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iron-shrike · 1 year

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Corpse Counter - A Death Guard Short Story

Originally taken from the angst prompt "I'll be right here ok?". Join some of my Death Guard original characters as they deal with unusual problems

The battle was over and the sounds of combat had faded from the halls of the Imperial destroyer Corvus Lex. The only noises left were the dull roar of the ship's systems, the hum of old lumens, and the growing buzz of insect wings. Over them was the sound of footsteps, the booming metronomic report of power-armored boots on the deck plates mixed with the scrabbling of demonic claws. Halduk, Tallyman of the Mouldering Claw accompanied by his trio of nurglings, slowly trod the halls, checking for corpses. He counted as he walked, scratching his tallies with a bone quill in his ledger.

Taking the tallies was a ritual of profound importance, one he had performed after every battle for The God only knew how long. It had been millennia surely, but exactly how long he wasn't certain. In truth, it did not matter. The ritual was a habit now, a path rutted deep in the substance of the universe. It was immutable truth. After every battle, he counted corpses, both those of the Death Guard and whomever their enemies had been. He counted shells fired and blades bloodied. He counted impact craters, casings, and spilled promethium. He counted rooms and fortifications. He counted eyes plucked by his nurglings. He counted the steps he took.

All of these he tallied in his broad parchment paged ledger, for they were important things.

Only when the tally was done, the count thoroughly checked, and his ledger was full of marks and labels, did he bring the tallies back to his workshop. There the numbers were entered into massive tomes, totaled, cross-referenced, checked, and fed into complex equations. He asked questions of the numbers, and the patterns of fate wove the answers. Little by little, number by number, tally by tally, Halduk discerned the patterns of the patternless Immaterium and saw the shape of the future. His scrying kept the Mouldering Claw focused on worthy targets and far from the claws of their enemies as they plowed the void. No mere corpse counter, he was a guide and quartermaster, as much a caretaker of his brothers as any surgeon or blightbringer.

Halduk's mood was content today, at least so far. The post-battle tally was going smoothly and his accompanying nurglings were generally behaving themselves. He had encountered none of the usual difficulties or edge cases that might threaten to disrupt the accuracy of his count. It was all going well. "Too well," he thought ruefully as he arrived at the mess hall of the Corvus Lex.

In many ways, the mess hall was like all the other rooms on this ship he had counted. It was a rectangular box of dark grey metal lit by tired yellow lumen strips. The room's door was torn from its hinges by power-armored hands and the impact craters from bolt shells covered the walls. The floor was strewn with the debris of battle, with tables and crates thrown over for meager cover. Among the debris lay the corpses of Imperial Navy armsmen in pools of their own dark blood.

There were eight in all. They had put up some fight before they died, as evidenced by the shell casings littering the floor around their bodies, but it had been a hopeless fight. All eight had been blown apart by bolter rounds or hacked to death with heavy plague knives. It was a pattern of death repeated in a hundred rooms throughout the ship, but here there was a troublesome oddity. One armsmen had not died with the others. She, a young woman with short blond hair and void pale skin, had been driven by The God only knew what desperate thought and managed to crawl to the doorway before expiring of bloodloss. Her body lay sprawled on the lip of the portal, half in the mess hall and half in the corridor. The ambiguity of its position soured his mood instantly.

Halduk frowned under his helm. He was always precise in his work. Numerology was not a forgiving magik and demanded accuracy. Incorrect data could produce false outputs from his equations and false answers to his questions. Worse still the errors could spread through his whole archive like slow poison, compounding the damage as they corrupted tables, ledgers, and equations with their mere presence. The risk of putting The Mouldering Claw on the wrong path, of endangering his brothers was great.

Halduk could not allow that; would not allow that.

He shook the worries from his mind. The ease of this count so far had made him complacent. This was not an intractable problem and could be solved. First, though, he resolved to count everything in this room that was not ambiguous. Careful not to disturb the body, he stepped carefully into the mess hall followed by his nurglings. Inside he counted everything. He counted the corpses of the seven armsmen, the seventeen bolt shell impacts on the walls, and thirteen spent shell casings on the floor. He counted the pieces of furniture and cracked plates. He counted five eyeballs pulled from skulls and eaten by his nurglings. They were helpful like that sometimes.

When he was done he double-checked his numbers. Satisfied that the tally was as correct as it currently could be, he turned and began to contemplate the question of where the woman's corpse belonged on his ledger. Maybe she belonged to the mess hall, where she had been wounded and left to die. Or maybe she had gotten far enough into the corridor to be counted with those who had died there, a total which currently stood at twenty-seven. This might take some time. Suppressing a groan, he strode back to the doorway to get another look at the body.

There he was startled to find company. Just outside the mess hall door, a plague marine stood at ease leaning on a massive rusty cleaver. Halduk had not heard him approach, but he recognized that weapon and knew its name to be Bonerot. He recognized the pattern and variations of the marine's dark algae-green armor and the orange glare of his eye lenses. He recognized the trinkets hanging from his belt on catgut cords and the chitin peaks sprouting from his shoulder guard. The marine was a brother, of the old guard from the days of The Crusade. Halduk saluted a greeting to his brother Svonne.

Svonne returned the salute slowly. "Hello, Tallyman," he said in his dry grass voice. "Lord Kelpus sent me to find you. He does not want to rush you, but he has questions he wishes to ask, once the count is complete."

"He may have to wait some time yet," Halduk said with a sigh. He gestured to the body in the doorway. "This corpse troubles my work. Maybe, perchance, you know can give me some insight on whether this body is in this room or outside of it?"

