#he is seized in perpetual screaming torment

[arabella-strange]

and another thing!!! [just cos I fucking hate this guy — I hate his hair, I hate his vibe, I hate his actions, I hate his millennium-long murder spree, I hate his cross-campaign bullshit, I hate his face]

one word:

ORB.

Hey, Ludinus? Go fuck yourself. FCG is dead — so many people are dead, but let's focus for a second on something that happened very recently: FCG is dead — not because he died clinging to the Changebringer or the illusion of the Gods, but because he wanted to choose the course of his own (very alive) life. Fuck you.

[agentrouka-blog]

Rhaego The Malformed

Okay, so we know Rhaego came out looking like this:

“Monstrous,” Mirri Maz Duur finished for him. The knight was a powerful man, yet Dany understood in that moment that the maegi was stronger, and crueler, and infinitely more dangerous. “Twisted. I drew him forth myself. He was scaled like a lizard, blind, with the stub of a tail and small leather wings like the wings of a bat. When I touched him, the flesh sloughed off the bone, and inside he was full of graveworms and the stink of corruption. He had been dead for years.” (AGOT, Daenerys IX)

While the blood magic may have killed him (since he was alive and kicking in Dany’s womb and visibly grew), it’s likely, he always looked like this, because GRRM tells us it happened before. 

Maegor the Cruel did it twice.

ALYS OF HOUSE HARROWAY (…) She was the first woman to become pregnant by the king in the year 48 AC, but she lost the babe soon after. What was expelled from her womb was a monstrosity, eyeless and twisted, and in his fury Maegor blamed and executed her midwives, septas, and the Grand Maester Desmond. (…)

ELINOR OF HOUSE COSTAYNE (…)  She, too, became pregnant, and like Alys before her, she gave birth to a stillborn abomination said to have been born eyeless and with small wings. She survived that monstrous labor, however, and was one of the two wives who survived the king. 

(A World of Ice and Fire - The Targaryen Kings: Maegor I)

Considering these examples, Rhaego may even always have been destined to be stillborn, and it was only his unborn life that was traded. 

What would Drogo have done if he had remained uninjured and that prophecy Stallion baby had come out this way? Blind and malformed? Would Rhaego have even survived the day of his birth? Would Dany have?

This was never going to end well for Dany. And it’s not Mirri that doomed her, nor even Viserys. It’s the fact that she is the product of generations of rampant, abusive incest practices meant to preserve the dark blood magic that had been cooked up in ancient Valyria. That blood magic was always about power and oppression: fire and blood. Slavery and conquest. Destruction and death. And occasionally it would bite back in this way: the refusal of new life. 

The same source of Dany’s own power, her dragon blood, is the source of her doom. She literally never had a chance to create life out of her own body. With a different childhood, she could have found something else to fulfill her, but - again - her Targaryen family prevented that. Like the Lannisters they self-perpetuate their cruelty and abuse. On and on and on. 

It is so bitter. 

But at least now I’m even more certain that there won’t be another Targcest baby. Even if Jon has to debase himself with Dany, it would ultimately be fruitless. 

Mirri’s “prophecy” is smoke and mirrors in every sense, because, actually, Dany already rejected Drogo’s return herself. 

If she died here, Dany wondered, would the horse god of the Dothraki part the grass and claim her for his starry khalasar, so she might ride the nightlands beside her sun-and-stars? Or would the angry gods of Ghis send their harpies to seize her soul and drag her down to torment? 

(ADWD, Daenerys IX)

Followed by...

She called until her voice was hoarse … and Drogon came, snorting plumes of smoke. The grass bowed down before him. Dany leapt onto his back. She stank of blood and sweat and fear, but none of that mattered. "To go forward I must go back," she said. Her bare legs tightened around the dragon's neck. She kicked him, and Drogon threw himself into the sky. Her whip was gone, so she used her hands and feet and turned him north by east, the way the scout had gone. Drogon went willingly enough; perhaps he smelled the rider's fear.

In a dozen heartbeats they were past the Dothraki, as he galloped far below. To the right and left, Dany glimpsed places where the grass was burned and ashen. Drogon has come this way before, she realized. Like a chain of grey islands, the marks of his hunting dotted the green grass sea.

A vast herd of horses appeared below them. There were riders too, a score or more, but they turned and fled at the first sight of the dragon. The horses broke and ran when the shadow fell upon them, racing through the grass until their sides were white with foam, tearing the ground with their hooves … but as swift as they were, they could not fly. Soon one horse began to lag behind the others. The dragon descended on him, roaring, and all at once the poor beast was aflame, yet somehow he kept on running, screaming with every step, until Drogon landed on him and broke his back.

 (ADWD, Daenerys X)

She herself makes the choice. No horse gods, no starry khalasar, no sun-and-stars. The grass burns, the horses burn, the riders flee.

It was never about hinting at a future successful pregnancy, or even dying in childbirth. It was about rejecting Drogo’s return entirely. Dany doesn’t need Drogo. She traded him for her dragons. She has become Drogo, she has surpassed him. He will never return. 

No matter that Quentyn, the sun, rose in the west and set in the east. No matter than the Dothraki sea is going dry. Dany miscarries again. She can never have a living child. And she has already chosen the dragon. Again.

And when the bleak dawn broke over an empty horizon, Dany knew that he was truly lost to her. "When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east," she said sadly. "When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When my womb quickens again, and I bear a living child. Then you will return, my sun-and-stars, and not before."

Never, the darkness cried, never never never.

Inside the tent Dany found a cushion, soft silk stuffed with feathers. She clutched it to her breasts as she walked back out to Drogo, to her sun-and-stars. If I look back I am lost. It hurt even to walk, and she wanted to sleep, to sleep and not to dream.

She knelt, kissed Drogo on the lips, and pressed the cushion down across his face. (AGOT, Daenerys IX)

Dany has embraced what her ancestors did to her: power, fire and blood. Bride of fire, daughter of death, mother of dragons. No life. No future. A kiss and a death. 

[sasorikigai]

Scorpion, I dare you to kiss all of the Sub-Zeroes in your immediate vicinity

Send me ��� I dare you to kiss...” + a name or an URL and my muse will have to kiss that character || anonymous, mention of @indulgentia || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ❄️ || Life can be magnificent and overwhelming simultaneously - that had been the whole tragedy of Hanzo Hasashi’s life. Without beauty, love, or danger, it would almost be easy to live, and damn the consequences, as Scorpion moved with the celerity of his heat and heart’s force. For his relationship with Sub-Zero had not only birthed out of convenience, proximity, or chemistry alone. He needs more than the person’s physical presence to maintain a meaningful connection, for everything that remains speak of the metaphysicality of captivating, ensorcelling gravitation, as Scorpion has felt the sensation of being breathless and weak, crumpled by the entrance of another person inside his mind and soul. 

Even when Hanzo Hasashi’s soul was set in eternal darkness, in stifled frustration and grief with the irreversible fact that he could not be in the Shirai Ryu and his family’s stead; he had risen in blossoming light and effulgent flames. The taste of his love that bestows Kuai Liang in such a stark resemblance of his brutal devotion and raw honesty, for this love has taken a life of its own. It lives, it breathes, and dreams of nothing, but Sub-Zero in both night and day, as Hanzo lets himself be filled with luscious and loving and full of tenderness and passion. That mystery, that combination, that purely living miracle; tenderness and lust rolling and rolling into one as he adheres to his paperwork out of necessity than productivity. He considers going out for a run around the Compounds, listen to the nature’s quelling music and write without any distractions, but decides to meditate and keep Sub-Zero in the center of his conglomerating thoughts. 

The minutes not spent in Sub-Zero’s presence are counted impatiently, and time seems much too hurried when his beloved becomes near. All Scorpion can do is savor every moment with him and hope that they span lifetimes and beyond with each other. For they both had conquered Death and Netherrealm together, and their touches, whether vicious fatal blows or tenderest gossamer brushes of their hardened, blemished flesh, every point of contact between them felt and still feels important. A rush of energy and relief, as the ferocious seizing of one another’s corporeal being will elicit the melting, malleable tenderness as the equilibrium of their elements will render both mitigated of their herculean trauma. 

If I were to place my lips upon yours, would the world stop? Would my gaze get lost within your eyes? Hanzo Hasashi’s touch upon Kuai Liang’s skin would trace imagination and reveal lost hearts of both Grandmasters. One that has roamed and found this haven that is each other. For the wretched world may ironically not be quite so cold with Sub-Zero in it, even if but for a little while. For every strife and torment and tribulation would be healed by the panacea of Kuai Liang’s love and sincerity, as Scorpion’s rage-filled flames would be considerably tempered, as the transparent disquietude of stark dualistic sentiments will perpetuate the eternally grimaced visage of the Shirai Ryu Grandmaster. The sudden triad of love, rage, and fear would surmount him every time when they were drifted off, against their desire, with their busy lives and specifically with the rising conflict between the Earthrealm and Outworld. 

With their merged worlds set ablaze in disquietude and usurping threats, Hanzo Hasashi sits, armor-clad, the quiet crackle of flames becoming wreaths against the cool rushing midnight air. As soon as the familiar arctic rush of Kuai Liang’s presence is sensed behind his erect back, in the stark déjà vu in reverse, he lets himself be in complete surrender in the indulgence of heat and passion. The basic instinct of his tenderest side manifesting with the mellowed intensity of his gaze, which swells with dripping hearth embers of love. 

“You have dragged me in the wretched landscape of Netherrealm all over again with your absence,” incredulous eyes shift to his back as Hanzo feels a tentative hand reaching for the nape of his neck, where the plated steel protects the most vulnerable part of his being. He would willingly come undone, mind, body, and soul all, as enthralling sparkle of his eyes flash so radiantly. Hanzo would let himself be collapsed there and then, as gently exhausted body sinking into Kuai Liang in a tight embrace elongates the concept of time and he’s hooked onto Sub-Zero’s lips like a clashing hook of wave and he is immediately blessed with such rhythmic ripple of his ribcage, as such thrilling energy proportionally glows as the expanse of his back quivers in flesh and muscles beneath his garments. “I could not sense your chi, I would have pursued you in your mission should I become aware of your coordinates.” 

