#to make things worse I imagine my next job won’t be remote…… I might die when I’m not wfh anymore :/

[footnoteinhistory]

The only thing worse than my job is looking at listings for other jobs

[welllpthisishappening]

One Foot In (5/7)

The facts were these.

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

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

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

—–

Rating: Teen, but eventually they’re going to kiss Word Count: 9K’ish this chapter, with feelings AN: Thank you to everyone who is clicking and reading and saying nice things about this story. It is very nice and I think you are awesome. We’re deviating a bit from the Pushing Daisies path here, so, uh...let’s get magical, huh?

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam. Or! You can catch up from the start ||

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

—–

Emma Swan is twenty-nine years, six months, twenty-four days and, approximately, nine hours and sixteen minutes old when she decides she may actually be going crazy. 

It would explain away a whole host of her problems. 

Ruby is flirting, genuinely and legitimately flirting, and Emma has a few sinking suspicions about the origins of the shirt Killian is wearing, but she’s also a little distracted by whatever the tips of Killian’s ears are doing because it seems he can dish the flirty banter out, but he absolutely, positively cannot witness it. 

Or however the saying is supposed to go. 

And he won’t stop staring at Emma. Like he knows something she doesn’t. 

It’s unnerving. 

“If you stare at me any harder, you’re going to turn me to stone,” Emma mumbles, letting her head drop back and that is a mistake. She can’t remember ever having a concussion, but the wall behind her feels impossibly hard. 

That may just be the situation. Ruby laughs again, leaning over the edge of Victor’s desk until the tips of her hair skim over papers and the not-so-good doctor looks incredibly overwhelmed. Emma understands the feeling. 

She bites her tongue to stop herself from making some kind of absolutely absurd noise because Killian’s eyes widen slightly at the scene in front of them and the longer she tries to remember the dream, the harder it’s becoming to separate reality from fiction and she can’t actually google psychiatric institutions. 

That would probably alert some kind of government agency. 

“If what we’ve been told is true, I’d imagine that’s entirely possible,” Killian says. He doesn’t take a step towards her, but Emma knows he wants to and she swears she can feel him next to her. 

Maybe there are psychiatric institutions listed in the yellow pages. 

She’s not even sure there are yellow pages anymore. The whole thing sounds incredibly antiquated, even in her head. 

Ruby makes a ridiculous noise when she knocks a pile of papers off Victor’s desk. His answering whatever makes Emma want to gag. 

“And,” Killian adds, ducking his head so Emma can’t avoid his gaze. “I know you’re thinking something, love. So let’s have at it. At least it’ll distract us from whatever is going on over there.” “This is normal.” “That doesn’t make it acceptable.”

She scoffs, digging the toe of her shoe into the tile underneath her. “What’s the matter, Jones? Not into public displays of affection?” “How does the man not realize what’s going on? It’s honestly almost too much, don’t you think?”

Emma shrugs and maybe it’s the wall that’s moving because it seems to be pushing even harder against the jut of her ponytail. She can barely remember anything about the dream now, just wisps of memories and moments and it was so, incredibly dark. 

She hasn’t been able to get the goosebumps off her arms since they got into her car. 

“Maybe,” Emma says. “But I don’t think he really cares. And, you know, it works. Gets us to the body and—”

She cuts herself off, wincing as soon as the word body falls out of her mouth. Killian tilts his head, the ends of his lips quirking up. 

“You’re doing another admirable job of avoiding my question. Seems to be a habit of yours.”

“Sweeping judgment,” Emma grumbles. She’s going to dislocate her toe if she presses her shoe any harder into the floor. 

Killian shakes his head. He’s bent his knees at some point which, if Ruby and Victor weren’t far too preoccupied flirting with, maybe, some purpose, would probably lead to both of them making fun, but it also makes Emma tug her lips back behind her teeth and breathe a bit sharply through her nose and it is not fair how good he is at this. 

Still. 

Maybe that was part of the dream. 

Something about understanding. 

She kind of remembers the woman’s face. Her eyes looked...not quite sad, but a little disappointed and a little wanting and that’s the feeling Emma hasn’t been able to shake, a tug in the pit of her stomach and a pull in the center of her soul and she’s never dreaded a trip to the morgue more. 

God, what a weird sentence. 

“Not sweeping,” Killian amends. “Accurate. And obvious. Do you think it’s possible?” Emma blinks. “Do I think what is possible?” “You’re not actually going to make me say it, are you?” “I think I may kind of need you to say it.”

It’s an admission Emma doesn’t need to make, but she feels as if she’s drifting between dream and reality and she swears she’s seen those people before. She knows she knows them, she just can’t figure out how. Or why they showed up in her subconscious. 

Emma’s eyes flit up when Killian doesn’t respond immediately and she’s not sure if she’s glad or frustrated that she does – because she can see the muscles in his throat move when he swallows, the clench of his jaw probably doing damage to several different parts of his mouth. His lips move again, like he isn’t sure if smiling is acceptable in an emotionally charged moment in the middle of a goddamn morgue, but it only takes half a second for him to decide and Emma is thankful for the wall behind her. 

“Do you think it’s possible that I was inadvertently working for some kind of magical darkness because that same magical darkness thinks I am…” “Magical?” Emma suggests, and Killian’s answering noise is strangled at best. “I have no idea. I’ve never...it’s not like I’ve met a lot of other people who can wake the dead and ask them who murdered them.” “Have you ever woken anyone who wasn’t murdered?”

Emma tenses. She knows she tenses. Killian knows she tenses. Ruby is in the middle of something absolutely ridiculous and she probably knows Emma tenses. 

She’s the world’s worst liar and even more terrible at trying to deflect the conversation, but it suddenly seems like she’s balancing on that tight rope again and her head shake makes her entire neck ache. 

“Nope,” she says, far too quickly to be anything except the blatantly obvious lie it is. 

Killian arches an eyebrow. “Nope?” “Nope. I...well, why would I do that? I’m not trying to play God.” “I’m not suggesting that.” “Then what are you suggesting, exactly?” He lets out a low, vaguely sardonic chuckle and Emma figures that’s fair. His hand twists behind him, tugging on hair and pressing the pads of his fingers against the skin just behind his ear. There’s a hint of color on his cheeks. 

That’s disconcerting too. 

Emma can barely hear him over the buzzing in between her ears. 

“I have no idea at all,” Killian admits softly. “But well...I don’t know. I have no idea what the hell I’m talking about or suggesting or even theorizing, but I’m at least ninety-six percent positive I can hear you, Swan. Or maybe feel you. God, shit, that sounds ridiculous.” “That doesn’t sound ridiculous.” “You’re being generous, love.”

Emma makes a contradictory noise, ignoring the fluttering of her pulse. “I’m not,” she promises. “I...you have no idea what you were trying to collect though? For this...darkness? Honestly, that almost sounds more ridiculous than you being able to feel me.” “That kind of sounds like a line.” “It might be.” Killian smiles, head falling forward when he exhales and Emma’s palms are never going to recover from the nails she keeps digging into her skin. “We are exponentially better at flirting than Lucas is.” “Don’t tell her that, she’ll get offended.”

Emma briefly wonders if magic is possible, based solely on the force of Killian’s expression when he looks at her. It’s not immediate, which almost makes it worse or, probably, better, but Emma’s clearly lost control of the English language, so she’s not going to be specific about which adjective she uses. 

He tilts his head up slowly, like he’s trying to savor the moment and she needs magic to be real and fix this because not reaching out and brushing her fingers over the curve of his jaw is growing more and more difficult. 

“What are you thinking about, Swan?” he asks, voice low but with a hint of something that sends a shiver down Emma’s spine and makes her dig her heels into her shoes and maybe they should have gone to prom together because they appear to be very good at dancing around the subject. At least Emma is. 

“Way too much to be even remotely healthy.” “Can you think so much that it would be a detriment to your health?” “You’re the one who’s read encyclopedias. I’m surprised you’re not a doctor at this point.” “Not a doctor,” Killian says, smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth. Ruby is taking her sweet time getting them to see this body. 

Emma does not want to see this body. 

“That wasn’t a contradiction to the encyclopedias,” Emma points out. “And I’m surprised you can’t feel my neurons like...short-circuiting or something at this point.” “You’re also not a robot, Swan.”

“Look who’s being generous now.” His eyes widen slightly before raking across her, drifting from her face to her arms and the bend of her elbows, tracing back across her hips and the bend in her right knee. Emma doesn’t mean to hold her breath, but she’s still on that metaphorical tight rope and she kind of feels like she’s being taken stock of. It’s not altogether unpleasant. 

Every single inch of her feels like it’s buzzing, a quiet energy under her skin and a hum of something that might actually be power or magic and Emma can’t remember the last time she went to the doctor. 

She assumes a doctor would be able to refer her to an appropriate psychiatric facility. 

Killian’s head shifts again, hair dangerously close to his brows, but she can still make out his eyes perfectly and--

“You’ve got to tell me what you’re thinking, Swan.” There’s a hint of a plea to his words and Emma realizes, rather suddenly, he’s been doing a very good job of taking this in stride, but it may be a bit of an act and a possible show of magic and she inhales quickly, like that will give her an extra boost of confidence. 

“I’ve never met anyone else like me,” she says. Her voice shakes. That’s disappointing. “Ever. There’s...it’s not like we have club meetings or matching lettermans jackets or anything like that. There is just me and what I can do and shouldn’t be able to do and—” “—Why don’t you think you should be able to do it?” “What?” “What makes you think it’s inherently wrong, Swan?” Killian asks. 

Emma gapes at him, stunned that he could think it was anything except that, but she knows Ruby also kind of thinks that and she’s incredibly good at self loathing. It’s probably the trail of bodies in her wake and the lingering sense that she’s forgetting something important about that dream. Killian’s expression doesn’t shift though, steady and certain and the confidence that’s practically pulsating in the air around him has an almost legitimate taste. 

Like berries or something. 

She’s honestly gone insane. 

“It’s…” Emma starts, waving her hands in the air when she can’t come up with the right words to prove what an absolutely, terrible, no good, very bad person she is. “It’s unnatural. This is—”

“—Magic?”

“That’s crazy.” “Swan, you touched me and I wasn’t dead anymore. I think that’s fairly good proof that there’s some kind of magical something happening here. And it doesn’t make it a bad thing.” “So long as no one knows about it.” “Explain that.” “I’ve been...Graham wasn’t wrong before, you know. I don’t really...talk to, well, anyone. I mean I talk to Ruby and some dead people and the people who buy my pies, but it’s not like I’ve got a thriving social life or anything. And I can’t.” “Why?” Killian presses, and there isn’t any anger there, just genuine curiosity and concern. Emma’s pulse is going to fly out of her body. 

At least there is an actual doctor nearby. 

“Because I left Storybrooke when I was a kid, alone and absolutely terrified and...I knew I could do this...whatever it is. Magic or a genetic mistake or—” “—You’re not a mistake, Swan.” “It’s nice that you think that.” “Emma,” Killian snaps, and she’s dimly aware of Ruby’s sound of frustration when they get loud enough to distract Victor from whatever part of the flirting plan she’s currently executing. He doesn’t take a step forward, there’s not enough room, but he rocks forward slightly and Emma’s breath hitches, stinging her nose and making her lungs burn and she’s totally unprepared for the look on his face. 

He’s determined and not, a strange combination that’s also a little soft and maybe Emma should start reading the dictionary so she can come up with better words in situations like this. 

Situations that end with conversations in her head. 