Ceramite plates ground together as Svonne looked down at the body, noticing it for the first time. His massive gauntleted hands fidgeted with the haft of his axe, never still. He looked at it for twenty-nine seconds before replying.

"I do not know. This is beyond my expertise. But maybe," he began thoughtfully. "Maybe if I wait with you here, a suitable answer will occur to one of us."

"Maybe it would." Maybe indeed. Maybe he was rushing, he did that sometimes. Maybe the solution was to be patient and wait for The God to provide.

Both plague marines gazed at the corpse. They stood, there on either side of it, still and silent as statues while they tried to determine the truth of its positioning. Behind Halduk, the nurglings began a game of tag among the corpses. Halduk was used to their antics and paid them no mind. Though he would never say it aloud, Svonne's company was improving his mood. Aside from his daemons, he was often alone for the counts. Having a brother join him, for just a moment, for just a number, was a rare gift that soothed his soul. Their company made the endless battles of The Long War bearable.

A thought occurred to him then. Halduk bent down to get a close look at the squad markings on the dead woman's bloody uniform. Sure enough, they matched those of the other seven armsmen, meaning that all eight of them were members of the same squad. Halduk imagined that they must have known each other well. They probably spent a lot of time together here on the Corvus Lex. They would have trained together, laughed together, and kept each other company during long voyages. Did the company of their fellows make their duty more bearable? Halduk guessed that it did. He knew then where this corpse belonged. She may have died in an ambiguous place, but she had lived with her squad. She deserved to be counted with them in death.

Gently Halduk carefully picked up the woman's frail corpse in his gauntletted hands. She weighed surprisingly little, even for a human. Carefully he carried her body into the mess hall and laid her on the deck with her squadmates. His nurglings were quiet now, their game forgotten. All three clustered at his boots, watching expectantly as he took out his ledger and completed the tally. The action felt right and he smiled under his helm.

Halduk and his nurglings exited the mess hall without a word.

"You chose well I think," said Svonne, falling in next to Halduk as he walked down the corridor. "Is the count complete then?"

"There is one more room," Halduk said as he approached the door to the bridge. The room was lit only by the red glow of emergency lumens and hung heavy with shadows. Craters littered the wall around the doorway. There were twenty-three of them. Fighting had been fierce here. Halduk drew out a rusty lantern and lit it to provide some light.

No sooner had he struck the flame to cast a weak glow into the darkness than his nurglings gave a high-pitched cheer. They dashed ahead of him as fast as their stumpy legs could carry them and leaped over the threshold of the door. In the ruddy dark beyond they landed with a sticky splash and Halduk felt his mood darken. Slowly, reluctantly, he moved to the doorway and looked inside with his lantern.

As he had thought, the fighting had been fierce here. It had been so fierce that plague spewers had been used to clear this room. The deck was pockmarked from their acidic fluid, and inches of thick liquid sat on the floor, slowly dissolving all organic matter to sludge. To the left of the door, in a particularly deep pool, his nurglings splashed about and threw finger bones at each other with shouts and taunts. Somewhere in the dark a body dislodged from where it lay and slid into the liquid, which began to snap and hiss with renewed vigor as it ate the flesh. Judging by how quiet the room was otherwise, the dead here had likely been reduced to just bones. Soon even those would be gone. Halduk was going to have to work quickly to have any hope of drawing an accurate count.

Beside him, Svonne let out a dry laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. "The God wishes to test your skills, Tallyman," he said with amusement. "Don't worry, I will stay right here with you till you are done. I feel in my hearts that it makes the work easier"

Halduk sighed but a thin smile formed under his helm. "You know brother? I think it does." With that, he turned his ledger to a fresh page, entered the bridge, and began counting.

#warhammer 40000 #warhammer 40k #death guard #14th legion #XIV legion #chaos space marines #nurgle #grandfather nurgle #space marines #heretic astartes #plague marines #a03 fanfic #a03 #a03 link #fanfiction #fan fiction #fanfic #warhammer fanfic

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wantlongera · 5 years

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was/is leroy ever abusive towards dolores in front of others ? i don't wanna assume he was since i know sometimes abuse only occurs behind closed doors but i was just wondering ! also sorry if you've already headcanoned about this before i'm a dumb ass

you’re not a dumbass! i’ve never publicly meta’d about it, though i’ve thought about it. leroy’s abuse, in front of others, was very subtle? i would call them micro aggression. one too many passive aggressive comments throughout the evening that makes things *slightly* “uncomfortable” for company, but not enough to question if anything is seriously wrong. not paying attention to dolores while she’s talking about something important to her – he’s rolled his eyes, he’s changed the subject immediately after.

tbh leroy was? already somewhat patronizing to dolores even before the war, but in a way that would considered “standard” for the time period, or “harmless” (even though it isn’t, of course). if she ever expressed interest in a hobby/job outside the home, he would call her silly, and tell her she didn’t need to involve herself in anything outside the household – she had the luxury of never having to work, unlike so many families less fortunate.

dolores didn’t think anything of it, and frankly, she doesn’t think much of leroy’s public, condescending remarks either. they hurt her feelings, but leroy’s convinced her (whenever she expresses these emotions), that she’s being too sensitive, and he didn’t mean it that way, and “she knows it.”

#emotional abuse /#gaslighting /#abuse /#kcnsasborn #⊱ ❛ a picture of the bride with a man in uniform ❜ rel: leroy .#⊱ ❛ the label is torn and bloodied ❜ answered .#⊱ ❛ and i will never let ANYTHING destroy that ❜ about + headcanons .#⊱ ❛ piece together the bride’s story ❜ references .

