#There is a high chance we are just tired yet the dread persists

[evildemonclan]

Those two need to be quiet we do not particularly need this today

[tpwkjerii]

as you wish | 3

your one true love was lost in a pirate accident five years ago, and now you’re engaged to a cruel prince. with all your misfortune, you didn’t expect three unconventional thugs and a painfully familiar pirate to save you from a dreadful future. (inspired by The Princess Bride)

pairing: pirate!seokjin x princess!reader

warnings: fluff and angst (!!), reader is forced into engagement and becoming a princess, mentions of death, kidnapping, murder threats, mentions of monsters and fire, kissing, attempted murder, cursing

genre: fairy tale/pirate au, semi established relationship au

word count: 3.7k+

a/n: two more parts left eek (this is also kinda unedited; my apologies for any grammar mistakes :[ )

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“Looks like your darling Prince has caught up to us,” the masked man stated dryly, his arms crossed in obvious displeasure.

You furrowed your brows. “You’re not working for him?” you asked quickly.

He scoffed in response. “Why would I work for him,” he spat.

You rolled your eyes at his attitude, concern growing in your mind. You still had no idea who this man was, so going with him was a 50/50 chance of life or death, and you definitely knew that Prince Donghae would not be pleased if he got to you. The last thing you wanted was a repeat of your first night at the castle — it wasn’t unlikely that he would go further either.

However, you didn’t have much time to decide on or say something as the masked man harshly grabbed your arms and pulled you away. You sputtered as he practically dragged your body down the hill.

“What do you want from me?” you asked, your voice and body tired. “If it’s ransom, I promise that you can get it, no matter the amount.”

The man in black scoffed again. “And how much do you think you’re worth, your Highness? What are your words worth, the mere promise of a Princess?”

You sighed, your irritation growing with his stubbornness. “I was giving you a chance… It doesn’t matter where you take me, Prince Donghae is the greatest hunter in this kingdom. He will find you, and I can’t guarantee your fate for when he does.”

He laughed scornfully. “You think your dearest love, the Prince, will save you?” he questioned.

Your face screwed at his suggestion. “I never said that he was my dearest love and yes, he will save me, that I know.”

“You admit to me that you do not love your fiance?” the man asked you, shock evident in his tone.

“He knows I don’t love him,” you responded simply.

“Are not capable of love is what you mean,” he remarked snarkily.

His words stung and, outraged, you planted your feet on the ground above you and ripped yourself out of his grip. You looked at the masked man directly in the eyes, pain in your voice as you told him, “I have loved more deeply than a killer like yourself could ever dream.”

This man may have several physical similarities to Seokjin, but his words and attitude clearly showed otherwise. Perhaps your first impression based on his revealing attire was correct after all.

He was silent as you continued. “I know exactly who you are. Your cruelty revealed it all.” He remained silent as he simply looked at you.

“You’re the dread Pirate Joohyun; admit it!” you exclaimed, anger towards the man who killed the only man you ever truly loved overtaking you.

A mischievous smirk spread across the man’s face. “With pride,” he responded, causing you to breathe out in anger. “What can I do for you?” he asked teasingly.

“You can die slowly — burn and be fed to the sharks for all I care!” you answered, angry tears spilling down your face from his words.

He winced in faux pain. “Those words hurt, your Highness. What have I done to deserve such a cruel fate?”

You stepped closer to him, now staring him dead in the eyes. “You killed my love,” you said, your voice threateningly low.

The man faltered, and for a brief second you almost thought that he had remorse for you. “That’s possible. I’ve killed a lot of people,” he replied bluntly before immediately grabbing you again.

You scoffed, struggling against his strong arms as he dragged you further away.

“Who was this love of yours? Another prince? Was he ugly and rich like this one?” he remarked, contempt clear in his voice. You briefly wondered what exactly this man had against you and your fiance (who you don’t even like) before you responded.

“No,” you started, keeping your voice as level as possible as you reminisced about Seokjin. “A poor farm boy. Poor but perfect, with eyes like chocolate and the kindest soul I’ve ever met.” You stepped closer to the masked man, tears now slowly rolling down your face. “Your ship attacked, and we all know that you, dread Pirate Joohyun, don’t take any prisoners.”

He was slow to reply. “I can’t afford to make any exceptions. Once word goes out that a pirate’s gone soft, people start to take risks and disobey you. Then it’s nothing but work and fighting from there,” he explained like a teacher would.

You breathed out in disbelief at his outward lack of contrition. “You mock my pain,” you spat.

“Life is pain, your Highness.” His grip on your arm tightened and his pace quickened. “Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying.”

You didn’t get a chance to respond before he continued, “I think I remember your farm boy. That would have been what, two years ago?”

You remained silent, the past two days and sudden onslaught of this man’s harsh words and memories of Seokjin bringing tears to your eyes.

“Does that bother you to hear? To think about once again?” he persisted.

You ripped yourself out of his grip again and pushed his chest, sending him a few feet back. “Nothing you say now can upset me any more than you already have. My heart is used to harshness and disinterest.”

The masked man ignored your words and continued sharply, “He died well, that should please you. No bribe attempts or useless blubbering. He only said ‘Please. Please, I need to live.’ That’s what caught my memory. I asked him what was so important on this earth that he deserved to live for, and he said true love.” He paused to laugh bitterly. “Then he spoke of a girl of surpassing beauty and faithfulness. I can only assume he meant you. You should thank me for killing him before he found out who you truly are.”

“And who am I?” you countered, stepping closer to him in anger.

“Faithfulness, my lady. He mentioned your unwavering faithfulness,” he responded bitterly. “Now tell me, when you found out he died, did you get engaged to your prince that hour, or did you at least wait a week, out of respect for the dead?”

Your hands balled up by your sides. “Don’t mock me anymore! I died that day! You speak as if it was my choice!”

“Was it no-”

The masked man paused, and both of your heads turned towards the fields which he rushed you away from. There, Prince Donghae and his small army were making their way in your current direction.

Your eyes moved from the royal soldiers towards Seokjin towards the ravine that was lying below the hills on your right side; and with only a moment of thought, your hands moved up towards Seokjin’s chest.

“You too can die for all I care,” you said darkly before you pushed him down the hill.

You watched as he tumbled down the grassy hill, no emotions running through your tired body. It wasn’t until three words, three words which used to bring you great comfort and happiness, rang out, the voice behind them growing further and further away by the second.

“...As…you…wish…”

Your hand instantly flew to your mouth in horror. You were wrong - extremely wrong. “Oh my god, what have I done? My sweet Seokjin,” you whispered, your mind reeling at the sudden turn of events.

Without a second thought or consideration of the dangers ahead of you, you ran down the steep hill into the ravine. You barely made it a few meters before your foot got caught on a rock, sending you tumbling down the hill and into the ravine behind Seokjin.

You winced as you landed on the dirt, your body sore from the heavy impact.

“Can you move at all?” you heard Seokjin groan from a few feet away.

“Can I move?” you started, lifting your head up to look at him. His mask was off his face now, allowing you to perfectly see his beautiful face and know that it really was him.  “Seokjin, you’re alive. I could fly if you asked me too.”

“Fly then.”

“You know I meant that figuratively, Jinnie,” you said with a sigh, a wave of relief crashing through you as you realized his sense of humor never changed even after all this time. “Oh, Seokjin,” you murmured, closing your eyes and laying your head down on the ground again.

The leaves and stones crunched beneath him as he stood up and walked towards you. “I told you that I would always come back to you,” he said, leaning down to gently caress your face before lifting you to your feet. You opened your eyes and looked up to meet his eyes, your hand instinctively reaching for his. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” he asked softly.

You felt a knot in your chest as you answered. “You were dead. And I had no choice in following Prince Donghae’s orders of becoming his Princess if I wanted to live.”

He let go of your hand, much to your initial dismay, and moved it up to gently cup your cheek. “You should have had more faith in me. Death can’t stop true love, it can delay it at most,” he spoke earnestly.

You nodded, eyes glazing over as you said, “I’ll never doubt again.”

“You will never need to doubt,” Seokjin replied before he leaned down and closed the distance between your lips. His plump lips were slightly chapped yet still maintained their soft quality. You melted in the familiarity of his tongue swiping against your bottom lip and the way he pulled away only for a few seconds just to kiss you again. His large hands rested gently on your face before moving to your lower back and the back of your head as he pulled you deeper into the kiss.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally pulled away. Breathless, you both took a few seconds to catch your breath.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for the past two years,” Seokjin admitted with a laugh as he massaged your hands lovingly.

“If you’d taken that mask off earlier we could’ve done that at least 20 hours ago.” You laughed.

Seokjin opened his mouth, ready to reply before an echo of a horse’s whine rang through the gorge. You and Seokjin looked up and saw the man whose appearance you’d been dreading this past journey. Prince Donghae had dismounted from his horse and was looking down into the gorge, an unrecognizable expression on his face.

Your breath caught in your throat. “Do you think… he can see us?” you whispered to Seokjin.

He shook his head. “Unlikely. Even if he does, he’s too late. There’s no way they can get around this gorge in less than at least three days.”

Seokjin’s confidence reassured you, although a small feeling of reassurance still gnawed at your stomach. “Are you sure?”

He nodded and gave you a kind smile. “I’m positive, my love. Even if he did, I would not let him take you from me again — I would rather die than let that happen.”

You sighed and shook your head. “Still dramatic, aren’t you?” you asked with a teasing smile.

He scoffed in offense. “It’s true! I really would!”

“I’ll take your word for it, Jin,” you said lightly.

He grinned and leaned down to press a soft kiss on your cheek. A blush spread across your face as he grabbed your hand and gently tugged you forward. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“How do you know where to go?” you asked curiously, examining the dense forest ahead of you.

“Do you think I’ve just been lazing around the past two years?” He reached his arm towards his back and unsheathed his sword, the silver barely shining in the low light that barely peeked into the gorge. “I’m not the same farm boy that I once was.”

“And what happened these past two years, Seokjin?” you asked as you followed him while he skillfully led you through the thick trees.

He sliced through a natural wall of tiny branches, a sharp slicing noise filling your ears. “Would you like the short story or the long story?”

You took his hand as you hopped over the pile of dead branches and leaves. “Well, I’m assuming that we have at least two or three to go through whatever this place is, so I suppose that you have time to tell the long story?”

“You’re absolutely correct,” he said cheekily, using his sword to cut through a wall of vines that hung from the trees. “Before I start, I would like to hear about you.”

You jumped as you heard a loud chirp from within the forest, instinctively moving closer to Seokjin, who moved his hand so he could wrap his arm securely around you. “What about me?” you asked, your voice still shaky in mild fear from the unexpected noise.

“You know what I mean, Y/N.” He took a deep breath as you sliced through another wall of built up branches. “How did you end up as Princess, engaged and to be married to Prince Donghae? What happened?”

“Not too long after you left us, father died—”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupted you, a sorrowful look on his face.

“It’s ok, I’ve already made my peace with his death.” You smiled at him gently before you continued. “Not too long after, news spread of the King’s deteriorating health and the subsequent search for a Princess since Prince Donghae was yet to court anyone. Prince Donghae began searching throughout the Kingdom for any princess he deemed suitable, and honestly I expected the search to end in the inner Kingdom with a wealthy daughter of the court.

But I guess none of them satisfied him, and one day he was in our village. All potential ladies were gathered together in the Church - trust me I wouldn’t have been there if I wasn’t forced - and subject to his scruitany. Prince Donghae examined each lady, sparing some only a quick glance and other a brief exchange in words,” you paused to laugh bitterly, old feelings of resentment awakening. “I suppose that’s how I sealed my poor fate.”

“Something about me must have caught his attention, and he tried to start a conversation with me. Like a fool, I thought I could get away with ignoring him.” You paused to breathe in deeply, the memory of that day bringing in a familiar feeling of deep regret. “And showing him I wasn’t interested. Evidently, my silence spurned his curiosity, and as of that evening, the search for the to-be Princess ended.”

“I’m sorry for assuming you left me on your own will,” Seokjin apologized with a pitiful expression. By now your walking pace had decreased to a leisurely stroll as he guided you through the dense trees. “I hope that life as a Princess has at least treated you well.”

“Treated me well?” You laughed indignantly. “While I may have not had to worry about finances and a sudan surplus of materialistic items, life in the palace has been everything but welcoming,” you began to rant. Seokjin, while trying to contain his anger, listened thoughtfully as you continued. “I don’t belong. They never fail to remind me of that very fact every single day.”

“Who’s they?”

“The royal court, the administrators — hell even Prince Donghae sometimes! I hear the whispers whenever I enter a room: the mutters of ‘why is the poor village girl still here?’ and ‘how could such a lowly maiden be the Princess?’ and more. It takes all my willpower to not scream at them and tell them that I didn’t want to be there in the first place. Prince Donghae chose me but I never chose him or this life.

Every moment of the day I’m surrounded by people and guards who monitor my every action. They wait by my chamber rooms, by the drawing room, by the garden, and by every single room I could ever be in. Anything suspicious or out-of-line is reported to the Queen, who hates that I wasn’t born into wealth or royalty. But out of everyone, Prince Donghae is the worst,” you muttered darkly, tears threatening to fall from your eyes as you averted your gaze to the dirt floor.

“Why? What has he done to you?�� Seokjin rushed, red hot anger spreading across his body.

You laughed bitterly. “All the sentiments that everyone in the Palace shares about me, he hears and feels them. He knows how I’m constantly ridiculed by the court and his own mother, yet he says nothing to them or of them. He uses me like a toy; he forces jewels and fine dresses onto me as his partner at formal events but throws me to the side when I’m not needed. There is not an ounce of love or affection between us. And heaven forbid I ever talk back or defend myself, because if I do… I’ll regret it.” Your hand unconsciously reached up to your neck, fingers touching the same spots Donghae’s were.

Seokjin seemed to understand what your sudden change in hand placement meant and his grip on his sword tightened. “That bastard touched you? He hurt you?”

You nodded. “But all physical injuries pale in comparison to the emotional blows I’ve faced. Like all things, though, I’ve grown uncaring. Their words won’t stop, that much I know, and for a long time I felt hopeless and knew that there was little - or nothing at all - I could do to change my fate. For many months, I just relished in the fact that I wasn’t dead.”

“If I had known that he was hurting you, I would’ve done everything I could to come back sooner.”

You looked up at him, and Seokjin’s heart ached at the vulnerability of your body language. You kept your voice soft as you asked, “What were you doing the past two years, Seokjin? How did you survive the attack?”

He sighed and slightly increased your walking pace as you entered a clearer path. “I first ought to explain that the dread Pirate Joohyun isn’t really Joohyun,” he paused to chuckle at your bewildered expression before continuing. “The real Pirate Joohyun has been retired twenty years now after securing enough gold and jewels to last his family three lifetimes. The rest of us have been under the mere illusion of a name… When my ship was attacked that night, I pleaded just like I told you did. The then-Joohyun, named Sihyuk, pitied me and welcomed me onto his ship.

I was a simple crewmate for a few weeks. It wasn’t seamless, of course. Every night, Sihyuk would tell me that he might kill me the next morning, but he never did. Before I realized it, he started training me in all skills a pirate should have: sword fighting, strength, balance, combat, everything. After a short few months, he told me everything about his true identity and the others before him and his plans to hand the title of ‘Pirate Joohyun’ to me.

I accepted, obviously, and the next day, we stopped at a port in Europe and got a new crew. When we set sail again, I was the Captain and Sihyuk called me ‘Joohyun’ until everyone believed that I was truly Joohyun. Then Sihyuk retired from pirating forever, and during the months between then and now, I fulfilled my duties as the Pirate Joohyun.”

You nodded, absorbing his story. It seemed like both of you had a rather unconventional past two years. “Did you ever go back? Back to our village?” you wondered aloud.

He nodded sadly. “I did once a few months ago. I left disappointed when the bakery lady told me that you had moved to the castle as the new Princess.”

“I’m so -”

“No.” Seokjin shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he stated firmly. “You did not deserve what you’ve been through, and my words were unwarranted. I did not know your side of the story and I thought harshly of you because of that.”

“It’s ok, Seokjin. I understand the pain you must have felt,” you whispered, your heart twinging at the thought of Seokjin leaving your tiny village, undoubtedly heartbroken and furious, under the impression that you no longer loved him and moved on with a rich Prince.

He paused in his steps and turned so you were directly facing him. His arms wrapped around you gently and you followed his movements. “I promise you, Y/N. You will never have to see Donghae or step foot into that castle again,” he whispered as he clutched you to his chest. You breathed in his familiar scent and tightened your arms around him. Seokjin’s hugs were just as comforting as before - if not more - and you basked in the way one of his hands rubbed circles in your lower back while the other slowly inched its way up to the back of your head.

You lifted your head up and met his eyes before you leaned in to press your lips against his. Your lips molded together perfectly, and you both rejoiced in the perfect feeling of electricity coursing through your veins and heat spreading across your chest as your mouths moved, magnificently in sync.

After your kiss, you and Seokjin continued through the forest. Seokjin, just as he mentioned, led you through expertly. You watched in amazement as he weaved you through every trap and navigated the unclear forest paths. Even when faced with unexpected monsters, Seokjin maintained his cool and swiftly killed them as if it was second nature.

(Although, he did complain about getting blood on his brand new top and singing the bottom of his pants when he nearly missed a fire trap).

The next few hours passed wonderfully with Seokjin and his comedic commentary, and you imagine that the journey would have been miserable with anyone else. When he announced that you were almost at the end of the gorge’s forest, you felt a ray of hope shine within you. Perhaps this would be the moment you’d dreamt of for the past two years. Maybe this was your second chance at life with Jin. Your excitement grew as you walked towards the visible clearing ahead, eager to leave the gorge with Jin at your side.

But of course, the prospect of being able to flee with Seokjin was too good to be true. You were right in your words before after all — Prince Donghae had found you.

[idgaf-what-you-call-me]

This is the first time, outside of therapy, that I am opening up fully my past, I ask that you remain respectful.

Trigger warnings: Suicide, torture, neglect, alcoholism, … a lot listen you’ve got to be well resourced before you read this. 

I know Dean, because I was Dean. I was raised to be “perfect”, I am so much like my dad, I didn’t have a childhood, I was tortured, I have lost time (dissociation not possession by an arc angel), I am fairly closeted, and I’m finally starting to get better. 

Ever since a very young child, I was raised to be perfect. To look at a 99 and learn what I got wrong before I brought the grade home, otherwise, I was sent to study. I was raised to not be heard and taught to stay in my room. I was raised to not show emotion because anything more than stoic meant that I was an inconvenience. I had “fend for yourself nights” where I had to sort out what I would eat for dinner, and at inexcusably young ages, 5-6 years old. I learned to shoot at 8, and was taken fishing anytime my dad went. I was brought to the construction sites, learned how to use power tools, and eventually had my own set at home. While I wasn’t trained to hunt demons or other things that go bump in the night, I was molded to be just like my dad. My mom wasn’t around much when I was a kid, so I idolized my father. He was like a god to me. As I got older (legal), I even would drink things that my dad approved of like scotch and I smoked cigars. Often praised, “that’s my girl! Look guys, my daughter drinking scotch and smoking a cigar! Where are your kids?” The validation was like a high to me. I was desperate for his approval. Just like Dean. Talked like his dad, walked like his dad, drank like his dad, I get it. 

I was blatantly ignored including being told that I was invisible by siblings. They would hold up a remote to me and say, “you’re invisible” and ignore me. I could leave the house and they would not come look for me. With my mom and dad often gone (usually working or partying we were quite poor), I didn’t have anyone looking after me since I was 4 so when my dad was around, much like Dean, all I wanted to do was make him happy and proud of me.

I was a closeted bisexual, who made so many gay jokes towards my cishet brother that I feel quite a bit of shame as an adult. I repressed every facet of desire I had for the opposite gender because being bisexual really meant that I must be gay. At least that is what Will and Grace told me, and I did not want to be gay. Things were bad enough, I didn’t need to add to my shit pile. By the time I was 12, I had no idea how to feel emotions and I had no idea how to love myself. Most days, now at 29, I still don’t know how to love myself. I am not out to everyone in my family. I don’t feel safe with everyone. All the gay jokes between the brothers, all the Dean is bi subtext, I lived a lot of it.

Torture can take the shape of many different forms but they fall under two umbrellas: physical and psychological. I was subjected to sound torture and sleep deprivation forms of physical torture that have lasting psychological effects. When you live through something like that, you don’t “rebound” in the traditional sense, and I would dissociate. My consciousness would retreat back into itself until it was safe enough to come back.

I dreaded Thursday nights as that is when it would begin. My father would bring home several cases of Michelob Ultra, from the store, and then he would start drinking. My dad didn’t measure his consumption in beers, instead he measured by the case. A form of extreme binge drinking that to this day I still don’t completely understand. While he would drink, his music would get progressively louder and louder until the whole house vibrated with noise. 

There are some songs and artists that I cannot listen to anymore. They’re not songs by Metallica or Black Sabbath, instead they’re by Credence Clearwater Revival, Bob Dylan, Van Morrison and the like. Songs that people dance to at their weddings, sing at funerals, and enjoy on a road trip with the entire family. They are generally described as lively yet not heavy, yet this music was the conduit of 5 years of actual torture for me. I used to say that these were my favorite songs, but it was a way to cope with hearing them at home, and then hearing them play in the car on the way to school the next morning. In my house, the music was played so loudly that walls and floors shook and overwhelmed my senses and ability to sleep, think, do anything but have a heartbeat and breathe. It would last all night. I never learned to “fall asleep” I would pass out. To this day, I can be desperately tired, and able to drive for several hours without being a dangerous driver. Like my body learned to ignore fatigue. “I just need like 4 hours every couple of days,” yeah Deano, I’ve been there.

I would freeze mentally. Almost like a zone out but on steroids. Then I’d look around and things wouldn’t feel real to me. I would look in the mirror and see a stranger. Now I understand that I had developed dpdr as a way to cope. I don’t wish it on anyone.

My mother? She would leave the house and go clubbing. My siblings were 8 years older than me and lived on their own a great distance from where I lived. Besides, I had school to go to on Fridays. So I cooked, I monitored myself, I had to become an adult. I didn’t get to be a kid. My catharsis was angsty and fluffy Harry Potter fan fiction. You can find it on FF.net, RandHrFan I no longer post with that handle. Dean’s were movies, movies that my dad, and I’d wager his dad watched. I also love westerns just like my dad and my grandfather, there is something about them.

When Dean cries and opens up to Sam about his hell experiences, I get it. I’m so proud of him for telling Sam. To some it seems like he’s closed off but he’s not. He’s opening up as much as he mentally can. And Sam listens. Just like my sister eventually did. When Dean gets mad and yells at John and Mary, I’m proud of him, because he is fighting for himself. He knew he deserved better and he didn’t let it go. Just like I have done in my not so distant past.

All the while my parent’s marriage was fracturing and I was mentally declining. My mom began sleeping in my room and in my bed, and I was basically left to sleep on the couch. On days when my dad would drink, and my mom would go out, I could get to be in my room again. I could be on the computer (laptops weren’t a thing yet) which lived in my room. I could connect with the two other friends on AIM, but the reality of my situation I couldn’t escape. I was isolated, didn’t trust my family and I didn’t know how to ask for help.

One day I attempted to take my life. I saw no value in it. What was I doing with my life. I was a broken human who didn’t deserve love, who didn’t deserve safety, who didn’t deserve well anything. So I downed a bottle of pills. I had an iron clad stomach, I wasn’t too worried about not being successful. Except, I sent a goodbye message to a friend, and that friend saved my life. He got a hold of my sister who got to me in enough time to make me throw up. (She was a champ at that, having suffered from bulimia and taught to throw up from no other than my dad.)

I didn’t receive help afterwards. I signed a paper saying that I wouldn’t attempt again and was taken home. (I hope this isn’t how hospitals roll anymore.) I left my house, I went to school out of state and found stability, created stability for myself. But my past still haunted me whenever I went home. So when Dean has a death wish, and gets discharged from hospitals before he’s stable, I get it.

My parents eventually divorced, and I came home to a place where I couldn’t live anymore for a solid couple of months, I couch surfed, and again my mental health took a nosedive, but nevertheless, I persisted. I got my head back in the game, and finished my degree. Chemistry. I couldn’t go back home, because if I did I’d be working for my dad. I couldn’t do that, it was too painful. So I went to grad school. I got my Ph.D. I began to chart my own path. But there was a rage in me that I couldn’t escape. I lashed out at anyone and everyone to hide the pain that I felt all the time. People were afraid of me. I was great at what I did but I couldn’t make lasting connections with others.

When I was 27 suicidal ideations became dangerous, and I got about as dark. I tried to harm myself, and wanted my world to burn. It didn’t matter that I was married, with pets, and owned a home. Nothing mattered. I finally had to decide between life and death, I couldn’t continue in that state. I can say confidently that I would be dead if I didn’t get help that day. I wish Dean had this chance. He gets close to this in moments with Cas when he is honest about his feelings and experiences, he cries, he gets angry, lashes out, but Cas is there for him. From someone like Dean, I’ll tell you Cas being present holds more weight than gold for Dean.

I have been in intense therapy for a year. By intense I do mean more than once a week, regular check ins with her, and the occasional group session. She sends me articles to read, homework, and we do EMDR work, emotional integration therapy, mindfulness, etc. 

It was then that I began to learn that all the rage that I had built inside me was hiding intense fear, loss, and disappointment. The rage gave way to tears, and the tears gave way to a new anger that I could make peace with. That anger comes from the person I am today. The person who fights for herself. Who doesn’t take shit from anyone. The person who says, humans don’t break, vases break, and I am a human. I see a lot of that in late season Dean. He is a fighter. 

But I am still the person who receives a compliment and shuts down, there is still a side of me that doesn’t believe that I deserve nice things, good things to happen to me, but that person is getting smaller. My therapist likes to hit me with compliments when I am vulnerable as I am more likely to believe them. I still react like a dead fish when she says them, and then after the session sob for hours over it. One day my head and my heart will believe the same things about myself. I would have reacted the same way as Dean to that confession. 

When the cards fall, I still know that I can depend on myself before anyone else because I had to. My life as an impoverished, unstable, depressed, neglected, and abused kid says I should be dead or amounting to nothing, but hear I am. I’ve now closely mentored about 20 undergraduate students, a handful of graduate students, and have helped them find their paths in life. I have taught nearly 1000 students. I made a difference with the life that I tried to throw away. 

I have come to a place where I can love my dad. He is sober again, and yes, my love for him does depend on his sobriety. When he is drinking he is not the same person. I wouldn’t call him an A+ dad by a long shot, and hell I am so much like him that at times it makes me sick, but I do love him. I have been able to forgive him. Forgive in the sense that I can make peace with what happened. It doesn’t change what happened or how much it affected me, and I certainly don’t forget, but that isn’t what forgiveness is. I don’t hold the rage anymore. The fact that Dean is able to is personal for Dean, as it is for me, and it isn’t some “family that is what you do” type reason.