“I don’t think that,” Killian continues. “I know that. Unequivocally. You didn’t...whatever reason this happened to you, it doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.” Emma shakes her head out of habit, pleasantly surprised and slightly charmed by the look of exasperation on Killian’s face. “I shouldn’t be able to do this,” she whispers. “It’s not right. It’s not safe. I mean...if you move the wrong way or—” “—That’s not going to happen.” “You can’t know that!” Ruby groans again, throwing them both a glare over her shoulder before redirecting her attention back to Victor. This is taking forever. 

Emma hopes that isn’t a sign. 

“Nothing is going to happen to me, Swan,” Killian says, another promise he can’t make, but one Emma also kind of needs and maybe covets and, if put under oath, she would swear his eyes get bluer when he looks at her. “But you’re deflecting quite a bit again, love. What are you worried about?” “Would you like an itemized list?” “I wouldn’t refuse it. You’ve been jaw-clenching since you answered the phone this morning.” Emma sighs, letting her tongue trace over her teeth. “When I was a kid, I was terrified of what would happen if someone could find out what I could do. That they’d...take me or use me and no matter how much you try and cover it up by flirting with me, we both know this is something I shouldn’t be able to do. It’s not normal.” “That doesn’t make it wrong.” “It doesn’t make it right either.” “You are impossibly stubborn.” “Yeah,” Emma mutters. “But that’s the point. I haven’t really...I’m very good at pushing away with both hands so no one will know what I can do.” “You can’t actually push me away, you know,” Killian says. It’s more out of place flirting. Emma’s pulse does not care. 

“That’s stupid.” “That’s what you’re capable of doing.” Emma groans, less frustration than...something else. “I’m kind of freaking out,” she admits, wholly unfair all things considered. Killian’s smile looks a hint sadder. “And I...well, Cora said the Darkness was looking for people like us, right?” 

“I’ve never undeaded the dead, Swan.” “I figured that’d be part of the reintroduction, honestly. Hey, Emma, long time no see, I also can touch people back to life.” He chuckles, fingers fluttering at his side like he’s trying to stop himself from touching her. “I wouldn’t have called you Emma,” Killian mutters. “Save that for special occasions and exercises in self confidence.”

“Do you think it’s possible?” 

“Your self confidence or the magic?”

“Throw a dart,” she quips. “But mostly the magic.” “Like I said, I have no idea. But I knew something was wrong as soon as the goons got on deck and there had to be some reason they wanted that water moved. I doubt the Darkness is all that concerned with proper hydration.”

“You’re absolutely hysterical.” “Got you to smile though,” Killian points out, waving a finger through the air and it’s dangerously close to her cheek. 

“Cora seemed very adamant.” “Well, we all know that Cora wouldn’t lie.”

She might laugh, but the sound feels like it rattles around her throat, scraping against the side and leaving behind marks that will linger for days or weeks or the rest of her goddamn life. Emma’s eyes fall shut, breathing only slightly erratic, which really is a step in the right direction.

“I used to have dreams,” she says, another sudden admission she hadn’t planned on making until the words are flying straight out of her. “When I was a kid and there were new houses and cold houses and I’d never been very good at sleeping, but it got worse and worse the older I got. I used to fall into these kinds of fits and they changed a lot, different locations and faces that weren’t ever really specific, but it always ended the same.” She opens her eyes, vision blurred slightly. She can still see the flecks of something in Killian’s eyes. It might be magic. 

Emma still wants it to be magic. 

If only to prove she isn’t as alone as she’s always felt. 

“How did it end?” Killian asks, another rock forward that she should object to. She doesn’t. 

“Badly.” She doesn’t say anything else, knows she doesn’t really have to when Killian’s tongue flashes between his lips. He’s not close enough for Emma to actually feel his exhale. Her brain doesn’t care. It latches on to the want and the need and the taste of blood lingers in the back of her mouth when she chews on her tongue again. 

“Is that what happened last night?” Emma nearly bites her tongue in half. “What?” “Is that what happened last night?” Killian repeats. “A dream that ended badly?” “How do you know that?” “That’s not an answer, Swan.”

She huffs out a breath of oxygen her lungs could desperately use, running a ragged hand over her face. “I can’t really remember,” Emma mumbles. “It wasn’t the same as those ones. It was...it was dark and I was alone for awhile, but then I wasn’t. There were people there. A man and a woman and they said…” She grits her teeth, trying to remember details that are fading as quickly as she can try and hold onto them. “They said it was going to be worth it.” “What was going to be worth it?” “Your guess is as good as mine.” Killian laughs again, low and almost unsurprised because of course there’s another mystery. “Figures. You weren’t by yourself though.” Emma considers that for a moment – trying to remember the feeling of the dream and the faces that were almost familiar in a way that made it seem as if they’d been there since the very beginning. Her smile feels almost natural. “No, I wasn’t.” 

She shakes her arms, doing her best to get rid of the sudden surplus of excess energy that appears to be lingering in the tips of her fingers. “And I don’t think Cora would lie either,” Emma adds, avoiding Killian’s gaze. 

It doesn’t matter. She can feel his eyes widen and she wrings her hands together just to prove that she hasn’t, in fact, turned to stone. 

“Emma.” “Oh, c’mon.” He rolls his eyes when she does, finally, meet his eyes. It’s a bit of normal in the crazy and Emma’s thankful for it, even when they’re discussing something another human has already referred to as the Darkness. 

“They called him master,” Killian says. “That’s...he must have been looking for something.” “Something magical.” “But the water is gone. I saw it crash before, well…before everything went to shit.” “That’s a nice way of putting it,” Emma mumbles, drawing more laughter and another smile and that’s comforting too. She lets her head drop back again, pulse almost evening out and breathing coming almost normally – until Killian runs his hand through his hair and rocks back on his feet and—

“You know, I used to wonder about you,” he says, rushing over the words as if they’re somehow embarrassing. “Not, well, not in a stalkery, all the time kind of way. But in a you were gone and eventually I realized you weren’t coming back and I wondered what you looked like sometimes kind of way.” “What I looked like?”

“Yeah, in retrospect that sounds a little stalkery too, doesn’t it?” Emma twists a strand of hair around her finger, chewing lightly on her lower lip. “Sounds a little flirty, honestly.” “Ah, that’s bitter.” “How’d it play out for you?” Killian hums in confusion, a furrow to his brows that is equal parts attractive and a little overwhelming, as if one look can alter the entire state of gravity around Emma. She presses her palms flat against the wall, not really much better than digging her nails into her skin because whatever this wall is made out of is kind of gritty and horrible, but Killian’s ears have gone scarlet and the tip of his tongue is pressed into the corner of his mouth. “Play out,” Emma repeats. “As far as looks go.” He might genuinely growl at her. 

Whatever the sound is, it lingers in the air around them until Emma is certain it’s crackling with electricity and want and a slew of other adjectives that make her heart race and the possible magic she’s definitely in possession of soar.  

Killian’s eyes darken, crowding into her space and pressing his hand above her head. “That’s a loaded question. And I’m a little disappointed it’s not more obvious.” “Maybe I’m just trying to get some more confirmation.” She can see his shoulders shift, a twist of skin and muscles and a t-shirt that’s half a size too small. They really are incredibly good at flirting with each other. 

Emma licks her lips before she considers the repercussions of it, whatever noise that rumbles in the back of Killian’s throat making her feel as if she’s floating and a little drunk and both of those things would be a better explanation than magic. 

It’s definitely magic. 

She doesn’t know how she knows, but she knows and she wants to ignore the idea of the Darkness for the rest of her life. 

“Better,” Killian says, low and gruff and Emma swears the word slinks into her bloodstream. It wraps around her heart and several other internal organs that would probably sound disgusting if she were to ever say any of this out loud, drifting down her limbs and taking up residence at major pulse points, a steady rhythm that helps ground her when the buzzing in her brain roars to life. 

Emma doesn’t scoff, it’s more of an exhale, but still a little disbelieving and a little needy and—

“Yeah, you too,” she breathes. 

And, honestly, in a conversation about magic and death and dreams that end with Emma serving as the subject of several vaguely horrible science experiments, telling a guy she’s definitely started referring to as her boyfriend in her head that she’s attracted to him shouldn’t be so surprising. But Killian’s face hasn’t appeared to get that memo.

His eyebrows jump into his hairline, a muscle in his temple fluttering at a rate that can’t be medically accurate. He doesn’t move his right hand, but his lips press together tightly and Emma’s eyes dart towards his left arm when he tries to twist it behind his back. 

His eyelashes are impossibly long, fluttering when he closes his eyes and his shoulders move again, as if he’s trying to readjust the weight that’s landed there. 

“Hey,” Emma says, reaching out against her better judgment to tug on the front of his shirt. “That’s...do you want to talk about it?” “No.” “Killian.” “What is there to talk about, Swan? It was there when I left home and it was there when I got on the boat and it’s very clearly not here now, so somewhere between living and dying and living again, someone decided I didn’t need to have my left hand anymore.” “I think you want to talk about it.” He glares, but she’s almost confident in her ability to read him too and if they’re going to share magic, or whatever, Emma figures it’s part of her biological right. “The most stubborn person alive, you know that?” “No,” Emma argues. “You’re alive too. That, at least, makes us even.”

“God, it’s not fair that you can still do that.” “Yeah, tell me about it.” Killian grins, less...everything except something Emma can’t possibly begin to think about in a morgue. “Cora said she didn’t think they’d take it,” he whispers. “As in there’s a reason they did take it. And I’m pretty positive the they in this scenario are the goons.” “Seems to be a trend.” “Yeah, it does. A frustrating one that I can’t wrap my head around. Have you ever heard of a fairy tale where the villains steal someone’s hand?” “Fairy tale,” Emma echoes skeptically, and Killian’s teeth dig into his lip. She’s slightly optimistic that it’s so he won’t be tempted to kiss her. 

“Are you not my knight in shining armor, Swan?”

“That’s almost laying it on too thick, don’t you think?” Killian mutters a quick disagreement, bringing his left arm back to his side. “I think it’s some very twisted trick of the universe that I’d spent more time than appropriate during my teenage years wondering if your hair was still able to reflect sunlight only to die before finding you again and then, upon not being dead, being unable to touch you as much as I very desperately want to.” “Desperately?” Emma’s voice cracks on the word, and she knows she should stop repeating everything he says, but she’s having a difficult time breathing and she assumes he won’t fault her lack of sentence structure. Ruby’s laugh has taken on a decidedly victorious tone, Victor grumbling something that sounds like the tell-tale signs of acquiesce. 

They’re running out of time. 

“Desperately,” Killian repeats. “And, as if that weren’t enough, if we do somehow figure out a way to magic ourselves out of this mess, figure out who killed me, fight off some mythical Darkness and make sure you get to REM sleep every night, I still won’t be able to hold onto you with both of my hands.”

Emma doesn’t realize she’s been holding her breath until all the oxygen rushes out of her lungs in one great, big enormous huff. She’s not crying, so that feels like a victory, but Killian’s suddenly the one who can’t hold her gaze and that doesn’t compute at all. 

She shuffles her weight between her feet, trying to put some incredibly undesirable space between them so she can hold her hand out expectantly. 

“Is that code?” “We didn’t come up with the code yet,” Emma points out, and it’s enough to work a slightly tremulous smile out of him. She’ll take her victories where she can get them at this point. “And I know there are gloves in your back pocket. Hand ‘em over.” “Swan, what…” “Don’t argue with me, Jones. A pirate is supposed to share his booty with his crew or something, right? I have no idea how pirate rules work.” “I don’t think pirates had many rules, love, that’s why they were pirates.” “You are grasping at straws and distracting me from my point. Gloves, now and now.” He makes a disbelieving noise, but doesn’t argue anymore, yanking the gloves out of his pocket and dropping them in her upturned palm. It takes some finangling on Emma’s part to make sure she doesn’t inadvertently elbow him in the ribs or something more catastrophic, but she keeps her grunting to a minimum as she tugs the fabric over her fingers. And it’s obvious he realizes what she’s about to do before she does it. 