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xhanisai · 3 years

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Truth Or Dare?

AO3 / FFN

Summary:

Adrien gulped, completely frozen in his seat under the gaze of his demonic classmates, the almighty, notorious peer-pressure throwing a concert whilst his Lady continued to act like that the string on the floor was far more interesting than the fact that her newly discovered partner was currently in the hot seat. 'Now how do I answer this!?' He panicked internally, twiddling with his thumbs and praying to the Gods more reliable than Plagg that Marinette would suddenly come up with some brilliant, top-notch plan that would surely get them both out of this. Especially if she doesn't want him to whimper out: "Ya got me! It was Marinette when she kissed the evil out of me after I got shot by Dislocoeur, hahaha! Oh, do I need to mention that I have no recollection of it whatsoever and that I was decked up in my usual catsuit whilst she was in her polka-dotted onesie? A brilliant first kiss, amirite!? Not to mention that our second kiss was also wiped from my memory, cheers for that Alya and Nino!"

Pairing - Adrinette Prompt - 'Truth or Dare?' ~(x)~ . . . Adrien was fucked. He was entirely, thoroughly, immensely fucked. And not in the literal way much to the teen's utter dismay and painful frustration. And certainly not anytime soon, judging by his princesse's stiff, flustered posture who was on the floor across him, along with the rest of their class sitting in a circle (sans Lila and Chloé, Dieu merci). Gremlin-like smirks were etched on their friends' mischievous faces and sinister cackles escaped their mouths like the Madhatter from Alice Au Pays Des Merveilles. Even timid ol' Sabrina wore a grin that would rival the Cheshire cat. But never mind that. What was the cherry on top was how both he and Marinette just found out each other's identities no more than ten minutes prior. The two idiots were desperately sprinting back to collège Françoise Dupont after their latest akuma battle without noticing the other, only to literally collide into one other and their transformation to wear off immediately, leaving them both with matching gaping expressions. If luck was on his side, the scenario would have carried on with Adrien whipping out 'suave move #9236' and channelling his inner 'Tamaki Suoh', helping his Lady to her feet with a smile so sexy and seductive (guaranteed to win her over of course) and then him proceeding to ask her out for a cup of coffee where they can talk! Then, he would have totally charmed her with another brilliant smile that would have surely fly kicked away whatever feelings she had for that 'other' boy (he named him M. Imbécile), caressing that soft, soft cheek of hers with his hand and surely they would have leaned in for a hot, passionate, true love's kiss (and he'd finally know what it's like to be properly smooched)! MAIS NON. NON. His five seconds of absolute happiness, of pure bliss after finding out that the two girls he bloody loved so damn much and practically worshipped, were one and the same- WAS INTERRUPTED. . The inconveniently timed Ladyblogger and her DJ boyfriend arrived at the scene, practically snatching both him and Marinette away and back to class, babbling about how Mme. Bustier was going to arrive late hence they were going to take advantage of it. By taking advantage, they meant avoiding all responsibilities by playing a specific game. A game that Adrien has learnt to now, unconditionally despise. . "We're not getting any younger here, Buttercup. Tell us, who was your first kiss? And don't even think about lying your way out, we can tell by your face that you definitely got some sort of action~" Alya's glasses flashed in such a devilish way, even Le Papillon would have found himself shitting his pants. "Of course, if you don't want to answer the truth...you can always pick dare," 'LIKE HELL I WILL!' The last person to have picked 'dare' was Rose and she was instructed to deliver a hearty smack to Kim's bum! The teen model pretty much vowed that the only booty his hands were allowed to touch was Marinette's, with consent obviously. And vice versa. And the person before Rose who chose 'dare' was Nino! He was dared to sneak outside, climb to the top of the building's rooftop and sing Rick Astley's 'Never Gonna Give You Up' from the top of his lungs, recording himself live on Instagram as proof. It was a miracle that he never got caught by the staff! Again, the feline hero very much preferred that any attempts of his serenading would only be heard by the ears of the love of his life. . Adrien gulped, completely frozen in his seat under the gaze of his demonic classmates, the almighty, notorious peer-pressure throwing a concert whilst his Lady continued to act like that the string on the floor was far more interesting than the fact that her newly discovered partner was currently in the hot seat. 'Now how do I answer this!?' He panicked internally, twiddling with his thumbs and praying to the Gods more reliable than Plagg that Marinette would suddenly come up with some brilliant, top-notch plan that would surely get them both out of this. Especially if she doesn't want him to whimper out: "Ya got me! It was Marinette when she kissed the evil out of me after I got shot by Dislocoeur, hahaha! Oh, do I need to mention that I have no recollection of it whatsoever and that I was decked up in my usual catsuit whilst she was in her polka-dotted onesie? A brilliant first kiss, amirite!? Not to mention that our second kiss was also wiped from my memory, cheers for that Alya and Nino!" Unfortunately, (once again) for him, not even his pleading kitty eyes were able to penetrate the wall of aloofness that Marinette held between them, leaving him completely on his own, ready to be torn apart by their friends' malevolent hands. He was the equivalent of a teeny tiny, illegally cute kitten, surrounded by a circle of hungry, deadly, carnivorous wolves, licking their chops! Yet, Marinette remained unphased, pretending to stare out into space and think about what her Maman and Papa would prepare for dinner as if Adrien's scrutinising gaze weren't like arrows all over her side. However, much to her disadvantage, Agreste is her partner and he knew her very, very well. The desperate cat was able to pinpoint the cold sweat that was growing on her forehead, knowing that his presence was starting to get to her and conscious of the fact that she cannot ignore him for long either. 'Come on Marinette, you can't resist me forever. Please help!' His lack of any sort of psychic powers didn't stop him from wishing that she could read his mind but dammit did he try. 