In Hanzo Hasashi’s prominent display of dominant control, Kuai Liang matches the all-consuming cadence of passion. Even as the throes of lingering pain perpetuates, the electric pleasure shooting through his gut would mitigate the all too familiar sting of his injuries. The conjugal bond of ferrous sanguine and bruises that clamorously adorn with the spectacle of flesh, bones, and tissues, how Sub-Zero still holds the dazzling crystalline gaze, unmarred and untainted. As his cryomancy would newly blossom in a ray of alluring sapphire, drowning the exquisite ache of kombat, he will relish this corporeal carapace of happiness, even in the throes of ongoing war, which proves as ephemeral blessing in disguise at their both shared and respective hardship. 

The firmness of their sacred, divine love resembles boundless care, as their entangled limbs and two hardened hearts coming together in tender collision would persist infinitely. “I thought about you every day, every day, Kuai Liang,” Hanzo reluctantly parts, as gossamer whispers feel the tender warmth of Kuai Liang’s lips. His charged dark amber eyes collide shut upon endless staccato of their mingling lips, and behind all of his closed darkness behind the welled-up abyss where complete darkness resides, Scorpion lets the light seep into him. 

Concurrently, as Kuai Liang emblems with such souvenirs that would entirely make him Hanzo’s, his own grounding and fevered impression engrains in his mind and etches in his soul. An endless exploration to become ambulatory upon Hanzo’s exposed dark olive flesh, as his hands become shadows contouring and hollowing him out whole. How they would further coalesce and levitate into nothingness as more articles of clothing unrobe from their adhered bodies. “I am without the familiar fear that would lurk so nearly. The fear of my peace shattering, because of my unuttered screams would echo incessantly as it would become an impending reality,” Kuai Liang cradles the swell of Hanzo’s bearded cheeks, as he angles his face to deeply kiss him, a devouring kiss that would linger and enfold into handfuls of pecks, as the baritone chortle escapes from his parted lips. 

“There is no guilt that would render you numb and drowning in throes of despair, nor such helplessness that comes with the unending casket of defeat. We protect and cradle one another, Hanzo, for injustice shakes us to the core and stirs our humanity within. And I will go out of my ways not only as a warrior of Earthrealm, but as a lover in order to never let the stronghold of our love and protectiveness erode and crumble.” ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ❄️ || 

[rosesforshego]

𝓘𝓯 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓜𝔂 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ'ꜱ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ

“August 25th, 2002 8:00 pm.

A metallic telephone, encased in cracked plastic, pressed firmly against the fragile cartilage of an attuned ear, yet she could not decipher the incomprehensible gargle of nonsense, despite its form of familiarity.

A faint groan rumbled within her chest as she attempted to follow the chaotic conversation perpetuated by her twin brothers. On a normal day, she would have followed every word, every major switch in topic, every jump to an irrational conclusion, but no day was ever a normal day in the slums of Lowerton. Her years of raising the twins, or, what her brother would call, training, did not account for this.

Sheila Goodwin slid her manicured finger further into the plastic coils attached to the telephone. Tight-lipped, she clutched the device with white knuckles, struggling to discern her brother's mangled voices as her opposing ear was assaulted with loud, and rather suggestive, sounds that penetrated the thin wall beside her.

She brought the cheap plastic to her lips; her voice, saccharine and sweet, briefly interrupted the boys, just as the second twin tagged-out the first, "Hold that thought."

She detangled her finger from the coils; the phone fumbled within her grasp as her fist collided with the poor excuse for a hideous wall. Why bother building the dividers, anyway? They were much too thin for her liking. But, alas, one swift punch did not challenge the structural integrity of the wall—though, a few shavings of. . . asbestos?. . . coated the raven mane that she liked to call hair. She grimaced, waving her hand in the stale air, her knuckles throbbing beneath the auburn flakes of twenty-year-old paint that clung to her clammy skin. Another moan, another thump, another pound on the wall—this time with the side of her fist. While she may have found the panel that laid between her and her obnoxious neighbor to be useless, she seemed content at its audacity to continue its standing. She did not want to bear witness to the scene that transpired on the other side.

"Will you two cut it out?"

The distant, muffled gargle of an incoherent, enraged scream was the only form of intelligent conversation to greet her.

Her neighbors. They never stopped. Screams of pleasure, screams of agitation for she had ruined their moment of sweet intimacy—didn't matter. Not like she particularly cared about how they perceived her, anyway. And, as the displeasure subsided, she brushed her knuckles against the thread of her jeans, wiping away the carnage from the dents she had made in the plaster. It's not like they had the decency to give her any form of common courtesy, either.

She brushed her nails against the side of her neck; her hair, glued to her skin by a layer of sweat, gracefully slid to her shoulders as she brought the receiver back to her lips, "Sorry, what were you saying?"

A snort. She smiled. "I was just about to ask how your neighbors were holdin' up."

A second voice, only marginally deeper than the first, contributed with a hint of playful laughter, "Looks like you got your answer, Ed."

Fingers comfortably intertwined within the plastic coils once more, she turned a back upon her destruction and sauntered over to her cramped kitchen. The chord stretched, an uncomfortable distance from the device's base, but Sheila paid no attention.

"Yeah, same as always. Why'd you ask?"

"I dunno," Eddie admitted. Truthfully, he hadn't expected a different answer—he just wanted to talk to his sister, "just wanna know how you're settling in."

"Fine," a beat. Her lips tightened, before parting once more in a feeble attempt to convey her displeasure with as little words as possible, "Well—you know. . ."

"Nothing's changed?"

"Nothing."

Silence. She pressed her back into the counter behind her as a faint creak rang in her ear. Her grip tightened, shifting the cracked plastic, while her mouth opened to speak, only for her warm breath to escape without the words that desperately desired to leap from her throat.

Nothing's changed. Years of unrelenting torment have amounted to nothing. Her lips pressed into a frown, deepening the crevices at its corners. A teenage Sheila would be appalled to know that all of her wildest dreams for a fulfilling future led to a run-down apartment in the drug-dealer's den of Lowerton, Colorado. Oh, how the disgusting look of disappointment would seize her ignorant optimism if she were told that, after enduring all of the hardships that nearly annihilated her, life did not loosen the vice grip it held on her sanity. Behind the façade of a promising future stood disillusionment—the painful reality of her crushed fantasies. An unsolicited roommate that had evicted the natural buoyancy of her positive attitude, to then replace the vacancy with its deplorable presence. A roommate she could not evict, herself, no matter how hard she tried.

She was a fool to believe that higher education would give her an edge over life's ruthless battle of wits. She was stupid to think that living in this dilapidated apartment was better than the trashed motel room. She was a complete, utter moron to hope that she could repair the mutilated bonds that she severed between her and Team Go.

Sheila clenched her jaw, suppressing the wail that built within the caverns of her chest. Her brothers didn't need to hear her lamentations. They shouldn't have to carry her burdens.

"So," Eddie's voice, slower and deeper than normal, brought Sheila's disordered thoughts to a halt, "how's that guy doing?"

A sharp intake of a long-awaited breath caught in her throat.

"Wh-which one?"

"Oh—um," Sheila released the breath that she had held within her as a distant Will, what's his name? struggled to break free from the cracked phone.

A distant voice replied with a simple, "Dan".

"Yeah, Dan," the sound of Eddie's comforting voice returned to her grateful ears, "How's Dan doing?"

Her lips pressed together for a moment as she peered at her dirt-filled fingernails, then parted—reluctant to answer, "Dunno. Haven't seen him in a few days."

"Really?"

"Mmhmm."

She pried her skin off of the counter's cool edge, wincing a little as it struggled to part with its apparent lover. A soft gargle made way in her stomach, berating her for withholding the nutrients that it desperately craved. With one hand maintaining phone-to-ear contact, the other carefully wrapped around the enticing handle to the fridge in front of her. Cautiously, she pulled, dutifully reminding herself to cease movement before the door collided with the counter again. One more dent and she could say goodbye to her security deposit—cheap bastards.

A silent, relaxed huff melted away her discontent as chilling air, concocted by the appliance before her, mingled with the humidity that encased her apartment. Sweet relief. But, as she peeked behind the filthy door, the grin that had crept upon her lips faded to a frown.

There was nothing to eat.

"What do you mean?"

She cringed—the coarse edge to William's tone only deepened the intense displeasure that had corrupted her once beautiful smile. She shut the door.

"Haven't seen him lately. Why? Is that a bad thing?"

"I know you don't like him, Sis—"

Her thumbnail dug into her ring finger, flicking accumulated dirt to the floor.

Since when did William Goodwin lecture her on how to be a good person?

"—but he's your neighbor. You should check up on him."

A scoff slipped past her self-control, "Remember the last time I did that?"

". . . right."

A cheery disposition attempted to alleviate the thick tension that manipulated the conversation, "I'm surprised you didn't take the door down with you."

A faint smile tugged at her lips, yearning to be liberated from her scowl, "Yeah, I'm surprised, too."

Eddie was known as the compassionate baby of the Goodwin siblings—with an uncanny ability to read a room, he often possessed a sense of impenetrable, youthful optimism that often saved the broken family from despair. But, while he was the sibling that Go City looked towards for words of comfort, Sheila, in her youth, displayed the same sense of compassion for others. As a superhero, compassion was one of her strengths. As a civilian, it's what sent her lean body through Dan's door.

A crash followed by a deep thump snatched the twin's undivided attention as their sister's contorted body laid upon the shaggy carpet. Dazed, Sheila firmly dug her elbow into the floor as her peripherals were swarmed by the red-headed twins, followed by their clones. She had assured them that she was okay, pulling her weight off of the ground that beckoned her name, but her brothers were not convinced. Reducing their numbers from twenty to two, William and Edward decided amongst themselves that it was their duty to protect their elder sister, no matter the cost, but before they could unleash the hurricane of their chaos onto the unsuspecting neighbor, Sheila grabbed their hands and pulled them beside her.

Dan had swallowed pills, likely laced with a potent drug that Sheila could not pronounce. It would be stupid for them to confront a man who was out of his mind, and she told them as such, forbidding the twins from stepping foot into Dan's apartment. They reluctantly obeyed and combined their strength to help their sister off of the cigarette burns that littered the floor. Sheila, pained from the ordeal, returned to her apartment, but the boys remained immobile as they watched Dan slam his apartment door in their faces. It troubled them to know that a simple, friendly gesture of a hi, how are you? could entice a visceral reaction within the residents of their sister's new complex.