I do experience flashbacks when there are fireworks, I can’t go to a movie theatre because of the volume, when people play really loud music in their cars I typically have to peel off into a parking lot and meditate for 20 minutes to be able to drive again. There are some stores that I don’t shop at because their music triggers me. So when Dean experiences those flashbacks, I get it.

There is a belief in the psychology that monster shows help us become comfortable with our dark sides. My dark side saved me over and over again. My dark side told me to be better than them. My dark side told me to fight for me, to adopt a survivor mindset. (If you can’t tell I am a green veined Slytherin and have never been sorted into any other house even by random house generators.) The things I delight in are a bit off color. I cultivate a poison garden, consume way too much true crime, to gore I say give me s’more and so on. Dean gets to experience his dark side, and he has to make peace with it. He makes inappropriate jokes, laughs at it, but he also does talk about it. 

This is the hard part: Just like Dean, I am also light. I love people (vomit), seriously though, they are more precious to me than any earthly possession. Plants bring me serenity. Animals are a comfort and companion in the worst of times. There isn’t much I wouldn’t do to protect living things. My motivations come from a place of love and a need to protect others from what I have been through. I know I can survive, but I don’t know if that is true for everyone else.

I know Dean. I was Dean. I see that every episode. Moments when he yells and screams for himself, I cheer him on. Moments where he tries to waste his life away, I understand, and am crying right with him. The purgatory apology guts me, I’ve had to make that apology more than once. The dead fish reaction, hell that is me at the end of a therapy session. I am here to say: Dean is not broken. Dean is strong. Dean is resilient. Dean doesn’t just fight for himself, he fights for the whole of creation. Dean is not a vase. He is a human. 

Oh and John’s taste in beer, much like my fathers, is crap. Don’t drink shitty beer. Also, I don’t drink scotch anymore. I'm a gin girl and I drink *okay* beer. 

I’m the same blogger who does drunk blogging regarding Supernatural on Saturdays. It is a lovely bit of comfort and joy for me and I won’t be stopping any time soon. We will get back to the lovely and light “Dean is Bi he he” commentary this weekend. 

[yankyo]

“You’re sure you have everything? Passport? ID? Extra currency? Are you going to be warm enough-?”

“YES. I’m sure, I’m fine, I’m ready!” You cut Adam off as you finished stuffing things into your backpack, the better part of the Maitland-Deetz household watching you silently while the last of your belongings disappeared into a suitcase and an, admittedly oversized, backpack. Barbara and Adam were worrying over you, while Charles and Delia were watching with amusement as you pressed and pressed to force your suitcase to close.

You had been planning for this for months. You couldn’t be more ready if you tried! Your University had a two week long excursion program to Japan, that happened every Autumn. You had to rearrange some classes, and drop some entirely, when a professor or two insisted that their individual, two credit hour, elective course was more important than what could be a life changing experience. Besides, beyond regular studies, you had your own agenda…

You were working on a book. A ghost book…which is what brought you into Lydia’s little circle to begin with. When she started going to your University, though by that point you were getting ready to start graduate school, the two of you would talk at length about the macabre and the strange. After around six months or so, she invited you to meet her family. Her whole family. And that included Adam, Barbara…and someone who soon grew very close to your heart…Which drove you to learn more. Everything you could! But, even with two ghosts and a demon at your questioning, you still found yourself wanting more. So you decided this was the perfect opportunity to expand those horizons. Beetlejuice, however, was not so enthused.

“I don’t get it, babes. Why go allll the way there, just to hear what you could hear from me, right here?” He had been asking, the night before, as you made your final selections regarding shoes, and jackets.

“Because if I’m writing a book, I can’t cite ‘My Demon boyfriend, bug soda, as a source.’” You tossed back, looking between a sweater or two, before giving up and tossing them both into the pile that you still needed to put into your bag.

“Aww, come on, I’m reliable!” He persisted, making you laugh a bit.

“Since when, and to whom? Cite your sources. APA? MLA?” You glanced back towards him, seeing him laying half off your bed, arms over his head, and hands reaching the floor.

“Ugh, stop speaking Greek, the blood is rushing to my head-“

“What blood?” You snarked back, making him go silent for a moment.

“…okay, fine, touche.” He sat up, and looked you intently now. “Look…I know you’re set on this, right? And nothin’ I’m gonna say is gonna talk you outta it, but…trust me when I say, those bitches don’t fuck around. And if you waltz yourself in there, looking for something…you might just find it, you know…?”

The serious tone to his voice gave you pause, and you came to sit on the edge of the bed, searching his face for…something, you weren’t sure. But there was a hard edge you weren’t used to seeing.

“Beej…baby…I’m gonna be just fine…! It’s only two weeks…you’ll blink, and it’ll be over! And not to mention, if I need anything, or…hell, even if I just wanna see you, I’ve got your number.” You promised, pulling him forward to kiss his forehead, as though that would ease his thoughts.

“…Isn’t international calling like- super-“

“Your name, baby. Your name.”

“…Right.”

  Which brought you back to now, picking up your bag, and throwing hugs and promises to travel safely to each and every member of the family…except one. You opened your mouth to say something, only for Charles to look down at his watch, and give a start. “Ah, look at that! We need to get going, if you’re going to make your connections.” He started lifting your suitcase, and you shuffled your backpack on.

“Wait…!! Beej isn’t here, I haven’t had a chance to say bye…!” You insisted, before Adam and Barbara gave you a little push.

“No time!” He chimed.

“Nope! None! You need to get going!” She insisted.

That…was odd. Usually they were all about hugs, and kisses, and goodbyes, and…all that sappy stuff. You narrowed your eyes, and opened your mouth to ask what they were up to, only for the front door of the house to open, and Charles was already moving your things out, leaving you to hurry and catch up to your friend’s dad.

“Be safe!” Called Adam.

“Have fun!” Called Barbara

“Take Pictures!” Called Delia

“Bring me back something cool!” Called Lydia.

But there was a voice missing from the mix, and it made the rock of anxiety in your stomach just a little bit bigger. It didn’t matter how excited you were…this was a really big undertaking…and not getting to see Beetlejuice before you left…? Made it just a little bit harder.