'Don't you love your pauvre Chaton!? Aidez-moi s'il vous plaît, My Lady!!!' Just before he could resort to begging out loud, Alix Kubdel... ...snickered. Simply from that evil, ominous sound, both Adrien and Marinette paled on the spot at a speed faster than M. Césaire's panther could ever dream of running at. "Ever since we asked you that question, not once have you looked away from Marinette...now why is that~?" The short girl's insight caused the rest of the class to gasp cheekily and "Oooh~?" simultaneously, their ferocious appetite for juicy gossip now at full throttle much to both heroes' apprehension. "And you, Mari! You look like a kid who got caught stealing from the cookie jar. I think the two of you have something big to admit to the rest of us, hmm?" "...No-oooo...?" Dupain-Cheng refused to make eye contact with anyone, her lips stuck between what looked like a grimace and a fake smile, continuing her sentence which was just as truthful as Jagged Stone's claims of being in his mid-twenties. "I am still a lowly virgin maiden in the kissing department...heheh...heh..." Adrien on the other hand blinked owlishly as he finally came to a conclusion, his singular working brain cell grinding its gear through his thought process. Oh? Ohoh??? OHOHOOHOH??????? . "So that means I was your first kiss too?" . If there was a compilation labelled "Top Ten Ways That Adrien Mothafuckin' Stupid Agreste Fucked Up"... This would be number one. "...You didn't hear me say that out loud...right?" He gulped meekly, shrinking under the astonished looks that everyone gave him, his Lady's jaw dropping further than what he assumed was humanely possible. He. Was. Fucked. . The entire classroom erupted with utter chaos. Ranging from high pitched squeals from Alya, Rose, Mylène and Kim to "HOLY SHIT!" and "HOW DID THIS HAPPEN!?" from Alix, Nino, Juleka and so on. Even Marinette was left burning brighter than a tomato, covering her face in embarrassment along with her iconic mantra: "THIS IS A DISASTER!!!" and shaking her head. Money was exchanged from secretive bets that were placed on the model and designer, naughty comments were thrown around left and right and even more! If one were to enter the room right now, they'd think that they've just stumbled across a hectic zoo. Never in his life did Adrien want the ground to swallow him up so badly or even run away at the speed of sound to an unknown island where he would live off of fruit and grow old all alone without ever getting married. Marinette probably- no, she definitely hates him now. Her refusal to come out of her 'Don't talk to me, I'm catastrophising' human ball and face him was more than enough evidence to prove that. Who was he kidding, thinking that he would be able to get such a wonderful, spectacular girl like her to fall for a hopeless, ridiculous nincompoop like him? His attempts in the past never worked out before and it certainly wouldn't have worked out now. Forget about pursuing a romantic relationship with her, he's one-hundred percent sure that he's absolutely tarnished what was left of their friendship! He can visualise his terrifying, depressing excuse of a future already. No more shy, cute greetings with a gorgeous smile in the mornings before class from Marinette. No more fun banter and warm hugs on their favourite patrol environments from Marinette. No more cheeky jokes and flirty teasing from Marinette. No more timid conversations and saying his name in the most softest way he's ever heard from Marinette. And, no more perfect "Bien joué!" fist bumps after an akuma battle from Marinette... How...how was he supposed to live without her? 'Shit, I can feel my eyes starting to water...' He took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling to force the traitorous tears away from daring to come out. The last thing Marinette needed was to deal with a dumb crybaby like him after he's just embarrassed her like that with his stupid, big mouth- "-But when did this happen, Marinette??? Girl, why didn't you tell me!?" Snapping out of his self-pity, Adrien tuned back into the pandemonium, wincing at how mortified Marinette still looked (albeit she was no longer in her cocoon of doom). She pursed her lips at Alya with that adorable pout of hers, unsure of how to answer with something that didn't sound like a terrible excuse. . Finally, a solid answer blared in Adrien's brain, the blonde teen adamant that he turned the situation around and salvaged what was left of the bond between him and his Princesse. For now, he can focus on the dreadful future after he got the current situation sorted. He would do anything to make Marinette feel good around him again. "It was during that time we were at le Musée Grévin when I invited Alya, Nino, Marinette and Manon to join me," He ignored the way that their classmates leaned closer with wide grins, focusing on sending a quiet apology to Marinette's direction with his pleading eyes alone. "I was being dumb and tried to play a prank on Marinette when the other three were away. I ended up tripping and Marinette tried to help me but I accidentally pulled her down with me and...we accidentally kissed..." Although the scenario wasn't fully true, Marinette did manage to land a light peck upon his lips during that incident and that's all it took for it to be branded in his memory. The sear of foreign warmth that left his lips in tingles, the subtle taste of strawberry gloss that left him hungry for more and the unadulterated softness that rivalled even the most expensive of silk. He hoped that his little white lie towards the end was enough to alleviate what was left of Marinette's embarrassment, deaf to their classmates' coos and brows furrowed to emphasise how sorry he was to the girl he loves. Although there was still a hint of pink on her cheeks, her expression was something that he wasn't able to decipher and that only made his heart race even faster than before. 'Please don't hate me, please don't hate me, please don't hate me-' "So how was the kiss, then?" Ivan waggled his eyebrows, both him and his girlfriend playfully winking at Marinette at her protesting stammers. "Oh? E-Erm...it was very quick and brief so I didn't get a chance to enjoy it-" His treacherous eyes decided to land on Marinette's lips midway, his mind screaming to stop digging a deeper hole for himself. He wasn't quick enough to flit his gaze away, the indication that he wanted to kiss her again so painfully obvious that even a blind person would have noticed. "-It was very soft and nice, however! I don't regret it-" Suddenly... . ...Marinette stood up. Adrien felt like his heart was going to bust out of his chest with the way it ricocheted against his ribcage, his emerald eyes wide with apprehension and his breath lodged in his throat as if a vice was clasped around his neck. Was she going to kill him? He certainly thought he deserved it. "Alya," The heroine in disguise began, the teen model unable to hide his flinch. "Dare me to kiss Adrien."

