it had started. You didn’t understand why both of the men, who you had been with night and day for years, were suddenly ready to check out of not only hunting, but life in general. All you could do is wait for the prophet to go into details of what these tasks were to close the gates, and then deal with the inevitable fallout.

Sam had a certain gleam in his eye, as he asked about, “God wants us to take the SAT’s?”

“Sort of, it’s totally gross, you have to kill a hound-of-Hell and bathe in its blood.” Kevin was looking worse than usual, and there was some dried blood caked around his nostrils.

“Easy enough,” Dean started in with a tangent on dog puns and it was obvious that he was dying to be the one to complete the trials.

You said nothing though, as you gave Kevin a hug and faux punched Dean when he brought back a pharmacy to the hard-up profit, only thinking about the fact that if one of you was dispensable it wasn’t a Winchester, it was you.  

When you pulled up to the multi-million dollar ranch, you only knew that the goal was to find a Hellhound and gank it. You had yourself a hearty chuckle as you watched as Dean settled into his new ranch hand role, shoveling really seemed to suit him, and you felt calm inside as you brushed out a palominos mane and contemplated what completing a trial would feel like.

When Carl wound up dead you could see the frustration taking over Dean, it wasn’t just at the lack of having someone to save, he was clearly ready to take on these trials and was less than careful about how it was going to happen. As you called both boys to meet after collecting themselves, you could tell that Sam had learned something.

“That’s not a plan Dean that suicide,” Sam started another round of bickering between the two of them.

The older of the two felt sure that he needed to rush, to kill first and question later. While Sammy was sure that Dean was just willing to sacrifice his life in an attempt at being the one to do the trials. It was as if with their pent up frustrations towards each other that you almost didn’t exist at all. You decided to break things up, in an attempt at restoring your own sanity. These days all the fighting made you want to run screaming into the void.

“All right, we are going to stay, and see if any other deals were made.” Making sure you didn’t leave any room in your tone for an argument.

As night fell and Ellie gave you all your tasks for the evening, you admired the way the moonlight and the flames from the grill illuminated Dean’s features. His eyes were clouded as he stared at the fire even though a smile hung on his face, it was obvious that deep down, he was busy wishing that he was in the midst of sacrificing himself in the throws of the trials.

Taking a tray inside you carefully kissed the edge of his mouth.

“I love you, Dean Winchester.”

“You too babe.”

You tried not to let your heart break, he didn’t even glance back at you. You ignored it and tried to see if you could get any more information out of the family during the course of dinner, maybe if they were all drunk, somebody would spill something. As you helped Sam pour out even larger portions of wine for the obviously deal-hungry family, you couldn’t even find it in yourself to be surprised at the mentions of Crowley. You went off to find Dean and give him the low-down on what you and Sam had learned.

“I like it the whole Clark Kent look,” Ellie was clearly unabashed in her attempts to pick up Dean.

Luckily, you weren’t the jealous type. You watched as another girl threw herself into the arms of your man, and as he watched her walk away, you noticed that he barely even registered your presence. It didn’t hurt as much as it should have, there was something growing in the spaces between you and Dean. After he came back from purgatory it seemed like he was adrift in an effort to escape the world he no longer felt he fit into. Your relationship seemed to be nothing more than a painful reminder of that, to him.

“Dean, can we talk?” You were talking to his profile, noticing how handsome he looked in the boxy framed glasses, then you heard a gunshot. You guessed the conversation would have to wait.

The whole family was congregated inside. The tensions were high between not just the Cassidy’s but you could see it on your boy’s faces as well. Dean was fidgety, looking like he was ready to punch someone or something in the face. There was some quick, this is crazy and I didn’t sell my souls from the various family members before Dean reserve snapped.

“Well somebody did,” Dean said.

“Alright, seal them in.” You were done playing this game, someone here sold their soul. For all you knew, all of them had, and so you watched as Sam cuffed them all to various items of furniture.

Dean was busy making snide comments, but when he actually started to talk about how he didn’t see a way out of this life, that he would never be able to give you a family, you slapped him in the face. He stared at you, his eyes bulging in shock, and then he stormed out. You regretted it instantly, but you were so tired, when those green eyes looked at you, he looked through you. Seeing a life where you could move on to something better, without him. He was too important, too special to just give up his life like this.

It was just a freak coincidence, as the sound of yipping and deep growls came from outside, that one of the Cassidy’s would make a run for it. You saw Sam rush out after her, and he was so absorbed in getting her inside safely you had been acting on nothing but instinct, as you lunged toward the shimmering shape in your glasses, and when you felt the warm, stinking, rush of its blood pour over you, you let your whole body go lax.

It was done, you were going to be the one who completed the trials. It was going to be over, the gates of Hell would be closed and both of the Winchesters were going to live in the world together.