But before you knew It, you were ushered into the car, watching as the four waved from the door step, and Charles pulled from the driveway.

~~~~

As soon as you were there, everything else fell away. You took…what must have been thousands of photos! Nightlife, temples, Shrines, Castles, FOOD. And for each one you sent back to your little found family, a whole outpouring of love met you. Except for BJ. You could see that he was looking at every one of your pictures, sometimes as soon as you sent them, but he never replied. You sent a photo, saying “Nightlife in Shinsekai!!” or “Look at this cat I found!” But no matter the subject, he stayed quiet.

Weird.

But being thirteen hours ahead, you didn’t exactly have the time to sit there and hound him for a reply. He might just be trying to take his mind off you being gone…the separation anxiety had been hard, you knew, but he was trying! And if not talking made it easier, then that was okay. Just another week, and you’d be back in his arms, with a lot more research, and couple cool gifts.

Speaking of your research, it was coming along well. You’d finally nailed down the specific spirits you were going to be talking about in your book, which was more than you had to begin with. You’d interviewed locals from multiple cities about their belief in the supernatural, and their encounters with ghosts. You’d visited multiple temples, and shrines, and other places where spirits were believed to lurk, but so far, you had seen hide nor hair of any of them…

You weren’t sure if that was good or bad, yet.

Either way, it wasn’t until the final stop on your trip that things took a little bit of a worse turn…

You were in Kyoto, which was very, very well known for it’s spirits. Hell, there was a huge shopping center, with a shrine, right in the middle. It was tied right into the identity, by this point.

“Ah…come on, come on….!” You grumbled, turning in circles as your maps decided exactly where it was trying to take you. It was starting to get late, and the last of the buses were starting to run. You had to hurry, or else you’d be walking back to your hotel…You were tired, your feet hurt, and you’d been having pronounced problems with your various tech items all day. All you wanted was to get home, shower, and sleep before you had to be up and at the airport the next day.

Finally, you found your way to the bus station…riiight as the last bus was pulling away.

“No! No no no, shit!!” You hissed, watching as the bus got further and further away, as though that would bring it back to you. Needless to say, it didn’t work.

Guess we’re walkin’, huh?

You whipped your head around. It was faint, but you could have sworn you heard something…familiar.

You brushed it off, rolled your shoulders, and steeled yourself. It wasn’t a far walk, but it was enough that your feet were aching just at the thought, after a whole day of walking. It was past ten, by this point. Most placed were closed, aside from the odd convenience store, who’s lights offered you a moment of respite from anxiety, before you re-emerged to continue your trek. You started dodging through neighborhoods…you were almost there..!!

Just a block or two away, you were stopped at a cross walk. Even with the foot traffic dying, and the late hour, there was still the occasional car. You were too tired to book it, and you’d rather just be safe, and wait, instead of forcing yourself. As you came to a stop, you came to the realization that a woman stood on the corner beside you. She was tall, and thin, With messy black hair that hung around her face like a shroud. From her profile, you couldn’t see her eyes, only he medical mask that covered her nose and mouth. They weren’t uncommon here. You’d actually worn one earlier in the week when you’d gotten a little cold. Either way, she didn’t appear at all threatening…maybe a little burnt out or high, but not threatening.

But you still felt a cold thread of dread climbing further and further up your spine.

…This light was running long. You glanced to either side of the road, not seeing any cars, or any other pedestrians. It was just you, and this woman, in the fluorescent light of a street lamp. You rocked back and forth on your feet.

“…Do you think…I’m pretty?” The words were so soft, you almost missed them.

“I’m sorry I don’t speak-…what was that?” You heard the words…you just wanted to be sure you heard her correctly. Not to mention, it took you an extra moment to register…she spoke English, to you.

“I asked….do you think I’m pretty?” The words were louder this time, and she turned her face to you. Her eyes were incredibly beautiful. Her skin was like porcelain, and they looked at you with such an honest intensity, that your heart skipped a few beats.

“I….yes, you’re very pretty…” You murmured, as you searched her face. You saw the corners of her eyes turn up in what you assumed was a grin, beneath the mask, and you smiled back, feeling good that you’d been nice.

You heard the sickening sound of something…fleshy, and wet as she reached for the straps of her mask. Squelching, and smacking…When she finally lifted her head to you, and her mask came off, You took two half steps back. She was starting to twitch, now.

Beneath her mask was a bloodied smile, slit ear to ear. You froze, taking another step back. You wanted to run! To scream! Do to…anything, anything at all, but your body was refusing to respond now. Everything turned to ice.

“Do you…still think…I’m pretty?” She demanded of you, mouth struggling to form the appropriate words through it’s injury. You remembered this story. The slit-mouth woman. You remembered this tale- Now how do you get out of it? How-

Something with…candy…? Ugh, no that couldn’t be right. Counting? No! Fuck…Her question…that had to be it, right? You had to answer…

“…I think…I think you’re still very beautiful…” You managed to get out, as she jerked her way towards you, hands outstretched. A shake tore it’s way up your spine as her hands, cold as ice, cupped either side of your cheeks. Despite the ice in your blood, you could feel the atmosphere crackle with…something…heat, or electricity, or…something.

You looked back to the woman finally to see that her once kind and gentle eyes were replaced with ones manic, and hungry. The hand on your left cheek grabbed you by your hair, making you cry out, and fall to your knees. From the side of her dress, she produced a pair of scissors, looking as though they were ancient, and caked in a maroon substance…you could only guess you would soon be adding to. You finally started to make noise. You were crying, and kicking, and screaming, but despite it all, she held your head steady.

“If you think I am pretty…then you would want to look like me, yes?” She said, drawing closer.

That had been the wrong answer.

Oh god. You were going to die here.

You were going to die on the other side of the world. Maybe you’d never be identified. Maybe you’d be kept in a morgue forever, no one knowing who you were. You’d never see Lydia again. Or the Maitlands. Or the Deetz’s. Maybe not even….You had already started to sob, and to your luck…this seemed to amuse her.

“Oooh, I know…! You’re going to be so lovely, aren’t you?” She cooed, as though she were comforting a newborn. Her hand stroked down your cheek, and you finally heard it.

That was the sound of air being displaced at high speeds.

And there was only one person you knew who could do that. Demon, really.

Beetlejuice.

“GET YOUR GRIMY FUCKIN’ HANDS OFFA MY BREATHER-“ Came the yell.

In a flurry of motion, you were released, falling to the pavement below as the Kuchisake Onna was very swiftly socked in the cheek. It made a disgusting squelching noise, and she shrieked, dropping her scissors which nearly hit your leg.

You looked up to see Beetlejuice, so red he nearly glowed, grabbing the woman by the front of her dress, and hauling her up to look her in the eye, despite her being a measure taller than him.

“You listen to me slit-mouth skank, and you listen damn good, understand? That is MY breather. MINE. You wanna fuck with them, you gotta fuck with me, and you do NOT wanna fuck with me. CLEAR?” There was a long, tense moment, before she finally nodded, clicking her tongue, and hissing something in another language. “Nah. I don’t wanna hear it. Get your shit. And go. You can find a meal somewhere else, I don’t care who, but this one is under protection.” He insisted, finally throwing her back.

Less than gracefully, she picked herself up, put her mask back on, sent you a scowling look, and grabbed her scissors.

“Tell your pet…that even my work…could not fix a face that…you could be attracted to.” With that, she finally shambled off, which left you, sitting on the pavement, in tears.

“Hey…hey, hey, there you are…” Beej finally closed in on you, kneeling beside you. His hair was finally fading now, into soft greens and blues… He picked up your head gently, and a choked sob left your throat, as you fell into his arms. “It’s okay…see? You’re fine…”

“You were r-right…I shouldn’t have c-come…” You cried, too caught up in him being back to really care what you were saying, who saw, or the fact that you were rubbing your face into his absolutely disgusting suit.

“Hey…no, no, you should have…! This was just a bad encounter, ya know? And to be honest, you’re lucky! She’s a bottom feeder. Most of ‘em wouldn’t even listen to me, but they also don’t go around fucking with randos on the street. You gotta really piss ‘em off.” Somehow, that didn’t make you feel better.

“I w-w-wanna go home now…” You hiccuped, and he helped you up, steering you towards your hotel.

Wait…how did he know where that was?

When you turned your head to ask the question, he already knew what you were thinking.

“I uhhh…I’ve kinda…uhhh…been followin’ you this whole time. Just to be safe!! You know? I wasn’t gonna interfere or nothin’, I just wanted to make sure something like…well…that, didn’t happen.”

In all honesty, you were grateful for it. It meant that you lived to see him, and your family again, so that was all that mattered. You leaned into him heavily, as the adrenaline left your body and you felt yourself crashing back down to earth, hard. You were so tired…

But finally, he maneuvered you into the hotel, and up to your room, ignoring the stares and scandalized whispers at his appearance, finally getting you into bed, all safe and sound. He was getting ready to pop out of existence again, when you reached your arms towards him, making little grabby hands.

“Ohh, nuh-uh, you left for two weeks, you gotta make it through two weeks-“

“Nooo, come on, I just had a traumatic experience!” You insisted, sticking out your lower lip, and turning the grabby hands up to 11.

Finally, he broke, heaving a sigh as though this was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, and slipped from his coat, and pants. He was about to climb in when you stopped him.

“Shirt too. I refuse to pay for a new pair of sheets because it ruined them.”

He grumbled a little more, but soon, was finally snuggled to your side, the world right again. And…well…you rather liked being his breather, especially if it kept you safe from…whatever else lurked beyond the veil.

[sistersin7]

Just because it’s tradition…

Dearest @notallwonder,

 I'm so sorry your present is late.

I wanted it to be all the wonder you asked for and did my best to include humour, snow sports, unconventional holiday traditions, mathematics, general nerdiness and tuxedos.

I hope there is enough wonder to justify the wait.

Here's to an utterly splendiferous 2020.

 (thank you for being part of this fandom and thank you for reading and thank you @kla1991 and @bering-and-wells-exchange arranging our exchange!)

 (This is a divergent AU where Myka and Helena always were and nobody died and they all Warehouse happily ever after.)

 I.

 A pothole in the road jolts the car, which, in turn, bounces Myka’s head against the car window. Neither object is made for impact, and the force of the collision shocks Myka awake from a nap she didn’t realise she was having. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, though, because the dream in which her psyche was investing her involved an underwater artifact rescue, from the clutches of a mythical creature with enough tentacles to calamari a hungry village for a day, if not two.

She shudders, as if to shake the last remnants of the images of long, slimy appendages flailing fluidly around her in frozen, dark waters. Now that she fully alert, she quickly scans her surroundings. She’d recognise the outcrop of the mountains that slowly amble past the car window anywhere - that was the profile of Colorado Rockies, travelling west on Magnolia road, from Boulder towards Twin Sisters Peak.

She’d know this road any day and twice around Christmas, because it was the road that takes her to her augmented Warehouse family, and the lodge in which they spend the few days between Christmas and New Year’s, just the core of them, the Warehouse's Gang of Eight, the longest serving members of the Warehouse to date (if only one dared to call Mrs. Frederic “a serving member” without being killed by the caretaker’s icy daggers’ worth of a stare).

Myka clenches her teeth with a small wince and a barely audible grunt, as she realises just how uncomfortably her body had wedged itself between the armrest and the door while collapsed in a sleepy state.

Helena glances from the driver’s seat. “Good afternoon, my darling,” she whispers sweetly without taking her eyes off the road. “Are you feeling rested?”

‘Rested’ hints at having had a peaceful sleep, which would not best describe Myka’s frame of mind, conscious, semi or otherwise. She recalls her dream, the submarine, the giant squid-like creature. The flailing. So much flailing. “I think so,” she mumbles while promising to herself, this is the last time I believe Pete when he talks about the merits of graphic novels.

“No flailing-limbed hellscape adventures?” Helena persists, but gently, smile still sweet and caring.

Myka tries to think what makes Helena ask that very question, but she’s too tired to get into any of that, and would really rather not bring back images she’s still trying really hard to remove from her consciousness, so she deflects. “Afternoon?” She straightens in her seat, as much as her seatbelt allows. “How long have I been asleep for?”

“Enough for the time to tick past midday,” Helena enunciates through a bright smile.

Myka hears the arrogance in Helena’s answer, and even though she thinks she’s choosing not to engage, her ego gets the better of her. “I was wide awake when we drove through Boulder,” she retorts.

Helena bites her lips shut to strangle a chuckle, and looks in the rear-view mirror, at Leena, who is smiling sweetly in the back seat, knowing full well where Helena is going with all this.

Helena raises her eyebrows with a question, and Leena shakes her head lightly with an aloof smile of her own.

“Wide enough awake to greet the surprise passenger we collected?” Helena is all but mocking.

Myka squints and pouts, sourly pushing breaths through her nose, knowing Helena could feel her piercing, probing gaze.

“You can look in the back, if you like,” Helena looks at Myka briefly, still not taking her eyes off the road for more than a second. She knows better than that.

Myka’s eyes still fixed on Helena, she breathes evenly, weighing her options. Does she play the game? What are the odds she’s made a fool of - again? What will be the implications if she was?

But again, her ego gets the better of her and she fixes her stare at Helena’s profile as she recalls driving into Boulder. She recalls driving through the centre of town. She recalls pulling into the Target parking lot, for them to get the last of the supplies required for the next few days of festivities. She remembers staying in the car while Helena went in. She recalls the number of doors she heard and felt shut. She does not recall any voices whatsoever. She remembers checking with Helena that the online order was fulfilled, and that Helena confirmed, and she remembers clocking the “Thank you for visiting! Come back soon!” sign on the 119 West as they left town.

So while she has absolutely no recollection of anyone else joining them in Boulder, Helena’s tone certainly insinuates that they have. Unless, of course, the whole of it is just one more of Helena’s games, the kind that Myka never seems to win, no matter how hard she tries. The kind which sole purpose is to poke fun at her, and then become the running joke for their stay, until New Year’s Eve. It’s become a tradition now.

“Remind me again…” Myka asks, her voice steeped in sarcasm, “Where’s the fun in going through these complicated, ridiculous mind games?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Helena gasps, mock offended.

“It feels like a lot of trouble for you to go through just to tease me,” Myka gripes, ill-humoured, “and there is absolutely no fun in that.”

Helena’s cheeks flare in an instant at the thought of teasing Myka. Granted, perhaps not the sort she’s presently engaged in – the taunting, mocking, jape-hooting sort of tease currently underway, but rather one of a much more intimate kind.

Teasing Myka happens to have become Helena’s favourite pastime over the years they have been together. Helena’s investment in this hobby was such, that one might consider granting Helena the degree of Mastre of Tease. Helena’s practice had long since surpassed the realms of small-hand craft and launched itself into the realm of Art. High Art, as well, depending on Helena’s investment in the aesthetics of her scenes of seduction and ecstasy.

And now her neck blushes a bright red and she begins to perspire as she hides a small squirm as she drives, because a handful of such scenes flash before her mind’s eye, and - goodness gracious - they still have a hold on her.

She collects herself with a shake of her hair. “Your accusation is nothing if not hurtful, my love,” Helena looks at Myka again, feigning mild emotional bruising. “Honestly, darling, take a look in the back,” Helena motions with her head swiftly.

Myka examines scenarios and calculates probabilities: scenario one: she looks back and sees nothing - in which case, Helena wins, and will mock her for falling prey to the ploy; scenario two: she looks back and sees one of her friends, one of her family - in which case, said mystery person would have been party to the exchange the whole time (even by staying silent), showing participatory culpability, and Helena wins again, and Myka will be mocked by both Helena and the traitorous friend; scenario three: she doesn’t look back at all. In this case, Schrodinger’s Hitchhiker is both in the back and not at the same time, and it will be up to Helena (and/or the quantum-state guest) to alter the state of the traveller by observing it, which leaves Helena only 50% chance of winning (if Helena was telling the truth), and Myka with a 50% chance of not being mocked at all (if she wasn’t).

Given the three scenarios, it’s clear which one she will opt for, even though the odds are overwhelmingly against her. “How do you always get the better of me?” Myka asks in a huff and slumps back in her seat.

“Oh,” Helena breathes and she catches Leena’s eyes in the mirror. “Because if I don’t, the tentacles will.”

And Leena silently, gently, touches the tip of her index finger to the back of Myka’s shoulder, and Helena nearly tips the car off the road due to Myka’s ear-splitting shriek and lunge to the footwell of her seat.

   II.

 The morning after Myka gets to have her comeuppance as they all gear up for a day in the snow. Helena despises dressing in layers, more so when the layers are predominantly synthetic fibres, and compounded by the graceless, utilitarian design of outdoor apparel and what she considers an abominable glut of zips.

After breakfast, when everyone disperses to their rooms to change, Helena is eerily silent as she puts on the under-layers and tops, only hissing hateful barbs whenever she does or undoes a zip, hoping the dreadful shrill sound of the plastic fastening will mask her curses.

“Can I help?” Myka asks and her face contorts as she pointlessly attempts to stop herself from smiling - from snickering - at Helena’s miff.

Helena turns her head sharply, her eyes spitting every bit of venom as her lips did not a fraction of a second ago. “No, thank you,” she mutters ominously, knowing full well that she is yet to pay for yesterday’s tentacled joke. So if she were to suffer the cold due to a mishap of the garmentary sort, she would rather it be done by her own hand, rather than Myka’s, and thus claimed to be payback for a Helena’s well executed practical joke, even if she does say so herself.

With that, Helena turns back to re-zipping the waterproof trousers at the hip, then zipping the ankle zips, then unzipping them (thinking she will need to open to do her ski boots up), then walking two steps towards where her coat is, then grumbling at the trousers, which (according to Helena) in their current state, are plotting to see her tumbling down the stairs or a hilltop or a cliff, so she seethes as she zips the damn things again, to take battle with her gloves and coat.

“You know, for someone who’s so dextrous, you sure are struggling with something so basic,” Myka comments.

Helena wants to say ‘Zip it’, but her disdain to the fastening method is too great for her to use it metaphorically. “I know you are finding this comical, Myka, but you know that all this…” she gestures loosely at herself, “clothing,” she utters, with notable scorn, “is nothing short of the first circle of hell for me.”

Myka watches quietly, doing her best to make not a single sound, all the while reminding herself to stop finding Helena so endearing in her anger, because she is missing out on opportunities to get back at her.

Claudia’s call from the bottom of the stairs shakes the tense silence. “Will you two knock it off for, like, an hour, so the rest of us can have fun with you?”

Myka can’t help the sniggering snort that escapes her.

Helena exhales tensely, attempting to calm herself.

“We’ll be down in a minute, you guys,” Myka shouts back, which irks Helena even more, as she now loses her concentration altogether. “We’re having some glove issues,” she giggles.

“Love issues?” Claudia pretends to not have heard very well.

Helena looks at Myka, all but breathing fire, and stiffly points to the door. “Out with you,” she spits.

Myka bites on her lips and tiptoes to the door. “You sure you don’t nee--”

“Out.” Helena emphasises the ‘T’, and Myka slips out the door, closing it silently behind her, only to rush down to where Claudia is biting on her mittens and Steve is smothering himself with a scarf - all in a futile effort to mute their laughter.

   III.

 Full retribution, however, doesn’t come until the day after. The team take turns with each other’s favourite sloped activities: snowboarding, skiing and sledding, as they do every year. Helena struggles with these, as they all involved what she had considered high-speed, low control activities, which were neither her forte nor her favourite.

So she spent the past year campaigning relentlessly to add a biathlon course to their list. She wanted to have one choice she thought she would excel at. Helena is, after all, an exceptional marksperson (even if she does say so herself, again...), and cross country skiing is just about the legitimately slowest way to move across a snowy surface, bar, perhaps, having your toboggan pulled uphill by a small child.

The team’s stance on the matter was less than enthusiastic. They didn’t really like the idea of having to brandish weapons while they were on leave. Helena thought that Steve, with his ATF training, would appreciate an opportunity to train in a more relaxed environment, but to her surprise, he took a particularly harsh position on the matter, which may (or may not) have been at Myka’s behest, to give the tall agent means to get back at Helena for something she will have undoubtedly done to her by that point in their annual trip to the Rockies.

After half a day’s worth of mastering the slopes, Myka finds Helena sitting on a wooden bench outside the visitor’s centre, after a failed third attempt on a children’s training course. Helena doesn’t notice Myka heading her way, due to her aggressive shaking of her skiing gloves. She had managed to get snow in both her gloves during her last, and rather spectacular tumble.

Myka’s skis crunch against the packed snow as she breaks a few feet away from a preoccupied Helena. She kicks the bindings loose with ease and lifts her kit from the snow. “Was it really that bad?” she calls as she walks closer to the bench, lifting her goggles up, revealing a faint ski tan.

Helena looks at Myka, trying to hate her for how at home she seems to be in this harsh, frozen, alien environment. But the twinkling smile in Myka’s eyes and the sunburn-come-frostbite on her cheeks and nose just make her so devilishly adorable. “I had just managed to aptly calculate the velocity, when there was an unexpected vector change with significant mass ---”

“Well, dash my wig, Peter,” Claudia exclaims as she grinds her skis to a halt nearby, and comes off her skis so quickly it looks as though she bounced off them, “the surface of the snow does not appear to retain its shape!”

Myka bites on her lips and looks down, knowing that the rub is not only about to land harshly, it is also about to be dealt by people other than Myka, and not orchestrated by her. Whatever Pete and Claudia come up with in a moment, is all them, a fact that will, not doubt, double the insult value.

“I shall hypothesise that the warmth of the sun and possibly other people’s movement across it may be the cause,” Pete puts on his best worst-British accent.

“I shall hypothesise further,” Claudia begins scratching a formula into the snow with her ski pole, “that these are the conditions necessary to maximise the flailing rate on a positively tentacle-y fall."

Pete bursts out laughing and Myka just about manages to keep her composure, while Helena slams her snowed gloves on the bench and walks over to Claudia. As she walks past Myka she slips on an icy patch and instinctively grabs on to Myka, who instinctively grabs on to her, only to grunt in frustration, straighten herself and pace determinedly towards Claudia, where she can scrutinise the maths.

She inspects Claudia’s work for a few minutes. She mumbles to herself, points to the snow, scribbles meaninglessly in the air, only to look at Claudia (who’s smug as a St. Bernard who’s got the Brandy), jeer “Damn you all to hell,” and fall flat on her backside as she walks back to the bench.

   IV.

 For New Year’s Eve, the penultimate day of their stay, the Gang of Eight invite significant others to join them. These are rarely romantic partners, but rather family members and good friends - people who may not know the specifics of the Warehouse, but know the people involved and know by now not to ask too many questions.

It is always assumed that Myka and Helena - a self-contained Warehouse unit - do not bring significant others, something Helena finds irritatingly assumptive.

"I still think it is unfair that if I wished to invite someone here there would be raised eyebrows," she complains from behind the closed door of the bathroom, where she's been holed up for over 45 minutes.

"I don't think anyone will really care, Helena," Myka answers, distracted, making use of this rare idle time to play an arcade game on her phone. "If anything, the guys will probably be more worried about what your inviting someone else means for you and me," she continues absent-mindedly.

"What was that, darling?" Helena asks, raising her voice.

Myka lets her phone fall in her lap and thinks about what she just said. Fearing it will open a can of worms, she changes her tack. "Since when do you care about rules? And what do you care what other people think, anyway?" she says, notably louder. "And when will you be finished in there? I need to get this stupid tuxedo on,” worried she will be late to open the festivities of the evening, seeing as she’s the host.

At the end of each of their annual retreats, the Gang elect the host for next year’s NYE celebrations, as they do the theme for the soiree. This year, Myka chairs the events, which theme is The Twenties (pun intended), and as the ringmaster, so to speak, she must dress for the role, in keeping with the theme.

Even though Myka appreciates the wealth of source material she could draw from (a narrow waisted gown of the 1820s, or an extravagant silk and velvet coat with sleeve trims of golden lace from the 1720s; A Puritan suit of the 1620s or early Tudor dresses with oversized, puffed sleeves), there is only one fitting option for her, given she is the MC.

With a nod to the 20s of the previous Century, she has traditional White Dress tuxedo, with a white bib-fronted, wing-tipped collared shirt, a white bowtie, white low-cut vest and slim waisted, high-cut tailcoat with velvet lapels.

Myka loves a tuxedo once it’s on her. It inspires slick sophistication in her which she otherwise struggles to embody. But once in that shirt and bow tie and tails - the dashing, smooth charm is effortless.

Helena likes her in a tux as well, and she has a plethora of hard evidence to prove it. Some of that evidence is in the form of a paper trail, when she had to pay for damaged returns (which is also the reason why the tuxedo Myka was waiting to put on was her own). And other evidence were the physical sort that would heal within 4-7 days (depending on the depth of bruise or scratch).

Myka’s lips curl to a sweet, nostalgic smile, remembering the last time Helena enjoyed her in her tux, which makes it easier for her to focus on how the evening will end - not only because it will be most pleasurable (irrespective of how the party actually goes), but also because she hates the beginning of it. Much as she loves a tux, she hates putting the damn thing on. The shirt is always too stiff and the bow tie is always a battle, and she always gets frustrated and sweaty doing it up. It's a lot of hard work, but the prize, she knows, is worth it.

And that's why she's eager for Helena to get out of the bathroom already, so she can get the crappy portion of tuxedoing out of the way.

She isn't at all prepared for what Helena has in store for her, though.

Helena opens the bathroom door, hiding behind it. "Are we ready for the grand unveiling?" she asks mischievously.

Myka knows she isn't ready, and her anxiety turns up a notch as she begins to contemplate the many ways in which Helena is about to prank her. Out of the thousands of possibilities, she's just about ready to put her money on a tentacle-inspired hairdo and that terrible corset Helena wears when she wants to assert her superior mechanical skill and historical authenticity.

And in all that, Myka wishes that they didn't keep this silly tradition they've picked up over the years, whereby they treat each other as colleagues when they’re out here, with the Gang, between Christmas and New Year.

This tradition started halfway through their first trip, when everyone in the Gang, Mrs Frederic included, had commented on how together-y Myka and Helena were. It was then that they mutually agreed that for 4 days every year they will treat each other the way they treat the rest of the Warehouse Family - with great care and affection, and with an equal measure of banter and playfulness.

Myka steels herself with a long breath, preparing for the climax of this year's running joke.

But then Helena steps from behind the door.

And Myka forgets to breathe out the air she inhaled to steady herself.

Helena wears a tuxedo that matches Myka's, white vest and bow tie and velvet lapels and all. She wears her hair down, a giddy smile and only the faintest hint of makeup.

Myka's reaction is precisely the one Helena had hoped for, so she takes two sauntering steps towards Myka as she bites seductively on her lower lip.

Myka's jaw drops.

"Do you approve, darling?"

Myka tries to speak but can't, now that Helena's stepped even closer to her and placed an open palm on Myka's chest, just above where her heart is pounding like a roll of drummers.

"Are you well, love?" Helena asks with a smattering of concern. Perhaps she overdid it? She'd always fancied herself a suave debonair, and she knows just how much Myka fancies her when she's at her most dapper. "Is the outfit too much?"

"Uh… nuh… no," Myka manages to utter. "The outfit is…" she tries to come up with words to describe just how utterly perfectly, deliciously, amazingly, stunningly mesmerising and sexy Helena looks that very moment.

Helena would have liked to hear the excess of superlatives of how breath-taking she looks, but she doesn't need to. The sheepish grin stamped on Myka's lips and the rose tint that her cheeks don are all the signs she needs to know that every bit of Myka approves.

"This is not what I thought you'd have on," Myka smiles, bewitched and bewitching, and bites on her own lip while placing her hands on Helena's hips, wanting to kiss her so badly.

"Dare I ask?" Helena's voice drops as she brushes her nose against Myka's.

Myka chortles lightly and leans into her lover's irresistible touch, not at all wishing to entertain any memories of the multi-limbed creatures that haunted her in the past few days. "I thought you'd stick to our holiday tradition."

"You know me," Helena brushes her lips against Myka's and luxuriates in the shiver she sends down Myka's body, "I'm not one for rules."

[johnskleats]

Update!

Beautiful Fool

Chapter 2: Eyes of God

Fandom: BBC Merlin

Characters: Merlin, Arthur Pendragon

Summary: Arthur, an affluent, lonely bachelor, spends his days brooding and entertaining his homebody neighbor with short-shot attempts at affection. Merlin just wants to chill with his plants, but his neighbor (the one with the castle) keeps sending him pretty things and inviting him to parties.

One night, he decides to go, and discovers a different sort of magic.

Great Gatsby!AU, also found on ao3

@the-once-and-future-love @arthur-of-the-pendragons @pretty-pendragon @bbcmerturfanficsrec

Merlin didn't sleep that night. He dreamt instead of red ascots, red lips, red wine; yellow cars, yellow hair, yellow watch; blue scarf, blue eyes, blue eyes. He woke gasping. It was still dark. In his bones, he could feel Arthur waiting for him. Waiting, to return tonight or any other, and keep his promise. The party raged on, and on, until the day broke.

Would you come back?

His vow bound him like cords.

That's all I wanted.

Dread it as he did, Merlin knew in his heart, from experience, that he would. Were he less stubborn, he would be there now, and maybe, maybe, Arthur Pendragon would have kissed him. Even the thought had him shaking his head rid of it; the vow remained.

Arthur Pendragon didn't need kisses to seal his spell. Merlin could feel with sinking resignation that he was already branded by those eyes, captured by that smile. The cogs of fate were turning; he could hear them.

Merlin did what he did best, and put it out of his mind.

There were no more letters, no more gifts, after that night. Merlin felt sick with the feeling he'd done something very wrong. The parties continued- at least he hadn't ruined that -but part of him had hoped that they would end as well, like a sign. He hadn't known, but somewhere in his mind, Merlin had hoped that they were for him. It was silly. Arthur had been up to that old trick a long time, was notorious for it, and yet he had hoped that, like himself, the man with the yellow car was waiting for something he couldn't define.

It was rare Merlin was compelled by guilt, but when he was, he liked to think he was quick to humble himself and apologize. How true that was, he couldn't say. He was stubborn and proud and he knew it, hated to say sorry, hated to be wrong. However, when the lights went up and the music blared and Merlin looked out his window to see fireworks illuminate the face of the lake, every night, he could see in a high room a man doing the same. Sometimes, he even fancied that the man was looking at him, sharing something quiet in all the noise, but he knew better. The stars would die on the water and Merlin would close his curtains, bitter, and more alone than ever.