She lifted her head to face her partner, her sapphire blues no longer hidden in the shadows of her fringe and sparkling with both amusement and...love? Her kissable lips were upturned into a confident smile with a gloss that was begging for him to taste and he was absolutely losing his mind. Was he dreaming? He must be dreaming. Yes. No way in the seven heavens would Marinette, THE Marinette, would want to kiss HIM, the embodiment of bad luck! Yet, the twinkling of her eyes and the warmth that radiated from her as she walked closer and closer towards him said otherwise. He didn't even hear Alya's excited declaration for Marinette's dare, solely focused on the way his Lady kneeled in front of him, smoothed her hands towards his cheeks and cupped them so gingerly. . "Pucker up, Buttercup," Marinette murmured against his lips with an endearing smirk, grazing her nose with his and rubbing his cheeks with her thumbs before sealing the kiss. . With all the romantic daydreams and boyish yearning he went through when it came to Marinette's lips, Adrien thought that he was well prepared for the real deal if the day were to ever come, disregarding his bad luck of course. However, he has been wrong before. He's absolutely, definitely, positively wrong now. The brief, shocked, brush of lips back in the wax museum was barely a taster. Barely a glimpse of the real thing. Not even close to a sample of the luxury. From the moment she pressed her lips against his, Adrien was hit with an outstanding overwhelm of fervour, tenderness and sweetness. His body instinctively shuddered as a pleasant fire seeped from her mouth to his and then coursed through the veins of the rest of his body, his hand that was clutching his precious good luck charm gift from Marinette then loosening its grip and automatically reaching for her cheek. His piano fingers dug into the locks of one of her ponytails, entangling them. 'If this really is a dream, then please, don't wake me up,' The sensation was slightly odd and just, indescribable at the same time. Yet, the more he tasted that strawberry gloss, the more her lips moved against his, the further he fell in love, addicted to the sugar that he's craved for so long. His red-tipped ears were oblivious to the class' whoops and cheers, his heart crashing against his chest louder than ever and the feel of hers doing just the same against him had him soaring. 'She never hated me all along, right? This isn't a kiss of hate at all,' But most importantly, the feeling of Marinette's pulse quickening from when his fingertips slid down to meet the side of her sensitive neck, cradling the back of it and the almost inaudible whimper she let out, was branded to his touch and memory like an imprint. 'So this is a real first kiss? Is this what Marinette felt when she kissed me to get rid of Kim's spell? How did she manage to keep her composure around me since then?' Just as Marinette pulled away, her eyes shimmering with wonderful emotions and her lips as beautifully rosy as her cheeks, Adrien couldn't resist and pulled her back in without a beat. As if to make up for all those missed opportunities, all the moments where he could have stolen her breath away and all those unsaid words that surely would have made them happy. They could talk about the reveal and their feelings afterwards in the safety of Marinette's humble balcony without any prying eyes. They could sort out their overwhelming emotions and bask through their memories over that cup of coffee that Adrien now has the confidence to ask her out on. But just for now, the two of them wanted to enjoy their present and make the most of it. 'Sweet, sweet, sweet, she's so sweet...' . . . ~(x)~ A/N: Ah shit it's six am. I'll edit this tomorrow.

#my writing #my fanfiction #miraculous ladybug #miraculous ladybug and chat noir #adrinette #adrienette #post reveal pre relationship #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #ml fanfic #ml fanfiction #this is slight crack #but it's very fluffy too

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plant-flwrs · 3 years

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ruined parties // older brother draco (implied fred weasley)

masterlist!

a/n: i didn't know how to label this without it looking like an incest fic and I just want everyone to know it is most definitely not an incest fic and I don't know how to make it look better why is this my life

i just saw this in my inbox unreasonably late and I loved it sm so I wrote this little overprotective big brother draco fic :) I wanted to thank @gaycatlord-stuff for the message and the meme because I loved it sm and it rly got the juices in my sahara desert brain flowing.

summary: Draco is a relentlessly overprotective brother who ruins all romantic opportunities for you.

(2k)

-----

Sometimes, you wondered how different your life would be as a muggle. You wondered if your wealthy parents would have shoved you off to a nanny rather than house-elves; if you would have gone to a muggle boarding school and studied classic literature for an actual class and not just for fun, which Draco loved to remind you was one of the weirder things about you; if you would have learned to do laundry and wash the dishes and comb your hair without the brush levitating with a flick of your wand.

You wondered, most of all, how Draco would manage to beat up all the boys who showed interest in you as you grew up.