His eyes go wide and his jaw goes slack and he might mumble her name, a quiet Emma that sounds half like a plea and half like another wholly impossible promise, but none of that is quite as gravity-altering as whatever happens to every single inch of Killian’s face as soon as she wraps her glove-covered finger around the end of his left arm. 

Emma doesn’t say anything – isn’t entirely certain she’s capable of it and, really, she’d rather not embarrass herself by saying something idiotic, like telling him she may honestly be in love with him again or still or whatever – so she just lets her fingers drift over skin she’s not actually touching, tracing over scars that are far cleaner than she expected them to be. 

That gives her pause, but she refuses to linger on it when she knows they’re already on borrowed time. The clack of Ruby’s heels is getting closer. 

And Killian, for his part, looks a little stunned. His eyes don’t ever leave Emma, bouncing from her fingers back to her face and drifting towards her mouth and maybe they should start carrying saran wrap with them at all times. 

That seems a little weird. 

“Emma,” he whispers, and when they get out of this, when there are no more dead bodies and no more threats and she’s told him the absolute truth about absolutely everything, she’s going to kiss every single inch of skin she can find. She’s going to linger on these few inches, an emotional brand that feels as heavy-handed as any of the decidedly sentimental thoughts she’s considered in the last few days, but she’s going to do it anyway, until he believes it’s ok and worth it and—

“Did you say you wondered if my hair could reflect sunlight?” Emma asks. 

Whatever noise he makes will probably play on loop in Emma’s memories for the rest of her life and very likely into several different afterlifes. It warms her from the inside out, another rush of power and a hint of guilt she’s been ignoring because she’s definitely keeping big, important facts from him and Killian is already nodding. 

“I did when I was a kid. Especially in the summer. We’d be outside all the time and, God, I swore it was, like, phosphorescent or something.” “That’s a very big word for a nine year old.” “I didn’t come up with that one until I was ten.” “Ah, well, that’s ok.” He nods, half a wink and it’s not very good, but it’s still stupidly charming. “Like it was it’s own power source,” Killian adds, half to himself as his fingers drift through the air just above Emma’s head. “It never made any sense.” “Yeah, join the club.” “I think I probably could have remembered every single strand when I was a kid. And, fuck, I know I’m not helping my stalking case, but—” “—No, no,” Emma interrupts, far too quickly. “That’s...I mean, it’s kind of ok.” “Good news for me. But it was like it was imprinted in my brain, even after you left. Years and summers and how ridiculous it was trying to race myself down that stupid hill.” “You went back to the hill?” “My uncles thought it was a coping mechanism, and it was at first, but then it was so I wouldn’t forget too. I wanted to hate you for a while, Swan. That you left and never came back and—” “—Not all of that was my fault.” “I know it wasn’t, love, but tell that to a decidedly friendless, leather jacket sporting fourteen year old and you’ll find I wasn’t very rational at that point. I wanted to hate you, more than I’d wanted just about anything at that point.” “Did you?” “No,” Killian answers immediately. “I kept going back to the hill and the memories always seemed to slam into me and I couldn't hate you if I tried. So I stopped. I remembered everything and every time I went back there I always seemed to remember the exact way the sun reflected off your hair.” She opens her mouth. Only to close it again. And does that four more times. Killian’s smile turns a little nervous, but that may be because Emma hasn’t let go of his arm. 

She’s got no intention of letting go of his arm. 

Or him. 

God. 

“That’s decidedly romantic for an angst-ridden teenager,” she says, which is really the last thing she expects to say, but is also kind of par for the course and Killian grabs one of her hands so he can press a kiss to the bend in her knuckles. 

“Yeah, it is.” Ruby groans, the scrape of Victor’s chair sounding impossibly loud when he gets up, muttering an excuse about taking an early lunch lingering behind him. 

“Are you guys done?” Ruby asks. She’s already tapping her heel. “Because we are on a very tight schedule here.” “The guy isn’t going anywhere,” Killian reasons. 

“Yeah, about that guy. I’ve got some facts.” Emma blinks, and lets Killian lace his fingers through hers. “What kind of facts?” “These kind of facts,” Ruby says, brandishing a questionably large file in front of her. “The kind that show that Charles Thatch has spent the better part of the last ten years in and out of several different prisons in a variety of states. He never seems to have much in the way of employment history, but he’s certainly got the means to bounce around the country quite a bit.” “Meaning?” “Meaning, our Mr. Thatch, who, incidentally, was found in the woods on the edge of the Storybrooke city line—” “—Town line.” “I’m going to kill you.” “Let’s avoid that, please,” Emma mumbles, trying to pull her arm out of Killian’s grasp so she can dramatically cross them over her chest. He tightens his hold. 

Ruby scowls. “Yeah, that was kind of shitty, right?” “Just a little. Go back to lording facts so you feel like you’re in control of the situation.”

Ruby flips her off that time. “Mr. Teach bounced around everywhere. Doing odds and ends and things that don’t make any sense at all, but, and this is the most important part, in the last two months he applied for, and received, an expedited passport.” “Meaning?” “Oh I get it,” Killian mumbles, and Emma isn’t sure if he means to squeeze her hand that hard. It’s almost worse if he doesn’t. 

“Honestly were you a PI in another life?” Ruby demands. “Or a cop? Getting upstaged like this is not fun for me at all. 

“As far as I know only one life. If we start dealing with regenerations or something too, I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle that.” “Regner-whats?” “Like Doctor Who,” Emma supplies. “His brother was a giant nerd.”

The casual mention of Liam catches her by surprise, eyes widening to a size that Ruby absolutely notices and Killian’s brows pull low in confusion. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it too, Swan. You were the one who wanted to build a TARDIS that one time.” “Yeah, well, it didn’t work did it?” “We didn’t know about the magic yet.” “Can we focus, please?” Ruby shouts, jumping for emphasis and they are being kind of unfair to her. “Because as Jones said, but didn’t actually explain, the passport thing is important. It means that Mr. Teach was able to leave the country with relative ease in the last two months, which could potentially include a little jaunt into the Atlantic ocean and—” “—Oh shit,” Emma mumbles. 

“Exactly. So, shall we touch him and ask him if he’s got TSA pre-screening?” “I don’t think they let felons do that,” Killian shrugs, ignoring whatever strangled noise Ruby makes and his hand doesn’t leave Emma’s when he directs her towards the nearest door. 

She’s never really enjoyed trips to the morgue. 

She assumes no one really does, except possibly Victor, but he’s a little weird and she understands that trips to the morgue are necessary. It’s the lighting though. It’s far too bright and everything smells like bleach and somehow stale at the same time, as if death is just permeating the air molecules. 

Emma takes a deep breath and immediately regrets it, shuddering despite her best efforts to control her limbs. 

“Hey,” Killian mutters. “It’s going to be fine, Swan. No matter what happens.” She doesn’t respond, but her eyes dart towards Ruby’s and there’s a warning there that Emma doesn't entirely appreciate. “How’d he die?” 

“Who?” 

“Mr. Teach. If they found him in the woods, there must have been a medical examiner there, right? Some kind of report.” Ruby makes a face – a stop sign in human form, but the question is already there and—“Just touch him and ask him how he killed Jones and who he was working for, Em.” “Wow, that was kind of blunt, Lucas,” Killian says. His gaze keeps moving back towards Emma though and she’s going to chew through her cheek by the time the day is over. 

She really wishes it were tomorrow. 

The Doctor never had to deal with this shit. That’s fundamentally untrue, but it makes her feel better to compare her problems to those of a fictional character who, eventually, was forced to blow up his entire planet. 

Emma just hopes she won’t have to do that too. 

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” she mumbles, tugging the glove off her right hand with her teeth when Killian continues to let go. She drops her phone onto the edge of the table. 

Charles Teach is old, that much is obvious. He’s got wrinkles around his eyes and a decidedly disheveled look to him that kind of screams no good, very bad villain. They’ve already removed his clothes, a mass of skin that’s marred with scars and jagged lines and a life that practically reaches out and smacks Emma across the face. 

And part of her knows that none of those marks are what killed him. 

The other part of her is screaming. Loudly. In her head. 

“Is that him, Jones?” Ruby asks, and Killian hums. 

“Yup. You’d think the Darkness would get better looking lackeys. He looks like he's been dead for a very long time, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, that’s weird. Seriously, am I going to have to offer you a job?” “It’s probably better than me testing the market when I’m fairly certain I don’t have a social security number anymore.”

“Oh, yeah, it’d be weird explaining that at an interview probably.”

“Plus, look at all the fun we’re having. I think I’m starting to grow on you, Lucas. I knew it was only a matter of time.” Ruby gags. “Don’t press your luck.”

Killian chuckles again, a flash of a smile that does not belong near a guy who definitely does not look like he’s only been dead for a few hours. There’s a pallor to his skin that doesn’t make sense, gray and drawn and everything looks far too calm. 

A guy with a track record as long as Charles Teach should not have died a peaceful death. 

It is the single worst observation Emma has ever made. 

“Swan,” Killian prompts when Emma continues to stare at the man on the table in front of them. “Emma, love, you’ve actually got to—” “—Yeah, yeah, I know,” she interrupts sharply. Ruby clicks her tongue. 

She doesn’t think much about where she touches, swatting her hand against Teach’s and he doesn’t jerk up the way most bodies do. Emma hates that she thinks of them as bodies. He opens his eyes slowly, taking in his surroundings as he lifts his head off the table. 

There’s a piece of hair sticking to his forehead. 

“Who the hell are you?” Teach asks, directing the question to, presumably, Emma. Her hand is still hanging very close to his. “And what the hell are you doing here, Jones? Didn’t I already kill you once?” “Yeah, I believe I was there for that,” Killian says flippantly. “Why’d you do that incidentally?” “Should have asked a few more questions before you met your untimely demise, my boy.” “Not your boy and honestly who says demise? That’s…” “Not important,” Ruby hisses. “Why’d you kill him? And what was the water for?” Thatcher narrows his eyes, but he almost looks impressed and Emma isn’t sure if that’s a good thing. “The water was for my master. I’m sure Jones told you that already.” “And that master,” Emma says, finding a bit of courage she didn’t expect and she’s not sure if it’s entirely because it feels like there’s sparks in between her fingers. The same fingers twisted up with Killian’s. “That’s the Darkness, right?” “You know far more than you’re giving yourself credit for.” “What the hell was the water for then? And why did he want Killian?” “It wasn’t Jones specifically,” Teach argues. “It was what he could do. It all timed up rather perfectly until he decided to be infuriatingly noble about it.” “Did that make negative sense to anyone else?” Ruby asks, glancing around the room as if there are more than the four of them there. 

Emma shrugs. “The magic, then? That’s...that’s a real thing?” “Can’t you feel it?” Teach asks. “It’s practically got its own frequency. Granted, part of that is how worried he is about you right now, but it’s there regardless. It’s rolling off you in waves.” “What does that have to do with the water?” She hates that she shouts the question, hates that she’s lost her last few strings of apparent sanity and control, but Killian squeezes her fingers again and tugs her hand up towards his lips and that can’t possibly be the right course of action. 

Emma couldn't care less. 

“My master,” Teach says. “He’s been looking for something, for a very long time, to bring back someone. And nothing has worked. It’s been...well, he’s been very disappointed. But we’d heard of something in those waters, a magical source of rejuvenation—”

“—Like the fountain of youth?” Killian asks. 