Work was tedious, but gave him something to think about. He had always been good at arithmetic, always found comfort in the consistency accounting offered. If something was wrong, it was wrong. If it was right, then the numbers remained as such; everything was plain and visible and there was nowhere to hide. How ironic, then, that he cowered in his cottage instead of answering that nagging at the back of his head. How hypocritical, then, for his eyes to skip avidly over the little red box with its silky blue scarf, the only present he'd been too intrigued by to return and too paranoid to wear. Its use would be final, somehow. Made to go about his neck, like a collar, a mark of conquering, the scarf would stay in its box. In it or out of it, however, it felt to Merlin a profound loss; and so he ignored it.

He was getting worse and worse at that as time dragged forward. It was less that things piled up for him to overlook, and more so that what he had already pledged to bury persisted to press him exponentially. The gift box on his coffee table seemed to enlarge, take up all the air in the front room, and then only amplified when he moved it to a shelf, to a drawer, to another box in the closet. It never really went away. Out of sight, out of mind was a myth.

The day he decided to finally do something about it was a dismal one indeed. The sky was overcast, partly cloudy, and there was a storm on the lake. The city was bustling on the opposing shore, unbothered, more than a week since he had made his promise. More than a week- it had been more than two. In fact, Merlin let that boxed scarf nag at him for a month before he finally gave in to that churning upset in the pit of his stomach, and if he thought inaction made him queasy, then this was suicide. He rewrote the note six times before he typed it out. He signed it, after, to make it a touch more personal, but the awkwardness of the situation dangled over him more precarious than Damocles' sword. The threat of rejection weighed on him just as distressing.

Mr. Pendragon. Arthur Pendragon. Dear Mr. Pendragon. A. Pendragon. Dear Arthur. Arthur,

I regret I'm very busy. My thoughts have been scattered as of late As of late, I feel If I've offended you in some way I know I was wrong meant no ill will.

You are welcome to join me for tea tomorrow afternoon post three o'clock.

Merlin Emrys

Merlin signed it, dated it, and put it in the post. He knew it was awkward, and poorly constructed, and in worse taste, but looking at it more would make him sick.

There was no party that night.

Merlin listened as cars drove in, circled, then turned away from the closed gate. Their headlights spotted through his windows, light striping his walls. The only noise beyond his frantic heart was of rolling gravel under rubber and the occasional curse of a disappointed visitor. For the first time in a long while, he would sleep with no music. The nerves that had wracked him all day, mounting, in fact, all month, reached a peak when one of dozens of cars came and went, leaving his driveway dark again and his little house and that gargantuan palace alone together on their island, leaving Merlin and Arthur Pendragon alone, again, on their island. The walls seemed to suffocate him. This was wrong, tonight was wrong, everything had been off for so long and this, this quiet--

The door closed behind him with finality, and Merlin breathed in the chilled air of the night. His arms folded about himself, he cast off the thought that bade him fetch a coat- the air was good, enlivening. The moon was bright unlike its counterpart hours earlier. All the day was unprofitable; all clouds and no rain. All worry and no result.

Merlin stood on the edge of his rickety porch, uneven boards creaking softly, and overlooked the tire-haggard path with its moon-brushed pebbles, past the silvery grasses and gilded, swaying trees to the dock. It was the only kind of fence between he and his mysterious neighbor, the only barrier that served at a meeting point more than all else, and this thought possessed his feet with frightening poignancy. A man sat on the pier. Merlin could make out his fair hair in the starlight, shoulders hunched under the weight of the sky as Arthur swung his feet idly over the water. It had to be him. There was no one else.

Merlin stopped his anxious feet halfway there, just on the opposite side of the driveway. He dare not go further, not after all the energy he had put forth today in requesting an audience- an audience, as though Pendragon were some kind of king, or prince -but that tugging pronounced itself at the base of his neck, so much like a noose.

That's all I wanted.

Merlin chided himself to breathe; stop being silly.

You're all I want.

The truth of the matter was that he had neglected to phone his poor mother and had instead fantasized for a month about what may have happened if he had stayed on the night that magic entered his life. He had been beside himself, behaving like a lovesick teenager and more notably, a prat, and he was sorry and not accustomed to saying so, and now the object of his affection (?), fascination, perhaps even purpose, was before him on this most quiet, singular of nights, just waiting. Waiting for him, maybe, Merlin would like to think so, but he had always been a little self-important, and the heart of it he couldn't guess. All Merlin really knew was that he had been waiting for Arthur, and hoping for the chance to choose differently than he had when this kind of opportunity had first arrived.

He stepped onto the pier.

His limbs had been lead as he'd crossed the grass, and every second, he had been agonizingly aware of. He could turn back any moment, probably should, this could wait for tomorrow, he was being precocious, but then the boards creaked with his weight and Arthur jumped to see him and time had a funny way of stopping for them. It did so now, or it should have. At first, Arthur seemed dumbstruck with surprise. Then, his expression leveled into careful indifference, a neutral smile that still managed to be charming.

"Evening, Merlin," and that was all wrong, there was no fondness in it, "Scared me a moment there."

"--Sorry."

Arthur was stretching from how quickly he had leapt to his feet, his trousers rolled up to his knees and wet from the calves down. Merlin didn't see any shoes on the dry land. He was avoiding his face, shoulders tense, waiting for him to leave, and that dread that had plagued Merlin day in and day out solidified into heavy hurt.

"Not a problem," Arthur was saying, but Merlin was shaking his head. The blonde paused, a hand on his hip. Incredulous, he asked, "What? Are we playing charades now?"

Merlin shoved his hands down to keep them from rolling over themselves, trying to express the words he couldn't think to. Arthur smiled. He felt a little bit better.

"I wanted to apologize-"

"Then apologize."

Merlin pursed his lips, a spark of agitation souring his mouth. Arthur lead with his hand as if to say, I'm waiting, and all semblance of sorry vanished from his mind.

"A real life Prince Charming," he hummed.

Arthur shrugged. "I tried being nice."

"When?"

The sorry returned.

Merlin put up his hands in surrender and Arthur quirked an eyebrow. He wondered why it felt like this was a fight they'd had a hundred times before, a roller-coaster of feeling he'd experienced a million times over in some other life.

He took a deep breath.

"I'm not good at this."

It seemed as if his lovely neighbor was about to snark something along the lines of clearly, but thought better of it. Merlin was immensely grateful. He continued.

"I apologize for my...rash behavior last we met. All of this is very new to me and I'm not," Merlin winced at himself. He was beginning to feel sick, "versed in these affairs, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings--"

Arthur’s demeanor had changed from one of petulance to patience, albeit reluctant. He was nodding, worrying his lip, and the air was burning in his lungs as he waited for Arthur’s reply. Merlin chided himself, again, to breathe.

"No, I understand." His heart dropped. Oh. "You're not," Arthur cleared his throat, concealing a blush, "--The other night, you thought I- that I was, uh...dropping pins. Letting my hair down, you know, that," Oh. "I was a nance? That I made a...you know, a pass."

He smiled; it was brittle and Merlin was going to faint. The air crackled between them, stretched thin and screaming.

Arthur went on.

"A misunderstanding, that's all it was, I- ...A miscommunication. I made you uncomfortable, I can understand that."

Merlin was pale. He wasn't listening anymore.

"It wasn't,"

Don't say it.

"Intended,"

Will you stay tonight? Will you stay? Will you? That's all I-

"To be taken in the, um," he chuckled nervously, avoided his eyes, mussed his fair hair and smiled that pained smile again. "I'm sorry, Merlin, it, uh, makes sense why you'd- well, you know."

A miscommunication.

"I don't."

It sounded wrong now, too, but for different reasons. His tone was warm if not shaky, rose lips formed the curve, Merlin, with fondness, but it was rejection, it was apology, what, what was happening--

"What?" Arthur was frowning at him, taken off guard.

Merlin shifted his weight to a more defensive stance, less open, less vulnerable, less danger. "...I don't know. You said it made sense why I would, 'you know', and I…" he swallowed. "Don't."

Arthur blanched. "--Why you'd avoid me, I mean- you thought I had- that I was-"

He was trapped in a nightmare. All of this had been some strange perception of his own, some gooey, fantastical lens he'd conjured. He felt so incredibly stupid. Stupid, stupid-

"...We can be friends now. --Now that that's cleared up, and I won't do it again, we'll humor one another."

Merlin furrowed his brow. Arthur sounded hopeful, was looking at him with bright eyes as he babbled.

"This confusion kept you away, but now you'll come back, like you said." He couldn't piece together why Arthur would push like this, probe so desperately for a friend. He was wealthy and charming and handsome, had plenty of admirers. Nevertheless, he was worse than a puppy at table. "Right?"

Beyond himself and his floundering self-respect, Merlin found himself nodding.

"...Right," he murmured. "I'd like nothing more," and that was a lie.

Arthur smiled that smile, the one that could end wars, and Merlin reminded himself that he was damned. Fall for a normal man, someone not like him, that was the worst possible thing he could think to do. He had thought this time was different, had thought he'd heard destiny knocking, but he was wrong. He was wrong.

I won't do it again, he had said.

Arthur would never kiss him.

Merlin was reminded that he didn't have to, that he was lost to the ether, that his heartstrings were wound tight about Arthur’s little finger and that he was hopeless to the red box, a space he shared with the closet for what would certainly, now, be forever.

He seemed so happy that Merlin could almost forget his heartbreak. The ghost of his touches a month ago came to haunt him. What had they meant, if not attraction? What were those shared moments, if not ones of intrigue? What was he curing if not loneliness, not longing?

Merlin was more confused than ever.

"Then- goodnight," Arthur grinned, grabbing him by the shoulder in a cordial manner, brotherly. He found himself smiling warily, Arthur’s earlier words echoing in his brain with venom. He was so caught up that he didn't notice the ache behind Arthur’s eyes, but instead picked up the spring in his step as he wandered toward his mansion, free as a bird. Merlin stood on the pier, feeling vacant. Whatever anxious, merry creature had flitted about possessing him these past weeks had taken leave for the time being, and he didn't know what was happening in his mind. A profound emptiness, he supposed mutely. It was a sensation that should have been profound, at least, should have been distressing and life-altering as he had fancied Arthur Pendragon would be, but instead it was lackluster, and quiet, and sad. His companion disappeared down the road, into the trees, and was gone.

This confusion kept you away.

Merlin, his mind clearer than it had been in a long time, took the red box in hand and unceremoniously threw it out.

But now you'll come back.

In the morning, he phoned mother.

You'll come back, like you said.

-

Merlin had all but forgotten the note. Dramatically, he had slept in, and dramatically, he had stared at the ceiling for hours afterward and mapped the constellations in the pocked plaster. Mindlessly, he'd eventually roused himself, mechanically, he had dressed. The toast was dry and the tea, weak, and sometime around ten, he determined he would be angry instead of sad. He could use this to motivate himself. He could make this positive. He had been foolish to spiral into such an idolic crush, especially with so little knowledge of the man's true character. He could be anyone, could have done anything. Any number of those rumors could have been true. Besides, all Arthur had done was warm him with wine and pretty words, flatter him with a distant adoration, and Merlin had been so starved for affection that he'd lapped it up like honey. From this point forward, Merlin would do better. He deserved better.

It wasn't too late by any means to find a nice girl, some Mary or Julia or Elizabeth, someone who made pie and would ask him to fix the roof. Nevermind that the thought made him queasy with anxiety, nevermind that she would suspect, would know, would be betrayed and hurt and hate him, nevermind, nevermind, nevermind, and Merlin was sad again. It wasn't hard.

The tea was cold, and mother was chattering with her soft, kind voice about her bridge game with the old gals at church and how she wished he would drop by to get some food in him, and oh, did he hear Gwen was getting married in the fall? She had always thought he would have stepped up to nab her first, but there were lots of fish in the sea.

There was a knock at the door at half past two. Merlin was in his bedclothes, rather, in cleaner bedclothes than those he had woken up in, but bedclothes nonetheless, and he hadn't combed his hair. His teeth felt mossy under his tongue, his feet felt hollow, his heart was drained, he answered the door. He almost closed it.

Arthur looked lovely in grey. The color brought out his eyes, made them sharper, brighter, and his red ascot was the most brilliant color Merlin had been privy to all day. He stood stiff before him, tall and strong and well-dressed in his fitted suit and fine hat and shined shoes. His hair was sure to be neat. His nails were finely manicured and teeth shined and straight- he knew from the way Pendragon licked them anxiously, looking past him into the charming but achingly modest home.

"I know you said two," he said furtively, as though to conceal his nervous energy with something passive. Merlin didn't have much control over his mouth or mind in his state, and so he observed, marvelling:

"You can read."

Arthur smiled wryly. "Admittedly, not well."

In truth, he had all but forgotten, at least had worked very hard to forget and had at last succeeded, the invitation sent the day prior. Arthur would have received it last night or this morning, must have rearranged something or other to make the trip, much less arrive a half hour early; there was no way he could burn through money the way he doubtless did without some kind of job. He had to have gone to great pains to be here, standing uncomfortable and objectively unwelcome on Merlin’s porch. Even without plans moved, he was very well done up.

He was about to think Arthur was handsome, but recalled he had sworn off men over breakfast.

Merlin turned around in his robe and slippers, retreating inside. The door he left ajar for his guest to come or go at will; he did nothing to hide the fact that he was incredibly tired and lacking the patience required for niceties. Consciously, he didn't jump at the click of the lock.

Merlin could feel Arthur watching him, scrutinizing him closely as he reheated the tea from breakfast. His hands did not shake. After too long a moment, his intruder cleared his throat, about to start a train of conversation Merlin was avidly certain he wanted no part of. He beat him to the chase.

"Sugar?"

Arthur blinked, his own words halfway to his lips. "--Yes. Say, Merlin-"

"How much?"

"What?"

Mugs hit the table with resounding thuds, and as though ignorant of the tension, Merlin went on. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to.

"Sugar, Arthur." He didn't like him saying his name like that. He thought, in his mind where most of his thoughts occurred, that if he mimicked the ridiculous sense of familiarity that his neighbor insisted on imposing on their odd, nonexistent relationship, that somehow that would make it better. Merlin, yes, the way Arthur said it made his heart skip, but the reminder of that thin, anxious, pitying smile the night before preyed on him. He thought if he said Arthur, the spell would break- say a name three times, and their jinx is broken. It didn't work.

It only served to make him pine for a reason to say it again.

Blue, blue eyes.

Arthur was looking more affronted by the second, guilt and sadness encroaching on the horizon of Merlin’s fluctuating mood. He just felt sorry again. He just felt lost.

"You've done well to fix this house," his guest said to the tune of 'are you alright?' "You did it yourself?"

Merlin nodded, and poured tea. He did not shake.

"Do you like it?"

His voice was remote, floating somewhere outside his body- the air, perhaps. "I make do."

He watched as Arthur slowly eased into the space, walking through the living room and surveying the extensive but humble changes. He appeared thoughtful. Chamomile steamed in a lonesome fashion, but Arthur paid no mind.

"May I sit?"

"--Over there?"

Merlin’s immediate thought was something along the lines of not eating on the furniture, but he swallowed his mother's teachings and gave his consent with a gesture of the hand. Arthur chose the sofa from which Merlin watched the Pendragon House every night. It creaked, and Merlin had yet to move.

"It's old," he explained, crossing the space the join him in the danger zone, in what was once a safe place. He sat down. "The furniture. I don't really know how old or where it's been, but it's...rickety."

Arthur nodded as though this were sage wisdom, and took the mug from Merlin’s hand. He had forgotten he had it.

"I've could use your expertise at the mansion," he said casually, taking a gulp of tea Merlin knew for a fact was too hot for consumption. "You've a good eye."

"Are you joking?"

Arthur shrugged. "Pendragon House is old, too. Older than these couches, certainly. Come work for me in the House and you'll be handsomely compensated."

The audacity of this man would never cease to amaze him. He was still talking, though, and Merlin had nothing to say.

"--Of course, the whole of it could take a number of months, but I wouldn't contract you harshly. The ballroom could do for some attention, I think, due to frequency of use, and some of the bedrooms, to start. What say you?"

Slowly, Merlin set aside his tea.

"What, exactly, do you mean by 'handsomely'?"

He couldn't help that he was his mother's son, Gaius's nephew. This was an opportunity, even if he didn't like it. It could lead somewhere, or provide more opportunity to forge a path of his own- provide the funds to get off this island, maybe.

"Merlin, fair weather friends are a dime a dozen. If I wanted one of those, I could pluck anybody off the street, but I admire your work ethic. You're smart, adaptable-"

"You don't know that." Ever so slightly, he trembled.

"I do."

"You can't possibly-"

Arthur’s tone sent Merlin’s eyes to the floor.

"I do."

Beside himself, he smiled wearily. "Bully all your friends, do you?"

The mood shifted instantly, a flash of humility knocking Arthur back to Earth. Softer now, he continued.

"If you won't let me be generous to you, be kind to me and take the offer. I've listened," not well, "and I'm letting you work for it, since you seem to prefer things that way."

"...I don't want handouts."

Arthur got that incredulous look.

"You don't accept gifts! Look, it's- it's a job to do."

"I like my job." Merlin closed his eyes, flexed his fingers, tapped his foot. "I need a moment," he said finally. He stood before Arthur could say anything sweet or stupid or invasive or considerate and disappeared into his bedroom, the door shut definitively behind him. Merlin didn't mean to run away, but the wreck of a day this had been had him by the neck.

His landlord wanted to pay him, presumably, considerable amounts of money to interior decorate because, and only because, he wouldn't accept said money any other way. Arthur was insistent on largely impacting him in one way or another. He seemed lonely, without any other friends- he almost certainly was alone, lived alone, else Merlin, a stranger, wouldn't be getting all of this unprompted attention.

He returned to the living room.

He thought back to that glittering evening, where his mind had been light and his feet lighter, and a handsome legend had swept him away to a place without time. He thought of the storm, the chill and that water cutting like knives through his clothes and across his skin as his muscles screamed, fingers slipped from the vehicle as he and a strange man trudged through mud together. He thought of the moonwashed youth on the pier the night before, for once all in quiet, of his contagious smile and confusing words. Merlin looked tiredly at the man sitting anxiously in his front room vying for any reason to see him again.

His voice was level, and sure.

"You mustn't pay me-"

"That's ridiculous!"

"--Unless you absolve my rent. I'll work for you in return for my tenancy and no further favors."

The suited man was quiet a moment, wiping his hand across his face in consideration, brow furrowed. In all seriousness, he reached out his hand. Merlin swallowed his hesitance and took it.

In all this, he had noticed only mutely that Arthur had taken off his ascot. He thought no more on it. It was a little hot, he supposed, and would be for anyone wearing as many layers as that.

On the table was the box.

This, Merlin realized hours later in the night. Music raised on the wind and floated into the ether on the lake. He drowned it out with cheap whiskey- all liquor was cheap these days. Prone to that old devil, heartache, and weakened by drink, he failed to question the gift box's resurgence, only heeding that pining of his to run his fingers over the silky material as he had in sorrow many times before. He opened the box and dropped it like fire. His glass shattered on the floor.

The scarf was red.

Merlin shook.

[mrsbenedictbridgerton]

This Unspoken Thing 1/3

A baby mini fic.

Emma and Killian were kinda enemies. Now they are kinda friends, but there is this unspoken thing between them. A pull and a want that they haven't yet given a name to. And stubborn Emma Swan just wont admit it...

(Inspired by GoTG 2!)

AO3/FF.NET 

Emma Swan was in no way avoiding Killian Jones.

Someone had to go rustle up some food for the impromptu birthday party that had somehow came about. And that someone may as well have been her.

The fact that she could hide in the kitchen for as long as she could get away with was just a bonus.

Really.

“Need any help?”

Emma jumped just about a foot in the air at the sound of a softly accented voice, her head narrowly missing the upper edge of the refrigerator. “Dammnit Killian, some warning please.”

She looked back over her shoulder to see her friend’s teasing smile.

Friend.

Oh that was a weird word to say when concerning Jones.

Friends. Amigos. Buddies. Pals. All very strange words for someone who only a few months earlier was, what some may have called, her enemy.

“Sorry,” he shrugged softly, letting the door close behind him.

He looked tired; the shadows under his eyes speaking of the lateness of the hour that had seen them leave the bar last night and the number of rums they had both consumed while trying to outdo each other.

That was what they did. Always competing. Kind of unavoidable when you are rival bail bonds persons.

Who could drink the other under the table? Who could tell the most outrageous (yet true) work related tale? Who could choose simply the best obscure little restaurant that their motley group of friends would just love so much?

Her stomach squirmed a little as she thought of the bottle of rum that they kept in the liquor cabinet. She was definitely sticking to beer tonight.

“Sure,” she quipped - perhaps a little too high pitched - before making to turn back to her search for food.

(Hoping he would take the hint.)

“But Emma-”

“Hmm,” she murmured as she picked a block of cheese and a - hopefully fresh - jar of olives from the shelves.

“Can we talk?”

“Little busy here Jones,” she said, shoving the block of cheese under her chin so she could grab a tub of guacamole.

“It’s about yesterday. And that dance.”

Slowly, Emma pivoted on her heel. With the block of cheddar still wedged under her chin and both hands occupied, she tried her best to look in his direction, hampered by the restraints of anatomy and dairy products. The little palpitations that had faded with her hangover, began to return.

She’d kinda hoped he’d forgotten about that.

(Really hoped.)

He gave her an odd look, before reaching out and taking the cheese from her grasp, his fingers swiping against the skin of her neck as she whispered, “Thanks.”

And then came the awkward silence she’d been dreading. The skin he had touched tingling with electricity as his blue eyes studied her - the way they had a thousand times before - with a mixture of judgement and curiosity that she couldn’t quite deal with right now.

“So you danced with me.”

“And you danced with me,” she retorted with a small shrug,  trying to look as nonchalant as she could with tupperware and a half empty jar of olives in her arms.

The muscles in his jaw flickered - the way they always did when he was frustrated (though, damn, she hated that she knew that).

She knew him better than most.

He knew her better than most.

Fuck.

He cleared his throat and took a step closer. “Aye I did. After you accosted me on the dance floor.” He paused and then raised a brow, “Swan, your arms were like that of an octopus. I felt violated.”

His voice had a teasing edge, which made a smile flicker traitorously at her lips - but she knew he was reaching for an explanation as to just why she had - yes she admits it - got down and dirty with him on The Rabbit Hole’s dance floor.

It all flashed back.

Grinding her ass into his crotch. Her hands balling into the damp material of his shirt. The flush on his cheeks as she’d slung her arms around his neck. The practically indecent way she had plastered her body against his on the sweaty, packed dance floor.

Oh holy hell, what had she done?

(Oh GOD she hoped no one else had seen.)

She took a deep breath and nonchalantly popped out her hip, doing her best impression of someone totally confident and not feeling completely out of their depth. “Are you complaining?”

Then he did that thing he does where his eyes rake over her and make her feel all tingly and sexy and-

(No. No. No.)

“Never,” he replied, his voice noticeably lower, cutting right through her.

She needed to break the moment.

Emma took the chance to empty her arms of their contents and then open one of the cupboards above the work surface to find the large bowl she needed for the nachos. If she had thought that that would have sent Killian away, she was wrong. Instead he sidled up beside her and took the bag of chips she had already gotten ready and ripped them open.

“You still haven’t answered me,” he sang a few seconds later.

He was persistent, as always.

(It’s what made him so good at his job.)

She needed to end this conversation- or at the very least steer it away from his inevitable assumption-

(That she had a thing for him-)

Dampening her lip with her tongue, she let the first lie that appeared in her head fall from her lips. “I was trying to make Graham jealous.”

“Graham?” he spat, as if the name was the most disgusting thing ever to pass his lips. “Why the bloody hell would you want anything to do with that tosser?”

“Hey!” she cried, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow and then tossing her hair over her shoulder. “He’s a good guy. Decent. Hardworking.”

(That much was true. Graham Humbert was decent and kind and good and- well, all the things she should want in a man. So they say.)

“Your brother’s partner,” Killian offered, folding his arms and observing her with a disbelieving eye.

She turned her head and gave him a sarcastic smile. “Gee, I never noticed.”

His expression changed as their eyes met - softened somehow, his smile shifting somewhat. Their eyes fixed for a long moment, until he looked away and began opening a bag of tortilla chips. “Well, I’m actually surprised you’re interested in him. I thought you went for the more… rugged, roguish type.”

“Oh, like you?” she replied, so quickly the words had left her mouth before she could stop herself.

He took a quick breath. “Yes, actually.”

Wordlessly he poured out the chips and then crumpled up the bag, the crackle of the plastic wrapper occupying the silence their voices had left behind. Emma picked up the jar, running her hand over the lid as she waited for him to say something else.

Anything else.

Because there was a wordless tension brewing between them, and not for the first time. She heard him sigh.

She looked across at him; he was rubbing his hand over his stubbled jaw.

“When are we going to do something about this?” he asked quietly.

His words turned her heartbeat into a steady thud in her chest and she sucked in a deep breath.

“About what?” she replied. Going for breezy but instead it came out all strained and awkward.

A torturous second stretched out as the two watched each other.

Then he took the container of olives she was trying to open, his large, strong hands opening it with a soft pop. He placed it back on the countertop and her arms fell limply to her sides. No barrier between them, not even a jar of pickled vegetables.

“This thing between us,” he said, eyes searching hers until she looked away, not wanting to go… there.

“There is nothing between us, Jones,” she insisted.

Killian rested his arm on the countertop, leaning in towards her. “Emma, there has been an unspoken thing between us for months now.”

Furrowing her brow, she looked him square in the eye. “It was just a dance, Killian. Don’t read anything into it. I was drunk. You were drunk.”

She backed away from him, folding her arms, creating another barrier between them.

“There is no thing here. Unspoken...or otherwise.”

He looked like he was going to say something, but then thought better of it. Instead, he simply shrugged and whispered.

“If you say so.”

And before she could say any more, he left the room.

A/N: The next part is pretty much written so I’ll get it up asap...

[mikakomori]

Song No. 1 - Chapter 1

Here’s the first real chapter of Song Stories! I’m proud of myself for even making it past the prologue. You can find the prologue here. Aaaand Song Stories is available on Wattpad, too ~

Thx for reading and have fun <3

Chapter 1

 „Now we‘ve got some breaking news: The Paper Cut Killer strikes again. This morning another body was discovered in a rundown building on Maple Street. The victim, a young woman, believed to be in her mid-twenties, shows signs of several slash wounds. The police believe this to be another gruesome crime of the Paper Cut Killer.“ The image cut to a stoic looking detective who seemed to be in charge of the investigation. „On a first glance the wounds match the blade of a large pair of scissors.“, he started his statement in a serious but calm voice. „They cover the whole body and are of different depths. That and the fact that the victim is of similar appearance and age as former victims lets us to believe, that this crime was in fact committed by the same person, who killed the other women. Of course, we can‘t say anything for sure yet as the autopsy still has to be conducted.“ „Thank you, Detective. This marks the sixth murder-“

„-iz, Liz!“ The young woman diverted her eyes from the TV screen, looking at the woman opposite of her. „Are you even listening to me?“, she asked with an exasperated look on her face.

„Yeah, of course I am!“ Ok, I wasn’t. But maybe she won’t notice.

„Oh really? Then tell me what I said just now.“

Damn.

Liz tried to remember the start of their conversation from before. But unsurprisingly nothing came to her mind, so she stayed quiet. Her silence seemed to aggravate the other woman‘s exasperation even more, as she sighed in disappointment.

„I knew it. After what felt like ages, I finally managed to drag you away from work for once to come to the café with me and now you deem that news report more interesting than me.“ Crossing her arms the blonde made a pouty face.

„Look Chrissy, I‘m sorry. But that report is important for my work. You know, I‘m in charge of anything related to the Paper Cut Killer.“ Chrissy winced slightly, hearing her friend say that name. However, oblivious to the other woman’s unease Liz continued. „So, if there‘s any chance of getting new information about him I have to jump on it.“

Not convinced at all the blonde retorted „Liz, this is a news report. You can watch that anytime using this fancy new technology called ‚the internet‘. Plus, there will probably be another thousands or more of those reports today, all saying the same things on and on.“ Hearing her friends words the young woman grinned. „Maybe, but this report is special.“

„Special? Why? …You have a crush on the news lady or what?“

Wait, what? Now where did she get this idea from again? „Hmm. Would you get jealous if I said yes?“

Caught off guard by that Chrissy stuttered „N-no! Of course not! As if I‘d get jealous because of someone like you.“ Pouting she turned her head away, a slight blush creeping its way into her face. Liz chuckled at that.

Cute.

She loved messing with her friend like that. Her reactions were always priceless. And cute.

Cute was the word one would use when describing Chrissy, or Christina as her real name stated. With her honey-blonde hair, big eyes and a warm, lovely smile. Some people said she looked like an angel sent from heaven. Some people being mostly men. They seemed to swarm around her constantly with Chrissy not giving them more than a glance. She always seemed to be annoyed by their advances. Although there hadn’t been any men swarming around her lately. It was a shame really, a waste of good looks. Liz couldn‘t help but feel a little jealous of her friend. All she had going for herself was her dark chestnut brown hair which fell in slight waves down her back. Although, you wouldn‘t be able to see that now, as she was wearing it in a high ponytail. She always did that for work as her hair would only get in the way when being outside. One gush of wind and it was all over her face. Gone with the wind was what Liz called that look. Not something a journalist would want to wear while interviewing people.

„Oh my god?! Is that you Liz?!“

Huh?

Chrissy‘s outcry brought the young woman back to reality. She barely managed to look up to the screen again to see a young woman, which was unmistakably herself, running through the picture, followed by an agitated looking man in a police uniform. Or maybe he looked rather avid than agitated, as he was flailing his right arm around, chasing her. Waving energetically while calling her name over and over again in hope of bringing her to a halt. His face beaming with the enthusiasm of a small child that had just been told it would get a puppy for Christmas.

Well, of course one wasn’t actually able to see all that, as the two were visible for merely three seconds or so. But Liz remembered it vividly, although she’d really rather not. The whole experience this morning had tired her out. As had that police officer. Let’s be honest: He was the one and only reason she felt exhausted like this. His way of behaving, speech and his whole aura had hit a nerve of hers and even now she could feel herself becoming more irritated by the second, by as much as remembering his face.

That idiot. He followed me around for a whole twenty minutes! I thought I’d never lose him.