She rotated her shoulders, wincing as the brownish pools that laid beneath her skin shifted along her lean muscles. All her youth, she had been slammed into car doors, thrown against thick walls, and crushed by decaying debris, yet one push against a rickety door sent her searching for her ibuprofen. How strange.

She cradled the phone between her ear and her shoulder as her charred fingertips messaged circles into her tough skin. May not have been the work of a massage therapist, but it would have to do.

"But, seriously," Will's voice grew in clarity as he, presumably, stole the phone from his brother, "you might want to check up on him. Make sure he's. . . alive."

Air slowly exited the passages of her nose, "I think he's fine—"

"He nearly OD'd on crack like, what? Three days ago?"

She shouldn't have told him that.

"Fine," another wince knitted her brows into a tight furrow, "I'll check up on him tomorrow after I get home from work."

"Keep us posted."

There seemed to be a hint of urgency in William's voice. Whether it be from his concern for Dan's well-being or his rational fear of his sister sustaining injuries from his explosive temperament, Sheila was unsure.

Regardless, she made a promise, "I will."

"Oh!" an abrasive voice resounded in her ears. She drew the phone away as her nose scrunched with displeasure, mixed with pain as the sound of Eddie's apparent excitement rang in her eardrum. She loved her brother, but he had to learn how to control his enthusiasm, "Speaking of, are you excited?"

Her features neutralized as she pondered the meaning of his question, "For. . .?"

"Your job?"

"Oh, that," a sheepish smirk crept upon her lips as her gaze remained downcast onto the grimy, tiled floor, "Of course!"

"Do you know what you're doing?"

"Did you meet any of the other teachers?"

"What subject are you teaching?"

"Are you—"

"Whoa, boys," she interrupted, her pounding head swirling with confusion as the twins played a vicious round of 20 Questions, "one at a time."

"Well, okay. Start from the beginning. Tell us everything," Will commanded.

Sheila could only imagine the cheeky grin he'd flash towards Eddie as a faint hint of laughter pushed through the receiver.

"Middleton High offered me a full-time gig," she stated, her hand resting on the counter's smooth edge, "I'll be replacing the psych teacher that just retired. Oh, what was his name?" she squinted as her gaze moved towards the ceiling as if the water stains would give her the answer she sought, "Birch, I think?"

A small giggle gave way to the big question: "Are you excited?"

This was the question she had been anticipating, yet did not know the answer to.

Her first instinct would be to respond with an enthusiastic of course. Middleton High was like her home. During a period of her life, where misery and misfortune robbed her of great opportunities, the Middleton School District threw caution into the wind and took her under their wing. While her substitute position may not have fulfilled her desire to become seasoned faculty, the job was what freed her from her life of living out of motel rooms and, while the apartment may not be any better, at least it was a place that she could call hers, for the time being. But, truthfully, moving from one dank room to the next was not what she loved about her job—it was the kids; the bright, brilliant students that she had grown to love, and who had grown to love her.

Sheila knew the Middleton High halls like the back of her hand; she had developed meaningful relationships with the students; she nearly made herself at home within the dusty classrooms, but she longed for something more. After each shift, as she stepped into her car, she felt her heart beat with a softened pang as she tore herself away from the school and the students, unsure of when she would see them next. In the night, this feeling of uncertainty often ate away at her sanity; kept her by her phone, anticipating the call that would ultimately bring her back to work. Whether it be for the U.S. history course, or English 101, or Intro to Chemistry, Sheila didn't care. All she longed for was to be reunited with the young individuals that she shared a mutual respect with; who she loved with all her heart.

Yet, there was a piece of her pessimistic mind that nagged her. Behind the successes of the student body that Middleton High often loved to showcase stood failures. As a substitute, she was graced with the opportunity to be a fly-on-the-wall—a spy, incognito, who learned of the horrors that had transpired within the halls of the high school. Teenagers can be ruthless and, as Sheila continued to press her ear against the imaginary wall that stood between herself and the full-time faculty, uncertainty seeped into her optimistic attitude. She wasn't sure if she had the strength within her to place another emotional burden onto her aching shoulders.

This job, as she had learned, could effectively make or break her. She hoped for the first but feared the latter.

A deep breath. Inhale, exhale, answer the damn question, "Yeah!"

"Selene, that didn't sound convincing," Will noted.

Fuck.

"Sheila, why are you hesitating?"

She threw her head back in exasperation, her neck cracking at its base.

She had always hated how perceptive the twins were.

"I've just heard about. . . things."

Her fingers found the soothing familiarity of the plastic coil, intertwining themselves in a frenzy to distract her from the anxiety that rose within her chest.

"What things?"

"I dunno. . ." escaped her favored answer for the night. The uncomfortable silence that followed told Sheila that her half-assed response did not satisfy the curiosity of her brothers.

"Look, the other subs talk about how the students treat full-timers. I only caught wind of, like, a piece of the conversation about it, but. . ."

Her voice trailed off into nothing. What else was she supposed to say?

"The students like you, don't they?" Eddie asked.

"Well, yeah, I mean—"

"Then you should be fine," Will reassured her, "What's there to be nervous about?"

The tension that she held within her back released the stronghold it had on her aching muscles as her legs gave out from underneath her. Her descent was a graceful one as her shoulders slid down the length of the cabinet door behind her. She placed her free hand on the ground but retracted the moment her fingers laid upon the tile encased in a layer of disgusting muck.

"Listen, this is my big break and I don't wanna fuck it up."

A slight rustle filled the void of the conversation as Will handed the phone to Eddie. A somber, tight-lipped smile rested upon her lips as she awaited her brother's response.

Though it was not their job to take care of their elder sister, the twins continuously found themselves acting as a supportive comfort in her life, which, as she started to relinquish the idea that she had to be a mother to them, Sheila found their encouragement to be one of the few motivations that made life worth living.

"Mama Sheila," she cringed, her back pressing further into the cabinet. She hated that name, but made no effort to correct Eddie, "you'll do fine! They know you; they love you! Don't doubt yourself."

Sheila was certain that Edward's first words were "love you"—maybe not to her in particular, but his first words, nonetheless. From the moment he had uttered them, she knew he was going to be the compassionate twin—always assuring Team Go that, while they endured tragedies that nearly tore their family to shreds, there was a light at the end of the blackened tunnel; that they—as a family—could emerge victorious from whatever atrocities had befallen them.

If only he was right, then maybe she wouldn't be trapped in the deep hole she had dug for herself.

"Thanks, Evan."

She closed her eyes and imagined his signature, toothy grin.

Oh, how she missed that smile.

"So, Sis," Will interrupted with his curiosities, bringing the conversation back to an earlier topic that was swept under the rug, "what classes are you teaching this semester?"

"Intro to psych and abnormal psychology," a soft smile pierced her somber demeanor. A faint sense of pride started its work on refilling the holes that her perceived inadequacy bore into her sense of self-worth, "Maybe I'll inherit the AP psych course, too. . . eventually."

"Oooh, psychology~," a distant voice struggled to make its way passed the twins, "she remembers all that from college?"

"Is that Michael?"

A pause, followed by a small, synched sigh, "Yes."

"Mel, college wasn't that long ago; I'm not that old."

She grimaced. College was six years ago. She was getting old.

"Whatever you say, Sis."

She pursed her lips; his nonchalant attitude vexed her to the core. And his jokes, often made at her expense, brought back a wave of seething anger that she had spent years meticulously suppressing. The phone cracked again as her grip tightened.

Michael Melancton Goodwin—once a young, innocent child turned into the embodiment of Narcissus, himself. Something had gone wrong—very wrong—somewhere in his development, but, as she released the tightened grip on the phone, she reminded herself that she was the only one to blame for his misfortune.

Michael had often looked to Sheila for a sense of solace and comfort in the whirlwind of chaos that consumed their family, yet, she left him in the hands of neglect as she cared for the twins. In her quest to ensure that she didn't fuck up her baby brothers, Michael was left to be raised by the shadows—a vulnerable and scared nine-year-old who was tucked under the wing of mayhem to be reared by his own, selfish human nature. His egotistical attitude was her own doing and, inadvertently, she fucked him up, instead. This situation had introduced her to a new friend—guilt—who has been by her side ever since.

Allowing for Michael to fall through the cracks was the wake-up call Sheila needed to reach her conclusion—she was never meant to be a mother. So, her future students as her pseudo children would have to fill the vacant hole in her heart where her passion for motherhood should be.

"Don't worry 'bout him," Eddie interjected as the faint, grumbling sounds of Michael faded, "You've always had a knack for psychology. You're gonna do great!"

At least the twins turned out okay.

"You know," Will continued—he sounded like he had his cheek pressed against something. Sheila guessed it was Eddie's face, "Go High could use your expertise."

She chuckled at his absurd assumption, "Well, I'd hardly say that—"

"Yeah!" Eddie agreed, his voice a tad muffled as well, "We need passionate teachers like you! Especially in the psych department. . ."

"Yeah," Will scoffed, a hint of apprehension leaked into his unamused confession, "Mr. Henry is such a bore."

"Snoozefest, really."

A silent, content sigh escaped her, releasing the tension that she held within her chest as if dissipated into the air, "If only I could remedy that for you, boys."

"Imagine you, at Go High," Eddie's thought trailed away as his mind spun with all of the possibilities for great memories if his sister reestablished her active role in his life, "that would be so cool!"

"Until she has to be our teacher," Will remarked, a hint of playfulness broke the serious tone he tried to convey.

Sheila's back straightened. "Oh, you wish I was your teacher," she remarked.

"Would you give us less homework?"

"Well, no. That would be unethical—"

"Then how does this benefit us?" Will asked, a smile threatening his lips.

William, unlike his brother, must have inherited the natural Goodwin impudence.

Sheila thought for a moment. There were many benefits—just existing within the same social sphere would be one perk, extra help being another. Though, she decided to go the conceded route, just to mess with him.

"You would be graced with the opportunity to bask in my presence."

A snort. A chuckle. Sheila wasn't sure which reaction came from which twin, but, nevertheless, it pleased her.

"I think you just stole a line directly out of Michael's book," Will stated as a secondary fit of laughter was quickly silenced by Michael's piercing scowl of disapproval—or, that's what Sheila guessed had happened.

"I think Mikey may have rubbed off on you, Sis," Eddie returned, his boisterous smile breaking through is words.

"Yeah, well," Sheila found herself grinning as if the twins were there to see it, "did he rub off on me, or did I rub off on him?"

That was a question she often asked herself.