“The spells not going to work for you.” You watched as Dean held the scrap of words written out in Enochian, and tried to explain the obvious as calmly as possible.

“Then we are just going to have to find another hell hound, so I can kill it.” Dean glared down at the empty words that were never going to work for him. He kept avoiding looking at you. Sam hung out quietly in the background refusing to say or do anything that might direct his brothers brewing anger in his direction.

“Dean, I can do this. Please just trust me.”

And at that he handed you the piece of paper, “I will always trust you.” His eyes were dewy as he watched you mumble the incantation.

A fire shot through your palm, you could feel it igniting in every blood cell, and coursed like lava through your veins. In it, there was a type of certainty that you were destined for this, a sense of calm through the agony. You made sure that your face remained passive, not wanting to give Dean more cause for alarm. A sense of direction, a goal, and a purpose. All things you lacked ever since you joined forces with the Winchester’s, now with a track to walk down, knowing soon you would be stopping the onslaught of evil from gaining any more traction. You felt something new, you felt pure.  

[markgetsetgo]

The Only Exception

Author: ohhhkenneth

Pairing: Markson (GOT7)

Category: Romance

Length: 20 Chapters

Rated: M for smut, cursing

Summary:  Jackson is no stranger to one night stands or hookups. When the sun sets he comes alive; losing himself in the city lights, finding his way into the beds of guys whose names he didn't even bother to get. Relationships are off the table - he's more interested in the pursuit of unending happiness. Cars, clothes, money, sex. Life is easy for a twenty-something gay man in New York, especially when they're as hot as Jackson. What the boy wants, he gets. That is until his favorite coffee shop barista, Neil, is fired. Jackson is thrown for a curve ball when the coffee shop hires Mark Tuan as a replacement for Neil. Mark is a pale and beautiful young man who seems to have everything that Jackson wants, except one thing: he doesn't want Jackson.

Chapter 1

I have to be perfectly honest, I wasn't expecting to have as many potential suitors as I ended up having when I went out to the club on Saturday. I mean, being a young, wealthy, and good looking man - if I do say so myself - works wonders when you live in a large metropolis like New York. Over the year or so that I've been frequenting the bars my "little black book," if you will, has become filled with a dozen or so names of gorgeous and well endowed men that would drop anything if I called them, whether it was 4AM or 4PM, needing a hit. Typically I liked to find myself wrapped up in the sheets with another new body a few times a week. It was almost like a game to me, who could I get next, how long would it take me, that sort of thing.

One of my favorites, if not my absolute favorite, was Joel. He was a little older being 38 and all, but he was the epitome of a great fuck. I had heard stories of the mythical "monster dick" and men whose penises were that of tales and legends, but I hadn't run into one of those prized jewels until Joel. Turns out, they do exist. Unfortunately Joel is married and has three kids, so getting out and away from the family is sometimes tricky. We meet at motels and pretty well anywhere that we can. Sometimes I let him fuck me in his car. When you're horny you become crafty - every surface becomes a perfect place for fucking.

I met Chad online, he was a veteran, back from his tour in Iraq. He and I met on Grindr one evening when I realized that I was too spent and couldn't be bother to go out into the real world to find my night's fun. We exchanged a few contrived messages, "What's up?" "What are you into?" "Where do you live?" etc. After seeing a picture of him, I had to invite him over. I normally wouldn't host, because I don't like the idea of having perfect strangers in my condo where I have artwork that costs upwards of a hundred thousand dollars, but his ass was too great, it was an ass worth breaking a couple rules for.

Chad told me, the first night we met, that he was freshly single and wasn't well versed in bed. I told him it was okay, because I could take the lead, but I was pleasantly surprised that his own self evaluation of being an amateur was completely unfounded. Chad was a maniac.

Within minutes of me opening the front door, I found myself pressed up against the wall and my pants around my ankles. Chad bent me over slightly and buried his face into my ass, eating me out aggressively for what seemed like half an hour. I guess he had been deprived of ass eating for a while, and I was glad to help him out and be his late dinner.

Chad was the one with the perfect ass - even nicer than mine - so I was surprised when he took his saliva coated finger and slipped it into my quivering hole knuckle deep. He began fucking me in my front doorway for fifteen minutes, then lifted me into the living room where he threw me down, flipped me over, and took me for the ride of my life in one of the four positions he had in store for me that night. I guess being in the military really did have its advantages. Chad was incredibly strong, and tossed me around with ease. 

Finally, he finished me off by sticking his perfectly curved cock into my ass and pounded the cum out of me, making it sprout all over my chest. When he finished after me he mouthed a "thank you" and quickly did up his pants. Turns out he hadn't even taken his boots off, and with that he was out the door. I didn't mind that he trekked a little bit of mud in, I'd let him dump dirt all over my house if it meant that he would fuck me like that again. The maid would clean it anyway.