“Persistent little bastard”, Liz muttered quietly so Chrissy couldn’t hear her.

Obviously oblivious to Liz’s dismay, Chrissy, who was seemingly excited about her friend being seen on TV, went on with bombarding the brown-haired with a stream of endless questions. “That was you, right!? What were you doing at the crime scene? Did they catch you trespassing? You were running away, so they did, right? I mean, this cop was chasing you! You… You’re not in trouble, are you? Is that why you were so quiet? You’re worried they’ll arrest you! Oh, no! Liz, you’re going to be ok, right?!”

“Woah, woah, woah! Hold on!” There she goes again talking without taking a break to breath. I swear one day she’ll talk herself to death.

Liz interrupted her friend before she could pass out through lack of oxygen. “Calm down, ok? Breath. One. Two. …Deep breaths. Yes, that’s it. Good, keep doing that.” Slowly gesturing her hands up and down, she took a few deep breaths with the blonde in unison until Chrissy stopped gasping for air and slowly regained a steady breathing.

“Better?”

“Mhm. Yeah, thanks…” She paused, taking another breath. “Did you get a look on the body?”

“God Chrissy, please!” The exasperated outcry earned Liz some wary looks from the people seated around them.

Preferably, she would have given them a death glare or some grumpy shout outs or both really, but Liz knew it would just be a waste of her precious, ever outrunning energy.

God, I hate people sometimes. Or anytime.

Leaving it at an annoyed sigh, she began answering her friend’s questions as calm and comprehensible as possible. She wouldn’t risk her forgetting the necessity of breathing again.

“Ok, so first: Obviously I didn’t get caught by anyone. Neither by that idi-… I mean, police officer, nor by the detective leading the investigation, the news lady or any of the stupid onlookers. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here now, right?”

“M-makes sense. But speaking about the police, what was the thing with that cop on speed who was chasing you around?”

Of course, you would ask about him. “Urgh, let us please not talk about him. Let’s just say I outran him after a while. …Or an eternity.” Mumbling the last bit of her sentence in a low voice, earned her a quizzical look by the blonde.

“Uhm, ok? But that doesn’t tell me why he was chasing you in the first place. Like, what did you do?”

Liz wasn’t keen on having this conversation right now. Or ever. She took a help seeking look at the clock that hung on the light blue wall of the café.

Oh, thank god! For once she was lucky on this dreadful day. “Aah, I’d really like to tell you, but I’m afraid my break’s over now. I gotta get back to work now or Meredith will kill me.” Taking her phone and her black shoulder bag, Liz quickly shuffled to a stand.

“Oooh, how convenient for you! It’s not even one yet! I’d say you have another five minutes.”

“Five minutes I’ll need to cross the horrible crossroad in front of the office. You’ll grow grey hair before that stupid traffic light switches to green. So, no can do.”  Sorry not sorry.

Rolling her eyes at her friend’s obvious excuses, Chrissy retorted in a sore tone “But we haven’t even ordered anything yet! And don’t you dare say Next time for sure, Chrissy now!”

Damn, again. “That’s not what I was going to- Well, ok, maybe I was about to say that... Hey, don’t give me that look. I’m really, really sorry, ok? And I promise next time I’ll stay long enough to actually eat and drink something. Look, I’ll even buy you a cupcake! You know, you love those. Alright?”

Defeated her friend sighs. “Fine… I can’t risk you getting killed by your boss, can I?”

A smile appeared on Liz’s face as she hugged the blonde goodbye. “Next time, for sure!”

“Yeah, yeah, now go already. And you better buy me the extra-special-deluxe cupcake next time!””

“I’m sure no such cupcake exists, but I can get you the most expensive one. Well, see you later!” With one last little handwave, Liz made her way to the entrance, being followed by the inquisitive looks from the other costumers and the lady behind the counter.

Chrissy, who was still seated at the table, watched her friend walk outside, murmuring to herself. “I don’t think the employees like her always leaving without ordering anything all that much. Maybe we’ll have to find another café to go to soon. …Again.” Turning back around, a sad smile creeped it’s way on the blonde’s face. “Next time, she said, huh... What if there comes a day, where there is no next time for us anymore?”

 Phew, that was a close one! Now back to work it is.

Outside Liz quickly made her way to the office. Or at least she was about to, as she bumped into someone only a few steps away from the café. Ouch, what the-

“Ow! Really, what is it with people bumping into me today? You’re like the third person to do that.”

Oh no. That voice. It couldn’t be. Looking up she stared into the face of the man she had just run into.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!

Standing in front of her was the police officer from this morning, the one who had been chasing her around the streets for 20 minutes. The one who was the cause of her foul mood. The one she never ever wanted to see again.

Holding his right arm, the man started recognizing her face. “Oh my god. Heeey!” His face lit up instantly and he beamed at her. “It’s you! I can’t believe it! You were in such an awful hurry this morning. You know, I ran after you for a while, calling you. But no matter how loud I called, you didn’t seem to hear a thing. Were you wearing headphones? …No, that couldn’t be. You definitely didn’t wear any when you took off. And putting them on while running at that speed, you’d need to be a master multitasker. Ha, can’t say I know one. I mean, if I had tried that, I’d definitely run into a pole or something. My eye-hand-feet coordination is really bad.” Talking like a waterfall, the man kept speeding up until his words morphed into one inseparable chain of noisy rambling. Why him? Why now? Why here?! Liz thought as she pressed her left hand to her forehead, sensing the beginning of a headache.

“SHUT. UP!”  She screamed as loud as she could, in hope it would finally stop him from talking. And it worked. He jumped with a surprised scream, startled by the brunette’s sudden outburst. While clenching his chest he gave Liz a reproachful look. “Don’t do that. Ever. Again. You very nearly gave me a heart attack, shouting like that all of a sudden!”

“Whatever makes you keep your mouth shut.” At that, a slightly hurt look appeared on his face. But it vanished as fast as it came, being replaced by a pout as he crossed his arms.

“F-fine. If that’s what you want.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want. And now, goodbye.” Liz started making her way past, but was, of course, put to a stop by him. What the hell?!

Holding his left arm in front of her like some kind of human gateway, he hindered her from walking away. Missing only him making a robotic beeping sound to bring the ridiculousness of the scene to perfection.

“I can’t let you go yet.”

“Why not?

“Well, you didn’t answer my question. Obviously.”

Don’t stretch that word like this… “What question?”

“God, were you even listening to what I said? Why did you keep running this morning?” Liz gulped down the Uhm, no! she wanted to shout in his face and instead settled for an annoyed “And why would I be inclined to answer that?”

“Hm, maybe, because I’m a police officer! And as a good citizen you’re obliged to answering the questions of the authority.” The man proudly beamed at her.

There is absolutely nothing authoritative about you!

Liz sighed, there was no running away this time. Defeated she threw her hands up, snapping “Fine! You wanna know why I didn’t stop even after you called my name for the eight hundredth time? I tell you why. I was running away from you. And you wanna know why, Mr. I-Can’t-Take-A-Hint?” Intimidated by the hostile tone in the brunette’s voice the man hesitated before giving her a small nod. Although, one could see by the look on his face that he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hear her next words, or rather hide behind the next tree.

Not that it would have mattered as Liz was determined to give him a piece of her mind, even if it meant being the one chasing him around this time.

“I ran because I couldn’t stand being around you for even one more minute! Your whole attitude, your never-ending ramblings and that stupid ever-present smile on your face. Every bit of you makes it really hard for me not to strangle you!” A nervous laugh escaped his lips as he took a step back, hoping to escape the glare Liz was shooting at him. “S-surely you don’t mean that Miss Glade… Uhm…” Liz took a step forward, closing the distance he had so desperately created. “I wasn’t done yet. I believe it’s my turn to ask a question now.” The man gulped.

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s a simple one. Yes or no. Even someone like you could answer it. …Probably. So, listen carefully now.” Liz spoke her next words one by one as if she was dictating them to a child.

“Are. You. Stalking. Me?”

For a moment both of them were silent. Then the man opened his mouth, wanting to say something but closed it instead in disbelief, before opening it again. “Uhm… Could you… repeat that? I want to make sure I understood you correctly… You think I’m stalking you? How… exactly did you get that idea?”

This guy. He’s serious isn’t he?

Tilting her head like she was thinking about something Liz elaborated “Hmm, maybe because you kept chasing me around for at least 20 minutes. And after I finally got rid of you, you just happen to show up just outside the café I frequent. Coincidentally bumping into me.”  

“Well, when you say it like that, it sure sounds like- Waaait, a moment! You were the one who bumped into me! And that actually hurt a lot.” Holding his right arm as if he was in pain, he shot the woman a reproachful look before switching back to a more serious face. “Ah wait, that’s not what’s important right now. I hereby avert your accusation, as I’m simply here to meet a friend of mine. In there.” He pointed at the café.

Liz gave a dismissive laugh. “You have friends?” “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean! You might not know it, but I have a ton of friends!” The apparent pout on his face made room for a proud smile. Disbelievingly the young woman raised an eyebrow “Uh-huh, sure.”

“Ok, tons may be a bit exaggerated. But there are a lot. Or, more than a few. Well, some of them tried to kill me, but…”

Wait, what. Even though he had grown quiet at the end of his sentence, Liz had understood his words clearly.

“They tried to… what?”

The man just shrugged at her outburst. “They were part of the mafia, so I’d thought that would happen sooner or later, so…”

A police officer who’s friends with the mafia. Of course. Nothing wrong with that. Man, this guy just keeps getting weirder and weirder. “Look, I don’t care. Whether you are friends with murderers or the queen of England, it’s none of my business. I answered your question, you answered mine, so that’s it. Ok? You have to let me go now.” Walking past him, for real this time, Liz took a few steps before turning towards the police officer, awaiting his answer. There was no way she wanted to risk getting chased around for a second time today.

Dear Lord, please just let me finally go back to work!

He clearly wasn’t happy about her leaving but he couldn’t think of anything to keep her from going either. “Well, I suppose so. Although, I do have some more questions regarding the Paper Cut Killer I’d like to discuss with you and-“.

NO. No, you won’t!

“That’s too bad, really. But my boss will kill me if I don’t show up in the office anytime soon. And that would give you even more work, when you’re clearly already overwhelmed by this one case. Better not risk that. So, goodbye. And have fun at the café with your friend, girlfriend, mafia members or whatever.” With that, the young woman turned around again and started hurrying down the road with quick steps. Leaving the officer behind, before he had the chance to stop her.

Freedom, at last!

However, right before turning around the corner, she heard him shout “Uhm, she’s not my girlfriend!”

Liz snorted. Really? That’s the point that struck him as odd?

In a slightly less annoyed tone, she exclaimed “Whatever!” before turning around the corner.

  Have you had a million reasons why you wish you'd never seen the truth?

Have you looked into the mirror and the clown is staring back at you?

*Song lyrics belong to the rightful artist*

[lunakinesis]

Fathoms Below

Seafarers have been telling each other stories of monsters of the deep for as long as humanity has been crossing the waves.

Many of these tales can be written off as simply the wondrous work of the human imagination, failing that they could be the eyes of a tired sailor deceiving him or her, perhaps still just mistaken identity. Lord knows humans have coined some truly odd creatures due to mis-remembering appearance in the days before cameras.

Some, however, are true.

Outside of monstrous sea-serpents lurking in the depths of the ocean, the most prominent of all tales is that of mermaids. Merfolk if you want to be general and inclusive, but the majority of stories revolve around the female members of the various species. Humanity seems to have been always fixated on their potential watery cousins.

Tales of Merrow, Selkies, Sirens – though not actually merfolk they often get grouped in with them – and the others have always amused me. Mostly because it shows the gullibility of humans when confronted with something that looks and sounds attractive. Humans pride themselves on being such an intelligent species, so far above and more evolved than others on the planet. Yet they are easily duped by a pretty face and sweet words.

The sea is calm today, too much so in fact. There is barely a breeze and the surface waters are hardly stirring beyond the usual tidal pull. I suppose it's harder to imagine monsters in the fathoms below on a day like this now. In days gone by such weather would have been equally disastrous as a heavy storm as it would've left ships stranded far from land with their sails useless. Some were fortunate enough to possess oars for rowing, others not. If the eerily calm weather persisted for too long, those ships may not have been found until it was too late for the crew. Some still remain lost, and may do so forever.

For the ships and other vessels of today, such stillness is not even an inconvenience with their powerful motors and engines. They no longer rely on the winds and currents to get them to their destination.

Most of them, at least.

Yachts and other sailing boats need those elements. Without them, well... The coastguard doesn't always arrive in time to prevent a tragedy. Sometimes this baffles them, the media, the public... all because they weren't that far from rescue and the weather was fine.

How do crews vanish in calm waters less than two hours after they radioed in for help? How do heavily supplied vessels end up adrift, abandoned, with no sign of structural damage to the boat or other distress visible? These cases often go unexplained forever. Unless you talk to the jaded, old seafolk. They have seen and heard things those who spend their lives on land will never accept as truth, yet they know in their hearts and minds there is something out there in the oceans. MANY somethings, just waiting for the next foolish human to come along.

Why am I telling you all of this?

I can hear the approach of another ship, that's why. No doubt it's the coastguard here to do their job. I always did hate the sound of motorised boats. The sound travels for miles across open water. Dreadful things that so often leave dead sea creatures in their wake. It's not like they care if they hit a dolphin or sea lion. Or in the case of bigger ships, they don't care if all matter of sea life is pulled into their propellers and chopped to bits. They don't even notice. I have always found such casually disregard for life distasteful, but typical of humanity.

Which is why I take the ones I can, like all my brothers and sisters do. You pollute our home, spill your oil and waste into it, leave stretches of our waters barren from your fishing, and leave countless beautiful beasts tangled in your nets and decimated by your boats.

A few centuries ago, you weren't such a problem to deal with. Many of us occasionally walked on land amongst you, fascinated by our curious, inventive land-locked cousin. But now with all your technology and growth, you are a parasite upon this planet, draining everything from it to further sustain yourselves. Damning every other living thing and yourselves in the process.

We were content to toy with you all those years ago, take only those that directly threatened or crossed us to keep our people safe.

No longer.

These waters are ours, and we are taking them back.

Perhaps this man had never committed any great wrong against us, but he exists within a society self-destructing its home and the glass bottle he threw over his vessel's edge sunk down in the murk as I swam by. Another thing to litter our home, another pollutant. Another disregard for the lives o oceanbound creatures.

He was easy enough to lure. You humans don't think clearly when in shock. All he saw was a woman screaming for help. It didn't matter that it made no sense for her to be out here with no other boats for miles. He saw a distressed, naked woman struggling to keep her head above the water and saw a chance to be a hero.

Foolish.

He should never have left his boat.

The cold of the water was a shock to his alcohol-filled system. No doubt the sight of my gilled throat, scaled tail and sharp-toothed grin were too. He tried to swim away, but you humans are not made for the water. So slow and cumbersome. Clothed legs do not make for a good swimmer and he was easily within my grasp in a second.

He struggle and thrashed, attracting both sharks and more of my kind from the blue murk. The sharks would bide their time, circling below, waiting for him to succumb. He tried to pry himself from my grasp, but we're far stronger than you are. Our bodies are made to survive the frigid temperatures and high pressures of the deep. A jellyfish attempting to resist a turtle would've had more luck.

I pulled him under just as I heard that distant rumble. Sound travels so far once under the water, you see. My arms clutched him tightly against my chest, head pressed against my breast. A deadly embrace. Bubbles streamed up from him, his eyes wide with fear and mouth gaping, only enabling more water to flood into him.

It was not long before he was motionless in my arms. We were far enough below to go unseen but still make out the shadows of his rescue vessel above. I released him, letting him sink down as the sharks began to close in. He would not go to waste, what they did not eat other scavengers would.

My siblings began to rise to the surface. We know these humans. They are like the jaded captains and fishers who know the sea holds horrors and mysteries, and would not be so easily fooled.

As I closed in on the surface myself, I heard human shouts give way to a beautiful chorus from my kindred. A serenade for the drowned. Our voices have always been our best defence against your kind.

Entranced by the singing of my siblings, one by one my victim's rescuers took hold of my siblings hands and were pulled under until the sole female crew member remained. My brother approached the boat, closer than most of us dared, his webbed hand reaching up towards the glazed-eyed female as her own calloused fingers reached out to him. That enchanting voice whispering the last thing many of you who cross us hear.

"Come away to the water with me."

[archiveofolives]

Ring of Keys and Other Stories IV

A/N/SUMMARY theme says bodyswap/role reversal and i, as should no longer be any surprise to everyone, am an amateur with no experience with this challenge whatsoever  SO i decided to take things literally and twist it like hell. i give you: rogue one: a star wars story with umm…serious role reversals, i guess. (i should also note and stress that alexander freed’s novelization is a huge, huge, huge help for this fic and that this is a non-profit fan work)

RATING/WARNINGS g/n/a for a change (everyone breathe a sigh of relief, liv is sticking to her comfort zone)

WORD COUNT 7,767

AO3 here

—

“I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me, I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me, I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me, I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me…”

He heard the shrouded walls chant it back to him more than he heard himself speak it. It came in rapid successions of words and breath, barely a pause between inflections, commas and periods. The sad part was that it had become nothing more than a tick. A bastardized version of a prayer of the faithful, no matter that he whispered it to clenched fists as he sat hunched over the table. Because no matter how many times he recited it—“I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me,”—he would never forget the soft neck between his fingers, and the snap of a bone a heartbeat later. He hadn’t even given the muscles time to tense but that was a shallow consolation. Poor Tivik may have outlived his…value…but he was no animal. The Force reminded him of it, swirling darkly like shadows in his eyes, a persistent weight in his chest—but nothing more than that. A nagger, a silly warning that went away as soon as the deed was done but leaving him with regret. When was the last time he heeded it? He couldn’t remember. It used to be that he reconsidered on account of its message but now he just…killed swiftly. To get it done and over with.

But he killed for a purpose—another familiar chant. He may not do it according to the lessons of his childhood but if one looked at the bigger picture, it could still be said that he took away life to preserve the Force of others. He was never raised as a Jedi, who anyway killed without regret. He never killed if it could be avoided.

It just tended to happen more and more this late…

He silenced himself when he recognized his visitor. She felt light, subtle but powerful at the same time. With his eyepiece off, he couldn’t very well see her—or this small room he took refuge in anyway, but he knew who she was even before he caught her footfalls.

She had the grace to tap him lightly on the right shoulder before she greeted him with a quiet, “Captain Imwe.”

Turning to her, he responded equally with, “Senator Mothma.” She was a white blur moving against a dark background in his tired sight, as if he looked at her from a filter of tears. He followed her all the same to the seat to his left where she braced her forearms on the tabletop.

“You look worried, Captain,” she observed.

“Maybe you’re finally rubbing off on me, Senator. That’s good.” He laughed a little as Mothma shared her own shier, more polite version. It was times like this that Chirrut was reminded of how much younger she was than he was, even though she acted like a mother even towards him. Or maybe he really was just more childlike than he gave himself credit for. He pressed his fingers lightly on his eyes as he added, “A follower must be more like his leader to walk in her path.”

“It’s a hard path to follow, Captain,” Mothma replied with her characteristic gentleness. “But all the same, I’m grateful for your loyalty. You’ve done valuable work, as always.”

He remembered the sound of Tivik’s boots frantically pacing the ground, his harrowed breathing, the weight of his body as he dropped it, broken and lifeless. The echoes of his last words resonating in his head as he escaped.

“You think it’s true, Senator? What the Empire is building?” Chirrut asked her all of a sudden, keen to get away from his latest crime. “A Planet Killer. It sounds crazier than anything I can come up with. I can’t imagine how they’ll make it possible.”

Mothma was quiet, considering the question in deep silence. He couldn’t see her expressions, and could only make guesses based on what he felt around her. “It’s nothing out of the ordinary,” she conceded long after. “We’ve already been warned by the message the pilot brought to us when he defected, and this certainly falls under that category. If this is true,” she paused to realign her head. Chirrut couldn’t say for sure but he imagined she was looking at him now, “then we may have a good guess…about why they took over your home planet. And your Temple.”

The Temple of the Kyber was the first thing the Empire had taken from Chirrut. Ever since then, he’d been slowly losing everything that he knew and loved. The teachings of his Faith, his life, his old life, his friends…

His…brother…

“The good news is that we’ve taken the steps to confirm this.” Mothma moved back to rest her shoulders on her seat. “Operation Fracture is officially signed off. General Draven and I worked on it while you were en route from the Ring of Kafrene and our asset was being extracted from the Wobani Prison Camp…” It wasn’t like Mothma to trail off even though her temperament seemed to point to the contrary. After all, like all leaders, like all politicians, she had her own mischievous techniques. But these slivers of honesty were reserved for tiny rooms, the few moments she had between one executive decision and the next. So when it came, Chirrut heard it. “I’m sure you’re aware by now, Captain, that the extraction was successful.”

Chirrut smiled, something that came easily and with complete honesty. For all that he went through—alone—it was bright and ready, not a mask he showed to Mothma. He really was glad for the news. He’d never heard of anyone who could escape Wobani in one piece, and he was relieved he could make this one possible. “I am,” he said. “I’m here because of that, aren’t I? I had hoped it would be a success even before I sent the message from the ship. I really ought to thank you and General Draven for making it possible.”

Mothma’s blob nodded. “You’ll be leading this operation, Captain. You have your team, and your course is set for Jedha. Report all updates to General Draven, your instructions moving forward will be coming from him.”

“Understood.”

“Do you have any questions?”

He always thought it was generous of Mothma to be opening this opportunity for him. It was not a part of her obligations, and yet he couldn’t help but feel as if she did it in deference to his age—or perhaps because when he came in, no one could really tell the difference between a Jedi and a Guardian of the Whills. So everyone treated him like a Jedi.

Well, he wasn’t one for wasting chances. Chirrut began to ask, “If I can’t convince him to join us—”

“You have to, Captain,” Mothma insisted gently. “Without him, we lose our chance to gain support for the rebellion.”

And that was that.

She rose, the folds of her simple gown dropping all around her. She laid another hand on his shoulder to tell him, “Whenever you’re ready, Captain.” Then she left.

He would never be ready. And no passing of years would help. He knew this as he sat in the humming silence of the private room. But there was a task to be done and he never shirked from his responsibilities.

He took his eyepiece from the tabletop—nothing more than a slender strip of metal that bridged one ear to the other, conservative nose pads and a thin device that spanned the top of his right eye to the start of his ear—put it on and with a weary dread, switched it on. The washed up details of the room came slowly into sharp clarity. It was there to help him see better but he couldn’t help but feel like the strain it was putting on his already-ruined eyes was more trouble than was worth it. But what could he do? His job required him to see.

He bought more time for himself to pull at his jacket, as if it needed straightening, take his walking stick from where it leaned by the table and tuck its wooden joints into itself, until all that was left was the metal stub at the top of it. It was an old thing he’d brought with him from the Temple, made from flame-hardened uneti wood, modified to be concealed for whenever he could see and needed a secret weapon. It was one of the only things he kept with him from his previous life.

One other was a necklace he wore under his shirt: an old starbird symbol made out of reforged gold, hung down from a black cord.

He tugged on it self-consciously, tucking and retucking it and smoothing down his shirt. Unlike his collapsible staff, it bore no purpose really other than to be a part of his neck and his life. With no more excuses to grasp on, he finally started towards the bunker.

General Draven was conducting the interview when he stepped into the connecting bridge, already so short-tempered five minutes in. He marched carefully lest he draw attention to himself; he knew who he was up against, knew what this person could do by heart. It was the same skills he’d learned, the same skills he was raised in. The walls were high and dark, the shadows thick but he knew that when it came to him…to the both of them, those walls may as well be made out of glass. He couldn’t believe he could even hear him saying it in his voice in his head. And his chuckle…

Chirrut had always understood that memories could get so invasive at times, but he never realized until then that that was only because he allowed these thoughts to invade him so easily. Now he couldn’t get him out of his head. How smart of him to let this happen now, of all the times he needed to concentrate on his mission, and not his past.

“Possession of unsanctioned weapons, forgery of Imperial documents, aggravated assault, escape from custody, resisting arrest…”

General Draven sounded off his list of trespasses. In a better world, he might have burst out laughing at the utter lack of respect and damn this man gave to the law. How entirely like him that was. But then, this was also a brief history of what he’d done, what he’d been through since they separated—and it was no laughing matter. Decades of running, hiding and fighting, wondering if the day you woke up in would also be the day you finally closed your eyes permanently. It was…romantic, perhaps. The danger, the risks, the adventure.

He knew the taste of that life, and it was too bitter to sustain a man. If his life was a soil to sow seeds on, it would be like Jedha now: barren, dry and wasted. The only reason why he could still stand this sort of life, decades past his prime was…

His steps slowed down, but he could not stop. Decades have passed since their last day together. Could their separation really end just like this? It wasn’t that Chirrut held onto an ideal reunion that could be ruined by any single moment but he had learned how to live this life, an entirely different one from the old days. Could he still do it? They say you couldn’t teach an old animal new tricks.

“Imagine if the Imperial authorities had found out who you really were, Baze Malbus? That’s your given name, is it not?”

Chirrut stopped finally. He couldn’t believe it, he really was there! But so different, he could hardly recognize him from the man who left him but he knew in his veins that it was him. He was dressed in a plain, old-fashioned flight suit, arms crossed, weight against the back of his seat. He’d grown bigger from the lithe, trimmed version he could remember but looking at the size of those knuckles under his fingerless gloves, Chirrut had no doubts he could still kill a man without breaking a bone or a sweat. No, they weren’t built for such frailties. His hair, once shaven so closely to his head, was now long and wild. He had a beard and a mustache, and his days traveling in different parts of the galaxy had burnt his skin to an even brownness.

Baze Malbus. He couldn’t believe it. They’d gotten the right man out of Wobani!

He went no further lest Baze spied him off the shadows of the bunker. If the Force moved darkly around a killer, then maybe it could do him a favor of shrouding him from a reunion he wasn’t prepared for. He folded his own arms and leaned his weight against one of the glass screens illuminating the bunker, practically as tall and wide as a wall. He stood somewhere to the back, watching the proceedings like a hunter stalking for dinner. Baze looked bored behind the conference table that parted him from the red-haired General Draven with his permanent scowl, white-haired General Dodonna who looked with soft eyes and Senator Mothma, standing right there, front and center where Baze could see her.

“You top the Empire’s most wanted list, do you know that?” General Draven continued, referring to his datapad again. “Wanted for murder, espionage and treason. You’ve been on the run ever since you fell out of their graces.”

Baze’s eyes rolled from Draven, to Dodonna, to Mothma in turn and then back to Draven. And then he laughed—not loud or vulgar at all, something wheezy that came with a white smile. This was the Baze that Chirrut knew. The complete lack of ceremony, the easy confidence.

“Okay,” Baze finally spoke, with a voice that felt like it came from within his chest. It was much too deeper than what Chirrut last remembered but if he’d heard it from a busy marketplace, he could have picked it out easily. “What’s all this?” Humor me, he might as well have said.

“It’s a chance for you to make a fresh start,” Mothma answered, her gentle tone carrying easily across the board. “We think you might be able to help us.”

Baze nodded towards her, one brow raised. “And you are?”

“You know who she is,” Draven hissed and might have spat out more poison if Mothma hadn’t waved for him to stand down.

“My name is Mon Mothma,” she went on as if she hadn’t been interrupted to begin with. “I sit on the council of Alliance High Command, and I approved your extraction from Wobani.”

Baze’s brows curled, the face of a man doing some quick calculations. “There’s a bounty on your head,” he said when he remembered it. Chirrut had no doubts he would know that, considering the circles he rubbed shoulders in. Baze celebrated his triumph of having uncovered this detail with a huff and a handsome smile as he looked again at Draven, then Dodonna, then…

That smile fell like melting wax, those eyes staring back at him in recognition. Now there was no escape. Chirrut had to swallow down his nerves when he met Baze’s gape with a nervous, stoic gaze.

Mothma turned in time to see this exchange. Raising a hand to him, she finally made the necessary introductions. If it could even be called that. “This is Captain Chirrut Imwe,” she said. “Rebel Alliance Intelligence. We believe…” She looked at Chirrut’s watching eyes. “That you’ve met,” she finished.

Now he was called on to play; there was no escape. He moved easily into the bunker, greeting the two generals and the senator with a nod of respect each. Mothma and Dodonna returned the gesture but Draven scoffed, shook his head and rolled his eyes.

He approached Baze carefully with quiet steps, barely making his heels tap the surface. Baze was still staring in utter disbelief. Chirrut felt as if he could hear him gasping, You’re alive. Well, yes. For his information, he was still very much alive after all those years that he was gone. Maybe if he’d stuck around instead of running off to wherever there was money to be had, he wouldn’t be so surprised.

In spite of that, Chirrut drew much closer than he ought to—because he couldn’t help it. They’d been friends in the past, they’d been more. And after all this time, he was still there in his mind—like the necklace was still around his neck. Was Baze okay? He had to make sure. Wobani was not for the faint at heart, barely even for the strong-hearted. And his curriculum vitae did not exactly promote a healthy lifestyle. He could spare his old friend that much concern. He looked at his face and noted two scars. Neither of his hands were robotic. The rest was under the flight suit.

Chirrut could only hope for the best for now. He placed his weight on the side of the table, arms still crossed. It was time to forget the past and remember the mission. “When was the last time you were in contact with Director Orson Krennic?” he asked.