"Hold on, lemme check—"

"No, wait—!"

Just like that, Sheila was abandoned. She shook her head. Those boys—oh, how she missed them.

She pressed the crown of her head against the splintering cabinet door and closed her eyes. Faint murmurs remained indecipherable as she pressed the plastic further against her ear, desperate to catch a snippet of the conversation that she desired to be a part of. Struggling to maintain her position in reality, images of her brothers slowly formed beneath her blackened eyelids as her mind wandered—imagining how the conversation between the twins and Michael would play out.

Eddie, in all of his eagerness, would carelessly let the phone slip from his fingertips while Will would rush past his twin and towards their older brother, who would have made himself at home in the cloth couch that remained unmoved in the Go Tower living quarters. They'd ask him the same question, their eyes wide and glistening with a youthful spirit that Sheila had long since forgotten. Michael would scoff, and state that it was obvious that he rubbed off on her. A smirk would give way to his pearly whites, a gleam in his eye—to rival the twins. They'd laugh as, unknowingly, this little conversation would strengthen the bond that fortified the inseparable chains that they had linked after Sheila's departure.

Chains that had been torn from her.

Her opposing hand lifted from the filthy floor and clutched onto the cracked plastic, holding onto the device as if her life depended on it. It was the one link that tied herself to her family.

The family that she raised. The family that she betrayed.

"He says he rubbed off on you."

"I raised him," barely, "so, I'd say otherwise."

"I see we're at a standstill," Eddie concluded as another stifled laugh left the older twin, along with a choked "This town ain't big enough for the two of them."

"Ha, ha, very funny, you two," Sheila shook her head. William would jump at any given opportunity to make that reference.

If she had a bottle of booze in her hand, she would've considered chugging it.

Instead, Sheila rolled her head against the cabinet, her gaze centered on anything that could distract her from the tears that stung behind her eyes. Quickly, she found herself fixated on the rustic chronometer that sat atop her stove, and vaguely recognized the disfigured number nine, followed by the time stamp "p.m.".

"Alright, well, you two should go to bed," she stated, rather reluctantly. She didn't want the conversation to end. "You have school in the morning."

"So do you, Miss Goodwin."

A slight eye-roll disoriented her as she clumsily removed herself from the floor. She placed a firm hand on the counter to steady herself, "And I thought Mama Sheila was bad enough."

The last chuckle for the night. A parting gift for their sister. "Good night, Mama Sheila. Love you!"

"Love you, too."

Click.

She pulled the phone away from her ear as she slowly trekked back into the living room, dragging her toes against the floor with each painful step. If she could remain huddled on the kitchen floor for the rest of her life, she would have in a heartbeat. She closed her eyes as she carelessly slammed the phone onto the base—she couldn't do that. She was an adult. It was time to act like one.

Exhausted, and with reckless abandon, Sheila launched herself onto the brown couch. Kicking her feet up over the edge, she let her body fall into the crevices of the cushions as her beloved furniture welcomed her in its embrace. The couch consumed her body as her weight shifted into the dents that had been forged from years of use.

The moon offered a piece of angelic tranquility—its soft light caressed her pallid cheeks—but she callously rejected the offer as she placed her arm over the bridge of her nose, blocking the light from peering into her distraught eyes. The moon, a friend of hers in nights of solitude, could not repair the cracks within her broken heart that had continued to grow as she vividly imagined the rich relationships maintained by her brothers—relationships that she once held within her feeble hands, but let slip as her own selfishness tore her away from those she loved the most.

A single tear paved a thin path along her skin, breaking through barriers of thick sweat to find rest from its long journey on the cloth cushion.

If only she wasn't so stupid.

The muffled argument of a domestic dispute seeped through the window while sirens wailed in the distance. Another dispute. Another overdose. Another round of gang violence.

Another night in Lowertown, where nothing's changed.

[mayquita]

Pictures of Reality  - Prologue

Summary: Emma Swan returns to her birthplace, Storybrooke, in search of a fresh start after a life marked by abandonment and betrayal. After a year there, she finds the stability she needed and also the possibility of learning about one of her passions, photography. Killian Jones, a former British war reporter with a tragic past, establishes himself in the same town as an instructor of photography, following in the footsteps of his best friends, the Nolans. What will happen when their paths cross? Will their common passion for photography help them heal old wounds?

Rating: M (Language, mature themes, implied sex)

Warnings: Alcohol abuse, mentions of the loss of a limb in an armed conflict

Other ships / Characters: Although, obviously, this is a cs fic, Snowing plays a major role here, mainly David. In fact, the story contains three different points of view, those of Emma, Killian and David. Also, Henry appears in the story as Regina's adopted son but he is not Emma's biological son.

Beta: @jarienn972 , thank you so much for all your help, your suggestions and your support throughout these months.

Artist / art: @imagnifika  I can’t wait for everyone to discover the wonderful art that Kate has created for this story. It's amazing how she has been able to capture the essence of this fic. Thank you so much for your effort and for offering your talent to my story. / Art for the prologue

Word count: ~ 5500 (116k total in 16 chapters)

Also on: Ao3 / Ffnet  Tumblr: Prologue Chapter 1

A/N: This is my contribution to the Captain Swan Big Bag Challenge this year. I still can’t believe it but it's finally happening! This story is so important to me on so many levels that I can’t even express it with words. I got the inspiration for this fic more than two years ago and even wrote some sections, but I didn’t continue with it until the CSBB event offered me this opportunity. Writing it has been a complete challenge for me throughout these months and an almost perpetual struggle. Even after the penultimate check-in, when my life turned upside down, I almost gave up. Fortunately, I was able to continue and edit it in time to offer it to all of you. My first complete CS fic, my first complete story ever.

@saraswans , you know better than anyone what all this means to me and. I'd like to express my gratitude to you, my savior. There is part of you here and I'm sure that without your ideas and your continued support and encouragement this wouldn't be happening. THANK YOU! Thanks also to @suwya and @lenfaz for your encouragement an to the moderators for making this possible. It has been totally worth it. And don't forget to check the rest of the amazing csbb stories!

Are you ready for a journey full of angst, love and lots of pictures? Here we go...

PROLOGUE

Killian Jones. A nameless town under an armed conflict. Two years ago

This was the bloody end of the world.

Killian should be used to it already. His camera had captured countless anonymous people, wandering aimlessly through the streets of ravaged villages after so many of these absurd attacks. Their eyes, the reflection of despair, helplessness, and confusion. Why us? What crime we have committed to suffer this punishment? They seemed to ask him without needing to utter words. Being born in the wrong place, he was always tempted to respond. His lips remained sealed, though.

But this? This was hell come to Earth.

He was crammed into one of the shelters set up for the few international journalists who were reckless —or suicidal — enough to stay in a country that was falling apart. The only sound that accompanied them in these long minutes were the bombs falling over the town, destroying everything in their path.

The waiting always became eternal, especially because his thoughts took advantage of those moments of tense silence to torment him, reminding him that at least he was safe, while others - those who remained on the surface - were not so lucky. The pull of such guilt, firmly settled in the pit of his stomach, was a constant in these situations and today wasn't going to be any different. Other equally disturbing thoughts invaded him as well. He didn't stop wondering why he kept accepting to cover these increasingly dangerous missions. Because you have nothing to lose anymore, he thought while bitterness washed over him. Because someone has to be the voice of these innocent people, corrected himself.

After what seemed like hours, though it probably only lasted a few minutes, a shrill siren announced the end of the attack. The danger had passed - for now. However, his colleagues still seemed reluctant to leave the shelter. It was understandable, although all these journalists were fearless people, their reactions to these traumatic events could become unpredictable. This wasn't his case. He had the ability to keep his mind cold, especially because now that the attack was over, it was time to show the world what its consequences had been. So, ignoring the disapproving look of his teammate, he went out into the street, camera in hand.

His courage was challenged the moment he came to the surface. An oppressive atmosphere enveloped him in the form of a thick dust, while the smell of destruction filtered through his nostrils. The sirens of the emergency services, the only sound that reached his ears at the beginning. Gradually, when the villagers began to leave their makeshift shelters, the sound of the sirens was muffled by the screams and desperate cries of people searching for their families among the rubble.

The sensation of hell increased, as did his urge to run away, to seek refuge in his hotel room and take the first flight that would take him away from this damn war.

Killian gripped the camera, feeling his stomach tighten into knots. He could not let himself be carried away by helplessness and fear, not now. He clenched his jaw with determination, ignoring his urge to run. Instead, he started walking, looking for the effects of the destruction.

He spotted the first people a few steps away. A woman held a little baby in her arms, while two other small children clung to her legs with terrified expressions on their little faces. He approached them with tentative steps, making sure his press badge was clearly visible, while raising his hands in peace.

"Are you okay? Do you need something?" He tried to make himself understood, accompanying his words with gestures of his hands. The woman gave him a sad smile while shaking her head. The menacing tentacles of helplessness crept over him, coming dangerously close to his heart. The look that one of the children gave him, the girl who seemed to be the oldest, did nothing to alleviate his uneasiness. It was a look he knew very well - her eyes still hiding vestiges of childhood innocence, and a glimmer of hope that had not yet vanished altogether. He felt the need to do something to maintain that glimmer for a while. "Are you thirsty?" He offered, as he pulled a bottle of water out of his bag. Before accepting, the girl made sure to have her mother's permission.

"We're looking for my father." Killian was surprised to hear the girl answer, speaking in English, after passing the bottle to the other child, her brother, he supposed.

"How can I help you?"

The girl shrugged, while her lips trembled slightly. He offered her his hand, and the girl tentatively accepted it at first and then clung to it with more force. They didn't have to walk much. Luck had not completely abandoned this town or this family, after all, because in a few minutes a man hurried to them while screaming. Only then did the girl release his hand and run to the one Killian assumed was her father. He contemplated for a moment the family reunion, with a mixture of feelings - relieved, because this family was going to have a new opportunity, but impotent at the same time, because maybe tomorrow they would not have so much luck.

The events of the day had managed to drain all his strength and an extreme tiredness seized him, making it almost impossible to keep walking. Just as he was about to turn around in the direction of his hotel, the man approached him and offered his hand with a small bow in gratitude. He swallowed hard, pressing his lips together in a tight line, feeling shame overtake him. How could this man thank him when all he had done was offer a bottle of water and hold the hand of a little girl? As if that were not enough, the man pointed to the camera, asking him with gestures to take a picture. He had no choice but to accept, nodding in silence as he placed his camera in position and immortalized the bittersweet moment, a family celebrating a reunion amid chaos and destruction.