“Obviously not. The lad is dead already, keeping him young wouldn't do much of anything. The legend of this water said it could revive things that had been...not living. My master believed it would work, but he needed another magical being to transport it for him.” Ruby scoffs. “And that was Jones?”

“Obviously.” “Why wouldn’t the Darkness do it himself?” Emma presses, and Teach  gets that same impressed look on his face. It sends a chill down her spine. “Cut out the magical middle man as it were.” “It was dangerous. And my master doesn’t need to involve himself in matters like this. Not when it wasn’t guaranteed and he’s looking for…”

Teach trails off, expression shifting again to something far closer to terror than Emma is entirely ready for. She glances at Ruby – who immediately holds her hands up in confusion. 

“Fat lot of help you are,” Emma grumbles. “Alright, so the Darkness is looking for something to revive someone, but there’s more to it, isn’t there? What...what else could there be?”

“You don’t know?” “Obviously not and you are running out of time.” “I’d answer her,” Killian adds, a wholly unnecessary and slightly gallant move that leaves Ruby with her tongue hanging out of her mouth and Emma blushing just a bit. Teach’s mouth twists, understanding settling on his face.  

Emma hopes there isn’t actually ice sitting at the base of her spine. 

“I’m not doing anything,” Teach says. “I’m assuming I’m already dead given my surroundings and I’d imagine I won’t be going back to that funeral home any time soon. So it’s really up to you. Jones wouldn’t help my master, so he had to die. It’s as simple as that.” “But you took my hand,” Killian growls. Teach’s laugh bounces off the walls and echoes around them, seemingly growing louder and more threatening and— “That’s part of the mystery my boy. Trust me, my master’s getting plenty of use out of it. He’s gone back to the start. He’ll figure you all out sooner or later. There’s no way around it.” “The start? And, wait, wait, did you say you were in the funeral home? What the hell were you doing there?” “Making sure you made it into the ground. Unfortunately I didn’t stick around long enough to guarantee that, but I can’t be entirely faulted when the whole world went pear shaped and—” “—Did you die in the funeral home? When?” “Are you dense?” Teach sneers, sitting up now and Emma keeps glancing at her phone. “Of course I was in the funeral home. I was there when you were there. How you got out and I didn’t is a question for the ages of course, but—”

He doesn’t finish. Emma doesn’t let him finish. She swings her hand out, skin against skin and Teach falls back on the table with a thump that sounds far too loud. 

Ruby curses under her breath. 

“Well,” she whispers. “At least we know how that ended. And you know...justice is kind of served. So points to us.” “I don’t think that’s how it works,” Emma argues. She squeezes her eyes closed, as if that will change the scene in front of her or stop Killian’s gaze from boring into the side of her head and she could play this moment out eight-hundred thousand times and she’d still never be prepared for the next few words out of his mouth. 

“What is going on?” Killian asks, low and a hint desperate. His thumb starts tapping against the back of Emma’s wrist, directly on top of her pulse point. She figures that’s what does her in. 

She doesn’t open her eyes. 

It’s a cowardly move. 

Emma feels like a coward. 

“There’s another rule to all of this,” she whispers. “Me, I mean. And what I can do. That...well, that I didn’t tell you yet.” Killian’s arm falls back to his side. Ruby curses again. “What kind of rule?” he asks. 

“Remember you wanted to know why it’s a minute? It’s uh...it’s because the universe needs to stay balanced or something and if a not-dead-anymore person stays alive longer than a minute then—” “—Someone else has to die,” Killian says. 

Emma’s eyes snap open. “How’d you know that?” “Context clues.” “That’s impressive.” “Yeah, it’s something isn’t it? So Teach died because you didn’t kill me. Did you know that was going to happen?” Emma nods – quick and jerky and painful, but that may just be the echo of Ruby’s heel in a room filled with a bunch of dead people. “Did you know who it would be?” “No, it’s not…” “Right. Right. Just a trick of fate and happy coincidence.” Emma isn’t sure what to do with that tone of voice. It’s not angry and she knows he’s not, not really. The man on the table in front of them killed Killian, cut off his hand for reasons they still can’t figure out and apparently serves some mythical being with the worst villain name in the history of several universes, but he’s looking at her like he’s never seen her before and it’s not the exciting, slightly overwhelming gaze it’s been in the last few days. 

It’s like he can’t quite come to terms with her. It’s like he’s wondering if maybe she is, in fact, wrong. Emma bites her cheek again. 

“I wasn’t planning on it,” she says, not sure why she’s still talking. Ruby is going to sprain her tongue. “This,” Emma waves her hand towards Teach. “That wasn’t part of the plan. And I mean—” “—He did kill you,” Ruby adds, grinning when Emma flashes an appreciative glance in her direction. “So, you know, if we’re keeping tally marks in the Emma saving your ass column...”

Killian doesn’t move immediately, doesn’t even blink, but his eyes drift back towards Emma and she tries not to breathe too much. It feels like he’s taking stock of her again and she desperately wants to live up to expectations. 

She’s still not telling him everything. 

“That’s true,” Killian says eventually. “Thank you, Swan.” Emma wishes she could nod like a normal person. Her lungs are going to rise up in protest of her. “But,” he adds, and Ruby might try to actually cast a spell on him. “There’s one part I don’t entirely understand. Teach said he was in the funeral home, but they found him by the line. And now...going back to the start. The Darkness, I mean, was going back to the start. Where do we go? It’s not like we know who this thing is.” “I still don’t think it’s an alien,” Emma mumbles. It’s a piss-poor attempt at a joke and control and Ruby rolls her eyes so hard it must hurt. 

She throws both her hands in the air when she, apparently, comes to some sort of conclusion. “Oh, fuck, fucking fuck!” “Eloquent.” “Shut up, Em. You have your car?” “Do you want me to shut up or…” “Oh my God. We have to go. We have to go now. Jones, would your uncles be in your house, right now?” “Yes,” Killian says slowly, drifting back into Emma’s space. She doesn’t think he realizes he’s doing it. “They don’t...oh fuck.”

“Can someone tell me what is happening?” Emma yells. 

“The start. He’d go back to try and find whatever he was looking for. Whatever Thatch thinks he needed my hand for.” “And that would probably be a little jarring for your shut-in uncles, yes?” Ruby asks, already moving towards the door and brushing by a clearly confused Victor. 

Emma suddenly understands. 

She needs to expand her curse vocabulary. 

Because the Darkness is on his way to Storybrooke. 

Emma doesn’t actually count how long it takes them to get to Killian’s house, but she isn’t sure she’s ever driven that fast and she’s going to get at least half a dozen tickets for running all those red lights. 

Killian’s out of the car before she’s really stopped it, running up steps with long strides and ignoring both Emma and Ruby’s cries to wait two seconds, Jesus. That last part is mostly Ruby. 

The house itself is exactly the way Emma remembers. 

The shutters are still that same shade of blue Liam picked when they were kids – an afternoon that felt like torture at the time, but quickly dissolved into paint-stained clothes and color-streaked cheeks. There aren’t any chairs on the porch anymore, the curtains drawn closed on the huge bay window in the front of the house and Emma can see the fabric fluttering slightly, as if something or someone is standing just inside them. 

“Killian,” she calls again, but he’s already bounding up the steps. He jumps over the third one. It creaks. And he doesn’t bother closing the door behind him, the screen slamming against the side of the house and Emma’s out of breath by the time she catches up to him. 

There’s no one inside. 

At least it doesn’t look like there’s anyone inside. 

Everything feels as if it’s been paused, a stillness that’s unnerving and incorrect in a house like this where Emma only knew laughter and smiles and blanket forts with incredibly detailed engineering. She lets her eyes flit around the room, taking in the differences. There are more frames on the wall now, Killian at a variety of ages with a variety of hair styles and two men Emma only has vague memories of. 

There are pillows everywhere, decorative lamps that are just treading the line between classy and ostentatious, blankets draped over both couches. 

She reaches her hand out before she thinks about, probably something to do with magnets or those words she’s been ignoring for the better part of the day and it doesn’t really matter because Killian moves his hand behind him to grab at her too and that’s when everything suddenly and completely goes to shit. 

It’s as if an explosion goes off, a darkness so deep Emma briefly wonders if it’s possible for the villain of this story to toy with the sun. 

She blinks, gripping Killian’s fingers like a lifeline and one of them must mutter we’re going to be ok, but Emma genuinely has no idea who it is. She’s far too busy shrinking back from the laughter that’s suddenly surrounding them, jarring and victorious and just a little unhinged. 

The darkness ebbs slightly, bright enough that Emma can make out the shadow in front of her. 

And, for half a moment, that’s all it is – a shadow and smoke over the water, but then the laughter grows and the magic in her veins sings, doing its best to battle back. It doesn’t work. Particularly when the shadow turns corporal and the smile on the Darkness’ face is like nothing Emma has ever seen. 

“We’re ok, love,” Killian whispers. “It’s ok.” She must shake her head – can feel her hair shift against her neck, but the words get caught in her throat and the Darkness hasn’t stopped staring at her. 

Emma barely notices the other men who have appeared there, faces that match the ones in the frames and one of them curses when he sees Killian standing there. “No,” he mutters. “No, no, that’s going too far. Kill us. It’d be better than this.”

The Darkness laughs again. 

It makes his whole body shake, head thrown back and Emma suddenly notices there’s a slight glimmer to his skin, like he’s glowing and it may be the single worst thing she’s ever seen. 

Until he snaps his head back, eyes meeting hers and she will eventually wish she didn’t whimper. In the moment, though, she can’t seem to do anything else. She holds her breath and tries to melt into the floor, but she can’t do that either and she can’t turn into Killian’s side and every single promise he makes falls on deaf ears. 

“I thought he’d bring you,” the Darkness says, the same triumphant look that was in his smile working its way into his voice. “You’re rather predictable, but the good ones always are.” “What do you want?” Killian asks. Nemo, Emma thinks it’s Nemo, curses again, doing his best to fight against the rope tying him to the chair he’s sitting on. 

The Darkness waves a finger through the air. “You already know that, dearie. There’s no point in rehashing. I know you spoke to Teach.” “How?” “Please, I know everything. That’s how I know this is going to work. Because the good ones are always easy to get an edge on and,” he lets out a low whistle, taking a step closer to them as Killian tries to push Emma behind him, “she’s practically bursting with it. But first we need to clear the air a little bit.”

“Meaning?” Emma gasps, the realization striking her like lightning or something equally metaphorical and terrible and she kind of wishes it weren’t metaphorical because then she wouldn’t have to do this. It feels a bit like blowing up her planet. 

Or at least the sun she’s started orbiting around. 

She’s not even sure that makes sense. 

She really has no idea how anything scientific works. 

The Darkness bobs on the balls of his feet – an absurd sentence and an absurd visual, particularly when his skin has gotten even brighter, like he’s growing more powerful the longer Emma plays coward. He lets out another laugh. 

Shakespeare might be the one who curses that time. 

“Oh, this is going to be delightful,” the Darkness says, a wistful sigh that makes Emma wonder how long he’s waited for this. “I don’t need you anymore. Well, no that’s not true, I’ll take you, but I’d rather have her and—” “—You’re not getting Emma,” Killian growls. “I’m not...not again.” “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, dearie. I should have known from the very start it wasn’t you. You were just...a leech, a latch on, a sponge.” “What?” “Of the magical variety.” “I don’t…” “Oh, I know you don’t,” the Darkness continues. “But magic leaves a mark. It lingers where it matters and Cora should have realized. That was foolish of me. To believe she’d be able to differentiate and, well, I do admit it’s close, but…” “Make some goddamn sense!” “Oh my God, Killian,” Nemo sighs. 

Killian doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t let go of Emma’s hand. And Emma is only slightly confused. She’s mostly doing her best not to cry. 