The shock flickered out of Baze’s expression, his eyebrows furrowing in its place. This was not the kind of hello he was expecting from an old friend, which only bolstered Chirrut to darken his glare. “Fifteen years ago,” he said after a moment, tone careful all of a sudden. He was testing the waters, a predator at work.

Chirrut doubled his guard; he bounced off the table and walked around his friend. “Any idea where he’s been all that time?” he asked, tone a little sharper now.

“Not that I can recall,” Baze answered, following him with his eyes. “Have you tried looking under Coruscant?”

Chirrut whirled to eye him with a warning but this time, Baze fought back, pulling down his own features to a tighter knot. What are you doing? it seemed like he was asking. Don’t you remember me? In fact, Chirrut did. Worse, he never forgot about him. But Baze left him. After everything they’d been through and all for money! If the man thought that was a mistake easily forgivable, then he knew now that he was wrong. Decades of surviving by the skin of his teeth were no joke. Even a former Guardian like Chirrut had his limits.

“Look,” Baze sighed, twisting in his seat to better look at his old friend. “When I last heard from him, I was in Wadi Raffa in one of his smuggling routes. After that, I escaped. That’s my last contact with him.”

“Really?” Chirrut parked himself closer to Draven now. “He was your employer, wasn’t he?”

Baze flinched at the accusation. It was true, though. This was information discovered and confirmed when Chirrut finally joined the Alliance, after years of waiting and worrying and praying for his friend who’d disappeared so suddenly, without even so much as a goodbye. Ever since then…he’d lost faith in everything. If Baze could trade him for greener pastures, then there wasn’t much else to believe in anymore.

“I don’t make it a point to track down someone I’m hiding from,” Baze growled with a slow acid.

Chirrut felt surprisingly at ease when he responded coldly, “No, I didn’t think so.”

Baze’s jaw fell open. Shock drained his colors and broke his eyes wide open. He might have spat out something less than helpful to the already tensed interview if Draven hadn’t decided to step in with a threat.

“We’re up against the clock here, Malbus,” he snarled, rubbing his fingers on his wide forehead. “So if there’s nothing to talk about, we’ll just put you back where we found you.”

No.

Chirrut turned to him urgently. “General, let me take care of this,” he whispered quickly, meeting the frown bravely. “Please. Baze Malbus is my friend, I know how to do this.”

Draven glared at him closely. “Then stop beating around the bush and get to it, Captain.” He stood back once more, shuffling a little farther. “The galaxy is waiting.”

Chirrut breathed and muttered a word of thanks. He turned to Mothma and Dodonna each and received from them the tiniest quirk of a smile and a generous nod respectively. He couldn’t believe he’d let his personal matters get in the way in front of these leaders he respected.

He nodded back, then turned again finally to Baze who wore the eyes of an observer. Chirrut flared a little. Damn if he would let this man read him so easily like that! If anything, that at least put him right back to business.

“When was your last contact with Saw Gerrera?” he asked.

“You know, if you’re studying to be a lawyer, I’m here to tell you that you’re doing a great job, Chirrut.”

“I’ve learned many things since we last spoke,” Chirrut snapped. No namedrops for him, they hadn’t even started rebuilding the bridge Baze had burned yet. And he wasn’t going to admit that hearing his name spoken in that familiar voice had caused his heart to jump.

Baze responded with a chuckle and a shake of his head. He was getting comfortable again and Chirrut hated it. Whatever gave him the right when he was on his toes here! “I know Saw but I only met him a handful of times. The last was maybe,” he shrugged, “ten or twelve years ago.”

“He’d remember you, though, wouldn’t he?” Chirrut stepped closer to Baze. “He might agree to meet you, if you came as a friend of Liana Hallik.”

Baze’s brows met again, weighed down by questions, the first of which was: “Why Liana?” He detected an edge in his voice, cleverly coated by a healthy dose of confusion. Chirrut felt sorry that he felt a tiny flare of triumph in it. He wouldn’t just drop Liana’s name like that without reason, after all—he knew they were close. He didn’t know how they met, only suspected that an association with Saw may be behind it but the records never lied. As it turned out, they clicked, even going so far as to do a couple of missions together. It wasn’t that he derived a sick sort of delight for finding and picking on Baze’s weakness but information was his playing field now. And information was an asset.

Was this revenge?

He got Baze where he wanted him. “Look,” the man said, shifting in his seat again, “if you just need someone to find Saw, I can do that.” Leave Liana out of this.

“We know how to find him,” Chirrut told him, instinct softening his tone to ease Baze’s alarm without his noticing. “That’s not our problem. What we need is someone who gets us through the door without being killed.”

Baze didn’t seem to understand that. “Huh,” he said, dropping back to his chair. “But you’re all rebels, aren’t you?” he asked after a pause.

“Yes, but Saw Gerrera’s an extremist.” This time, Mothma rejoined the conversation. “He’s been fighting his own war for quite some time. We have no choice but to try to mend that broken trust.”

“And you think,” Baze pointed to himself, “I can help you mend that trust? I’m not even a part of Saw’s rebellion and I don’t think he cares how many Imperials I’ve killed.” He slumped a little lower in his seat, arms snug across his chest.

Mothma and Chirrut turned to each other. She gave him a little nod. With a slight exhalation, Chirrut faced his old friend again, resting his weight against the table. “We recently received intel from an Imperial defector—a pilot—that the Emperor could be creating a weapon with the power to destroy entire planets.”

Baze stared at him. And this time, it was not shock or plain disbelief printed in his face. Quite simply, he must have taken it as…a joke. A bad joke, too half-baked to be hilarious.

“That’s a terrible lie,” was all he could say in the end.

“I believe it’s the truth,” Mothma said. “I may be wrong, and I pray that I am—but I believe a weapon that murders worlds is the natural culmination of everything the Emperor has done. You’re right, though.” The senator paused to let out a little sigh. “If this were just about Saw Gerrera, we would have other approaches.”

“If this weapon exists, we have enough reason to believe that it should fall under the jurisdiction of your former employer Orson Krennic, director of the Imperial Military’s Advanced Weapons Research,” Chirrut picked up from where Mothma left off. “But since it isn’t possible to locate him at this short a time, we need a different angle to work from.” He stopped then and breathed, like a man building a reservoir of courage.

“So we decided to look for a man called Galen Erso, father of Jyn Erso,” Chirrut said and he saw it, then. The stiffening of Baze’s jaw, the hardness of his eyes. “Otherwise known presently as, Liana Hallik.” As if Baze needed telling because he knew. He’d known of it before any of them had stumbled upon that information.

Now he was using her as a bait. Again. Because this was his mission and he knew that Baze would protect her to the best that he could. From what, he didn’t know, but it was clear he wanted her out of Imperial business. Because this was Baze, after all, and he knew him. He knew all about his dreams and promises, and the little of those that came true.

“We need to stop this weapon before it is finished,” Mothma said as an appeal.

“Captain Imwe’s mission is to authenticate the intel and then, if possible, find Galen Erso,” Draven added.

Chirrut wondered if Baze heard any of those. He watched him closely. His old friend looked troubled, lost in thought, unable to look at anyone or any one thing. Could he break another promise? Could he live through that trauma again?

Baze, he whispered in his head as Baze’s eyes fell to his crossed arms. Please.

“It would appear Galen Erso is critical to the development of this superweapon,” Mothma explained, eyes on Baze. “Given the gravity of the situation and your relationship with Saw and Liana, we’re hoping that you could convince them to help us locate Galen Erso and return him to the Senate for testimony.”

“We know Saw treats Liana like his own daughter,” Chirrut interjected quickly. He didn’t actually know for sure but he knew enough to assume this was the case. “And we won’t be able to get to Saw if we don’t get through Liana first. And she won’t be able to help us if Saw gets in the way.” He looked for a reaction in Baze’s crumpled face but found nothing but warring thoughts. And then he knew he had to do something before he lost Baze to them completely.

He stepped towards his old friend and leaned close enough that Baze had to turn to look in surprise. There was no way he could have missed that. Chirrut reproached himself for taking advantage of Baze just like this but he was out of ideas, and they were running out of time. “Please, Baze,” he whispered. “We need your help. I need your help.” What was the penalty for manipulation?

Baze considered his words in pain but it wasn’t much longer when he asked, “And if I do it?” They were almost there!

Chirrut turned to Mothma.

With a smile and a nod, she said, “We’ll make sure you go free.”

It didn’t take much longer for the Empire’s most wanted man in the list to finally accept the mission.

⚭

As soon as he and Chirrut were alone in the bunker, Baze struck before the opportunity was lost.

“Chirrut!” He reached for his wrist and grasped air, but he knew all about his moves and first instincts and the man moved like an overplayed hologram in his head. What first started as a series of evasions became a quick exchange of blocked blows until Baze finally enclosed both his hands around both Chirrut’s wrists. Chirrut glared at him and tried to break the trap but Baze refused.

“How long have you been a part of the Alliance?” he spat out in one breath.

“Since you never returned, you bastard!” Chirrut directed a kick to his shin which Baze dodged with a quick shift in his leg but that was all Chirrut needed to regain his hands. He aimed the heel of a palm to Baze’s nose but met the side of his hand instead as he swung back for space.

They danced again, a well-rehearsed sparring track that went nowhere. Chirrut was the first to break out of the loop when he wove his fingers between Baze’s grasping ones and twisted their connected forearms only to be stopped mid-way by Baze catching him at a pressure point. Chirrut aimed a punch with his free hand but missed. Before the next breath, he pulled and pushed Chirrut through their joint limbs until he’d switched their places and flung his old friend to a mean corner with a solid slam. He received the business end of a harsh word for that.

“I came back to Jedha,” Baze explained quickly. “I tried to look for you but I couldn’t find you!”

“Then you should have tried harder,” Chirrut snarled. “Or you could have stayed!”

“I did it to protect you!”

“Leaving a blind man alone in the streets is protecting him?” Chirrut scowled. “Baze, I was becoming blind! I can hardly see now without these glasses!”

Unfortunately, Baze had no excuses. Only that he’d hoped he would be faster than Chirrut’s condition.

Now they marched down the tarmac together in hostile silence. Baze still nursed the bruise forming at his side after Chirrut marked it with his heel. He could practically see the smoke rising off Chirrut’s back, one shoulder weighed down by a well-worn duffel bag, the other a complicated mechanized hybrid of a bow and a cannon he knew was called a lightbow—because he’d made one himself in his youth. The lightbow was a weapon any self-respecting Guardian of the Whills carried with them.

He was surprised to see that Chirrut still had his and it looked like it was in perfect working condition, too. He’d lost any right to speak about it now, though—or about anything, actually. Chirrut really was mad—and should he even be surprised? He left him, there was no going around that fact.

He just hoped that Chirrut could maybe hear him out, assuming he still deserved the chance. He really had left him because he wanted to protect him. In those days, and as it always had, the Empire was growing stronger and stronger and they were getting hungrier and weaker. Baze felt that he had to do something about it so he became an Imperial mercenary hired on constant occasions by Orson Krennic. But he wasn’t in it for the money, although he liked to think that he’d used it to build himself up for his eventual betrayal. He wanted to be inside because he thought he could destroy the Empire from there, and that would stop the injustice and the cruelty. It was a sound plan but he was only one man bolstered only by two things: his righteous anger, and Chirrut Imwe.

In the end, he lost—he realized too late that in his vengefulness, he’d become too blind to see that he was willingly aiding the destruction of Legacy worlds, that he may as well have destroyed Jedha itself. After an assignment in Wadi Raffa, he left the Empire’s employment and hurried back to Jedha. He wanted to find Chirrut and go into hiding with him.

But he came too late; there was an Imperial attack against a separatist insurrection cell hiding out in the smaller corners of NiJedha—and that was the last anyone had seen of Chirrut Imwe. The only conclusion he could come to was that his friend, the man he had dedicated all his sacrifices to, had been killed then. He never realized that this was because Chirrut had already joined the Alliance.

Ever since, he felt like a lost soul, a shadow unanchored to a pair of feet. He grabbed every opportunity he could to kill any Imperial in sight. He became an assassin for redemption, to avenge his friend. He became acquainted to the unlikeliest people and hid his past to all except one—a young woman named Liana Hallik who later revealed herself to him as Jyn Erso, daughter of Galen Erso. She was a star in the midst of the darkness of the war-torn galaxy. She was Saw’s rebel, throwing herself at the line of fire if it meant one more day of defying the Empire that had destroyed her life. But more importantly, she was his little sister.

He promised her he would protect her, the same way he once promised Chirrut he would keep him safe. Figures that he would fail Jyn, too, the same way he’d failed Chirrut. Baze felt ugly—he felt like he was trading one for the other in his thirst for redemption. If all things went to pot, he had no one to blame but himself. He was here in the middle of a crossroads because of his own stupid decisions.

“Captain Imwe!”

Baze turned with Chirrut to see the red-haired general striding up to them and half-wondered if he had more bitterness to spew. Baze didn’t mind, he understood it was like peeing and you couldn’t hold it back, but he thought they were under the clock here?

“Wait in the U-wing,” Chirrut muttered as he dumped his things on him. Baze grunted in surprise and almost fell with the combined weight of Chirrut’s fat pack, his lightbow, his slightly more emaciated pack and the heavy set of his armor, ammo tank and cannon. It was all he could do not to fall apart or die of hernia when he finally climbed aboard the dinghy little freighter—which was all gray and mismatched, modified machinery plugged onto wherever there was space, leaving enough for a small crew’s legroom. It wasn’t much. At all. If this was the best that the rebellion had to offer—which he hoped to doubt because that would be depressing—it was…well, depressing anyway.

Baze found that he liked it, though. There was a warmth in there that was probably only reserved for people like them, people like him who made do with whatever, customizing and reinventing something that would soon be a part of him. His red armor, his bulky ammo tank, the hundred-in-one cannon that had saved his life more than once, he didn’t buy them off somewhere or much less stole them. He made them—started from scratch and built them up into the monster that he loved.

He caught himself smiling slightly in appreciation of this patched up ship when someone called his attention with: “Hey. You’re Baze Malbus, aren’t you?”

“Hm?” Baze directed his attention to a slight man working on one of the communication panels to his right. He was definitely dressed to be a member of this crew: long hair tied up, goggles on his head, a dark green-gray Imperial flight suit with a black band wrapped haphazardly over the insignia (he couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t just pull it off. If he was an Imperial spy—which Baze highly doubted—he was surprised he made it this far) and a fat, sagging utility vest. He looked like he was born straight out of the U-wing.

“Baze Malbus, Captain Imwe’s friend,” he added. His voice had a slight husk in it, and his eyes were too large and friendly for Baze’s comfort. He was instantly on his guard even though the man was smiling and he could break him in three if he wanted. “The captain told me I’d be meeting you.”

“Huh,” Baze said. Suddenly aware of himself, he put down Chirrut’s stuff, letting them lean against the wall.

The U-wing’s son took this as an opportunity to come forward with a hand out, even though Baze was in the middle of unslinging his own baggage. “Bodhi Rook,” he introduced himself. “I’m the pilot.”

In that one moment, Baze remembered three things: Bodhi was the pilot who came to pick him up from Wobani and told him happily, “Congratulations! You’re being rescued.” He was also the pilot for this mission, and he was also the Imperial defector. The pilot who provided the Alliance intel on the Empire’s superweapon.

“I remember you,” Baze said.

Bodhi smiled again, then looked at his unshaken hand consciously and wiped it in his suit. Baze wondered if he should apologize for completely forgetting about that part in their conversation. With a hesitant cheerfulness, the pilot added, “The captain also has me working on strategic analysis now.”

Baze nodded. With nothing left to say, Bodhi went back hastily to the panel he was working on. While he did that, Baze found himself a place on the U-wing’s central bench. His pack met the floor, and then carefully, his ammo tank.

Seated this way gave him a good view of the bay beyond, an empty plot of land save for a few fighters and pilots in the background and smack dab in the middle, General Draven and Chirrut Imwe, standing in quiet discussion. Chirrut had changed so much, he noticed belatedly. It wasn’t just in his bomber jacket, his combat pants or his hair, which was still short but too long and unruly for a respectable Guardian. He saw it more vividly in his stance—that weary, business-like form of a true rebel. Ever since they were young, he always stood with the gracefulness of a bird, spine straight, chin high, shoulders low. Now his figure was twisted with impatience, his chin deep and his shoulders skewed while he carried his weight on one leg, his hands on his sides.

“I uhh…heard that you defected, too.”

“Uhh,” Baze couldn’t pull away his eyes from the general and the captain until the last minute. He looked to Bodhi who looked back at him, a harris wrench in hand. “What?”

Bodhi used his tool to indicate him, then twirled it like a magic trick in his hand, a habit borne out of practice. “The captain said you defected from the Empire, too.”

He was looking for kinship, that much was obvious. Fellow defectors like him. Baze shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. I wasn’t really a part of the Empire, though.”

“Why not?”

“I was a mercenary, and an assassin.” Baze tossed his hand slightly. “I get hired to do their dirty work.”

“Oh,” Bodhi said, because what else was there to say? He held on to his harris wrench, which suddenly looked like a weapon in his hand.

And then he turned to the ammo tank sitting idly by Baze’s feet, and said again, “Ohhh…”

⚭

“Galen Erso is vital to the Empire’s weapons program,” General Draven reminded him as they stood outside the U-wing. “There will be no extraction. You find him, you kill him. Then and there.”

Easier said than done, as all expectations from General Draven were but this particular order came with a special set of complications—namely Baze Malbus and Bodhi Rook.

Two men inadvertently connected to two Ersos. Chirrut might as well find a rock in the vast forest of Yavin IV and smack himself up the head with it. This was not a problem he would have fun solving at all, assuming he could come up with a win-win situation for everyone involved. He was going to use an old friend—who he manipulated through his guilt—to help him murder his friend’s father, and he was going to betray another friend whose defection was encouraged by none other than the victim himself, Galen Erso. The man who held Bodhi’s greatest respect.

How would he even begin to lie? How would Chirrut begin to destroy everything that was important to him? His reason for living?

For what it was worth, his mission did at least tell him one thing: Baze Malbus was still important to him. That much was clearer than crystal now. He could direct all the anger, all the hatred this galaxy and this Dark Side of the Force could spare to this man who abandoned him as easily as one would dump old clothes, but it would still break his heart if Baze ever severed their relationship. He had been the one who recommended his extraction, after all, hadn’t he? He had been the one to throw all caution to the wind when he sent that message from hyperspace.

He could barely look at his hunched form when he finally climbed aboard the U-wing and went for his pack. Baze didn’t bother with him either, too interested with the clicks and slides of the cannon he was breaking open and sealing again. Bodhi was doing flight preps in the cockpit.

This was a good neutral topic to cover his guilt, Chirrut decided. He nodded towards the youngest man among them and asked, “You met Bodhi?”

Baze, his cannon split in half, stopped to regard the smaller man hidden behind the pilot’s chair. “Nice kid,” he said. “Where’d you pick him up?”

“I didn’t pick him up, he defected,” Chirrut spat in a hurry, carrying his belongings to the back of the co-pilot’s seat where he would be spending the duration of the journey in. Not exactly a smart place to put them but he had to look busy, like they were running late. The more movement he made, the less he would remember his guilt.

He chanced upon Baze’s backpack next to his feet. That overcompensating piece of metal that baffled everyone in the Alliance when they saw it in the holding room. He doubted that there was any rock in the entire galaxy where it was considered even borderline legal.

He decided to pick on that, too. “You couldn’t find a bigger gun, could you?”

Baze paused from his inspection again and responded to Chirrut’s needless criticism with a high brow. He looked at his hip and nodded to it. “You have a lightsaber.” Okay, Chirrut didn’t expect that.

He grabbed the metallic stub of his folded stick and scowled. He climbed into his seat and started to do his own flight preps.

“Seal the doors. Pull away in five,” Chirrut instructed mechanically.

“Copy that,” Bodhi responded flatly.

That was enough to throw Chirrut off his rhythm. Bodhi was never so lackluster on his assignments, not when he’d practically had to walk on burning embers to be inducted into the Alliance Fleet. And that opened Chirrut up to the noisy buzz that surrounded Bodhi’s form which sat hunched and tensed over his settings. The buzz was non-existent, of course, at least in the normal sense of the word. It belonged to a layer much deeper than the one most everyone perceived, a layer that connected everyone to each other. Something that he could read in spite of all the violations he’d committed against his faith. Well, it didn’t take a weapons engineer to find out, really. Leaning slightly to the stoic pilot, Chirrut whispered kindly, “Bodhi? I sense fear in you.”

Bodhi jumped and whirled to stare at him. He would be the recipient of a smile stubbornly refused of Baze who had probably expected it from a long overdue reunion. Well, if he’d waited that long for it, he could probably afford to wait a little more. For now.

The pilot threw a nervous glance over his shoulder towards Baze’s shape. He shifted closer to the rebel spy who quirked his brows up in amusement. “Your friend, Baze Malbus,” he whispered. He directed another furtive look at the man, as if all these theatrics could keep their conversation a secret from the assassin. Chirrut almost wanted to laugh, a strange feeling to be felt in relation to the man he hadn’t seen in ages. “He really did defect from the Empire, right?”

“Did he give you any reason to doubt that?” Chirrut turned to Baze to catch him polishing his cannon, a far quieter task than fiddling with his machinery although he didn’t have to work so hard to eavesdrop when it came to Bodhi.

“It’s just…” Bodhi hissed, flicking his tongue across his lips nervously. “Well. He said he was an assassin hired by the Empire…to do the dirty job. So. I’m just thinking.”

“What if this was all a setup and he was hired to silence us?”

“Yes!” Bodhi said, who himself carried a hefty bounty for betraying the Empire and committing theft. Excited now, he spoke quickly. “I just think that the probability of him using his weapon against us is high—very high!” he amended quickly.

Well. If Bodhi found out the truth behind his mission, the probability of him using Baze’s cannon against him would also be very high. At least Bodhi didn’t know how to shoot. Which may or may not be a good thing, depending on the context.

This was going to have to be one of those things without the right answers. It was times like this that Chirrut missed the past, when things used to be so simple, and everything was just the will of the Force.

The radio came on with an officer from the control room. They were cleared for take off. Chirrut heard the engines rising and what sounded like Baze securing himself lest he fall off. It almost felt like he was saying goodbye to yet another life. When this mission was over, there was no saying whose corpse would be flying back in the U-wing.

I am one with the Force, Chirrut found himself chanting, and the Force is with me.

Facing Bodhi again, he smiled at him and patted him on the shoulder. “Trust in the Force,” he said to him.

He could use a little reminder of the Force’s power himself.

[euphoric-melancholyy]

On Sleepless Roads (1/3)

This fic is a love letter to the characters of Emma Swan and Killian Jones. It is a fic that has been in the works for over nine months and I am so excited to share it with everyone. It started with filming spoilers of our favorite female protagonist being stabbed on a dark, foggy night in Storybrooke and it grew from there. Season 6 Canon divergence. 

(Tagging @acrobat-elle and @lovebecomeshim upon request.) 

Ao3    FF   Part 2  Part 3

One night of peace is all they were granted before the next crisis began. One night to recover from the aftermath of darkness and secrets, hell and death, before Mr. Hyde made his presence in town known. But with Killian by her side, it didn’t seem to matter in the long run. The moment she saw him above the place his body had been laid to rest, a question in the call of her name, she decided to fight for her own happiness. Maybe the savior could have a happy ending as well. Maybe this was it.

That was what she had believed before she found herself here.

“Ah, the infamous Savior. Do you really think yourself a match for me?” She can’t see his face, the cloaked figure that’s far too reminiscent of past Dark Ones. With the edge of his blade threatening Henry’s throat, she draws her sword, sighing in relief when the action grants her son’s release. Killian grabs Henry the moment he’s near.  

Cold air bites at her skin, slips into the gap between her sweater and back, leaving a trail of goosebumps. She tightens her grip on her father's sword. “I think you’ll find yourself surprised.”

“Perhaps. But you can’t fight wounded.” She feels the ground give beneath her first - knees stinging with a thud as they hit concrete. There’s a thick sticky crimson covering her hands where she’s holding them at her side and oh god -

The dagger poking out of torn flesh burns - a hot searing pain that stifles her breathing. It hurts. It aches, throbbing with a sharp pain paralleled by nothing she has felt before. Her cry is a high pitched wince as her body curves into itself and dammit it hurts. She tries to focus on the roughness of the unpaved road at her knees, but she can feel the sensation fading, can feel herself fading with it. The moment she moves, a small shift as her legs give out, it comes back with a fury.

Muffled words grow louder as the world around her comes back into focus, Killian’s panicked voice the only thing she can hear.

“What’s wrong? Emma, Emma, love talk to me!”

Her eyes burn too, and she tries to blink against the dust clouding them, moaning in pain at the knife lodged into her side. “Killian,” she breathes, leaning into his chest as his arms wrap around her. Magic pulsates beneath her palms but does nothing to heal the wound or stop the bleeding. “Son of a bitch.” It's gritted between closed teeth, and she tries again to no avail.

Killian’s hand is cold as it roams across her shoulders and down to her back, frantically searching for something he can’t seem to find. He repeats her name, a panicked fear she can feel rise in his chest with every inhale.

“I’m-” His hand finds hers with calloused fingers pressing further into the wound - adding kerosene to what might have been a dulling spark. She reels forward as the lights flicker on, an anguished cry at the contact. It seems to summon Henry, the absolute last person she wants to see her in this state. But before she can tell him to leave, he's scavenging for keys as Killian lifts her into his arms. Her request would have fallen on deaf ears anyway.

“Come on, Swan. I’m getting you to a hospital.”

-/-/-

She wakes to white, blinking in finally clear vision. The persistent beeping from machines and wires twisted around her arm only add to her disorient and she hears more than feels the familiar crinkle of leather shifting next to her. Curved, cool metal rests atop her hand that she now registers as being interlocked with Killian’s. It’s a second of blissful peace - another stolen quiet moment that only a couple nights ago, she thought they’d never have again. She turns her head to his, thumb reaching up to smooth the worry lines etched into his forehead. Reality, however, is setting back in, and with it is a rising panic. “What happened?”

“Your faithful pirate and son brought you in a few hours ago,” Dr. Whale begins. She wants to laugh, or cry, at the fact that he seems to be Storybrooke’s only doctor. In the end she settles for avoiding eye contact. “You were pretty out of it, something about being stabbed. But whatever it was, you were in a lot of pain. So, I sedated you and ran some tests.”

“What are you talking about? I was stabbed.” She looks to Killian, the confusion furrowing his brows creating a deep anxiety in her chest.

“Hook, would you like to tell her what you told me?” Whale asks.

Killian nods, squeezing her hand just a little tighter. “Love, what do you remember?”

“We were in front of Gold’s shop and Hyde had one of his minions there, a guy in a black cloak, so I couldn’t see his face. He threatened to hurt Henry, so I pulled my sword and the next thing I know, he stabs me. Then you brought me here.”

“Emma,” It’s barely a whisper, his face breaking. There’s an unease that settles in the silence that follows. It’s the first chance she gets to really look at him. His leather jacket is hanging on the arm of his chair, and instead he’s donning a pair navy pajama pants she bought him with a plain white tee. His hair is a complete mess and she itches to run her fingers through it, tame what sleep and worry has done. He gives her a soft smile, saddened blue eyes staring into emerald, and she bites her bottom lip. “We were sleeping- you woke up screaming. . .You weren’t stabbed.”

“Oh.” It’s all she can muster. When Henry first came to her door, telling a tale of a cursed town and parents that loved her and sent her through a magical wardrobe to protect her from the doom they were to face from the Evil Queen, it was the first of many times where Emma Swan had difficulty in discerning reality from fantasy. Everything she knew was flipped on it’s axis, and yet her gut told her it was right. But this. . .

She would have put everything she had on it being real. How could something so vividly painful not be? It’s not as if Emma is unfamiliar with nightmares-- she spent the majority of her life learning to differentiate between the shadows in her dreams and the ones in her waking hours.

Maybe her sanity was left in the Underworld.

“You’ve been through a lot lately, between all that drama with your parents and then becoming The Dark One. Not to mention losing our boy here-”

“What exactly are you getting to, Whale?” She interrupts, the fear and anxiety shifting into anger.

“Maybe I’m not the doctor you should be seeing. Maybe, and I’m not a psychologist, but maybe your subconscious was channeling what happened with Hook, how he died, into your dream. You’ve been under almost constant stress. Saviors aren’t exempt from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

“Yeah and doctor’s aren’t exempt from bad dye jobs.”

“Emma! You're awake!” Snow exclaims as she walks into the room with David. Dr. Whale takes their entrance as a chance to exit and Emma sighs. As welcome as her parents interruption is, there are still questions about what the tests read that she would like answered. But mostly she dreads telling them it might have all been in her head.

“Is Henry okay?”

“He’s fine.” David replies, sending a small smile in Emma’s direction.  “A little freaked out and worried, but we all are. How are you feeling?”

“Better...Can we go home now?”

Her eyes find Killian’s at the end of the question, her heartbeat evening out at the understanding reflected back. It’s their own secret language, reading beneath the surface of what words are not spoken. The words that are laced with worry and anxiety, that say I’m scared and tired. She wonders if he feels it too.

“Aye, love. But first,” he unhooks her from the machines that keep her bound in the small, fluorescent lit room. “We wouldn’t want to take this bloody, beeping contraption with us.”

“Are you sure?” Emma can see the hesitance written on her mother’s face before she speaks. It's obvious by the bags under her eyes that Emma isn't the only one who’s had difficulty sleeping lately. “I mean, what did the doctor say?”  

“It’s nothing.”  Emma knows they’re worried for her; even with it being nearly quarter to five in the morning, she doesn’t miss the pinched expression flash across her mother’s face. But her head is swimming and her stomach churns with what she’s afraid to admit and all she wants is Killian’s lips pressed to the base of her throat, his arms tightly wrapped around her middle, holding her together from a wound she didn’t receive. “Can we just talk about it in the morning? I’m really tired and I want to get out of here.”

“Uh,” Snow nods, glancing over at David before continuing.  “Sure. Why don’t you two come stay with us tonight? I’ll make breakfast in the morning.”

“Rain check? I kinda just want to go home. But I’ll see you all later, if that’s okay.”

“Of course. You’ve had a long night.”

She hugs her parents before departing with her arm snaked around Killian’s waist and her head resting against his shoulder.

They move slowly through the streets, Emma leaning her full weight against her pirate. He keeps his arm tight around her, though her grip is tighter, humming softly to her as the birds wake and harmonize. It’s not until he’s helped her up the stairs, his kisses soft against her hairline and his fingers moving deftly to disrobe her jacket and clothes, that she realizes it’s a lullaby. She wants to ask him where he heard it, if his own mother sang it to him, if there are lyrics, but he lifts her into bed and lies down next to her. She forgets her questions and shuffles until her ear is pressed against the hollow of his throat, his pulse replacing his tune as her own heart starts to beat in time. It’s enough.