Just as he started to walk, a whistling sound through the air activated his sense of alert. After so many years in the line of fire, he had learned to recognize these sounds as the prelude to an impact. Instinctively, he threw himself to the ground, protecting the camera against his chest, while his body curled into a ball. The last thought that crossed his mind before everything went black, was that he hoped that the family he had just helped had gone far enough. His death would have been in vain otherwise. Then, nothing.

David Nolan. London, two years ago

"You're scaring me, David, what is it? What's wrong?" His wife knew him well. Although he had tried to maintain a neutral expression, Mary Margaret had only needed a glance at his face to know that the call he had just received did not bring good news.

The words repeated in his mind as a continual reminder, digging a hole in his heart and filling it with guilt and frustration. This should not have happened, he should not have allowed him to be part of this suicidal mission. The news, despite being devastating, had not surprised him. Deep down, he feared that something like this would happen sooner or later, but even so, the idea of confessing it to his wife, weighed like a slab on his shoulders.

David gave her a contrite look as he tried to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. Somehow, she knew it, because when their gazes met her eyes widened in horror as she put a hand to her chest. "It's Killian, isn't it?" She muttered. David could only nod in silence. "Is he... dead?"

"No, he's alive." David hastened to reassure his wife, approaching her and rubbing both her arms to try to give her some comfort. Once the initial shock was over, he forced himself to bury the thoughts that tormented him and instead focused on the most important thing, bringing Killian back home. "He is alive." David repeated it aloud in an attempt to convince himself. "He's been taken to one of the hospitals, he's safe now. We..." He pressed his lips together before continuing, looking for his wife's gaze. He needed her support here. "He only has us. I have to go, Mary Margaret, and make sure I bring him back." A wave of determination washed over him, as his stomach tightened into knots and his hands curled into fists.

"Sure, of course! Go and bring him back home, David." Her voice sounded almost like a plea, which caused his determination to increase. David nodded firmly, while Mary Margaret’s lips curled into a watery smile. They had already lost too many people in their lives that no matter how hard Killian engaged in that self-destructive spiral, they were not going to let him leave them that easily.

Emma Swan. Boston, fourteen months ago

Maybe it was chance. Maybe it was destiny. The truth was that she was not looking for it, but the name appeared, as if calling her, in bold letters in the middle of the newspaper's job offers page. She wasn't even looking for a new job. She was just bored, in a waiting room, waiting to be seen by her doctor at a routine checkup. The newspaper was the first in a pile on the table in front of her. And that's how she found it. Storybrooke.

Personal Assistant of the Mayor of Storybrooke, job description.

We are looking for a master multi-tasker with excellent communication skills and an upbeat attitude. Candidates should be able to assist management and all visitors to the town hall by handling office tasks, providing polite and professional assistance via phone, mail, and e-mail, and generally being a helpful and positive presence in the workplace. In addition, an absolute dedication will be required for any demand from the mayor. In compensation, we will provide you with adequate accommodation in the town, Storybrooke, and economic reward for any event that involves working more hours than stipulated as usual.

Storybrooke. Her birthplace. And one of the few vestiges that she kept of her origin. A place and a knitted blanket with her name embroidered. And a hole in her heart every time she thought about it.

She knew little of the town, having spent only her first hours of life there. According to the records she still kept, Emma was adopted shortly after her birth and moved to Boston, to the residence of the Swans, which would be her home for the next three years. She had a happy life for three years. Or at least that's what she wanted to think. The truth was that when her adoptive parents died, she was still so small or so shocked by the loss, that any memory of that time was removed from her mind. She kept only a few photos from those years, pictures of a happy, smiling little girl, a person she was unable to identify with.

Her ordeal had begun the moment she entered the system after the death of her adoptive parents, with an incessant march of foster parents to group homes, new foster families, new group homes until finally, when she turned seventeen, she got tired and ran away.

She had never felt the need to return to her birthplace, too busy trying to survive first and then rebuilding her life after serving a sentence in prison for a crime she had not committed. At least that was what she told herself. But sometimes she would ask herself questions that she was afraid to know the answer to. Would her parents still live there? What would the house in which her mother spent her months of pregnancy be like? Would she have a sibling walking the streets of the town? Or maybe Storybrooke was just a fluke? A point on the map where her parents had to stop when the time of her birth arrived? Maybe they followed later, moving their lives away from there. Either way, she would never have answers to those questions, because she had no intention of returning there. Never.

That had been her premise for the following years. That name, and with it, her past, hidden in the deepest recesses of her mind, as if that town had never existed. Until just that moment when the word appeared before her eyes, tempting, like the song of a mermaid calling a sailor.

She fell into the net. The old questions, long forgotten, surfaced, while she was unable to look away. Would this be a signal? An indication that the time to return had arrived? A chance to find answers to all those questions?

Her weary mind implored her with silent cries to close the newspaper and leave it on the table again. Her heart, on the other hand, tightened in her chest, while her fingers tingled as they slid through the words.

In the end, her heart was the winner. Despite not possessing any of the required skills — she was just a bail bonds person, looking for people and earning her reward when she found them — she sneakily cut out the newspaper sheet that contained the offer and put it in her purse.

Later, in the shelter of her apartment, Emma forced herself to block any negative thoughts, acting mechanically, while starting a small investigation about Storybrooke, the town hall and its mayor. She also found the job offer on the internet. She only had a brief instant of hesitation, closing her eyes for a moment as her heart pounded hard in her chest. After exhaling deeply, she did not think about it anymore; she filled out the necessary data and almost without realizing it, applied for the job.

After two weeks, when she had almost forgotten about it, she received the call that would change her life. Emma had gotten a job interview. Although she tried to restrain it, a thought settled in her mind - a continual reminder: She was coming home.

Emma Swan. Storybrooke, Present Day - November 4, 2017

The sun was still far from appearing when Emma woke up that Saturday morning, finding her bedroom dimly lit. She snuggled up, seeking shelter between the sheets of her bed as she closed her eyes and let herself be carried away by what the rest of her senses captured.

Cold. The first days of November had brought an almost polar cold, causing her to use two blankets if she wanted to get to sleep. Damn this old building with high ceilings and difficulty to be heated conveniently.

Silence. That was usual in her apartment, since she lived alone. It was also one of the advantages of living in a town as small as Storybrooke. Or maybe that was not so much an advantage as a torture. Under this oppressive silence, her thoughts wandered freely, pressing in an almost constant company.

Because it did not matter where and when, it did not matter that since she returned to Storybrooke, the weight she had always carried over her shoulders had been lightened. Her ghosts from the past were always with her, hovering, as a continual reminder that, no matter how many people were around her, she would always be a lost child. No family or anyone to care about her. You have made friends, her inner voice hastened to remind her. Only acquaintances, no one to trust enough to make the protective walls around her heart disappear. Well, maybe someone, she reminded herself - Ruby, Graham and that little boy, Henry, whom she had clung to as a kind of lifeline that first day here, the day that her life would change.

Emma buried those thoughts in the most hidden corner of her mind. Today was not a day to let her demons torment her. Today was the day when something new and exciting would start. Do not look back, always forward, she repeated her mantra with determination.

Hungry. It was still too early to have breakfast. But the nerves had that effect on her, causing an impulsive craving, a need to ingest any sweet and greasy food. And it was undeniable, Emma was nervous. So freaking nervous.

The nerves had already settled in the pit of her stomach from the moment she had received the camera as a birthday present along with a photography course, although she had managed to keep them at bay by staying as busy as possible during these two weeks. But today, the wait had finished and in a few hours, she would attend the first class of that course so nerves had made their appearance again. She needed a bear claw — or two — and a hot chocolate to try to placate them.

It should not be such a big deal, she tried to convince herself as she crawled out of bed and headed towards the kitchen. It was just a course for amateurs, just a way to learn how to operate the camera and spend an entertaining time every Saturday. She had not even bothered to inquire about the person who would teach that course. According to Ruby, he was a hottie, but considering that Ruby found almost everyone sexy, male or female, that had not worked as motivation.

Who was she kidding? Of course, it was a big deal. Maybe not for others, but for her. For the first time in a long time — ever — she felt that she had the opportunity to learn, to do something that totally motivated her, something she had wanted since she was a little girl and had seen for the first time how a Polaroid camera worked. Photography was the medium she had found to express herself, to shout to the world what she was like - how she felt, how she thought. She believed firmly in the power of the image, in the frozen reality captured in an instant.

Maybe that's why her Instagram account had achieved relative success. Her photos were honest, they showed reality without filters, and also showed everyone who followed her the beauty of the little details. But she needed more. It was as if a pull of creativity wanted to venture outside, but she could not find the channel to express it correctly. That was why this course and the possibilities offered were so important to her. She could not fail, not this time.

Since her social skills were not her most outstanding characteristic, she needed to make at least a good impression on a physical level. After all, despite her numerous insecurities, she could not deny her physical attractiveness and knew how to exploit it in her favor. It had already served her when she worked as a bail bonds person, and although here, in Storybrooke, she no longer needed it, her years of practice were not so easily forgotten. Maybe for that reason she spent more time than necessary in front of the mirror, trying to decide the most appropriate outfit. Finally, she opted for a creamy sweater that fitted perfectly to her curves, tight jeans and her inseparable red leather jacket, her protective shield.

"Dammit!" Emma almost shouted when she realized that she was late, so she hurriedly finished preparing, grabbed her purse and camera and shot out towards the exit, hoping that the traffic, usually quiet in town, did not decide to generate a traffic jam today. Before leaving, though, Emma remembered something.

She placed her camera on the coffee table, making sure that the light was right from that angle, took the phone out of her pocket and, after making the necessary adjustments, she shot.

TheLadySwan I’m starting today a new journey that will take me to know more about this exciting world of photography. During the next twelve weeks I’m going to learn how to use this little gadget. So, what do you say? Join me on this journey?

  Killian Jones. Storybrooke, Present Day - November 4, 2017

Killian woke up the moment the first rays of sun filtered through his window. His years as a war reporter had had that effect on him, his senses were always alert to any change, no matter how subtle it was, he always was prepared to run avoiding danger.