The Darkness stares at her again. “But you my dear,” he says, a longing in the words that makes her whole body ache. “You are something entirely new. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time. The only problem is I need you to be free of those pesky secrets that have been crippling your magic. The Savior can’t have that.” Emma blinks. “The what?” “We’ll get to that. First thing’s first though. The truth, Ms. Swan. About what happened in this house all those years ago and how you’ve spent your entire life running from it. Then the fun will begin.”

She tastes blood in her mouth, vision blurring with tears she can’t bring herself to cry because it is her fault and it’s always been her fault and she should have told him from the start. 

She’s wrong. 

From the very start. “Swan, what is he…” Killian starts, but his eyes widen when the Darkness moves back towards Shakespeare, a knife at his throat and a predatory glint in his stare. 

“Go ahead, Savior,” the Darkness sneers. “Or we’ll start killing. I’m not nearly as upset about it as you are.” Killian spins on the spot – ignoring the villain and the knife pressed to his uncle’s neck and Emma’s breath hitches when his glove-covered hand brushes her cheek, catching a tear on the fabric. The whole thing is very cyclical. 

She hates it. 

“Like the goddamn sun,” he mumbles, and it doesn’t make sense. It makes a negative amount of sense, but Emma exhales like it’s the single most important sentence ever uttered and—

“I’m the reason Liam is dead.”

Killian’s hand falls away from her.

[kpopisamood]

Queen’s Clan { 17 }

Summary: y/n is plagued by nightmares. She realizes that the more she runs away, the less frequently they haunt her. However, in running away, she’s also running straight into her ultimate demise. Will she be saved in time by those who would lay down their lives for her, even if they don’t know of each other’s existence?

Monsta X/Reader, Human/Vampire(s), Reverse Harem

Warnings: mentions of period sex (READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!)

Word count: 2.49k

Tag list: @noonaduck @lovinggalaxies @elenaramos1 @girlwith-thecinder-blockgarden @snowythellama @stargazersara @luvthatleader-nim @jooheonbee @vincent-stargogh @perrshian @kurochan3 @imbxckytrash @joonsgotthejuice @mymymywonderland @2ka-tja2 @qween-of-trash

***

You felt like literal death. Mother Nature had decided to come early and grant you the gift of...well, lack of the gift of a child. In your mind, you were laughing at your former self. You’d been kind of snippy and a bit emotional that last couple of days and waking up this morning in a pool of your own goo confirmed you weren’t some whiny bitch. You cringed when you remembered the moment you teared up when Jooheon had offered his last taco at dinner when he saw you eyeing it. Or when you’d thrown a remote at Shownu just for simply walking in front of the television to get to the kitchen. Looking back, you’d realized you owed the boys some sort of form of an apology and you were mentally preparing yourself for what might happen.

If you survived this week from impossible cravings and gut-clenching cramps first.

You hadn’t left your room since you started this cycle, save for sanitary changes and stocking up on food, and the boys were getting a bit restless.

Who knew vampires and periods didn’t mesh well?

Just knowing you were ovulating was enough to make them extra possessive and touchy with you but you could only imagine the hold you’d have now. You couldn’t help but have a slight, morbid curiosity about what they thought of this certain situation.

***

“If she doesn’t come out, I’m breaking that door down.” Wonho muttered, laying on his folded arms while sitting at the table, restlessly clicking his fingers against the wooden fixture.

“If you break down that door, she’ll throw a remote at you next.” Shownu shot back, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he remembered you nearly decking him. You were very independent, and you certainly stood up for yourself. But to see you ready to kill him over something so trivial was a bit...cute, albeit slightly arousing.

“Oh, dammit! She took all the Hot Cheetos again!” Changkyun complained, grabbing another small snack to munch on as he joined the others.

They’d been discussing you and how to help you with your...predicament. They all knew you were in some sort of pain and they were all desperate to comfort you in any way, shape, or form. Anything to not have you shut them out like you were. Anything to get the chance to be around you.

“What if we take her for a walk?” Minhyuk opted, looking around the group.

“You wanna try getting her out of her room?” Jooheon asked, folding his arms and leaning against a wall.

“Well, shit. How are we supposed to help her?” Wonho pouted again, tapping his fingers in a pattern.

“I heard orgasms help with cramps.” Changkyun stated.

Everyone stopped and stared at the younger man. They kept looking from him to the direction you were in while curiously thinking over this option.

���This isn’t a ploy to get into her pants again, is it?” Jooheon warned, eyes already turning a deep black at the possibilities this could bring up.

“Well, obviously, yes. But I’ve heard it really does help.” Changkyun replied.

Interesting, they all thought.

***

The skin-slapping and the shameful, yet arousing squelching noises filled your room. The air was thick and humid from how long you’ve been taking their ministrations and you groaned in frustration when he edged you again, not quite letting you take that leap of faith, but not leaving you completely helpless.

“Fuck you, Wonho.” You sighed, trying to pull away, only to be further held down by Shownu. Wonho has you pinned under him, arms curled around your thighs, not letting you leave his sinful mouth while Shownu held onto your arms and delivered slight smacks to your breasts to keep you on edge. Every time you thought he was finally going to let you come, he’d pull away and smirk at you and each time you were about to let him have an earful, he’d go back to his merciless attack against your clit, nipping and suckling at the tender button effectively silencing any and all complaints. Shownu’s chest was at your back, and he held you in place to take whatever Wonho gave you. Your legs were parted over his much stronger ones and each time you tried to close them, he’d pull them even further apart and try to get you to relax while Wonho drank from you like a starved man.

“That can be arranged, Y/N.” Jooheon’s voice sounded to your right. The others were also in the room, watching eagerly as the two gave you this delicious torture. You don’t know how exactly this came about, but frankly, you didn’t care.

A familiar knot appeared in your belly once again. This time, you were going to get what you wanted. Even if you had to trick them. Maybe you could pretend you still had a ways to go and then just come unexpectedly.

But Wonho saw right through your plan and pulled away with a pop and smirked up at you again.

“Son of a bitch!” You complained, throwing an arm over your face in exasperation.

“Y/N, look at him this time. Don’t turn away.” Minhyuk suggested, watching the sight lazily and smiling to himself.

You took his advice and looked down at Wonho, this time, seeing his chin and mouth covered in a sticky, red tint, licking slowly around the edges of his lips to get more of the red liquid into his system. The image alone should have disgusted you, but it fueled your arousal that much more.

Just as he dove back in to feast more on you, you felt Shownu’s teeth pierce your skin while he growled and held you closer, one of his hands coming up to hold your neck, slightly applying pressure to your throat and making your vision thin in and out. You could feel yourself shaking and the explosion finally came upon you while—

You woke with a start, clutching the sheets surrounding you. You slowly sat up and surveyed your surroundings, checking to make sure you were truly alone and not experiencing what happened in your dream. Or was it a nightmare?

You honestly couldn’t believe what you saw. You had let Wonho go down on you during your...cycle?! You were outright ashamed with the thought but somewhat curious. Sure, during this time, one could be susceptible to hormonal changes and maybe even be a bit horny. But to actually go through with an act like that? Letting someone see you and be in you so intimately during a time where you were so vulnerable was shocking. In society’s eyes, periods were a repugnant event that were overly taxed for capitalistic advancements. Period sex may be for those more open-minded couples that were comfortable with one another, but to you, it’s something you can’t exactly wrap your head around.

This was just a dream. It didn’t happen, and probably never will. So why did you ache?

A knock at your door brought you out of your stupor and you bunched the sheets up closer to your chest as you told the person to come in.

The man who was going down on you in your dream came in and took a seat on the edge of your bed and you wanted to die. Remembering the things he did. Seeing him enjoy it and gain pleasure from edging you and tasting your—

“Would you like assistance with your cycle, my Queen?” He asked, smiling at you as if he had asked you about the weather.

You wanted to bury yourself under the covers and never come out to see the light of day again. You could pull it off. Perhaps call the other Queens so you wouldn’t completely go crazy. Order food and have the delivery person come straight to your room and slide it under the door like a prisoner. Avoid the boys altogether until you wasted away.

“I-uh, what?” You mumbled against the sheets, slowly covering your flushed face.

“Y/N, we can all smell you from a mile away. Also, you’re not the quietest when you’re having a wet dream.” He chuckled, brushing a few stray hairs out of your face.

Jesus, take the wheel.

You swear you could have passed out right then and there from shock were it not for Wonho smiling at you comfortingly.

“Being what we are, we’re completely comfortable with menstruation and would like to help in any way you’d like us to. Be it massage, snack runs...intimacy.” He suggested.

“I can’t. It’s not exactly sanitary—“ he cut you off.

“We figured you wouldn’t be as comfortable as we are with this, but there are other ways to help you without you letting us see you so, how would humans say it, messy? Although, there’s absolutely nothing unsanitary about this.”

Jesus, crash the car.

“Keep in mind, we’d be honored to ease your pain and give you pleasure, but we will not force anything on you. We sensed your unease and wanted to help...aid you, if we could.”

You’ll admit, what he was suggesting could possibly help your pain. It wasn’t exactly bad pain, but it wasn’t good. You’ve had worse cramps before, it’s just absolutely incessant. When you think you’ve finally felt the last of the nausea and dull throbbing, another wave hits and picks up where it left off.

“If I say yes, what would we do?” You ask timidly, trying not to look him in the eye.

He smiled softly and laced his fingers through yours, tugging down the sheets softly. “Just simple petting, perhaps grinding. If you wanted more, we could give you more—“

“No, no! I mean, if we do this, it won’t be weird?” You asked.

“What’s so weird about something so natural? If you think it offends anyone here, excuse my informality, but you’re mistaken. If anything, it offends us that we can’t help you. It makes us feel like we’re not doing our job and that you don’t need or want us.” He finished off, staring at you intensely.

You really didn’t know what to say to that but you nodded along. “Clothes stay on.” You ordered.

Wonho smirked at you and leaned in, just a breath away from your lips. “My clothes or yours, my Queen?” He whispered huskily before nipping at your bottom lip, causing you to gasp out before throwing your arms around his neck and taking his lips once more.

He groaned against you and leaned in, pushing you up against your headboard. You moaned against him and he stealthily let his tongue slip past your lips, exploring your mouth. He slid his hand down your arm, clutching your hand. His other free hand explored more cautiously, lightly brushing at intimate areas but not resting completely against them so as to not make you uneasy.

You could faintly hear your door opening and shutting before hearing another set of footsteps join you and felt the bed dip on your left.

“My turn.” Jooheon whispered, softly pulling you away from Wonho’s kiss and straight into his. He was a bit more rough, dominating the kiss completely and making you melt under his skillful tongue. You felt Wonho scoot up closer, spreading your legs and kneeling in between them with his powerful thighs. When you tried to turn your attention to him to see what he was doing, Jooheon greedily pulled you back to his lips. You moaned against him when you felt Wonho gently glide his hands up and down your legs. You were wearing shorts and each sweep he made, had them bunch up before he brushed them neatly back into place.

“What do you want me to do, Y/N?” Wonho asked, stopping completely. Jooheon released your lips, hand still grasping your chin as he turned your head to focus on Wonho.

You hesitated as you tried regaining your breath and whispered, “Please help me come. But don’t go under my clothes.”

“Yes, my Queen.” Wonho smiles before swiftly flipping you onto your hands and knees. The swift action caused you to yelp out before you found your bearings and by then, it was too late.

Wonho leaned against your back, not putting his full weight as he rubbed and massaged your shoulders. He slowly made his way down to your behind, to the back of your thighs, before coming around to rub against your stomach and slowly, oh, so slowly, go down to cup your center.