-/-/-

He finds her in the kitchen, fingers tapping against her coffee mug - the one with an anchor and “a pirates life for me” embroidered in black. She had bought it during their six weeks of peace, offering it to him with a bright grin and a terrible impersonation of his accent as she asked him “What do you think of this one, love?”. He wishes she still wore that infectious smile now and not the worry and exhaustion lacing her brows. He had fallen asleep once they returned home, but she had not succumbed, choosing instead to curl up in his arms long after the first sign of light shone through the window.

“You made breakfast?”

“Yeah, it’s still warm,” she sets the mug down to place the plates she had prepared on the table. He’s by her side before she reaches her destination, hand clasping around her wrist, thumb gently circling around the ink of her tattoo.

“Swan, talk to me. Trust me, drowning yourself in your thoughts never ends well.”

“What if Dr. Whale was right? What if I'm just slowly going insane and that's my fate as the Savior?”

He frowns at this, fury mixing with a sharp ache. Confessions made in the dead of night and mused with tales of her past create a chasm of self doubts as deep as his own. Still, it takes him aback to see how easily she discharges her own credibility. It was real. The pain she was in as real as the house they now stood in.  And he tells her as much. “I was right there with you, remember? That pain was real. I’ve seen magic do terrible things. We might not have been able to see it, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t feel it.”

“You think this was some sort of dark magic?”

“Aye.” He smiles at her, trying to convey his belief in her, but she sits a bit warily and he thinks he might’ve missed the mark. He drops to the table and swirls the fork in his hand. “Perhaps we could take a trip to Regina’s after your parents.”

Emma’s shoulders drop and she nods. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

-/-/-

Regina's house is surprisingly clean, considering. In the small amount of time between leaving the Underworld and Zeus reviving Killian, Emma had managed to tear her own house apart. (She had been able to keep herself together during the day as she searched, but nightfall crept in, with every inch of pain singing of a lost future, a lost true love, and grief consumed her. With the evil half of Regina gone, she can only imagine how she’s coping.)  

Henry nearly knocks Emma over with the force of his hug (When had he gotten so big?) and she laughs, ruffling his hair. “Hey, kid. Is Regina around?”  

“Yeah, she’s in the kitchen. Are you feeling better?”

“That’s actually what I am here to talk about. Can you hang with Killian for a bit?”

Henry nods before leading Killian upstairs, likely for another pop culture lesson. She can’t help the smile that brightens her face whenever her true loves are together. It’s small miracle, she thinks, that two of the most important men in her life have formed such a strong bond. They seemed to have developed their own language, with jokes she doesn’t quite get and secrets shared while drifting away at sea. Killian has become such an integral part of Henry’s growth into a young man and it warms her burdened heart to know that no matter what Henry has Killian to lean on.

Emma grants herself one last look up the grand staircase before trekking through the house in search of Regina. She finds her elbows deep in a sink brimming with suds and dirty dishes. “I thought you’d be too refined for dishes.” Emma remarks, offering a small smile.

“Yeah, well I’m a mother too. And mother’s don’t get the privilege of skipping these tasks.” She fidgets with the faucet until the water comes to a stop, drying her hands on a towel next to her. “So,” Regina pauses, noticing the downcast expression on her face. “Wait, what’s wrong?”

“It’s. . .Do you know anything about a dark magic making a dream feel real?”

“Like a sleeping curse?”

“Not exactly. More like, if you’re injured in a dream, once you wake up, you can still see and feel the effects of that injury. . .”

“Did you go to the hospital last night over a nightmare?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know what it was. I thought I was stabbed until Killian told me I wasn’t. Whale wrote it off as PTSD and stress, but I’m not crazy. I know what I felt, what I saw.”

“Start from the beginning.”

And she does. She tells her of standing in the street with the black cloaked man, her family behind her and the knife to Henry’s throat. She describes the best she can the unbearable pain that took over when that same knife pierced her side, the blood pooling at her hands even as Killian had lifted her into his arms, the blade still lodged into her flesh. She recalls how she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see through dust that blocked her vision and burned in her eyes and -

“That doesn’t fit. You wouldn’t feel dust burning in your eyes from a stab wound.” Regina interrupts, her eyes widening as she pieces together a possible diagnosis.  “In the storybook Henry took from the library, there was this one story that I could have sworn was merely legend. What do you know of the sandman?”

“Oh Mr. Sandman bring me a dream, make him the cutest I’ve ever seen?” Emma singsongs.

“In the book, the Sandman is a generational curse. I bet you those dreams don’t have to be happy.”

“Wait, so you think that the Sandman is haunting me?”

“There are so many new residents in town, Hyde and his untold stories...it has to be him.” The former queen bounces out of her chair before making her way to the other side of the room. She reaches up onto a shelf, pulling out a book similar to Henry’s. “Take this.”

“Thank you.” Emma replies. It feels inadequate as she stares at the eloquent writing across the cover of the book - Once Upon a Time - knowing that a piece of Regina’s happiness has been so recently ripped away. And yet, she’s still helping, not retrieving into grief as Emma had done.  “Seriously, thank you. And if there’s anything I can do-”

“Just go home and get some rest. You look like hell.”

“Yeah, okay.”

-/-/-

When sleep comes, so do the monsters. This time it’s magic slamming her against the clock tower, her head throbbing with an intensity that carries past the dream and into the real world. Killian awakes to the sound of her soft moan as she rolls out of bed and stumbles to the door.

“Swan?”

“Go back to sleep, Killian. I’m just getting some ice.”

Instead of listening, he runs after her, helping her down the stairs to retrieve the treasure she was seeking, sitting her down on the couch. She feels warm in his arms, almost as if she could succumb back into slumber once the pain dulls. (She knows she won’t, but hopes Killian does.)

Maybe that’s the Sandman’s plan.

[ramblingsandruminations]

When Suicidal Ideation is the norm

All the help in the world becomes a muddy puddle of shitty affirmations, thorned gaslighting, and useless guilt. If one more person tells me "have you tried yoga/deepbreaths/vitamin B..." Ugh. Who am i kidding? This is tumblr, where you can always find somone who says exactly what you are thinking ( #omgmetho #datme #meirl ). Weve all heard the "stop giving advice and atart taking it " speech, we're all likely to have read some post about the "evils" and " abuses" of therapy and inpatient treatment, and I'll bet a paper hat, some vending machine doodad, or some shitty-yet-adorably-hipsterly prize that within 100 reblogs someone links to some news article about "Queer Youth Completes Suicide And We Think You Will Pay Us to Feel Bad About It, Don't Forget To Like, Share, and Subscribe to Trevor Project, Your Reblog Will Save A Life (And Keep Us Relevant For Our Advertisers)." Tomorrow(well, next daylight hours) my 26-year-old depressed college freshman self is going to walk into my schools coubseling office and tell them i never recieved the location for the therapist they reffered me to (true story--Honestly not avoiding treatmwnt, even if it is useless) and request a second referral. Ill sit through some lecture about self-advocacy veiled in "concerned questions" and once again be misgendered, deadnamed, and criticized for giving a fuck (note: commenters looking to describe me with the word "cuck," i see you there, good for you, let me know how that white kkknight holier than thou red pill rage fest dopamine addiction is filling the gaping void of existential dread within you). After that, there is always a small chance they'll see just how depressed i am, and faster than you can say "looney is a word based in misogynistic beliefs of womens mental health and menstrual cycles being unhealthily and unscientifically connected to the moon," ill be fielding questions which boil down to "do you want to kill yourself" and "do you have a plan." By this time in my life, i've gotten pretty used to BSing my way around psychology. All it really takes is knowing that all they can take you on is your word, and nothing else. "Do you want to kill yourself?" they ask, and i reply "*short pause, heavy, short exhale denoting weight and truth* Well, yeah. But quite frankly, suicidal ideation is a part of my everyday life- nothing i do isn't plagued with some form of "i should wrap this mouse cord aroubd my neck and die" or " i wonder if that branch is strong enough to support my weight" or "man, my head hurts, but i bet a bottle or two of ibuprofen could make it stop." For me, its not a question of wanting to die, its a matter of what do i have to live for, and ive been through enough inpatient DBT and group therapy to help me cope, using breathing techniques and self-care tips to push me through the worst of it." This is usually if not always all they need to hear. Sure, im depressed, but anything they could tell me is something i know and am already doing-i sound to them more like a patient leaving inpatient than one entering it. Our hospitals are overfilled, understaffed, prqctucally unfunded; if im "stable" im staying out of their ledger book. Occasionally, they still worry, having one of those "consciences" their peers claim to have lost when a schizophrenic patient tried to bite their ear off, and ask a follow up "but are you sure? You seem distressed, and if you need some help, we are here for you," to which all i have to do is look at them through sad, but strong eyes and say "Thank you, but i have a great support network of friends and of course, my boyfriend. He's fantastic, and one of the most important things to have happened to me. He keeps me on this side of the dirt." A small tired chuckle, and their focus diverts towards affirmations of how good it is to have support, their therapy brains running on autopilot. Then all it needs is some "active" listening, uh-huhs, and compliant assurance that ill keep working on myself to assuage them of any guilt or corncern. Maybe, though, ill tell them the truth, and let them take me in. Three hots and a cot, after all. I'll fight through my dysphoria as they ogle every nook and cranny of my malformed body trying to see if im hiding a weapon or some drugs; I'll continue to insist on a private room and remind them calmly yet firmly that no, i will *not* room with a male, and their lack of knowledge on how to treat a transgender non-binary patient is well behind on proper treatment according to WPATH, the APA, and our state govt. When i get a room, theyll say that i should take as much time as i need to get acclimated, and not worry about what the rwat of group is qorking on, and then contradict themselves within 5 minutes and say i need to go to group, theyre waiting on me. In my fresh new scrubs, ill walk in and within seconds, ill identify how th staff monitors who came in when (usually different colored scrubs based on different halves of the week, and of course, anyone likely to leave within 48 hours wearing "normal" clothes), and see the therapist or doctor talking about emotional management techniques. When i sit down, eeyes will be on me, some with looks of angey jusgemwnt, some with awe and wonder: what could THEY be in for? The group leader will ask me my name, ill state it and my pronouns (to several uncomfortable shifts in the room), and theyll let me know what they were talking about. Ill make a good effort to participate, play along, etc. Someone in the group will be desperate to control the conversation, talking more and more as if this entire experience is just for them- another person will be too dissociated to say anyrhing, despite the doctors attebpts to get them to open up. Already, the cliques will become apparent; humans are aocial creatures, after all. When we leave for the next scheduled activity (either rec or lunch, depending on the time) the docs will be watching me- im on suicide watch, and they expe t me to jump out a window or try and slit my wrists with a paperclip or something. Im not a danger in this regard; ive been threatened with solitary and ECT if i dont comply before- i am their prisoner and i must comply. Within an hour or two of being there, ill be able to notice how well funded they are (or more likely, arent.) The quality of their reading materials; the availability of puzzles abd how well taken care of they appear. Recreation will be the most bare of kindergarden activities; coloring books, maybe a tv with basic cable. A daycare for adults, abd not the cool buzzfeed articles. Someone, probably an addict, will be trying to fanangle their attendee into giving them special treatement- a snack, or an extra smoke break. I'll be sitting in a corner, smirking- the staff arent even an eigth as dumb as this person thinks, and they've seen this type before. They might get something, but itll cost them sour looks from staff and less accommodating treatment with the doctors. After the second hour, we'll have another activity (second group, rec, or maybe "outside time" if its a particularly fancy facility; while the sun will certainly be shining, our feelings of freedom will be dampened by the high fances and walls keeping us from getting away). This is usually wheb the realization sets in that im stuck here for 72 hours plus, and ill be counting them down to stave off boredom. 15-30 minutes in to this third hour, ill be called in to meet tye psychiatrist, fisrt meeting with an attendee to fill out the generic details, then 30-45 minutes of diagnosis before im told ill be put on ab antidepressant, an anxiolytic, and tramodol, a sedative marketed as "something to help me sleep" and "another antidepressant" which makes me laugh every time. Tramodol is the auppressant, the "slow down" drug which helps keep everyobe on a nice, calm level thats safer for the orderlies. Were i violent, id concur; instead, i begin to wonder how long it will take before i no longer feel persistently asleep once i leave. A couple weeks, likely. Hopefully, the food will be good, but not likely 5 star- one place ive stayed had been cooking for us in the break room, sometimes PB&J, sometimes microwaved quesadillas. Maybe theyll have more drink options than coffee, water, and sugar-free koolaid- maybe not. Likely not. Some of us will complain; most of us will know it is a fruitless endeavor. After another group or two, it will be dinner, then wrap up group. We will discuss what progress we think we made today, and be sent to bed after meds are distributed in little paper ketchup cups. Most places wont do the "cuckoos nest" tongue check, but some will, particularly the ones with kleptos and pill ODers. Lights oyt will be around 10 pm, the beds will be plasticky and the blankets thin, and sleep will only cone rhanks to our sedatives. Day two, we'll be woken early, around 6-7, by an orderly checking our blood pressure and body temp. Well all gather in the hallway, rubbing sleep out of our eyes and head to the eating area for breakfast- which loooking back will likely be the best meal of the day, not the least be ause we have access to augar and caffiene. By now, i will likely have made a friend, probably with an older woman or two, and we will enjoy surreptitiously smirking at each other when the teoublemaker patwnt tries to get an omlette or something silly. Someone will start telling fanciful stories dreamed up in the night; talk will eventually turn to who is leaving today. The orderlies will be trying to not look too interested in what we reveal to each other instead of them. They will not succeed in this. Ths first morning they will use as a test of how i deal with frustration. An older nurse will act exasperated, as though taking care of me is a curse she was tasked with. She will try to cut theough any response i give her, and rudely discount anything i try to say, as if accuaing me of lying. Knowing it is coming doesnt help it hurt less. If it overwhelms me, ill be labeled as dramatic- if not, as detached. Sluggish from the new medications, i will be treated as though i ahould not be here, and will be led aroubd more quickly than i am rady to be. I will notice that part of it is that i am beginning to realize how broken down i feel i am. Reaching out will result in canned answers and "the doctor is busy's". After all, this iant about me, and theyve seen my type before. At lunch, i will be upset by the bland meal, abd ask if they have any hot sauce, or maybethey will be out of a preferred tea, or the food will not be enough to feed me. The newcomer who arrived at morning group will share a look with the quiet patient. I will try not to notice the parallels. A therapist will ask to talk to me today. It may be a nice session, but will essebtially boil down to "let me give you ideas for solving your problems, so that your depression seems more managed." By the end of the day, they will already begin my release plan. Theyve fixed me, they are sure. I will also get my clothes back. The aurvey will be slightly different today; instead of asking on a scale of 1-10 with 1 being best abd 10 being worst how was my day, it will be the opposite: scale of 1-10 with 1 being worst and 10 being best. This way, they can track how much is me being honest, and how much is me remembering numbers to fake it. (Once, a nurse messed up so often that it was a sentence by sentence change). Later, if there is any improvement, it will be used by the hospital as signs that treatment is helping; if it gets worse, that i had a rough day and shouldnt think much of it. Bedtime will come, and i will relish it- being sedated takes a lot out of a person. When morning comes, the eggs will feel soggy and cereal with be a much better choice. A bagel will be carried into morning group and more DBT will be discussed. I will mostly be checked out; they are pulling most of their material from a 12 step program, and the leader is a student of psychology learning how to help people, but ive heard it all before, and that sense of guilt just pushes me towards suicide harder. At this point, ill feel just how desperate they are to get me out; nurses eill hint at things being the "wrong" answer with " you dont REALLY mean that, do you sweetie?" and " well, you cant keep thinking THAT way, or we'll have to keep you here longer." Boredom and longing for home will encourage me to pretend to be better, and not tell them how last night before falling asleep i stared at the vedfrane wondering if i could take it apart and form a springwire noose, or tear the blankets to make a rope. When they ask if im feeling better, it will actually mean "are you done with your timeout from reality? Have you learned how to fit in properly yet?" The meds wont really begin having a noticable effect for months- they know im lying. What they hope for is a glimmer of hope and a mountain of guilt for wanting to hurt others by hurting myself. Ill fake those, too. Still, ill be misgendered. Still, theyll blame hormones and buzzfeed rather than neurology and chemistry. After all, im well-adjusted, not at all like the Caitlyn Jenners and Wachowskis they read about on their facebooks. Its just a phase, and im just confused. I didnt try to hurt myself- nothing is *really* wrong with me. What can i do? Try and strangle myaelf, or others? That just means im lashing out, and ill get a new med regime and another 3 days, this time strapped down. Being strapped to a bed and left alone is mind-numbingly boring. If i tell them i still want to kill myaelf, theyll just nod their head and tell me it will go away soon; if i say i have a plan, rheyll keep me playing chess and reading AA papers until i apologize. Their job is not to fix me, their job is to stabilize me and make sure i dont break myself more. The fixing is my responsibility. Day four is release day. They will claim i have made improvements and have me fill out an action plan for when i feel depressed again. It will include people i can call, and ways i can push through bad feelings. It is my exit exam.when i pass, ill be set up with a therapist outside the hospital later in the week, and told how to connect with various resources. They will think i didnt know there were trans support groups. I will think that if it was just a support group i needed, i wouldnt dream of death. Neither of us will admit these things. And so, ill come back to school. Late on homework, i will have to prostrate myaelf with dictors note beggibg for forgiveness. I will get it, more due to policy than empathy, and at the end of the day, i will lay in bed, stare up at the ceiling, and contemplate which of my top three anchor spots would be the best ending to my story. Other than medical bills, nothing will have changed. Life drones on. I think i understand why death seems,so much better. In death, i can pretend there is a solution. In death, i can imagine a cure. In death, i can envision a caretaker and easier existence. It doesnt matter that death is the end of it all- i can pretend it willl be more, and my imagination can create many comforts in that void. But even death is a lie, and nothing will ever stop hurting.

[chaoticsentiments]

Meant To Be Yours

Based of the musical, Heathers. Inspired by this animatic. Hope you enjoy ^_^

(AO3) 

How can any of this be happening to her? Is this what her adolescent life will become? A body count at 16 is not right and Rey knows it. And for what, a chance to be a First?

For the majority of her life, Rey Kenobi had always wondered what it would be like to be one of the popular crowd. To stand out and find her place within a society of social norms, ignorant adults and complicated teenage, hormonal issues. To live her high school years as Miss Popular and having her first kiss by a romantic scenery filled with wild promises of the future; stuff like in the movies, you know?

But instead, Rey finds herself not just a tool for the most hated and feared group in all of Republic High, that being the defiant First Order, but also the murderer of their leader, Snoke (god forbid anyone who speaks of his last name). Furthermore, it’s no better with Armitage Hux running about the school like he’s suddenly the new Snoke, as if the “suicide” of his “closest” friend had not even occurred at all.

And now, she’s responsible for not only Snoke, but the deaths of jocks Dopheld Mitaka and Kurt Thannison, and the entire reason why Finn, her most dearest and bestest friend, is bedridden with broken bones and a broken heart after his own failed suicide attempt.

Oh why, oh why did I ever listened to him, Rey whined, I should have known those bullets were real, I should’ve told Finn the truth. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

With nowhere else to turn, Rey rushes straight home where her grandfather is waiting for her.

“Ah, Rey,” he greets as she comes through the front door. “You’re finally back. Where have you been, my dear, I’ve been worried sick.”

“I’m sorry, grandpa. I was just at the hospital, visiting Finn.”

“Heard it on the radio,” he informs, standing up from his chair to hug her. “I just hope that boy’s alright. In any case, your friend, Kylo Ren, came by about an hour ago. He told me about everything, Rey.”

Confused and terrified by the mention of his name, Rey asks, “Everything?”

“Yes,” Kenobi nods. “He told me about your depression, Rey, your-- your thoughts of suicide. He even showed me --” He takes out what looks to be a worn out book with pages folded and colourful strips jutting from the top  “-- your copy of Moby Dick. Oh, Rey, what’s going on in that head of yours. I understand your need to fit in, but this is going a little bit too far for you… You’re not turning to those Darksiders, are you? I’ve heard that band is notorious for their suicidal themes.”

Rey takes the book. Flipping it through, she stumbles on a hidden note stuck to the centre, obviously not seen by her grandfather. Taking it out and reading it, the blood drains from her face.

Recognise the handwriting?

An amorphous voice sounding a lot like Snoke’s, whispers into her ear, “He’s got your handwriting down cold.”

“Rey?”

Rey looks up to meet the concerned gaze of her grandfather’s eyes. “I’m sorry, grandpa,” she mutters, placing the note back inside and making her way to her room, taking the book along with her. “I have to go.”

“Rey?” Kenobi questions, but to no avail. Before he can even inquire her further, Rey has already slammed her door shut. Inside, slumping down to her knees, she takes a breather, her mind a flurry of thoughts swirling inside her head.

What do I do now?! The most popular people are dead, Finn’s in the hospital, K.R.’s psychotic and I’m next on his list! Is this what teen angst was meant to be? This is getting the fuck out of hand!

Unable to think things through properly, Rey gets up and goes to her thinking space - her closet - to clear her head. As claustrophobic as it may sounds, there’s just something about the compact closure that allows for Rey to better focus on a sole objective.  

Turning on the dim light and finding her favourite spot, Rey curls with her knees tucked in, arms crossed and a mantra underneath her breath.

In and out…

In and out…

In… and out…

She looks around her little zone in search for some comfort. What Rey sees, aside from her thrift-store bought clothes, are pointless elementary school notes, treasures from the scavenger hunts her grandfather annually arranged for her birthday parties and many other nostalgic items. For a moment, Rey is reassured that maybe things aren’t as ba--

A lock loudly snaps. It came from the window. “Knock, knock!”

Rey freezes, mentally slapping herself for her inattentiveness. How could I’ve be so careless?

“Sorry to come through the window,” articulates a familiar, dark voice. “Dreadful etiquette, I know.”

Rey, never really understanding why she did it, shouts, “Get out of my house!”, alerting him of her location.

“Hiding in the closet?” K.R. teases, his footsteps approaching the closet door, “C’mon, Rey… Open the door.”

“No, I’ll scream, my grandpa will call the cops.”

“Oh come on Rey, don’t be afraid. I feel it too, y’know?” He mumbles mockingly in a soothing tone. “Look, all is forgiven, sweetheart. Just… just get dressed, you’re my date to the pep rally tonight.”

Pep rally? “What, why?”

“Well, I would answer that if you could just... come out.” As he says “come out”, Rey knows he’s beginning to lose his temper. I can’t believe this; does he really think I’m daft?

“No!” She retorts. “You threatened me and you, what, expect me to go to my doom with you?! Just leave me alone!”

K.R. emits a frustrated sigh. “No, sweetheart, no, I was only teasing you. You know I love you too much to mean it. Sure, I was coming up here to kill you, but I swear, I was gonna try and get you back with my amazing petition first.”

Petition? “What petition?”

Sounding fully smug, a fact that which for a guy like K.R. wouldn’t be too unusual, he replies, “I knew you’d be curious. You see, our classmates thought they were signing for the greater good of a senseless community. But really, listen to this.” Sounds suggesting a piece of crushed paper being smoothed out, K.R. takes a deep breath and starts reading his note, almost like a stage performance, as he reveals to Rey his secret scheme.

“We, the students of Republic High, will die. Our burnt bodies will be the ultimate protest to a society that degrades us and churns only slaves and blanks. No thanks. Fuck you all. Signed, the Students of Republic High. Goodbye… Whatcha you think? I mean, it’s not very subtle but neither is blowing up an entire school.”

Only the pure silence of Rey’s horror could describe how appalling she felt, as K.R. laughs rather humorously to his plot, to have ever thought a girl like her and a guy like K.R. could ever be like a normal teenaged couple. Of course her would-be-but-also-sorta-like-an-ex boyfriend is a psycho-maniac, why wouldn’t he be?

“You’re insane…” she cries.

“No, Rey, you don’t understand,” he assures her, “this is exactly what the world needs. It’s what my grandfather would have wanted from this cold, uncaring and unforgiving world. The only way to get things done around here is by taking the extremes and you know that.”

Rey can only cry a river into her arms further.

“Think about it, Rey. We can still be together, if that’s what you want. Don’t you know you’re the only thing that's right about this broken world? We were meant to be one without anything stopping us. Those assholes at school are the only keeping you away from me.”

Rey covers her ears. “No, shut up, I don’t care what you say to me anymore. You’re a liar!”

The room turns ghost-quiet with the prominent ticking of her bedroom clock outside. Yet it feels like she’s standing near the countdown of a ticking bomb. Never had Rey preferred the bustling of noises over the serenity of the quiet. Rey begins to get up, when suddenly, the flat wooden door of her closet cracks heavily under the pressure of a very impactful weight. She squeaks and gets back down again.

“They made you blind, Rey,” chides K.R. as he tries pushing against the door once more. “Messed up your mind.” Push. “I’m the only one who can set you free from their grasp!” Another push. “I can show you the way.”

Rey’s heart accelerates as she frantically searches for whatever weapon she may find in her close-packed closet.

“We have to finish what we began, Rey,” again another push with a furious heave, and Rey knows the door won’t be able to hold itself for much longer, “And I can’t make this alone without you!”

Her whole body starts to shake like a mad caffeine addict. Eyes shifting up and down again, Rey can only see her old white bed sheets laying haphazardly on the floor. It takes a while, but Rey ultimately decided. It’s the only way.

“I’m all that you need, Rey! Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?!”

The door is really starting to split and Rey knows he won’t stop until he has her. I have to hurry, she sputters, quickly tying the many knots around herself and on a protruding railing above her.

“I was meant to be yours, Rey! You were meant to be mine!” He pushes again, fury only . “You carved open my heart!” The doors warns her here time is running quick. “You can’t just leave me to bleed.”

“Go away, Kylo!”

“NO! Not until I make you mine!”

After a while, it seems K.R. must have gotten tired from using all his mustered strength and had stopped for a moment. Why, though, Rey does not know. Clearly, he could have just easily finished the job.

She hears him breathing in and out again, like he’s calming himself down (although if anyone should be trying to stay calm, it should be her). “Please, open the door, Rey,” he says collectedly, yet his very evident shuddering does not help elevate the situation at all. “Please, can we just… not fight anymore? I know you’re scared right now, I’ve been there myself. But I can also set you free.”

K.R. hears nothing from the other side. “Don’t make me come in there, Rey,” he warns her and when she persists to remain silent, he cautions her again. “I’m going to count to three now.” Still nothing. He raises his hand.

“One…” No reply or sound coming from Rey is heard.

“Two…” The persisting stillness gets to him too quickly, making his patience run thin until he can’t be bothered anymore. “Fuck it!” And with that, he slams the door wide open.

What greets him though, wrenches a knife deep into to his chest. For there she hangs, motionless, feet floating in mid-air as her neck is supported by the thick rope of her bed sheets, her head sluggish like a comatose muscle.

Rey Kenobi is dead.

“Oh my god… ” Dropping to his knees, K.R. can only watch as the inanimate life, once his fire, sway from side-to-side, his vision becoming blurry as tears begin to make their way down his face. “No… Rey… Why?”

Down on all fours, K.R. tries looking back for a reason, any reason that would make her leave him like this. Did I say something wrong? What did I do wrong? Have I forgotten our anniversaries already?

He looks back up at the hanging body. “Please, Rey… Tell me why… Don’t leave me alone like this… Please,” he sobs. “You were all I could trust.”

Did I scare her too much?

It’s not long before his misery soon becomes his fueled anger. “Damn it, Rey!” He pounds his fist to the floor. “We could have watched the fires and roasted marshmallows together!” Trembling, his eyes watery, he watches her hair-covered face. “I can’t do this-- without you…”

But then his words of promise come back into his mind. Promise of how he swore as his role to obliterate everything and start the world anew with his own new order, his new vision, his new utopia.

And we could have done it together, Rey.

Regardless, K.R. knows where his duties lie. He gets up, coming closer to Rey’s corpse. Eyes down, he falters under his breath, more solemnly swearing to her than to himself, “I will do what I must, Rey. I know you’d agree with me. And then we can be happy together.”

Caressing her cheek, he gives her one last kiss. “Goodbye…”

“Rey?” The voice of Ben Kenobi inquired. “I heard noises, is everything alright?”

K.R. takes his cue and leaves.

One could only pity the soul of Old Ben once he realised his cherished granddaughter had hung herself. He screams in agony at her suicide, a piercing sound in the stillness of the room. “AHHH!!”

Which miraculously awakens Rey.

Coughing, she tries - and fails - to form coherent sentences. “No, grandpa, n--” Another rushed breath. “This-- is not what it looks like-- Grandpa,” she jabbers. “I’m so sorry--” More coughs .“It was just a joke-- I’m so sorry, It-- Was just a-- joke. Just a joke. I’m so sorry...”

Kenobi stands there, held by some unknown force of confusion - or shock - and a whole mix of emotions fighting in his head. He watches as she drops down, opening her blazer to reveal the sheets tied around her waist. Trapped in a state of stupefaction, afraid to shatter the reality he sees in front of him, Rey tries again, more softly this time.

“Grandpa?”

Fortunately, although almost whispered, it manages to shake him out of his numbness and straight into his fury. “It’s not funny!” He nags at her.  “Don’t you dare do that again to me, young lady!”

“Yes-- yes, grandpa” Rey squeaks, greatly ashamed yet necessary.

Satisfied with her word, Kenobi eyes her before bidding her a goodnight and proceeding on to his bedroom. Rey breathes a sigh of relief. That’s one problem handled. Now… How do I stop K.R?

[trendingnewsb]

What Does Anxiety Feel Like? (Types and Symptoms of the Invisible Killer)

At some stages in their lives, as many as 40 million US adults will experience anxiety disorders. That figure, from a report by the Anxiety & Depression Association of America can practically be doubled when taking into account cases of anxiety from around the world.

Yet despite impacting the lives of so many people from across the globe, anxiety remains a misunderstood illness, particularly among two key groups of people: Those who aren’t sure whether the debilitating symptoms they’re experiencing are a sign of anxiety or not; and those whose friends and loved ones are living with anxiety.

Whichever camp you fall into, those first throes of an anxiety disorder are enough to set your mind racing with questions:

What does anxiety feel like?

How do I know if I actually have it?

What can I do to stop an anxiety disorder ruining my life?

What can I do to support someone else with their anxiety?