He did not react at first, his mind still dull by the effects of sleep. Little by little, he began to become aware of what awaited him this morning, increasing his desire to go back to sleep and not wake up for at least another five hours. A sigh of frustration escaped his mouth as he run his hand through his hair, mussing it even further. Any motivation to start that bloody course had disappeared almost at the very instant his friend David had suggested the idea.

However, he knew that David was right - he needed to start over. Staying in England kept him too tied to his memories.

Still, he didn’t know if he would be able...

Killian stayed in bed, raising his left arm to look at the scar-covered stump, a continual reminder of how much he lost. Before his world had threatened to collapse once again, he was already aware that most people who lost a limb of their body still continued to feel it for a while. They even suffered real pain caused by the phantom limb. It was not strange to witness these cases when you worked on the battlefield, surrounded by soldiers. But nothing had prepared him to experience it in his own flesh. Even today, two years later, there were times when he felt that strange pain, a continuous reminder of the lost limb that still tormented him in spite of the time elapsed.

To make his situation even more pathetic, he hadn’t yet accepted the prosthesis he was forced to wear - a poor substitute made of metal and plastic, incredibly useless to make him feel anything, his own touch gone forever.

He rubbed his eyes with his right hand in an attempt to eliminate those negative thoughts, or at least keep them under the surface for a while, enough to properly start his new project.

After a deep exhalation, Killian finally decided to get up and start his daily routine, the same one he’d repeated since he arrived at Storybrooke four weeks ago.

Meanwhile, he did not stop thinking about what he might find this morning when he started classes. He knew, from his previous experiences, that most of the students who attended this type of courses did so to learn how to handle a complex camera or simply because they wanted to get the most out of their device to make family portraits or photos of nature. Killian could teach more professional courses, but what really satisfied him was finding a hidden gem in some lost town, someone with as much passion for photography as he had, and who otherwise would not have the ability to exploit or even discover that passion.

He might be the most pessimistic person regarding his own persona, but he did not lose hope in that other regard. He had already found some photographic promise in previous courses and, although he was now in a different country, he was confident to find someone really interested in absorbing all the knowledge that he could offer in this small, almost unknown town on the coast of Maine.

However, as the moment approached, the nervousness began to take hold of him. Killian had barely touched a camera since the attack. In fact, his whole life had been disrupted from that moment on. He was aware that he could continue to take pictures with one hand, especially if he used the prosthesis, but he had always been very demanding with himself, and he felt that his work would not be complete, that something would be always missing, either quickness when handling adjustments or balance to hold the camera or any other situation in which he previously had required the use of both hands. That was why this course was a challenge in terms of being able to transmit to his students what he could no longer do.

The start time of the course was near. Killian took a quick shower hoping that hot water would carry away those negative thoughts.

The shower didn’t work, though, his demons still wandering through his head, so he had to make an effort to try to bury them in the most recondite corner of his brain. That could only be achieved if he kept his mind busy. For that reason, he decided to focus on something as superficial as the clothes he was going to wear, determined to make the best possible impression.

His almost perpetual self-loathe had not yet left him blind, he was aware of his good looks — if he ignored his stump, that is — a resource that he continually exploited to mask his inner turmoil. He decided on tight jeans and a blue henley shirt, matching the color of his eyes. That will work, he thought with ill-concealed vanity.

He kept all the necessary material in his inseparable backpack, his loyal companion, along with his old camera, the two objects that had traveled with him and shared all his experiences of the last few years, vestiges of the past he was not able to detach from.

Before leaving home with his backpack slung over his shoulder, he looked at himself in the hall mirror. He observed his posture and his movements until he got that armor that had worked over the years - the pose of a swaggering and vain dude; a mask of arrogance that hid his inner fears and frustrations. The reflection in the mirror returned a smug smile but at the same time, transmitting the confidence he needed to face this crucial moment. After casting one last glance, he was finally satisfied with his reflection. With a deep breath, he got out his apartment, leaving his inner demons parked and determined, finally, to give opportunity to a fresh start.

Students List

Anna Arendelle

Elsa Arendelle

Tink Bell

Ariel Fisher

Leroy Grump

Archie Hopper

Aurora Prince

Phillip Prince

Will Scarlet

Emma Swan

Robin WoodEleven names. Eleven different people, with different experiences in life. Killian looked again at the list of people who would attend the course while wondering what was behind each of these names. He could have accessed the different files that contained the basic information of each of these people. In fact, Belle, the librarian who would perform the duties of his secretary, had offered him these documents, but he had politely rejected them. He did not want to create any preconceived ideas, preferring that these anonymous people surprised him. But that did not imply that he could not play with their names, assuming the kinship between some of them since some shared the same last name, or guessing their physical appearance, their aspirations... Hopefully, he would be able to put faces to those names shortly, now that the first class was about to start.

Seconds before the door opened, he inhaled deeply, while closing his eyes for a moment, burying any possible negative thought and replacing it instead with determination and the hope of finding a talent hidden among those eleven names. The moment the door opened giving way to the first students, he flashed his most charismatic smile, while his stomach tightened into knots of anticipation.

Unfortunately, his hope was short-lived. Killian only needed a first look at the people sitting in front of him to realize that this time there would be no luck, that no promise of photography would bloom in Storybrooke. At least not in this class. Maybe in the next one, the one with children, he would have more luck.

A sigh of resignation slid between his lips as he forced himself to keep the smile. He got up from the chair and stood in front of them, sitting on the desk, holding the tablet with the list of names with his right hand while leaving the prosthesis resting on the smooth surface, conveniently away from the rest of the eyes. No matter how threatening his inner demons were, Killian always tried to act committed to what he was doing, so, once again he ignored the screams of those demons and focused on his task, making his smile become wider while he displayed all his charm in front of the people who would accompany him every Saturday for the next twelve week

"Hello everyone and welcome to this course. I suppose if all of you signed up, it's because you're interested in photography, so, for the next twelve weeks, we're going to explore that exciting world together." He paused for a moment, making sure that his confident and closed tone managed to keep the attendees' attention. He found some heads nodding - good. "But for that, I need to get to know you, so, what do you think if we make a little introduction?"

His gaze traveled through each of the people, still reluctant to lose hope altogether. He just needed a spark, some hint, however subtle, but he found nothing. Only curious looks, even some boring expression. Still, maybe one of them surprised him with its introduction, although none seemed very willing to start, so to try to make things easier, he introduced himself.

"Oh, but where are my manners? My apologies for not being the first to introduce myself." He made an exaggerated bow, earning some giggles among the female audience. "My name is Killian Jones. I'm a professional photographer and have worked for many years as a press reporter." To his relief, his voice did not even tremble at the mention of his former profession. "Photography is my passion and I hope I can transmit it to you, but for that, I need to know what your aspirations are, so do any of you dare to be the next?"

The students remained silent, looking at each other, something he was already waiting for. He was not going to deny it, in a way, he enjoyed this type of performance, it was as if through the duration of the classes, he was playing a role, putting himself in the shoes of a different character to who he really was. The next step in the representation was to choose a name from the list. "Okay, since I see that you are all so willing to start, I will have to choose." He paused deliberately, looking at the paper as a means to generate even more tension among the nervous students. "Ariel Fisher?"

A redheaded woman, sitting in the front row, raised her hand hesitantly, while the corners of her lips lifted slightly. "Welcome, Ariel." His lips curled into an encouraging smile. "What can you tell us about yourself? Why are you here? What do you hope to achieve in this course?"

For the following minutes, Killian could finally put faces to all those names, while his hopes were fading away. At least they were mostly nice people, so he hoped that the next few weeks would be satisfactory enough on a personal level or at least not just a mere exchange of fake smiles and pretend.

"I like to take pictures of the sea."

"My brothers have forced me to come here."

"We love taking family photos."

"I spend a lot of time in the forest and taking pictures is a way to pass the time."

"I have nothing to do on Saturday mornings"

Those were some of the explanations that he got. Only two of them, the two sisters — Elsa and Anna, seemed to have a minimum of interest. According to their explanation, they worked in an ice cream parlor and wanted to learn how to take photos to create a website for their business. There was no spark, there did not seem to be talent. But it was a beginning.

When he got to the last person on the list, Emma Swan, he looked around, but did not find anyone. This person had not even bothered to appear. Resigned, he was about to cross out the name, when the door suddenly opened, giving way to a swirl of blond curls, a woman who moved with her head bowed while muttering an apology and who sat down quickly in one of the most hidden seats.

Killian cocked his head as he followed all her movements with renewed interest. At least she had brought a good camera with her. That was a good start. The woman, he supposed it would be Emma Swan, held her head down for a few more seconds, until finally, she looked up. His heart skipped a beat when his eyes met with an enigmatic green gaze and, most importantly, with a spark. When she blinked, that spark had vanished but, for a moment, had been there. Not everything was lost after all.

Thanks for reading, let me know what you think. :)

What can we expect for the next chapter? We will learn more about Emma's backstory and we will also know how the first class develops.

[odysseusthedead]

Odysseus and the land of the dead

The vessel, a ship that had sailed the roughest of seas with a hull as black as the eddying ocean that surrounded it, made its way through clouds of rolling mist that consumed the breath within the lungs of the crew with a hungry gasp. As the ship rowed towards the lands of the Cimmerians, the sun resplendent and bold seemed to reach a certain death and would not touch the shore, the land, or the mountains. The beams refused to near the wretches that slumber between the earth and sky; cursing a perpetual, never-ending night to overhang their shallow lives.

Odysseus and his crew beached their vessel, the sand the colour of ash and smoke crunched like skeletons beneath their feet as they pulled a ram and a ewe from the cabin within the ship. The reluctance to move and abnormal bellowing coming from the animals made Odysseus’ stomach clench and his skin crawl over his bones. The dull ache of an unseen fear did not stop him as he and his men walked beside the stream of ocean that beckoned them to a place that emanated a cruel laughter. The place in which Circe had told him of and there was no mistaking it as the blood seemed to seep from his pores, feeling less human with every second that passed.

Odysseus called forth Perimedes and Eurylochus who seized both sheep, bleating as if already feeling what would come next. The sword that hung at Odysseus’ side gleamed, sharp and bright despite the night that hung over them and he drew it with intent. His hand’s shook as he cut a trench in the ash, a cubit long and a cubit broad whilst the crashing waves and rasps from the sheep created a sickening cacophony in their ears. Around the cut earth milk and honey was poured first, the ground swallowing it in gulps as sweet wine and water followed. Lastly, over the libation, he took his time and sprinkled white barley-meal as he knew what must be done next.