Heat pooled where he finally touched and you grit your teeth, trying to not make a sound.

“My Queen, I’d love to hear the sounds you make from being pleasured.” Jooheon smiles innocently at you. “Be as loud as you please. We’ll take care of you.” You were about to tell him to stick that comment where the sun doesn’t shine when you felt Wonho push against your clothed pussy, making you gasp and almost fall face first to the bed. Jooheon caught you and cooed at your reaction, absolutely loving every sound you let escape your lips.

Wonho wasn’t satisfied, though. He needed more. He skillfully pushed one digit against your tender clit and swirled it around slowly, grinning when he heard you pant his name. You were completely left to his mercy and your toes curled at the thought of him being so in control of you.

“F-fuck!” You shouted as he pushed a bit harder, making you grind against his hand to get more.

“That’s it, Y/N. Just let it go. We’ve got you.” Jooheon whispered against your neck, lightly suckling at three skin and whispering words of encouragement. “May I have a taste, my Queen?” He asked.

Without hesitation, you consented. The moment he bit down, you saw stars. Wonho helped you come down slowly from your high. He wasn’t edging you like he did in your dream, and you were grateful. The light aftershocks and pulsing of your inner walls made you sigh in relief. The pain had subsided significantly and you were finally somewhat comfortable in your own skin again.

When you finally get yourself together, you heard another knock on your door. This time, Shownu and Minhyuk came in.

“You didn’t think they’d be the only ones pleasing you tonight, did you, my Queen?” Minhyuk teased before taking Wonho’s place.

This was about to be a long night.

Please do NOT repost! All rights reserved!

[nikkoliferous]

They Thought They Were Free: The Germans, 1933-45

I’ve been reading this book by Milton Mayer for a while now, and I've wanted to share some of the passages that seem especially relevant to current events. A lot of what these Nazis he spoke with told him about what Germany was like at that time, should frankly send a chill up your spine.

In the pleasant resort towns of New England Americans have seen signs reading “Selected Clientele” or “Restricted.” They have grown accustomed to seeing such signs, so accustomed that, unless they are non-Caucasian or, perhaps, non-“Aryan” Americans, they take no notice of them and, in taking no notice, accept them. In the much less pleasant cottonseed-oil towns of the Deep South Americans have grown accustomed to seeing signs reading anything from “White” and “Colored” to “Nigger, Don’t Let the Sun Set on You Here,” and, unless they are non-Caucasian or, perhaps, northern Americans, they take no notice of them. There were enough such signs (literally and figuratively) in pre-Nazi Germany, and there was enough non-resistance to them, so that, when the countryside bloomed in 1933 with signs reading “Juden hier uneiwünscht, Jews Not Wanted Here,” the Germans took no notice of them. So, in the body politic as in the body personal, nonresistance to the milder indulgences paves the way for nonresistance to the deadlier.

The German community—the rest of the seventy million Germans, apart from the million or so who operated the whole machinery of Nazism—had nothing to do except not to interfere. Absolutely nothing was expected of them except to go on as they had, paying their taxes, reading their local paper, and listening to the radio. Everybody attended local celebrations of national occasions—hadn’t the schools and the stores always been closed for the Kaiser’s birthday?—so you attended, too. Everybody contributed money and time to worthy purposes, so you did, too. In America your wife collects or distributes clothing, gives an afternoon a week to the Red Cross or the orphanage or the hospital; in Germany she did the same thing in the Nazi Frauenbund, and for the same reasons.

► “I couldn’t help being glad, when something happened to somebody else, that it hadn’t happened to me. It was like later on, when a bomb hit another city, or another house than your own; you were thankful.” “More thankful for yourself than you were sorry for others?” “Yes. The truth is, Yes. It may be different in your case, Herr Professor, but I’m not sure that you will know until you have faced it.” You were sorry for the Jews, who had to identify themselves, every male with “Israel” inserted into his name, every female with “Sarah,” on every official occasion; sorrier, later on, that they lost their jobs and their homes and had to report themselves to the police; sorrier still that they had to leave their homeland, that they had to be taken to concentration camps and enslaved and killed. But—weren’t you glad you weren’t a Jew? You were sorry, and more terrified, when it happened, as it did, to thousands, to hundreds of thousands, of non-Jews. But—weren’t you glad that it hadn’t happened to you, a non-Jew? It might not have been the loftiest type of gladness, but you hugged it to yourself and watched your step, more cautiously than ever.

► The people didn’t pay any attention to the Party program as such. They went to the meetings just to hear something new, anything new. They were desperate about the economic situation, ‘a new Germany’ sounded good to them; but from a deep or broad point of view they saw nothing at all. Hitler talked always against the government, against the lost war, against the peace treaty, against unemployment. All that, people liked. By the time the intellectuals asked, ‘What is this?’ it had a solid basis in the common people.

► All ten of my friends, including the sophisticated Hildebrandt, were affected by this sense of what the Germans call Bewegung, movement, a swelling of the human sea, something supraparty and suprapolitical, a surge of the sort that does not, at the time, evoke analysis or, afterward, yield to it. These men were victims of the “Bolshevik” rabies, to be sure. They were equally victims of economic hardship and, still worse, of economic hopelessness. 

► Nazism—Hitler, rather—knew this and knew that nothing else mattered to my friends so much as this, the identification of this Germany, the community again, in which one might know he belonged and, belonging, identify himself.

I make note of this particular passage because there is a trend amongst former white supremacists, wherein they will often tell you that what made them an easy target for indoctrination was a sense of loneliness, of not belonging. It often was not about a genuine belief in the superiority of whites—that was merely a byproduct, if they ever believed it at all; it was that they felt left behind by society at large and they found community in being inducted into this toxic ideology. Thus, this feeling of unbelonging that Mayer eludes to, this lack of identity, is essential in the othering of non-whites.

► My friends wanted Germany purified. They wanted it purified of the politicians, of all the politicians. They wanted a representative leader in place of unrepresentative representatives. And Hitler, the pure man, the antipolitician, was the man, untainted by “politics,” which was only a cloak for corruption.

► What Gustav Schwenke wanted, and the only thing he wanted, was security. The job he wanted, and the only job he ever wanted, was a job with the State, any job with the State, with its tenure, its insurance, and its pension. Gustav was not, I imagine, the only boy born in Germany in 1912 who wanted security and thought, until 1933, that he would never have it.

► “I was nothing. Then, suddenly, I was needed. National Socialism had a place for me. I was nothing—and then I was needed.”

► It was separation, not prejudice as such, that made Nazism possible, the mere separation of Jews and non-Jews. None of my ten friends except Herr Hildebrandt, the teacher, had ever known a Jew at all intimately in a town of twenty thousand.

► When people you don’t know, people in whom you have no interest, people whose affairs you have never discussed, move away from your community, you don’t notice that they are going or that they are gone. When, in addition, public opinion (and the government itself) has depreciated them, it is still likelier that you won’t notice their departure or, if you do, that you will forget about it.

► Remember: the teacher excepted, nine of my ten friends didn’t know any Jews and didn’t care what happened to them—all this before Nazism. And it was their government, now, which was carrying on this program under law. Merely to inquire meant to attack the government’s justice. It meant risk, large or small, political or social, and it meant risk in behalf of people one didn’t like anyway.

► “What caused Nazism was the clubman in Berlin who, when he was asked about the Nazi menace in 1930, looked up from his after-lunch game of Skat and replied, ‘Dafür ist die Regierung da. That’s what the government’s there for.’”

► “What happened here was the gradual habituation of the people, little by little, to being governed by surprise; to receiving decisions deliberated in secret; to believing that the situation was so complicated that the government had to act on information which the people could not understand, or so dangerous that, even if the people could understand it, it could not be released because of national security. This separation of government from people, this widening of the gap, took place so gradually and so insensibly, each step disguised (perhaps not even intentionally) as a temporary emergency measure or associated with true patriotic allegiance or with real social purposes. And all the crises and reforms (real reforms, too) so occupied the people that they did not see the slow motion underneath, of the whole process of government growing remoter and remoter.”

► And on top of that were the demands in the community, the things in which one had to, was ‘expected to�� participate that had not been there or had not been important before. It was all rigmarole, of course, but it consumed all one’s energies, coming on top of the work one really wanted to do. You can see how easy it was, then, not to think about fundamental things. One had no time.”

► “You see,” my colleague went on, “one doesn’t see exactly where or how to move. Believe me, this is true. Each act, each occasion, is worse than the last, but only a little worse. You wait for the next and the next. You wait for one great shocking occasion, thinking that others, when such a shock comes, will join with you in resisting somehow. You don’t want to act, or even talk, alone; you don’t want to ‘go out of your way to make trouble.’ Why not?—Well, you are not in the habit of doing it. And it is not just fear, fear of standing alone, that restrains you; it is also genuine uncertainty. “But the one great shocking occasion, when tens or hundreds or thousands will join with you, never comes. That’s the difficulty. If the last and worst act of the whole regime had come immediately after the first and smallest, thousands, yes, millions would have been sufficiently shocked—if, let us say, the gassing of the Jews in ’43 had come immediately after the ‘German Firm’ stickers on the windows of non-Jewish shops in ’33. But of course this isn’t the way it happens. In between come all the hundreds of little steps, some of them imperceptible, each of them preparing you not to be shocked by the next. Step C is not so much worse than Step B, and, if you did not make a stand at Step B, why should you at Step C? And so on to Step D. Life is a continuing process, a flow, not a succession of acts and events at all. It has flowed to a new level, carrying you with it, without any effort on your part. On this new level you live, you have been living more comfortably every day, with new morals, new principles. You have accepted things you would not have accepted five years ago, a year ago, things that your father, even in Germany, could not have imagined. Suddenly it all comes down, all at once. You see what you are, what you have done, or, more accurately, what you haven’t done (for that was all that was required of most of us: that we do nothing). You remember those early meetings of your department in the university when, if one had stood, others would have stood, perhaps, but no one stood. A small matter, a matter of hiring this man or that, and you hired this one rather than that. You remember everything now, and your heart breaks. Too late. You are compromised beyond repair.”

[cupidmarwani-archive]

Do My Hands Deceive Me (4/5)

It’s a blur. Crockett doesn’t remember most of it right now, but he can easily out together the pieces. Sitting on the edge of a hospital bed. A shock blanket on his shoulders. Blood on his hands. He does remember loud noises, and he definitely remembers Ethan. Staring up at the sky. Unresponsive. Empty. Crockett’s head hurts but that’s nothing because Ethan got really hurt, and it’s all his fault.

He watches the hospital in front of him, but doesn’t process most of it. He’s cold all over. Eventually, his mother arrives. She’s talking but he doesn’t hear her, holding him but he doesn’t feel her. He’s empty. 

And in truth, he isn’t sure what to do with himself in a hospital. He’s done a lot of things, been through a lot of things, but he doesn’t think he’s been to the emergency room since he was young and broke his arm playing with his friends. Something about it leaves him feeling so weak. He’s not weak. Although he’d very much like to get high right now to try and fight back against the pain threatening to burst out of him, explode and coat these sanitized walls in his anger and his fear and his worry for Ethan.

“Ethan,” he says finally. His voice is hollow. “I wanna see Ethan.”

His routine has been disrupted and, although he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s scared. He has structure to his life, although it doesn’t seem so, and without that framework to rely upon, he’s lost. The best place to start is where he strayed. With Ethan. With Ethan, who bled beneath him. That’s where the stains on his hands came from.

He might be crying.

“He’s not awake yet,” his mother says.

Crockett shakes his head. “I wanna see him.”