Draco went through his phases of the ways in which he would 'protect' you. He had really enjoyed the bat-bogey hex for a while in your first year. In second year and most of third year, he went with the safe option of the jelly-legs jinx. By fourth year he had matured to more advanced methods of transfiguration. He had managed to turn Michael Corner into a raccoon for at least a whole day when Michael had offered to carry your bag for you in the hall.

Fifth year was bad. He had been taken in by Snape, who offered him a number of tips and tricks in the world of dark magic. You insisted Draco didn't need dark magic, and he insisted that you mind your own business.

Draco was irritable and nearly unbearable by sixth year. He hovered over you like a vulture, sending glares to anyone who even looked at you. Your friends started calling him Bloody Mary because he was always haunting over your shoulder. You knew it was because your parents were putting a lot of pressure on him and his crush on Harry Potter was becoming inhumanely large, but still. It was annoying.

It was even more annoying when Draco seemed to have met a suitable match in Fred Weasley.

You had a bit of a liking for muggle things. The school year was your only chance to inhabit this hobby, with your father removing all your muggle posters from your room the second you left for the train. You took Muggle Studies and begged Dumbledore not to tell your parents. You had mostly muggle-born or half-blood friends, which you also told your parents nothing about. Draco found this all the more reason to 'protect' you.

"You ought to dye your hair," you gritted out, sulking over your breakfast and resisting the urge to kick Draco's shin under the table.

Draco didn't respond, shoveling beans into his mouth with an unamused look.

"Seriously," you continued. "Your hair doesn't match your energy. Black would be very striking. You and your boyfriend would be matching."

Draco kicked your shin under the table, making you regret not taking your chance earlier. Harry was a sore spot for Draco, but Draco had just done a wandless spell on Ernest Macmillan before he could ask you to Hogsmeade, and he deserved it.

"What are you reading?" He grunted, offering an unspoken truce he knew you would take.

You shielded the cover, "Killing your brother 101. Enlightening."

"How far into it are you?"

"Almost done. I'd prepare yourself if I were you."

Draco hummed, unfazed by your murderous threats.

"You finish the notes for Charms?" you shut your book, stealing a piece of cantaloupe from Draco's plate.

"Yes," Draco looked at you eating the stolen fruit unapprovingly, pulling some sort of older brother superiority with just one look at you. Infuriating.

"What's the time?" You abandoned the Charms notes, no longer willing to admit you didn't do them.

"Just past 7," Draco pushed his plate away from him, standing and straightening his tie.

"See you at dinner," you began putting your things away and Draco mumbled a goodbye, setting off for his own classes. You were just shoveling the last of the beans he left on his plate into your mouth when a foreign group of bodies were across from you in your peripheral.

You lifted your head, hunched over the beans and still chewing, to see Fred, George, and Lee.

You squinted, chewing slowly and leaning back as to avoid any sort of tripwire for a prank.

"Malfoy," Fred said pleasantly, which was not how people usually said your last name.

"Big brother leave you by your lonesome?" Lee added, also not taking the cruel tone most would when talking about your brother.

This was odd.

"What do you want?" you swallowed your food, eyeing them suspiciously.

"I thought she was meant to be the better of them," George stage-whispered to Lee.

"We are here to formally invite you to a party we are hosting," Fred continued, unperturbed.

Lee and George watched you, waiting for your reaction.

"Alright," you agreed and stood, joining your friends in the hall to walk to class.

"That was easier than I expected," Lee said cheerfully, visibly relieved now that he was not in your presence.

"I told you," Fred puffed his chest out confidently and place his hands on the table as he stood, "Without Draco around, she's perfect."

The party was in full swing and Draco was drunk. With one guess, you would have to assume it had something to do with the way Harry kept offering to top off his glass, his hand hovering on the small of Draco's back as they talked into each other's ears.

Drunk Draco was a luxury you were not often afforded. Drunk Draco meant living a life of your own, doing things without his watchful eye.

So you also got drunk. Your friends used the term 'waisted' the next morning, but we will say 'drunk' for maturity purposes. And drunk you got!

Fred was always suspiciously close to you, and suspiciously nice once you thought harder on it. You tried not to leave any drink unguarded while he hovered and stayed with friends as often as possible.

You eventually found yourself on a large leather couch in the center of the room. Ron was next to you, stoned out of his mind, and digging around in the pocket of his flannel for more rolling papers. On the other side of you, Luna's head rolled around her neck, falling onto your shoulder and the couch and finally landing on Ginny's lap when she passed out. You watched Ginny stroke her hair, occasionally tracing a line down her nose. Sighing, you accepted the blunt when Ron finally passed it your way.

You were passing it back, sufficiently stoned out of your gourd, when it was plucked from your hands. You thought you had dropped it, jolting back and looking around frantically until you saw those awful, bony, white fingers dangling the now soggy blunt in front of your face.

"C'mon!" Ron groaned, face twisting through the stages of grief as he saw his ruined creation.

"Pot?" Draco said as if he were 40 and with a mortgage.

"Pot," you replied as if you were 17 and at a party.

One of you had an accurate hold on reality. The other held a soggy blunt.

Ron took the soggy blunt and attempted to salvage it, sinking down to his knees to work on the coffee table in front of you. Draco took his seat and set his drink on the table to his side. He didn't drink from it, presumably because of a blunt that had been swimming in it for a moment.

"I thought you were with Harry," you said slowly, torn between wanting to hurt Draco if something had gone badly with Harry and actually wanting to know why he wasn't still with him.