Odysseus kneeled on the ground, bowing his head as his knees sunk deep into the sand and felt as if each grain gripped him unmoving. To everyone, and no one at all, he whispered a promise that upon his arrival to Ithaca he would sacrifice a calfless heifer, the best he owned. He would load a pyre with items that could not be found in this life or the next. That for the blind prophet Teiresias he would slay a ram that had wool as deep and black as the blood that flows within it.

Dread filled Odysseus as he stood with his hands trembling so terribly the sword nearly slipped through his fingers. He motioned towards Perimedes and Eurylochus and as instructed they pushed the heads of each sheep to face the earth. He placed the sword upon the neck of the ewe and in one quick motion the life flew from its body, splashing into the trench beneath it. The crashing waves blended with the animal’s almost human screams until both Odysseus and the men that joined him could hear nothing else. Everything roared and then stopped the moment the blood of the ram touched the sand. Time seemed to slow, and the breath was sucked from the lungs of the men circling the trench.

A chasm seemed to open around each of the men as the blood dripped from both animals, still as they lay, a void that would pull you in if you moved so much as an inch. Chaos was unleashed, Erebus ripped open his chest and every soul that had faced a wretched death flew free in cackles and screams. Each soul, black and bloody, smoothed into their once human-like form; the people they had been when they had faced the reapers hand.

The men, who moments ago stood silent, bowed and yelled in pure terror. The souls unleashed sang and spat like banshees surrounding them, encircling the trough of blood that seemed to gurgle in delight. Odysseus hoped that what he had done would be worth this fear that paled and gripped his entire body and mind, a fear he’d never forget until he too would kiss the chaos of Erebus.

Everything within him screamed to find his ship and run as fast as his legs could carry him, but he had come so far and would not make it home without speaking to the blind prophet. He forced his eyes to move within the crowds of ghosts that drank the blood maliciously but one face he did not expect to see was that of Elpenor, his comrade and one of his men whose body still lay in the hall of Circe. Odysseus fell to his knees and wept like a babe who had been torn from his mother. He looked into the shade’s eyes, those that once belonged to someone he knew so well and could not utter a word.

Elpenor turned to look upon the men cowering along the shoreline who watched in pure torment upon the shades screeching and wailing in delight and turned back to his once dear friend. His voice left his throat in a moan, trying to remember how to speak. Minutes passed before Elpenor’s words formed sentences but finally it was realised that he only wanted his crew to fulfill a final request. For Odysseus to bury him with his armour, grieve for him on the shore of the grey sea and leave his oar upon the mound of his grave, the one in which he used to row besides his comrades.

At last Odysseus rasped out agreeance, he vowed to do as he asked and to never forget the man Elpenor was when by his side. With that Odysseus had one last thing to do, find the blind prophet Teiresias and carry his crew homeward.

[justtextmeoppa]

❝ I love you too, Jungkook. ❞

Plot: You’re an idol and you’re dating Jungkook. You show up at one of his fan sign and he says to everyone that you two are dating. 

Pairing: JungkookxReader 

Words count: 1,8k+

Genre: Fluff 

For anon, I hope you like it cutie! - M. 

Gif isn’t mine, credits to the owner! ♥

Deciding to go meet your boyfriend during a fan sign didn't seem to be any more a great idea as at the beginning. The black mask covered your face and fortunately your eyes didn't reveal much of who you were. Yet the feeling of being perpetually observed didn't seem to disappear and so the anxiety increased to every minute that passed.  

But you haven't seen Jungkook for weeks, and if that was the only way to change the situation, you'd be well-born to be discovered.  

"Next time I'll close you in our room." Your best friend muttered, as well as the leader of your group and the worst advocate in the world; making you smile amused from underneath the mask.  

"I didn't ask you to come.. Then we repeated several times that we're their fans, even if they discovered there I know hey couldn't see anything strange... "  

"YOU KNOW? I swear that if I read another article where they ship me and Taehyung I shoot myself. "  

"What a bad thing Unnie.... In short, Taehyung is an incredible guy. " You whispered in response, not understanding all that boredom towards that sweet and a little crazy boy. "Then he is also extremely beaut--"  

"But think of your boy!"  

"You Like him! That's why you're bored by the articles.... because you're ashamed to talk to him. "  

The slap that came soon after on your shoulder only made you entertain more, while patiently expected your turn to go to get the album signed.  

He was as beautiful as always but he seemed particularly cheerful that day, he could even not to bully his hyung and his smile could make you completely melt. It's been seven months since you started to date and you've already figured out you were falling in love with him, but you were too intimidated and scared to confess your feelings. It was your first serious "relationship", although not yet effective because he didn't really ask you to be his girlfriend and you were both so young that you were afraid that he could run away in front of your confession.  

"Jungkook-oppa!" "Jungkook, you are beautiful!" "Jungkook I love you!"  

Hearing all those screaming around you didn't help your insecure soul, but you could remain calm because Tara took your hand into her and smiled at you, despite the mask you could understand it from her eyes, and you smiled at thanking subheading.  

"Who's calling me oppa? I'm not your oppa! Let me see your ID card! " He yelled, his voice amplified by the microphone, bursting the fan group to laugh; "Really show me your ID card!"  

"Jungkook-ah, you were to be born earlier so you could really be their oppa!" Jimin said with a funny low tone, seizing the opportunity to be able to make fun of him, having to move immediately because the youngest gave him a punch on his arm.  

After some laugh and joke on their part, finally came your turn so Tara advanced before you reach the first of the row that was Yoongi.  

Yoongi, oddly enough, had been the first to push you to Jungkook. He had noticed your glances during the shows, during the reality that you were doing together, and knowing that his bandmates would never have done the first step he had told you to dare. He even advised you how to approach him, always with extreme kindness. You had always thought of Yoongi as an extremely introverted and closed person and instead had been your biggest help in the first few weeks with Kooks. Sooner or later you should have thanked him in some way.  

You were behind Tara when he immediately recognized you and you laid the forefinger on the mask, to make him understand that they were practically incognito. He chuckled amused, passing a hand through his black hair, while he took the album and went to the page that you had marked.  

"Who's the one with you? Tara-ssi? " He asked under breath, while you nodded and started acting like the other girls. He squeezed your hands, trying to keep his laughter while talking, or at least pretending to do so.  

"I'm curious to see how the Golden Maknae reacts"  

"Stop teasing him, Yoongi sunbae!"  

He winked at you and you passed the boy after, Seokjin, who took two seconds to recognize you in spite of the mask. Yoongi whispered to him something in the ear and he made word of mouth with others, but they didn't tell anything to Jungkook, otherwise, the surprise wouldn't really succeed.  

Every time you get up you were forced to put on your shirt, you hated Tara for forcing you to wear that outfit, feeling slightly uncomfortable but enjoying the moment when you finally stopped in front of your "almost" boyfriend.  

His gaze slipped over the crowd, smiling at anyone and waving every person who called him; you didn't understand the reason for all that enthusiasm and joy, but it was beautiful to look at him at that moment. So beautiful that the girl behind you had repeatedly summoned you to advance.  

By making her a little sorry bow, you closed fast the gap between you two and knelt before him who watched you intrigued, giving you one of his best smiles.  

"Hi" He greeted you with kindness, taking the Photobucket from your hands and you would have wanted to beat him because he still didn't recognize you.  

"Why do you keep the mask? Don't you grant me to see your smile?? "  

"You do this with all the fans? Do you flirt shamelessly with all your fan?!?!?! "  

He opened his mouth in hearing your voice and a nuance of pink colored his cheeks, completely caught by surprise and in total embarrassment. He bowed his head while you could hear Yoongi's laughter on the other side of the table while he made a small nod to Seokjin to observe you.  

"Y/N.. W-What are you doing here..? "  

"I wanted to see you..."  

"Don't take off your mask, I don't want you to be bothered by the fans..." He murmured shyly, returning completely in itself; "Wait for me, okay? I'll ask Sejin if I can come away with you. "  

It took little for him to go from embarrassed boy to confident boy, but he was Jeon Jeongguk and that sudden change didn't surprise you anymore. His eyes shone with his own light at that moment, filled with the happiness he was feeling because of you.  

"Be quiet, I can wait tonight."  

"But.."  

"Shh, now say goodbye to your fans and go to rest a little." You winked at him, grabbing the photo bucket and getting up you greeted him waving your hand and reaching Tara, who was in the corner waiting for you and was oddly burgundy all over her face.  

His gaze was upon you, as you descended the few steps to the stage with a fast pace reaching your friend, and he thought that he couldn't be luckier than that. He knew how busy you were and the fact that you had found time just for him made him completely crazy.  

He took the microphone, waiting for the fan to end with Namjoon, clearing his voice.  

Hearing his voice echoed in the crates, you turned to look at him curious to hear what he had to say.  

"Today is a particularly special day, you know?" He said and the crowd erupted in a scream of joy, because knowing that their idol was happy was the only thing they wanted, while he waited for that scream to decrease.  

You kept observing him, while Tara next to you still seemed totally lost in her world.  

"A special person came to see me and made me realize how important I am to her. I have read many articles lately, although my hyung told me not to do so, where her fans kept saying that she was perfect for our sunbae. And you know, the anger in reading those articles was so much that I hid in the rehearsal room and danced till I collapsed to the ground by fatigue. "  

The other six were silenced, because they knew his torment for that situation, while your heart almost broke, becoming aware of those details that he had never told you. Sometimes he was childish and you learned how to handle that side, but you never thought he could be so strong that he could endure that kind of problem. And to your eyes, Jungkook became even more special than he was before.  

He cleared his voice again and took his breath, smiling slightly; "So I started to express my esteem for her during the interviews, praising her in any way. Childish right? I wanted you to start to say that I was perfect for her because she's so amazing that I can't let her go.. And so yesterday a fan on Twitter, yeah I check our twitter every now and then, " he emphasized making everyone burst of laughing and in the meantime you tried to hold back the tears, because by now you had understood what he was to do and that for you was almost a proof of how important you were to him.  

"She asked if we were dating because in every occasion I talk about her. Well.. "  

You held your breath, immediately feeling Tara's hand on your shoulder that offered you support because she knew you'd start crying in some way, failing to manage your feelings. He was embarrassed, in fact, he began to scratch his neck and biting his lip while Yoongi reached him, starting to rub his shoulders jokingly around.  