Whatever the fuck it takes, he wants to see him. It feels like the way to regain his footing and maybe ease some of his fear that Ethan is dead and gone, killed trying to protect him. From what, Crockett doesn’t remember. He doesn’t even remember being scared. Just that there was a gun and whoever had it fired first. Ethan fired in retaliation. He wants to be near him and hear his heart to make sure it’s still beating.

So his mother calls a nurse, who arrives with a wheelchair and helps ease Crockett into it. He wants to say he can walk just fine, but he’s also not sure if that’s true and doesn’t want to find out for certain, just in case. So he allows it, and holds his shock blanket tightly in his bloody hands as the nurse wheels him away, his mother beside him. They don’t talk much. Maybe they should. 

They have to go up two floors, to what Crockett realizes is a recovery area for people who’ve just come out of surgery. There’s a man with a heart pillow beside him, a woman with her head wrapped in bandages. They’re awake. When they reach Ethan, he isn’t. He’s just laying there in a thin hospital gown. There’s those little oxygen nubs in his nose, and three different IVs set up on a steady drip into his arm. Two of them are clear, but one is dark red. Blood. There had been a lot of blood. Crockett looks down at his hands again. This blood is Ethan’s. 

He reaches out slowly, carefully. Frightened, almost, of what might happen.

Nothing does. Crockett takes Ethan’s calloused hand, cold, and holds it tightly, but there’s no response. He’s limp. Unconscious. He probably wouldn’t let Crockett hold his hand if he was awake, because he’s been so stiff. Rebuffing every advance. Treating Crockett like he’s a person, like he’s more than a prop or a picture. Worth knowing.

“Is he going to be okay?”

The nurse picks up the chart hanging on the foot of the hospital bed and scans it briefly. “The bullet went through and through, and missed his lungs and heart, but it did break a couple of his ribs.” She puts the chart back. “It’ll be a slow process, but he should make a full recovery.”

Should is a word Crockett can’t trust. He learned that a long time ago. But he does want to believe that Ethan is going to be okay, because he doesn’t know what it means if Ethan never recovers. If he dies. He doesn’t want him to die.

Little patches and pieces of the blood on his hands flake off onto the white sheets, onto Ethan’s palms. They’re rough, but Crockett likes to imagine they’d be gentle if they touch him. Ethan defended him- twice- and probably wouldn’t hit him, wouldn’t choke him until he passes out. Even if Crockett asked him to.

“Honey, we should probably get you checked out,” his mother says. “The doctors-”

“I’m not leaving him.”

And he means it. Crockett doesn’t want to leave Ethan’s side, not when this is all his fault.

“You were drugged. And we still don’t know who did it, or why.”

“I don’t care.”

True to his word, Crockett stays there, sitting in a wheelchair and exhausted, holding Ethan’s hand, until long after the sun rises over the next morning. A rotating shift of hospital security guards keep an eye on him. He doesn’t think he sleeps. It’s hard to tell when the world is just the shake in each of his tense muscles at the onset of withdrawal, and the world is just him and Ethan.

It’s mid morning when Ethan wakes up, groaning as he shifts beneath the crisp sheets. Alive. He looks around his little recovery suite slowly, his eyes eventually resting on Crockett’s face and staring through him for a long moment before seeming to recognize him. It’s heartbreaking. 

“Ethan?” he says softly, squeezing his hand.

Ethan squeezes back and rubs a hand over his face. “I- are- are you okay?”

His voice is all rough and breathy. Wheezing As soon as he stops talking, he clutches his chest and hisses through his teeth. Broken ribs. Right. But he’s awake again and he hasn’t pulled away from Crockett’s touch.

“I’m okay.” Crockett’s pretty sure he isn’t, though. He feels like crawling into a hole and dying. “You got shot for me.”

Ethan looks down at his body. He pulls at the edge of his gown, revealing the bandage on his chest. There’s a small stain where the blood seeped through. At least it doesn’t seem to be actively bleeding anymore. Crockett thinks that’s a good sign. He’s not a doctor. 

“It’s part of the job.”

It shouldn’t be. Crockett forces out a laugh. Fake. Ethan is hurt because of him and the world has changed. Right now, Ethan is smiling at him so softly, and Crockett isn’t high, and he thinks his chest might explode. He gets out of the chair, legs weak, and hoists himself over the edge of the bed. Immediately, Ethan lets go of his hand to wrap an arm around him, stabilizing him and keeping him close. Held. Close. Safe. Crockett rests his head against Ethan’s shoulder, careful of his chest because it has to hurt, even with the morphine they must have given him.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s not your fault.”

Except for the fact that it is. If not for Crockett, for his recklessness and naivety, Ethan would have never been shot. He doesn’t argue, but he feels it in his blood, just as he feels the steady rise and fall of Ethan’s chest, hears the rasp of his breath. He’s hurt. And Crockett watches Ethan find the little remote attached to his IV with several buttons. One to call a nurse. One to give him a fresh hit of morphine. One to raise his bed, one to lower. Plenty that aren’t labelled. Ethan’s thumb finds the painkiller button and presses down hard, once and then twice.

“Going to resign now?”

Ethan laughs, nowhere near as full as it used to be when he would acknowledge a joke or a flirt. It’s shallow. Maybe he really will give up, which Crockett really ought to have expected, but hurts more than he wants to admit. Whoever comes next will be worse. Crockett has gotten used to how protective and kind Ethan is. He doesn’t want to lose him.

“No, but I’m gonna be out of commission for a while.” He coughs and winces. “Just until I heal up.”

He’s not leaving. But he will be gone, and Crockett doesn’t trust people promising to come back. They never do. He winds up alone, hurt, bruised. Those marks from his last night of partying before the attack are beginning to fade, but they’re still all too visible and normally would fade only to be replaced by new ones.

“Promise me you’ll come back.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And Ethan starts to fall asleep again as the morphine kicks in, going dead to the world. But his heart still beats, and Crockett lays with him as a nurse comes to check in. She tells him to move. He doesn’t. He won’t. Just rests with him, not caring about doctors that come and go, security guards that change shifts, and various efforts to get him to eat or drink something.

Nothing else matters.

Just Ethan and the fact that he’s here and he said he wouldn’t leave.

-

@proceduralpassion @sextonsharpwinhalstead @ebug2002 @bipeteypie

[7-obsessions]

The Concept of a Mystery

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18305648

The Department of Mysteries was a place few people ever dreamed of working; it took a hardened disposition to feel at home in a place that would never wholly make sense and an even stronger will to never talk about what exists in the bowels of the Ministry. Some details had inevitably slipped out, but the vital secrets stayed safe and sound with a tight knit crew of Unspeakables.

Luckily, work matters could be discussed among the Unspeakables themselves. Unluckily, Hermione had failed to create any friendships with her colleagues. She found them to be a slimy, untrustworthy group of people who seemed to have nonexistent lives outside of Level 9 of the Ministry...or a select few who could find work nowhere else in the Ministry after the War. Hermione was definitely not part of the latter—she had job offers pouring in from every job in the wizarding world that she could imagine—and she like to believe she wasn’t part of the former. Yet, the longer she worked in the Department, the less time she spent with friends or family or doing anything remotely non-work related. Her drive to learn everything about the wizarding world had overrun her whole life after she realized just how little she knew once she began uncovering mysteries.

Hermione, presently, was pondering one of the most mysterious projects that had wandered across her desk. Sometimes things just showed up around the Department, like every time a new prophecy was made it appeared in the Hall of Prophecies ready to be catalogued. Some things that showed up were more complex and completely unexpected, like the shimmering black shroud that was encased in a protective bubble hovering in the middle of her office. The project file lay on her desk, actually it was more of a single sheet that simply said:

Project 05292001A

Discovered: 6:25am, Entrance Chamber

Identity: Unknown

Task: Determine what this object is, how it got here and why. Further instructions dependant on initial findings.

Description: Black, sheer, somewhat glittery fabric. Appears as if it might be a shroud. Diagnostics show signs of unknown magical properties, possibly dark or ancient.

Notes: Recommended to NOT TOUCH until initial findings are complete as status of object is unknown. Partner will be assigned by end of day. Do not complete any research or testing unless with partner.

“Hermione, I see you’ve gotten the project file. Good. The Minister wishes to meet with you regarding the project as soon as you’ve read the file,” the rich, no-nonsense voice of her superior, Gwendolyn Walker, spoke from Hermione’s doorway.

“Considering this took less than a minute to read and I’ve already been in the office for twenty minutes, I’d say I’m already late. So tell me, what’s up with this project? First, I come into the office and discover I’ve been given this project with no brief or warning. Second, I find out that you’re assigning me a partner, which I explicitly said I would not do when I took this job. And now, the Minister wants to talk to me. He never gets involved. What the bloody hell is going on this morning, Gwen?”

“Listen, I don’t know much more than you, I didn’t find the object. Robbards found it, and I wasn’t in yet and you know how much he enjoys subverting my procedures. For some bloody reason, he chose to discuss it with the Minister and Kingsley absolutely demanded you were on the project. Now he wants to see you, so go, make this easier for all of us.”

Hermione made her way to the Minister’s office whilst dreaming of all the ways to make Robbards suffer for this. Hermione doesn’t work with partners and now her one rule of employment was thrown to the wind because of that insipid little man.

“Hermione, good to see you.”

“Minister Shacklebolt,” Hermione said shortly.

“I know you’re irritated, but let me explain. Something is happening within the Department of Mysteries that nobody understands. I’ve gotten weird and honestly concerning reports from almost all personnel down there. I have a hunch that this object relates to it all. I went and saw it and felt the magical signature radiating off of it before it was contained, it’s something I’ve never felt before. I need someone I can trust on this project and that’s you. It’s protocol that you work with a partner on identification cases, sorry but I will not budge on that. It’s a matter of safety. However, I need someone with experience in the Darker Arts on this case, as well.”

“What are you saying, Kingsley? Who are you pairing me with?”

“I hope one day you forgive me for this. The other one I’m assigning to this case is Bellatrix Black.”

“Are you kidding me?! Matter of safety, my arse. I have half a mind to hand in my resignation immediately. Making me work with a partner is already bad enough, but making me work with her...that’s just cruel and unusual punishment and I’ll never forgive you for this.”

“If you must resign, then I’ll wish you well. But this is the most interesting case you’ve gotten in a while. I can see it in your eyes that you won’t walk away from this. Go home for the day and regroup. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Kingsley was right. Hermione couldn’t give this up now until she found answers. So, she found her in her office early the next morning awaiting Bellatrix to show up. The first two days passed surprisingly dully. Bellatrix chose not to engage in any way with Hermione, except to explicitly discuss their preliminary findings. Which were none. The object didn’t respond to any of the standard diagnostic spells or even some of the more obscure spells Bellatrix knew. It seemed to absorb the magic, neutralizing it at first contact.

On the third day, Bellatrix started suggesting some decidedly non-protocol ideas.

“We need to take it out of the containment shield and try these tests again.”

“Absolutely not, Black, it could be volatile outside of it.”

“It doesn’t seem to be much of anything. For all we’ve discovered thus far, this could be some Muggle’s funeral shroud and we’re treating it as if it’s going to blow us to bits at first chance.”

Hermione stood her ground for a couple more hours, but finally relented to trying other means to research.

“If this goes south, I’m holding you personally responsible...as I do for most things, Lestrange.”

“The name is Black and I frankly could not care less for what some Mudblood chit holds me responsible for,” Bellatrix spoke with more venom than Hermione had heard in the two years they had worked in the same department.

Bellatrix cancelled the containment shield and began running the diagnostics again. All magic was neutralized just as before.

“See, it really is just some useless piece of fabric. Nothing to be scared of, Muddy,” Bellatrix cackled.