Here, we’ll look into the answers to all of the most common questions about the causes, symptoms and solutions of this most misunderstood of mental illnesses.

Anxiety vs. Anxiety Disorder

The most common misconception about this illness is that all anxiety is bad. The truth is, a little bit of anxiety can be helpful.

If we start to get anxious about an important exam or a job interview, for example, that’s our body’s way of reminding us that we should do all we can to be prepared and ensure we get the desired outcome.

This is a gift left to us by our ancestors who needed anxiety to trigger a fight or flight response when faced with all manner of wild beasts and dangerous situations that threatened their very survival.

Today, the dangers we face are unlikely to involve potentially being torn limb from limb by a wild beast, but we do still need the fight or flight response to help us make decisions about the best way to survive. If the building we are in catches fire, for example, anxiety is the thing that says “Hey, you know what? We’d better get out of here!”

However, problems arise when our brains and bodies start acting as if we are in a burning building even when we are perfectly safe. In other words, when the level of anxiety we feel is disproportionate to the danger (or in most cases lack of danger) we are in.

When this happens, we are faced with what’s called an anxiety disorder, which can take many different forms.

Different types of anxiety disorders

Whilst a number of common symptoms can occur with all types of disorders, it would be unhelpful to simply give you one blanket answer to the most important question we are addressing here: What does anxiety feel like?

The truth is that different anxiety disorders occur for different reasons, typically bringing about their own (occasionally overlapping symptoms). If we’re going to tackle your anxiety or that of someone you care about, it’s helpful to look at some of the most common anxiety disorders in turn.

General Anxiety Disorder (GAD)

This is the most common form of anxiety disorder. It’s what a lot of people typically think of when they think of anxiety. Affecting one in five American adults at some stage in their lives, GAD is typically more common in women, but that doesn’t mean to say men are immune from it.

Unlike other forms of disorders which can be triggered by a single situation or event, GAD usually leaves you feeling anxious about lots of different things on a regular basis, possibly even every single day.

Experts suggest a wide range of causes for GAD, ranging from an imbalance of Serotonin and noradrenaline to traumatic experiences and substance abuse, though it frequently occurs for no specific reason.

What we can be certain of are the signs and symptoms of General Anxiety Disorder. At a physical level, these can include:

Shortness of breath

Tight chest

Muscle tension

Irregular heartbeat

Insomnia

Trembling or shaking

Meanwhile, the mental and emotional side of GAD can leave you feeling restless and permanently “on edge,” as though your body were overrun with adrenalin. Some people with GAD also report feeling a general sense of doom and despair, or even anger.

Panic Disorder

As the name suggests, someone with a panic disorder will have regular panic attacks even if those attacks aren’t triggered by anything in particular.

Panic attacks can be intense, coming up on you seemingly from out of nowhere and completely paralyzing you.

Though the fear and stress that arise when you go through a panic attack can be incredibly powerful, it’s the physical sensations of an attack that are the most overwhelming. These sensations might include:

Feeling choked or short of breath

Hyperventilating

Feeling like your heart is pounding so hard it might burst through your chest

Chest pains

Tingling sensations/pins and needles

Ringing in your ears

Dizziness

Feeling incredibly hot and sweating.

The intensity of these physical changes can be terrifying and leave you feeling like something terrible is going to happen to you. The good news is that although it may seem as though an attack is lasting forever, most dissipate within twenty minutes and nothing bad will happen to you as a result.

Social Anxiety Disorder

Not to be mistaken with simply shyness or an introverted personality type, Social Anxiety Disorder is a crippling fear of social situations. This doesn’t just mean big occasions like parties or being around large groups, but everyday situations like going to the supermarket or even talking on the telephone.

Experts have suggested that this disorder, also known as Social Phobia, can be caused by a combination of both physical and environmental factors ranging from an imbalance of Serotonin (the brain chemical that regulates mood) to a past history of being bullied or sexually abused. However, like most mental health issues, an exact cause remains largely unknown.

What we do know, is what Social Anxiety Disorder feels like. People with this order usually feel an immense amount of dread about situations which involves interacting with other people. This may be so bad that they avoid such situations altogether.

If you have Social Phobia and you do go into social situations, you may have the overwhelming feeling that people are watching you all the time, or be constantly worried about doing something embarrassing.

Other common symptoms include:

Avoiding eye contact

Low self-esteem

Feeling sick

Feeling incredibly hot and sweating

Trembling and shaking

Panic attacks

Phobic Disorders

Social phobias are typically classed as a phobic disorder, as are some of the more widely-known phobias such as Claustrophobia (fear of small spaces) and Arachnophobia (fear of spiders). Any persistent fear and avoidance of a specific thing or situation can be classed as a phobia disorder, particularly if it impacts a person’s ability to function on a day-to-day level.

Though we often think of phobias as “irrational” fears, this isn’t always the best word to describe them. For someone living with this disorder, the phobia is often the result of a traumatic event, making it -to them- completely rational.

What does anxiety feel like in this case?

The most overwhelming feeling is, of course, that of absolute fright when confronted by the fear-inducing object or situation, even if it’s only a picture, video or someone talking about it. This fright can manifest itself physically, often in the form of a panic attack, with much of the same symptoms as listed above.

In instances where the phobia is so bad that it limits a person’s ability to function and enjoy life such as social phobia or agoraphobia (fear of open spaces), it can also lead to crippling depression and other long-term issues.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)

Thankfully, much more is known about PTSD these days than there was just a few years ago. It is now widely regarded as one of the most crippling of anxiety disorders.

As the name implies, PTSD is caused by going through an incredibly traumatic or stressful event, often leaving the person to experience night terrors and/or flashbacks.

Given the high number of military personnel reported to have PTSD, it is tempting to think of it as only affecting those who have served in combat, though that isn’t the case. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder can impact those who have experienced a wide variety of distressing situations including:

Sexual abuse

Domestic violence

Terrorist attacks

Road traffic accidents

Robberies and assaults

Along with vivid re-experiencing of the traumatic event itself, PTSD symptoms also include:

Insomnia

Hyperarousal (being constantly on the lookout for threats)

Difficulty focusing

Becoming isolated and withdrawn as a coping mechanism to avoid feeling the pain of PTSD

What can I do if I (Or someone I care about) Have an anxiety disorder?

Anxiety disorders are treatable, and there are lots of things you can do to stop anxiety from impacting your quality of life. Here, we will look at some of the most common anti-anxiety activities, strategies and techniques you could put to work from today.

Self-help tips

1. Limit caffeine and alcohol

Both substances can lead to heightened anxiety and even cause panic attacks.

2. Try chamomile tea

Chamomile tea has wonderful soothing properties that can make you feel calm and relaxed, and even help you sleep.

3. Exercise

Never underestimate the power of getting active when it comes to combating anxiety.

If social anxiety disorder means you can’t face hitting the gym, you can always start with a gentle walk, riding a bike or even practising yoga at home.

That said, anything that gets you out in the fresh air is going to do you the world of good. Any chance you can take to get active outdoors will boost your mood and leave you naturally more tired. This can be very helpful if your anxiety is causing you insomnia and other sleep issues.

4. Try breathing exercises, yoga, and/or meditation

There’s a reason so many mental health professionals recommend breathing exercises and meditation to combat anxiety — they’re incredibly effective.

Youtube is full of videos offering breathing and meditation techniques, though if you are feeling up to it, you might want to consider finding a local meditation or yoga group. The chances are that you will find other people who joined for the same reason as you did and can build a valuable support network of people who really ‘get it.’

Treatment

5. Talk to your doctor

Depending on the type of anxiety you are dealing with, some doctors may write a prescription for powerful medication that can reduce anxiety. Of course, not everybody wants to go down the route of getting medicated, but that shouldn’t stop you from making an appointment.

In fact, for many, visiting the doctor can be the first opportunity they get to open up about their issue. This in itself can be a big help. Your doctor may also be able to make a referral for other forms of treatment, such as therapy.

6. Cognitive Behaviour Therapy (CBT)

Highly effective in tackling anxiety disorders, CBT is a directive, hands-on approach to therapy in which your therapist will help you develop useful skills and strategies for managing and reducing the impact of your anxiety so that you can live a fulfilling and happy life.

Anxiety doesn’t have to control your life

Though anxiety may feel like an all-consuming terror tearing through people’s lives, even at its worse it can’t physically kill anyone. That said it can control your life to such an extent that it kills off any sense of enjoyment or fulfilment that you would otherwise get from being alive.

But it doesn’t have to be this way.

Far from being an invisible killer that keeps you locked up inside your own home (or, worse, inside your own mind), anxiety can be controlled, reduced and even eliminated entirely.

One day, one step, one moment at a time, you too can free yourself from the clutches of anxiety and begin to really make the most of life in a way you may never have dreamed possible.

Featured photo credit: pixabay via pixabay.com

The post What Does Anxiety Feel Like? (Types and Symptoms of the Invisible Killer) appeared first on Lifehack.

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[paddymurraypoetry-blog]

Twenty Two years For This? A Collection of Poems

Poetry

7/9/2017

All the joy has been depleted Continued happiness is fleeting  Each day has me believing   That I should be deleted. Swirling, sober or drunk, thoughts, A moon shaped pool, ought  To describe what I've bought:   A purpose for this life! Naught! Dragging days, rushed ride dings, Thousands of off time mood swings.  "These are a few of my favorite things,"   I'm not Julie Andrews, I no longer sing.  First attempt to regain creativity! This' my Renaissance, my nativity,  "This'll work out fine," pure insanity   I'm sorry to all my friends, my family.

    Dawn, The beginning to every morning, To everyone's, I want you for my own, I doubt anyone else is this happy to see you, A smile forms before my eyes open, The blue birds brought me your message, "How are you?" a great way to wake up. The days are easier when speaking to you, Songs have beautiful new dynamics, Food has several new savory flavors, The sun's rays are not so harmful, Hell, people are tones more bearable,  And work barely ever feels like it! Thank you for loving my quirks, Thank you for all of your concerns, Being here doesn't seems so hard, When I hear from you, it warms my heart! Dawn, The thing I feverishly wait for, Night isn't nearly as colorful as the day, I barely hear from you at all then. The smile earlier turns to a heavy frown, The blue birds stopped soaring long ago, "How are you?" now has a different answer. Nights are tougher not speaking to you, Songs now all sound like discord, Food becomes another coping method, The Moon's rays aren't as charming, People are the last thing I want near me, Work continues at home, it's my life. I am sorry for never opening up, I am sorry if I rushed us to be more, Being here is harder than ever before, This feeling I have for morning breaks my heart.

    Last Chance Thoughts on a Country Road (Poem #4) Red telephone towers, Stretching beyond sight Oceans of green, And blinding sunlight. Hoping for obstruction, Some sort of beam, Ongoing construction, Split me at the seams. Can I go now? Should I go now? Dead deer decaying, Isolated blacktop, Altima now swaying, No signs to STOP Lonely country road I love your grace. One last solid day Be my resting place! Can I go now? Should I go now? Blue telephone rings, Mother is calling, Dinner must be ready, Now I am stalling. Is this what I want? Should this be? Racing to my own end, But she loves me. Should I go now? Can I go now?

           Dare to Speak my Dream? (Poem #6) Vivid dreams of your divinity, Hopefully occupy me for infinity. Oh please be in my vicinity, Is it wrong to feel sanguinity? Maybe one day we'll hold hands, Observe the sky and make plans, Have some kids and buy some land, Full of lush evergreen away from the sand. How do I approach your semblance? Those rosy cheeks in my remembrance. Can we sing together then dance? Your cerulean eyes locking me in a trance. My tongue will not let me speak, The task is too daunting, too bleak. These stirrings have caged my beak, But would you prefer if I take the leap?

     Beat Me New (poem #7) Beat me blue, Smack me around, Burn that insignia and watch it brown. Choke me tight, Hug me firm, Torture this man and watch him squirm. Strike me quick, Set me ablaze, Burn this Gardenia in a haze. Stomp me out, Call me brash, Mix the mulch with the burning ash. Cast me far, Drown me deep, Submerge the fool with all his grief. Rinse me well, Hang me dry Use this shadow then cast it aside. Break me down, Build me anew, Reshape the being with physical ques. Hold me back, Push me forward, Drag this shy clown from the corner. Kiss me long, Give me more, Divulge in the madness til you're sore. Love me now, Love me then, Love that crazy character until the end.

Streams (poem #9) art by Kevin Haley Seeping through the days haze I flow down the city sewer  On my way to the great ocean I lose a piece of my identity. Jealous of the Sting Rays and Trout I've taken a brand new form Their freedom is what I most desire So long my Christian name, I'm gone. Sludge and shit sift through my stream Maybe I am not meant to have a life Purposely flowing to build up others Sacrificing clarity for sincerity.  I am now together with Big Blue Surgically attached, expanding its size Now I realize all streams flow together One's identity is never just that of itself.

        Sing (Do we?) (Old poem) Do we, oh do we sing? How well does the ear hear? Does the music sting? Or is that just fear? Raspy the lyrics leave The pink oral abode, To find a sea To unload the ode. Do we, oh do we sing? How well does it taste? Does the music swing? Or has it gone to waste?

            Personal (poem #11) Most days I don't touch an instrument Most days I can't hear the sentiment  Most days I can't see the love Most days I can't taste your push and shove Most days I can't smell the motivation Most days I just hate the stagnation Few days I feel truly inspired Few days I smell beauty in burnt tires Few days I savor the fleeting high Few days I grasp that leprechaun "Joy" Few days I hear excitement, Oh boy Few days I crumble like the city of Troy But don't worry about this golden goose The karats don't weigh my wings down The luster blinds all potential seekers As I flap towards the brighter future But don't worry if I don't go the distance Through repentance I've accepted my existence

          Garden Shed, Rotten Soil (poem #11?) Piece together tranquility, With sedative​ memory trickery. Thoughts grow from fertility; The mind is made of garden soil. Enter my garden shed, Root around for root killers Sprays of self-doubt, Shovels formed out of depression. Ransack the toolbox of seeds, They must be planted with ease, Blooming under warm UV light, Soon the thoughts will be ripe. Too long have these plants died Never maturing to positive rays. Go back to my garden shed I must Plant new seeds for the next Spring. Harvest comes and goes with haste For none of these plants are ready Bogged down by heavy rains and cold Shriveled from mistreatment, my scold. But the patch will see a resurgence, Too long have these plants died. Introduce a sedative to the mind, The soil will soften in time for Spring.

       Hello Friend (poem) Seated in the presence​ Of your one true menace Witness the ovation, standing At attention with persistence.  Do this, do that he says A figure of darkness my guess, Guess you should be the guest Of his marvelously devious jest. Ask him your true role The mark, as borrowing as a mole The purpose you want, the sole Reason you live and more. The figure lends his voice, Giving you no manner of choice "This is your life's meaning boy, Find it in yourself to rejoice!" He leaves and you are askew, For anxiety runs and runs through The streets of your mental compass; You'll never know how to process

These thoughts, these doubts Cumulous like those clouds They'll stick by your side now Until you kick the bucket and bow.

       The End (The last poem I write) The lines are there but I won't draw them They are for another day When I fully give in to Doubt And let him reside fully in my mind. I love you all, but he is always here Driving me over speed limits Past red lights to certain dread. He takes ME for a ride when I'm not ok Then calls my friends in a freak-out foray. I feel like I should embrace Death itself And rid myself of this confounded hell. Every minute is agony on my brain, I'm sorry friends, I can't deal with the strain. Think kindly, or think resentfully  For I wish I was able to battle freely, These lines are etched, traced over my bones Time to cut them loose or set them in stone.

           Resentful Blessings (new poem) I'm sorry father. I realize now how much of a bother, me and my brother, who I do not treat as a brother, have been to you and mother. My mother, who only smothers my brother and I, with love and pride, is the main reason I have not yet died. Resentful is my deal, but blessed is how I truly feel. You never said I love you, you never said I'm proud of you two. That sounds horrible, and it very well may be incorrigible, but Dad, that is you! The rigid man with the heavy soul boots. I'm sorry father, for we are now growing roots farther. This apple has rolled, miles from the tree hoping to be sold. We could not be more different, for I do not reward resistance. I give my love and affection, things you won't find even with detailed directions.

        Remember Mother? (New poem) Remember the porcelain tub Mother? Remember how you used to wash me Crafting bubbles for my amusement? Remember the good times Mother? Remember showing me your favorite stories Filling my head with so much wonder? Remember the doctor's Mother? Remember all the things they said Allergic to outdoor life no matter where? Remember the separation Mother? Remember when father was removed Cast off by you for torturing both of us? Remember my visit Mother? Remember me flying across the nation To see you in person on that vacation? Remember when I was alive Mother? You found me in that porcelain tub Curled up with Fitzgerald's works Not breathing, this time not to allergies Still feeling the abuse father bestowed  Not reveling in that vacation, or you.

  Convenience (poem) I met the most wonderful woman So open, like a 24 hour convenience store. However, nothing about her is convenient. Any time of day she's got the door open, but I refuse to enter the quaint shop. Why do I believe my money is no good? Everything I want, need is located there, but I choose the inconvenience.  Running down the asphalt away from it, from her and the welcoming florescent glow. What's wrong with me? What's wrong with I? Casting myself out of the greatest role, for fear of never earning my own Oscar. The Pearly Gates squeak for me up above, "What a pour soul, torturing himself." Fuck those gates, I want in her corner store, yet I choose the supermarket during the day. Forgettable, lonely, large yet also empty inside, I could have had what I needed last night. Shot in the foot?  More like a bullet in the head. Racing away from openness straight home, wishing the convenience store best of luck. Find the right patron miss, find them well. "My money is no good there," I tell myself.

    Irony (poem) I hate the ocean, but I'm always out at sea, Staring blankly across the vast cerulean plains, Yet underneath me is a slab of dirty cement, I have always been planted on solid ground, Why does my mind travel to the places I despise? Visions of desperation flash past my brown eyes, I reach out, but the air has no physical shape, I am just merely pushing oxygen side to side, I realize I am drowning on land, how's that so? That oxygen I disturbed has flown away, Swept off by the actions of my own doing, Looking up, the cotton candy clouds laugh, Holding in the rain I so desperately want, The sun no longer matches my bright outfit: My canary shirt and blinding ivory sneakers, Misrepresent the arguments in my own kopf, Without a paddle I remain lost out at sea, The place I despise the most with no recourse, The far reaches of space escape my sight, I taste the salt that also burns my sweaty skin, How cruel God is to the fish, What did they do wrong? Trapped in the water which they need to survive, Yet here I am, unable to breathe the delicious air A fish out of water unable to stand due to despair.

  Covering (poem) What is this flabbiness? It stares at me through the mirror. What useless covering it is. All my blood flows underneath. The veins of life pop out. Patches of hair randomly scattered. What is this fleshiness? It's wearing me at this point. I want to peel it off, free the bones from the stickiness. I despise staring at it, who would want to peer at it. I admire others' coverings. How more perfect it is than mine. I want a brand new disguise, I want to obtain another identity. Scrubbing the dirt stains away, I envy those who can touch, skin of their partner, against the skin of themselves.

      Exit 36 (poem) Vastly approaching is exit 25, 11 more then I'll have to merge, I asked the girlfriend to lose some weight, "Where do you get off?" Guard rails as far as 20/20 vision can see, The buffer keeping me from the Pine wild, Who cares if we tear down all this green, "Where do you get off?" Troopers camp out next to the camp grounds, Scanning the heaps of metal flying past, Flying at 90 I barely see the flag lights flash, "Where do you get off?" Two more exits until I arrive at home base, No girlfriends, activists, nor troopers, All this time it's about me, me, ME! Everything is owed, better have it hand delivered! Shed those pounds dear not those tears, Cut those trees down, soon you won't hear 'em, Issue that ticket sir, I fucking crave it! I will take any exit to fulfill sadistic needs. Feed me the cries Hun, send me to the pen, Chop it all down so the name is only Barren, Wails of sirens and betrayal stab the drums, My actions have consequences that I can't outrun. Where do I get off? Where do I get off?

     Warmth Warm towel out of the dryer, Please transport me back in time. Mother's love is no liar, "Honey you'll be fine, you'll be fine" Whispers floating in winter's air, Louder than the voices inside my head. Changing winds like mother’s hair, Cracking the skin of faces bare. Help me mother for I have sinned! Or is it father I should have told? Hung up on a clothesline, pinned! Due to freeze from past wrongs now cold. With the dryer no longer emitting heat, The Arctic breeze regains its control, But mother's warmth isn't easily beat, She taught her Son how to melt the snow.

             Recreation (poem) Shoestring twists  Caked in sludge batter Return of the Red Eyes Excuse the stoner laughter These cheeks are inflated Music keeps me elated Blonde dome rising A dank balloon gliding Having lost grip of the string Two hours ticked by Floating down from the high My skin has shed, sober again

            Drop-out [Dedicated to you asshole] (poem) You dropped out of life. Two kids, faulty future up ahead Scraping nickels together last night Just to feed his family tonight. You dropped out of college. Took several courses online But never actually finished the race Yet boasts his unsuccessful accomplishments. You dropped out of dreams. Just due to having to now provide Busting your shoulders to grinded dust For a few bucks and no dreams You dropped out of my life. Spit on me when I picked my school Smacked me when depression came to stay Squashed the miniscule love I still offered. You dropped out of life. Judging others because you hate your choices Drunk each day with fierce regret Burying yourself deep while we all still live.

   Straightforward Delusions (poem) Sometimes I want to chuck it Far past the reaches of vision The happiness, the great joy Trade it for the rustic gloom Because what do I deserve? Hand grenade with no pin Tuck that away for another day Catastrophes caused by I Sometimes I fail to grasp it Far beyond my comprehension Stick a fork in me and twist it Bop the wonderment right out Exorcise these glorious angels I hate dragging myself to hell But I can't tow away another soul As I board Satan's elevator Sometimes I need to abandon Freeze the beef of my emotions Rotten the fruits of my labors Cast away Hanks of all shapes too You earn what you obtain here Captured fish, career with a degree I hate that I go on murder sprees Eradicating my bliss due to my fears

         Wet Floor (poem) I slipped again, but I'm fine, No "Wet Floor" sign this time, Crashing down I feel it, Sharp pains and bones have split, My head bounced off the tile, Maybe this time I'll file, Damages definitely need to be paid, To cover up that I am afraid, Never will I step foot in here again, The home of a once dear friend.

                 Grief's Angel She swoons to the sounds of the leaves Rustling in the cool night breeze  Dancing in the radiance of the moon This is her favorite time to move Breathtaking is the sight The charcoal haired angel of the night Stealing my heart like a common thief Causing me insurmountable grief  We were once together long ago Loving and laughing, now just sorrow Each day was spent frolicking through the fields But she stabbed my heart with cold sharp steel Observing her beauty I notice her steps Her blood red lips and bright white dress Popping out of the dark night abyss Holding her tight, oh how I miss Twirling around she sways to and fro She begins to hum a song, that gorgeous swallow A smile forms upon her pretty semblance Striking up a past remembrance Torturing every lover she ever had Those men were driven to become mad It is her pleasure and source of entertainment Watching them turn into insane men Each love aged like that of the leaves Crunchy and brown and dropped from the trees Why did she play such abominable games Breaking their hearts and soiling their names This radiant angel, once mine before others Swoons to her song without any troubles I gaze over and watch her steps repeat As blood rushes down, and I deplete​

   Circulatory China Shop (Poem #5) This super glue won't fix us Neither will masking tape Duct tape is just as useless While putty won't take shape I am the bull, I am at fault The China's smashed  The past cemented  The future now and forever is affected The Humid summer air is putrid Sticky streets and vanishing cumulous  Don't look at the yellow-green sky Love's in the air and I got no invite I am the bull, I am at odds Charging too fast Too slow to catch Will somebody give this animal a chance?

[sassyloudfatale-blog]

Today, I walked.

Today, I walked going home. 

Today, I walked the 2.7 kilometer distance from my office all the way to my home. 

Today, I walked listening to Bruno Mars’ album waiting for When I Was Your Man to play.

Today, I walked feeling all the pain, hurt and anger inside me. 

I walked remembering how he said he needed space two days ago. How he said he’s fed up with me. How he said he’s already tired of us. 

He gave up on me. 

After 3 years and 6 months of roller coaster love, he finally had lost his patience and decided to walk out of my life and return to his man cave, an action to which he sugarcoated as “space”. 

When he said he would never get tired of me a few years back, when he said he wanted me to be his last, when he said he’ll take care of me, when he said I was the second most important girl of his life, next to his mom and sister, when he said that no matter how crazy I get, how moody I become, no matter what happens, he won’t give up on me, and I believed him. 

A few years ago, I was this strong woman who had built up her high wall, protecting herself from getting hurt. I never get attached. I don’t let anyone get too close with me. I am allergic to sweetness. No one can put me down. No one can hurt me. I know for sure, that time, I was indestructible. 

I don’t like him at all. Year 2013, we started off as employees sharing the same office. He’s from another department and I was from a different one. Our own worlds were totally apart. We were not friends. I hated him even. To me he was just a conceited assh*le who belonged to a group of guys who judged me for being noisy and loud at the office. I always knew his group never liked me being the sassy b*tch that I always was. We rarely talked. There were times when I need to talk to him due to a project were both working together. And I never enjoyed it. I dreaded it every single f*cking time. My thinking at that time  is ‘I know you don’t like me but do I look like I care?’

He was a typical bad boy. One who never gets a haircut, listens to loud rock/metal music (you’ll hear it every time he arrives at the office despite his headphones), comes in late in the office, most of the time just a few hours before the end of working shift (6PM), and always gets drunk no matter what day it is. 

He was everything...I never wanted from a guy.  

Then one day he talked to me. He asked me a random question and being surprised was an understatement at that time. I felt weird for a second and when I finally recovered, I answered him with a sassy remark. I never thought that that would be the start. 

Random. That was how I describe our love story. 

He slowly crept his way to become close to me in the most random moments possible.

He started talking to me, looking at me and even greeted me a few times, randomly. 

His teammates/friends would start teasing us during office huddles and that weirded me out. I always thought that they are just being playful. I knew everyone from my team thought as well. 

Looking back at that time, the chance of us liking each other (or him liking me) can be compared to salad and ice cream being eaten together. It doesn’t make any sense. 

The teasing have increased and day by day, it became obvious to me. The fat chance of him liking me suddenly became a possibility and I never accepted/acknowledged that. 

Until he decided that he was serious in letting me know. He added me on Facebook, I didn’t accept his request until after a month. He voluntarily joined me in my after work run, wherein I almost ditched him at the beginning. He messaged me daily, to which I never always replied. 

Little by little, due to his persistence, I started developing feelings for him. He cut his long hair when I said I don’t like guys who have long hair and that’s the time I totally saw him in a different light.  

One day, I told him that I loved him. 

Again, it was a random moment, and yet everything felt right. 

The first few months were pure bliss. All things were bright and beautiful to the heart who finally found her match. Funny how we both find “us” perfect when we were totally different. We were literally like magnets, positive and negative poles that attract each other. 

On our first few months, I still have my wall. Standing strong, still protecting me from pouring my hearts contents.  He never made it past. He was always saying/asking why I was never sweet. Why he was always the clingy one. Why he was like the girl in our relationship. 

However, as the months passed, with each loving moment with him, I took out each brick of my strong wall one by one. 

The wall that protected me from getting hurt, was finally destroyed by no one else but me. 

I showed him who I am, my weaknesses and my secrets. 

I showed him a side of myself that no one else has ever seen. I shared my doubts, my insecurities and my greatest fears. 

The once independent woman became dependent. 

The once strong confident woman became a weak girl who always needed his words of encouragement. 

I suddenly became needy of his time, attention and love. To which made him take me for granted. 

Little by little, I lost myself in our love. 

He was a great guy. The greatest even. He loved me for who I am and accepted all my flaws. He showed me that he can change. That he can set aside his pride for me. Many times he apologized, regardless if the fault is his or mine. 

He made me feel that I was the luckiest girl in the world. That our love was one of the greatest thing in the universe. 

But change came and f*cked every single thing that we have. 

He slowly took me for granted. He slowly spent less time with me, more time drinking with his friends. He slowly showed less attention to me, more time playing with his phone. He stopped travelling with me, telling me that he never liked it in the first place. He stopped going out on dates with me, and just always wanted to sleep at home. He slowly became distant. I felt like everything has changed and that we became a couple who was slowly deteriorating. Or maybe that’s just how I felt. 

Many times I’ve brought up these issues to which he never took seriously. He always thinks I’m just being crazy or moody or just plainly overthinking. 

He always think that there’s no problem to our relationship. He’s happy with the way it is. Which makes me a a b*tch who doesn’t want get contented with what we already have. 

But I still tried. I gave everything I got. I wanted us to continue discovering new things similar to what we are doing before. I never wanted the spark to leave us. I never wanted us to stop. 

Suddenly the roles have changed. I became the clingy one. I became the sweet one. I became the girl in our relationship. And it made us fall apart.

Two days ago, he told me he was tired. He was tired of me always looking for his faults in our relationship.

He told me he was fed up with me. Fed up from hearing my rants, fed up of me insisting us to do this and that. 

He needed space, that’s what he said. He needed space to think. About us and about our relationship. 

It broke my heart into pieces. 

I felt hurt, I felt sad and most of all I felt betrayed. 

When all I wanted is to bring back the old times, never have I thought I was already destroying the present. 

He was that one guy whom I trusted the most, whom I loved the most, whom I prayed for every single night to be my last and yet he gave up on me. 

And now, after all that has been said and done, I no longer know if it is still worth the fight. 

All I know is that, right now, I need to start building up my wall, the one that I destroyed for him, and this time my wall will be even more stronger than it was before.