"In fact, I and Y/N are dating and it seemed right to me to say it, instead of letting you find some photos on internet. I hope you can be happy for me because she's an incredible girl and always manages to understand my moods.. she doesn't make me miss anything and the more time passes and the more I understand how lucky I am. "  

Immediately the room was overlooked by a roaring applause, shouting of appreciation and even the other BTS began to cheer, congratulating with him to be a little man grown now.  

"However you'll continue drinking milk instead of alcohol, even if you're the only one with a girlfriend" Seokjin pointed out, making you laugh, hidden in your corner.  

The tears had begun to slip quickly on your cheeks, wetting the mask and he turned to your direction.  

Your eyes met and he winked, mimicking something with his lips that was able to make tremble your legs.  

You lowered the mask and with a wire of breath you answered: "I love you too, Jungkook."

[onethousandcentipedes-blog]

all our bruised bodies // touken

this is a touken one-shot I wrote several months ago, during the cochlea arc, exploring my angst-ridden headcanon of touka’s imminent confession. obviously the current timeline and recent events conflict with this, but hopefully my attempt at characterization respects each character’s personal identity and development. 

1680 word count // m for language // excerpt:

Her eyes are still fixated at the ground. She wishes she could unearth the cold concrete to resurrect the impenetrable barricade that surrounded her heart and revert back into an impulsive, foulmouthed teenager. Times were simpler, almost four years ago. He would still play martyr, withhold his true feelings and lie to her face, but at least then she could alleviate some stifled frustration. Spit an insult, break a finger.

But memories of exposing his most vulnerable, humiliating feature — screaming, never come back — loiter, caught in the cobwebs of her mind, in places too unkind and uncomfortable to go back and dust them away.

She cannot repeat the same mistakes that creep into the forefront of her brain at night. The same mistakes she curses herself over, sometimes for hours and sometimes in passing.

“I — love you,” she finally concedes, voice hardly stronger than a whisper and with no more conviction than a shallow breath.

It hurts. It hurts and he hates himself and he would rather count the amputated fingers and toes scattered across a bloodstained checkerboard — he would rather gouge his fucking eyes out — than look into hers, reddening and brimming with saline iridescence.

It hurts because he abandoned someone who recognized the demons of loneliness hidden behind olivine eyes and strained smiles but — for some reason he could never possibly understand — loves him — a hideous, repugnant, worthless fucking insect — anyway.

It hurts because she is patiently awaiting his response and running away sounds much more appealing than confronting his feelings — he doesn’t understand them anyways because he is irrevocably fucked up and she deserves everything he is not  — but she is so, so beautiful.  

“Touka-chan.”

His voice cracks. Everything hurts.

He should feel happy. After all, the entire objective in abandoning her almost four years ago was ensuring her safety, protecting her from afar so there would be someone to welcome him back once he finished finding answers. And here she is, crimson coursing through veins and chest trembling in erratic breath. She is alive and so, so beautiful.

If he were impulsive or somewhat confident, perhaps he would cradle within the rough of his palm the swell of her flushed cheek. Or instead, he might lace their fingers together and massage her thumb with the underside of his. Maybe he would embrace her, drape his arms around her slender frame and pretend this insignificant action could shield her from everything wrong in the world — protect her heart from suffering any further — even though he is weaker and her grief is of direct consequence to his wretched existence. But he cannot summon enough courage to even return her eye contact.

Observant, her solemn gaze falls, trying to trace crevasses in worn concrete — distracted, ineffectual. The lines decorating her face are suddenly magnified, short stories of hardship and heartache. It hurts, watching her strength crumble because of him: a hideous, repugnant, worthless insect. But he is scared — no, terrified.

He is absolutely, pathetically terrified. The prospect of someone loving him makes his stomach churn. Bile is crawling up his throat like one thousand centipedes and he feels incapacitated by oscillating waves of nausea. He is so sick — nauseous and haunted and fragmented — and he cannot give her anything she deserves. She does not deserve his tormented soul. She does not deserve the itch occupying his subconscious, annoying and manipulative and hell-bent on his suicide. She does not deserve someone plagued by descending numbers, someone debilitated by worsening eyesight and agonizing migraines, someone weak enough to forget everything — everyone — once important to him.

So against every strained muscle in his aching heart screaming, just love her, he steels himself.

“I — uh, well, Touka-chan — I don’t think…”

She captures a hand subconsciously rising to touch his chin. Her hand clenches tightly around his, desperately like he is threatening to disappear again any second, and for a moment, her knuckles resemble the whiteness of his hair. She returns his hand to his side and doesn’t let go. Her dainty fingers cannot wrap around his palm completely.

Her eyes are still fixated at the ground. She wishes she could unearth the cold concrete to resurrect the impenetrable barricade that surrounded her heart and revert back into an impulsive, foulmouthed teenager. Times were simpler, almost four years ago. He would still play martyr, withhold his true feelings and lie to her face, but at least then she could alleviate some stifled frustration. Spit an insult, break a finger.

But memories of exposing his most vulnerable, humiliating feature — screaming, never come back — loiter, caught in the cobwebs of her mind, in places too unkind and uncomfortable to go back and dust them away.

She cannot repeat the same mistakes that creep into the forefront of her brain at night. The same mistakes she curses herself over, sometimes for hours and sometimes in passing.

“Please,” she whispers. “Tell me the truth. I… I think you at least owe me that.”

With the gentle breeze of her voice reaching him — her sweet inhalations and exhalations and the tender movement of her lips against each syllable hitting his face like a hurricane — a dam inside of him ruptures. The feelings he so desperately tried suppressing and the tears he didn’t realize were brimming his eyelids surge outwards in a fierce tide. He should say something. He needs to say something. But his throat is flooding and his body feels so cold and he is drowning in the tears streaming furiously down his cheeks and —

And suddenly, she pulls him into a tight embrace. She pulls him out from beneath his perpetual raincloud and shelters him within her arms, engulfing him in the strong aroma of dark Arabica roast, and even though his body is shivering, he has never felt so warm. He wonders momentarily whether this warmth is emanating from her frame or radiating from deeper within. She has always been fierce and passionate.

He notices a slight dampness on his shirt but when he tries to gently pry her away, she defiantly nestles her head deeper into his sternum.

“It doesn’t matter who they think you are or who you say you are,” she cries and although the fabric subdues her words, the pain in her voice seeps into the honeycomb-like matrix of his bones. “Somewhere deep inside, you’re still that useless idiot who believed me about overflowing the coffee, who loves shitty classic literature nobody else can understand, and — and dammit, Kaneki — you would still rather run away than stay with the people who care about you.”

Her shoulders wrack with sobs and shudder with hiccups.

“I — I waited for you,” she chokes out, and now that she’s admitted it, her tongue moves without inhibition. “I waited for you everyday and — and — and if you have another stupid martyr mission to run off to, at least come visit every once in a while, you piece of shit, Kaneki. I know that’s a lot to ask, especially if you… if you don’t feel the same —”

Kaneki shoves her away with an abruptness, an urgency, even he was not expecting. He seizes her shoulders with an unnecessary firmness. His entire gastrointestinal tract feels like it’s been riddled with small, innumerable cuts and acid is oozing from each perforation. The acid, diffusing into his bloodstream, circulates throughout his limbs, like the corrosive creature he is. It’s disgusting, really, how he could make someone so precious feel so infinitesimally small.

She haunted him — abysmal amethyst eyes with unbelievable sorrow — petite frame with unimaginable strength — trembling pink lips with unwavering grace, thanking his compliment of her coffee. He spent months pining after her, following a brief and otherwise unimpressive first encounter. But that brief and otherwise unimpressive first encounter ignited a trail of gunpowder winding all throughout his circulatory system and detonated in the center of his chest. She stirred something awake deep within him, and he couldn’t even remember her name.

But even years prior, still a pathetic boy refusing to consume and completely ignorant about the wrongness of the world, she was beautiful. Mercurial, volatile  — but beautiful. She was beautiful in a dark alleyway shoving a bloodied arm down his throat, and she was beautiful in a dark chapel arranging her bloodied mouth against the base of his throat. For every ounce of attraction he once felt toward Rize, there was something stronger — something different he couldn’t recognize — he felt toward Touka.

Her eyes widen, crystalline amethyst perforated with saline and uncharacteristic terror that makes his heart cease beating immediately. She must think that he — that he pushed her away because — because he doesn’t — no, surely she knows, doesn’t she?

“Kaneki.”

Her voice cracks. Everything hurts.

It hurts. It hurts and she never learned a goddamn thing and it would’ve been better to stay silent — it would’ve been better to shut her goddamn fucking mouth — because anything is better than looking into his eyes, widening and tumultuous with unrequitance.

It hurts because she thought he recognized the evil spirits of sadness hidden behind amethyst eyes and  — for some reason she could never possibly understand — she tried — a sad girl trying desperately to quell his and her own loneliness — anyway.

It hurts because his grip on her shoulders is growing uncomfortable and running away sounds much more appealing than confronting his feelings — of course he doesn’t love her because she is irrevocably fucked up and he deserves everything she is not — but he looks so, so sad.

“I’m — I’m sorry,” she whimpers, “I should have known better — I should have known —”

She is interrupted because suddenly, he pulls her into a tight embrace. The strength with which he clutches her is suffocating. He is suffocating her, but like hell would she sacrifice his closeness to inhale an atmosphere not designed for ghouls anyway.

“I — uh… I’m a little messed up…  But if you want — this… I am willing.”

Her breathing halts abruptly, body tense. The coursing of blood in her veins slows, palpitations of her heart pause, firing of her neurons cease. Every exposed inch of epithelium becomes littered in goosebumps, chills reverberate down to the marrow. She has never felt so cold. Then all at once, everything resumes with renewed fervor.

Her fingers clutch at his shirt, too shaky to manage a sturdy grip, and she raises onto tiptoes to touch her forehead to his. His eyes close, mind and body exhausted. They maintain balance atop the delicate tightrope beneath them for several seconds, breathing too shaky and lungs too unreliable to trust their voices.

“I don’t know very much about this,” he admits. He rocks his forehead back and forth against hers, the morning fog of a headache beginning to cloud his mind.

“We’ll figure it out,” she whispers, afraid her voice would flee if she tried speaking any louder. “Come inside, Ken. It’s time to rest.”