It's true that I have a wide range of men at my beck and call, some are into darker things like BDSM and role playing, some into feet and me stepping on them, still others are into romance and cuddling and "making love." I've been feeling a void inside my chest lately; something I can't quite put my finger on, that's making me anxious. For someone who can have literally anything he wants, why do I get the sense that I'm missing out on something? 

***

Work is something that keeps my mind busy when I'm not cruising or searching for the next hot guy to hit me up. I go into the office almost every day. One thing about me that I take pride in is my time management and conscientiousness; I stick to my schedule and respect my own boundaries and capabilities when it comes to work. My father's business got to where it was with my help, and together we have become incredibly successful. 

The only thing that makes work unattractive at times is the drudgery. It becomes incredibly slow and monotonous at times. Sometimes I find myself playing cheap games on my phone during meetings. That's why I take solace in the small things: the songs on the radio in the morning drive to work, seeing Neil each morning and getting my macchiato, the view from my office when the sun is rising. These are the things that maintain my sanity during the day.

Today was a morning just like every other. I pulled out of the car lot and headed towards Steepz, the coffee shop at the end of my street. They have a drive thru, but I insist on going in to speak with my favorite barista, the hilarious and cheerful Nathaniel.

When I step into the coffee shop, there's a small ding on the door as it closes behind me. There's a lineup of about 30 people, all tapping their feet and looking at their watches for the time. Seems there's a hold up; which is odd, considering Niel is practically a mad genius when it comes to coffee. He'd never let the line get this long.

"What's going on?" I softly ask the older woman in front of me.

"Ugh, they're taking so long. I think they're training a new staff member." she said over her shoulder to me in a very pointed tone.

I was tired too, so I understood her impatience. Coffee was like a drug, and this new staff member was the only thing between these angry addicts and the one thing they desired the most.

I waited and waited in the line, and since I'm my own boss I don't care about how late I am getting into the office, which is why I'm honestly not that upset when I finally get to the counter nearly 20 minutes later. 

The morning gets even weirder as I approach the counter and see that Niel is not working today. Surely he'd be the one training this newbie - he's the best there is. Instead, there's a shy and timid girl showing an even shyer and timid boy his way around the register. His face is down and his visor is hiding his face as he presses and prods at the till's buttons, nodding sternly to himself as the girl explains things to him.

When he lifts his head and greets me, I nearly lose my train of thought. 

"Hi, what would you like this morning?" the boy asks me in a gentle and warm tone.

It takes everything in me not to reply with "You. Right now. In front of everyone here."

I look down at the boy's name tag. Mark.

If I wasn't the most logical and rational thinker that I know, I would've believed anyone when they told me that Mark was an angel sent from the heavens to deliver coffee to me in that very moment. His hair was fluffy, a warm and deep golden color, falling neatly over his forehead. 

His eyes were two perfect slits of black that looked like they held the entire universe in them, and when he looked at me with a questioning gaze, I felt as though he had just looked right into my soul.

"Sir?" he asked. A single word that shattered me inside, arousing me beyond all control. It sounded so innocent, yet charming at the same time. What I wouldn't give to have him under me, begging me to enter him, whispering that same word to me in that same voice.

"I'll have a venti, skinny, caramel macchiato. Sorry." I finally answered when I had regained composure.

Mark nodded and turned his attention to the machine. His eyes went from innocent and loving to determined and focused as he worked away on the register.

"That'll be... $3.49 please." he said, looking back at me. I flashed him my gold American Express card, "Oh, credit. Okay, please insert when you're ready."

Insert when I'm ready? God, this boy. I thought.

"So, you're new. How are you liking it so far?" I said, punching my pin into the pad.

"It's really fun. I've made a lot of mistakes so far, but I'm excited to keep learning." Mark replied, beaming with light. 

"Ah, customers can be a bit unruly. Don't worry about it, I'm sure they'll warm up to you in no time. You have a very very inviting presence about you." I told him, wanting him to understand that I thought he was doing a great job.

"Thanks." he pursed his lips back and blushed.

"Here, this is for you, keep your spirits high. I'm sure it's the first of many tips you'll get." I handed him a fifty dollar bill and winked, heading off to the side to wait for my drink.

As I walked away I caught Mark's reaction to the tip. He was stunned, he picked the money up and quickly pocketed it, then shouted a thank you to me to which I nodded back at. 

I spent the next few minutes examining the new barista further as I waited for my drink. Mark looked to be about my age, although his gentle and loving demeanor made him appear a lot younger. He was fresh faced, with perfect soft skin and a winning smile that just begs to be returned. Though his eyes were determined and wise, they were juxtaposed on his face by his cute and boyish features. He was truly a sight for sore eyes. Maybe Neil being gone wasn't all that bad, after all.