"Yeah, he went up to bed," Draco answered, not sounding pitiful and mournful like he had a habit of sounding after interacting with Harry.

"He didn't take you with him?" you slurred, leaning into Draco's strong and seemingly sober shoulder.

"Shut up," he chuckled, wrapping an arm around your side and hauling you off the couch. You reached into his pocket, finding some loose bills you knew would be there, and slipped them to Ron as compensation before you left.

You felt accomplished, drunk and high, leaving a party after a fun time. It was also a highlight to have given Ron Weasley Draco's drug money.

As per usual, you didn't have a date for Hogsmeade. Your friends were all in Madam Puddifoot's with their dates, gazing over the table at each other like lovesick puppies. Draco currently had you in a headlock while he rubbed his knuckles into the top of your head.

You shoved your heal into his foot, making him release you.

You both returned to your drinks with slightly labored breaths and scowls.

Draco was upset because Harry wasn't at Hogsmeade and you were upset because you were in Hogsmeade with Draco. You would have fallen at his knees and begged him to release you from the chains of this sibling dynamic if he weren't the one buying lunch today.

You ate, still scowling, and walked around scowling, and returned to Hogwarts scowling. You hugged each other, scowling, before bed and went to your respective dorms.

It was hot and there was no wind. Really, absolutely no wind. The water on the black lake was eerily reflective and the trees were unmoving.

You were walking with some friends, charmed fans moving around you as they blew cold air in your faces. You were returning from Hogsmeade with ice cream, very happy from the outing without Draco.

Regretfully, Draco did not seem to be as happy.

Stepping into the courtyard, you felt a drop of your ice cream land on your hand, sticky and cold and messy, and at the same time, you saw Draco hurl himself at Fred Weasley.

Fred sprawled across the courtyard, landing on some poorly transfigured pillows that you guessed were the product of George's wandless magic. His head was cushioned from what would have been a nasty hit on the stone. He squirmed under Draco, long arms and legs flailing against the steady weight Draco was putting on him.

You watched Lee and George leaning against a wall, presumably letting Fred fight this battle on his own.

You decided to do something similar.

You watched as Fred wrangled himself free, both boys tripping over the pillows until George vanished them. In the free space, they circled each other with their hands raised. It was funny to see two pure-blood wizards fighting so viciously without a hint of magic.

Draco took a step forward with his left foot, tricking Fred out to lunge at him from the right. He had Fred's leg and then Fred was on the ground again, grunting in pain. Draco flipped him and pinned him, knee resting on Fred's back and hands holding his arms together. Deciding Draco had enough fun, you walked over.

"Fight Club?" you offered, quirking an eyebrow.

"Did you go to Hogsmeade?" Draco ignored you, panting slightly. Up close you saw he had a nasty bruise on his cheekbone and some blood coming from his nose. Fred must have gotten a few hits in.

"Yeah," you licked your ice cream, "bloody scorching out."

"Hm," Draco hummed, adjusting his grip on Fred's arm and causing Fred to yelp in pain.

"How are you?" you asked politely.

"Alright. You?"

"Alright."

Draco nodded.

"So, what's this about?"

"He said he was going to prank you," Draco said, shrugging and adjusting Fred's arm again on purpose.

You gasped in faux shock, crouching down to look at Fred.

"A prank?" you asked him, smirking.

"No!" Fred yelped when he tried to move his arms.

You looked to Draco, whose eyebrows were furrowed. "I heard you! You said you were going to take her out!"

"Draco."

"Draco!" Fred yelped, finally getting his arms loose and crawling from underneath Draco's grasp.

"Oh my fucking god."

"Merlin," Fred mumbled, looking at your face and then Draco's guilty expression.

"Oh," Draco said simply, head tilting as he added up the moment's events in his head.

"Oh my fucking god," you repeated.

Draco got his feet under him.

"Oh my fucking god!" you hurled your ice cream cone at his back, hitting him hard as he ran. You chased him, narrowly avoiding the trail of melted strawberry ice cream he was leaving through the halls.

#draco #draco malfoy #malfoy #big brother draco #fred weasley x reader #fred has a crush on the reader #draco is an overprotective brother #draco is stupid #draco loves harry #drarry #humor #harry potter #hp #hogwarts

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elareine · 3 years

Note

I know I already gave you one, but I just thought of this now, if you could, or ignore it, either one is fine, can you please write Nurse or Doctor Tim with JayTim or DickTim, or both go crazy with it, if you want. And Tim being so exasperated with them because they keep giving him the lamest excuses for their injuries, because they don't know he knows or they suspect he knows but both sides are trying to see who will mention it first. So its like a big competition of who will break first.

So the competition aspect got lost a bit? I hope you still enjoy it :)

Warning: Some dark jokes about domestic violence, mostly borne out of my experience when I actually fell down the stairs. Also I blatantly did not care about the actual medical issues in this.

“You fell down the stairs.”

Usually, when Tim had to repeat these words to someone, he said them gently: telegraphing his disbelief as well as his willingness to keep up appearances as long as the victim needed to. With kids, he was a bit more direct, though only after separating them from the parent. He never spoke this sarcastically; that would be uncalled for.

(Also, contrary to popular belief, some people actually did fall down the stairs.)

Today? Today his words were dripping with sarcasm.

The man—‘Richard Grayson’ according to his file, ‘Dick’ according to his introduction, ‘Gotham’s most handsome bachelor’ according to the gossip mags—rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I… maybe it was more, like. The roof?”

“Did the roof use a whip, by any chance?” Tim asked, examining the welts. “What did you do to piss off Catwoman?”