“It’s not just a piece of fabric. A normal piece of fabric would react in some way to the magic cast at it, at least we’d see some scorch marks. Bellatrix you need to take this seriously.”

“Oh, I am taking this very seriously, so serious that I’m gonna find which grave this came from,” Bellatrix countered as she reached out to touch the material.

“Bellatrix! Stop don’t touch it!”

Bellatrix grabbed it. “AAAH,” a guttural scream emerged from ruby red lips.

“BELLATRIX!” Hermione lunged at the woman grabbing her upper arm, too scared to think of the consequences.

The scream turned into a full blown belly laugh. “Didn’t know you cared so much, Muddy. See it’s nothing to worry about, just some seamstress’ scraps.”

“Merlin, Bellatrix that is not funny in any way. You could’ve been hurt, anything could have happened. Do you not have a shred of self-preservation,” Hermione spoke, never removing her hand, closer to the woman than she’d been since she was pinned beneath her getting carved.

“I have more self-preservation than you can imagine. I survived two wars and Azkaban, pet.”

The two women just looked at one another, drinking in the last couple minutes. Hermione felt a blush creeping up her chest and into her cheeks, embarassed by how she dove to save this woman who she should hate. Does hate.

Hermione was just about to concede that maybe it wasn’t as dangerous as everyone thought it to be, when an unexplainable chill crawled up her spine. The hairs on her arms were standing on end. She looked up at Bellatrix and saw an uneasiness in her eyes right as the floor gave way and the women were flung out into the ether.

The women found themselves suspended in an inky void; there was no source of light, but somehow they could see each other. There were no walls or floor, only nothingness. No noises were heard, nothing tactile in this space, there was nothing but each other. And pressure. The pressure was so intense that it hurt to draw in each breath; it felt like they were in the middle of apparating with no end in sight.

“Bellatrix what happened,” Hermione spoke, but her voice sounded faint and muffled as if spoken from a great distance.

“I don’t know. Where are we?”

“How should I know where we are. You were the one who had to act like a bloody toddler and got us thrown here.”

“Okay. Calm down. We’ll just apparate out of here, take my arm.”

Hermione took her arm and waited, “well get us out of here.”

“I can’t. My magic isn’t working. You try.”

Hermione tried to focus on apparating, but the only thing it did was increase the pressure around her chest. “No, no, no, no, no. We can’t get out. What are we going to do.”

“Die of dehydration, I imagine. Maybe asphyxiation if this pressure gets any worse,” Bellatrix said, completely disinterested, looking at her nails as she talked.

“Good god, Bellatrix, don’t you care at all?”

“Not particularly.”

The two sat in silence for a while, as much as one could sit while suspended in a state of no gravity. Finally, Hermione couldn’t take it any longer. “We need to move, to try and find a way out. We can’t just accept this fate.”

“Okay.” No fight was put up from Bellatrix, strange.

The two began to move through the thick and pervasive air, moving in a half walk, half swim. The darkness was everywhere, there was not a single thing around except for them. And the cold, the more they moved, the colder it got. They kept exploring the seemingly unending space for a long time. There was no way to determine how long they had been in this space, with no sun to track the hours and no magic to tell the time.

“Welcome to space!” a loud disembodied voice boomed all around them. Bellatrix and Hermione looked at one another with a glimmer of fear behind chocolate and caramel eyes, respectively.

“For too long, you wizards have tried to control and harness the horrible place you call the Department of Mysteries. I existed before the Ministry. There is no department, it is only me the Mystery. You are in Space. Not outer space as you ignorant humans have decided is the meaning of space within the bowels of your marble halls. No you are in the concept of Space. There is nothing physical here, but you. However, the immaterial can not be detached so easily, so you still have some tools at your disposal. You can be certain that Time is still passing, you still have Thought, and you could still Love if you were so inclined, but be aware that Death still reigns here. As in every other circumstance in life, you have two options: survive or die. As with all others who have wandered into my domain, I would argue you will probably die, nobody has survived yet. Eloise Mintumble got closer than most, but you know of her demise. She didn’t tumble through time, she tumbled into my domain; she found a way out, but not before Death sunk its teeth into her. Enjoy your time here, or don’t. You have one other choice, accept death now or stay and fight. Death now will be easy, painless, a greeting of a long awaited friend. Choosing to fight and failing will lead to a death worse than you can imagine. Chose to fight and win, I will grant you knowledge and power of the Mystery. Will you die nobly or will you die foolishly, Bellatrix Black and Hermione Granger?”

“We’re fighting. We will get out of here. You cannot scare us, I’ve looked death in the eyes and won before, but you won’t even deign to look us in the eyes,” Hermione exclaimed passionately, the fight that hadn’t been present since the War, coming out in full force.

“Hermione, we cannot possibly win,” Bellatrix was staring at her slack-jawed in shock.

“No, perhaps we cannot, but I will not die a coward,” Hermione looked at Bellatrix and for some reason felt like they had a greater chance than the others before them, “I’m fighting and I hope you’ll fight alongside of me.”

“Fine. Let it be known that Bellatrix Black is no coward in the face of fear. We shall fight.”

“Foolish girls, let the fun begin.”

[thelanternlight]

Why Are Millennials So Anxious And Unhappy?

Source

Here are some of the negative stereotypes of today’s young adults, known as millennials—that is, those born between 1981 and 1996: They’re entitled, shiftless, egocentric, hypersensitive to criticism, and unable to cope with the stresses of real life.  But they’re also said to be diverse, open with their emotions, deeply empathetic, and interested in making substantive, important changes in the world they’ve grown into. The truth is, although no one can really agree about the millennial generation, one thing is fairly certain: They’re stressed out. Up to 17 percent of them are depressed, and 14 percent suffer from anxiety. Millennials seek psychotherapy more often than members of Generation X or other, earlier generations.

They may need it, too. Money is one of the most common focal points for millennials’ worries. Many of them have trouble finding jobs, are still living with their parents, or harbor serious concerns about making enough money to start their own lives in earnest. Today’s young people face greater financial difficulties than Americans from previous generations. Almost 30 percent of millennials see themselves as less well-off than they had expected to be, 10 years ago. They’re having trouble saving money, too, because of the 2008 recession, ballooning student-loan debts, and the rising cost of living.

But millennials’ money problems are only a part of the story. More importantly, these worries indicate just how concerned they are about what’s coming next—about making the right choices today in order to ensure a stable future. In truth, decision-making itself may be the number-one reason why millennials are so depressed and anxious, and why they feel the need for psychotherapy. I've previously written that many of my millennial clients are, for the first time, facing big choices that are likely to have lifelong consequences, and that they feel profoundly uncertain about how they should make these decisions. But there are other facets of decision-related anxiety, as well: Some young adults may find that they have too many choices and that trying to distinguish between their options is overwhelming. Others are seized by “analysis paralysis,” having difficulty seeing why one option is better than another, and feeling unable to make a choice at all.

At the age of 25, for instance, a young person is likely to confront most of life’s big decisions in the next 10-to-15 years. Metaphorically speaking, people in this position see their lives as a series of rooms, each of which is lined with doors. Whenever they make a choice, they walk through one door, only to realize that all the others have closed. Then, as they see it, they find themselves in a smaller room, surrounded by fewer doors than in the first. These doors, too, will all close when they walk through one  In fact, every door selected leads to a room that is smaller still, until ultimately the people making choices imagine finding themselves in a long hallway, stretching out ahead to the edge of vision, with no doors (and no choices) left to make. This model looks even more dire when you consider the millennials’ realistic, money-related fears: ending up less successful than their parents or failing to support themselves at their current standard of living.

In addition, it’s important to remember to be kind to yourself when you’re going through a stressful time. Not everyone finds the right life partner, creates an artistic masterpiece or founds a successful company before the age of 30. If you’re hard on yourself in this way—expecting too much of yourself and feeling stuck—try to exercise more self-compassion. Don’t expect perfection. You’re allowed to make mistakes. Take careful note of the aspects of your choices that you can control, as well as those you can’t—and don’t blame yourself for not getting everything absolutely right. Rather, when you do make a decision, try to accept and gain comfort with the act of stepping purposefully into the unknown, even as you acknowledge that uncertainty is a part of living. Instead of berating yourself about making the “right decision” every time, just try to make the decision as well as you possibly can, using all of the information and resources available—and then, afterward, live with the outcome as naturally as possible, knowing that your deciding process was a good one.

That's all good and well but I feel like the summation of this article does not address the initial hardships outlined in the beginning. For me, I'm lucky enough to have a job that is 'relatively stable' but that has fluctuating shifts from day-to-day which causes me lack of sleep, anxiety, and interrupts my life significantly. My pay is adequate but not anywhere near (not even in the same ballpark) as what my parents were making at this age and employees at my company have gone without pay increases for a number of years now. Furthermore I'm also aware that coworkers of mine who started before me (particularly ones that started before the 2008 recession) were offered substantially higher wages for the same exact job coming in the door. So immediately there's a devaluation of my time and resources as an employee that separates me from older workers.

Perhaps what bothers me most is the constant dread that I'm going to be let go because the company is constantly striving for automation and reduction in headcount to save money. I have worked this job year after year knowing with complete sincerity that I could be let go at any moment despite how hard I've worked and how much time and effort and energy and sacrifice I've put into my job every day. There is no job security and therefore no real way to plan for the future because those plans get cancelled the minute my source of income is jeopardized. Don't get me wrong, I'm plenty fortunate and privileged. I recognize that and am extremely appreciative of it (which also prevents me from looking for other work because I'm wary of starting something entirely new and beginning again at square one). I don't know if I will ever be able to retire and that scares me a lot too. I literally lose sleep over it because I don't see a way out. A best-case scenario might look like me doing exactly the same thing until the day I die, all because of rising living costs, aging parents with medical needs and their own standard of living, and me trying to keep sane while building my own life. Vacations are very difficult to take because there aren't enough coworkers to cover me (and if there were that would indicate to management that there's a surplus of workers which would lead to firings). Working from home helps a great deal, however, because of travel time and expense and because it's my home where I feel safe. At least there's that (and to me that's a very big benefit that I cherish).

But the reality of things, the overwhelming "oh my god what am I doing and how am I supposed to handle all this" seems to get worse as I get older, not better. The picture isn't becoming more clear, it's becoming more complicated. This isn't the world that Gen X and prior generations know and still expect to be true. And I think that's a huge disconnect between us. I once mentioned this to a family member in her late 50s who said "well that's because you're not doing what you love, you're doing something you -have- to do." That's all good and well, but how many people do what they love? That doesn't seem even remotely like a reasonable goal to which one can aspire. If you fall into something that you enjoy doing then wow, that's awesome. But for the vast majority of us we're just trying to get through each day and it's agonizing. For me I feel robbed of so much time because the alternating shifts and extra hours and the sheer exhaustion of dealing with my work consumes weeks at a time on a constant, unbroken cycle. Working weekends means that I have random single days off during the week, which I accept joyfully don't get me wrong, but who can effectively recuperate from a ten-day stretch of odd hours in one day? My life feels unstable because I have no idea when I'll be working, IF I'll be working, and what I'll be doing from one week to the next. I'm slowly giving more and more of myself to a ship that may be sinking right beneath my feet. And if it does sink, I won't have much to show for it aside from experience but even that's a weakening commodity. We've all seen the memes of employers saying "you need to be fresh out of college with ten years experience", etc.

And all this goes without saying that I'm extremely stressed at work. I give 100% each day and I'm burned completely out. What I do is not something that's ever really been "in my wheelhouse" but I've learned and continued to strive to be the best at it that I can possibly be, despite how out of character it is. I'm frustrated and I'm losing sleep and I don't know how to get out of this situation. And I don't see any better alternative. Except the lottery.