“Not—Nothing, because I fell down the stairs.”

“The roof.”

“The stairs on the roof.”

Tim sighed. “Alright. We’re gonna need an x-ray because I suspect your muscle has been cut through. Please report to room three, and the nurse will take care of it.”

“Sure thing, doc!”

—

When Tim had been inspired by Thomas Wayne to become a doctor, this hadn’t been what he envisioned.

Cure the sick? Sure. Fix bones and other injuries? As an orthopedic specialist: every day. Look at every injury Dick Grayson acquired during his totally-legal activities? Nope. What the fuck.

The explanations became increasingly stupider, too, which was hard to believe seeing how they started with a chart-topper like ‘I fell down the stairs/roof and it happened to look like a belt from a whip.’

Tim had resolved early on that he wouldn’t ask. His patience for Dick’s weak-ass excuses was close to zero, sure, but it was safer to keep away. This was a professional medical praxis that cared for everyone, no matter their allegiance. Tim didn’t even know which vigilante was sitting in front of him.

…oh, who was he kidding. This was Nightwing. None of the other vigilantes in Gotham was that chipper.

(Also, that ass.)

Fine. Tim could deal with that. He might’ve even privately fangirled over the fact that he got to patch up Nightwing (the first Robin!) on a regular basis. Also, Dick was ridiculously charming; Tim didn’t mind spending time with him. It was a nice break in the middle of a hectic day.

Except then Dick started bringing his brother/boyfriend along.

(Yeah, Tim felt as weird about that ‘/‘ as you do. But they were holding hands, so…)

He took one look at Jason Todd and asked drily: “So, seen any good zombie movies lately?”

Dick choked on air. Jason just grinned through the bloody mess he’d made of his mouth and asked: “Do I look that bad?”

“Worse.” Tim sighed and started examining the mess closer, carefully pressing along the lines of the other man’s jaw. “Let me guess, you’re also into parkour?”

“Among other things.”

“Hmm. Yeah, nothing broken, I think, but we’ll double-check. If not, ice, painkillers, and no ‘rooftop parkour’ for a while, alright?” He paused. Honestly, judging by Jason’s stature (too wide for most vigilantes) and age (too young to be Batman)… “I’d tell you to wear a helmet, but apparently, even that’s not helping.”

Jason turned to Dick, grinning widely. “I can see why you like him.”

Tim had no idea what to think about that, so he didn’t.

—

It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon. Every Wednesday, Tim would close his practice at 2 p.m. and spend the rest of the day doing paperwork. A cup of tea and the tv in the background

Except then the news started, and Tim heard the phrases “Nightwing and Red Hood,” “magician,” and “explosion.”

Then, the footage—obviously taking from mobile phone recordings—began playing. He watched for three minutes, panic spreading through him. Nightwing limp on the ground. Red Hood, literally thrown through a wall. He knew that these men were terrifyingly well trained, that Red Hood must’ve had some beta modifications at some point in his life with the injuries he took in stride—

But on camera, they weren’t moving.

According to the timestamp, the footage had been taken thirty minutes ago.

“Clean-up has begun,” the reporter on the screen said. “There is no sign of the two vigilantes who have defended our community center to the last—“

Tim grabbed his things and ran.

Tam, his assistant, looked up in alarm as he entered the waiting area. “Tim?”

“I need to go,” Tim told her, not stopping. “It’s an emergency.”

And because Tam was the best, she simply called after him: “Call me if you need help! I’ll take care of the practice.”

Tim knew Dick’s home address, had memorized it just in case—just in case. That’s where Tim drove now. If they weren’t there, he would try Wayne Manor next, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

But when he pressed the doorbell at the apartment labeled ‘Grayson,’ he was immediately buzzed in.

Jason was the one who let him in and led him to the living room, where Dick half-sat, half laid on a couch.

Tim asked: “Okay. What hurts the most?”

“His head,” Jason replied, and Dick glared: “I’m told you I’m fine, Jay—“

Tim walked over. Swelling, definitely, and something about that shoulder…

“I popped that back in,” Jason explained. “But I think there’s something wrong with his neck.”

Yeah, there really was. Tim recognized the beginning of some deep bruising—strangulation, his mind supplied, that magician had tried to choke Dick out—and the back of Dick’s head felt tender and hot.

“I don’t suppose I can interest you in an x-ray?” he asked.

Disagreement all around. Fine. Tim would write them prescriptions for braces, if they didn’t have them lying around in a corner, anyway. Unless something felt like it was broken or shifted out of place or actually torn. You didn’t mess around with that.

Jason had sat down next to Dick, and Tim moved on seamlessly to checking him. Jason’s ribs were definitely not okay, but probably hadn’t punctured his lung or anything, or he wouldn’t be sitting here. Apart from that, he was one massive bruise and a fucked-up hit. No running for Red Hood for at least a week. (Six weeks for normal humans. Tim was used to the calculation by now.) Oh, and something had crushed his foot—“the building falling on me,” Jason very helpfully informed him—and they had both suffered fourth- and third-degree burns.

Tim began dressing the wounds in silence. His hands were shaking. Why were they shaking, dammit. He was a fucking doctor. His hands were the steadiest thing about him.

It felt like hours passed before he was done.

“You need to stay awake.” His tone was too sharp; he could do nothing to soften it. “With a blast like that, concussions are a given. Is there anyone we could call to stay up with you?”

Dick nodded, then winced. Yeah, he should avoid that movement for a while. “Yes, we could—“

“No.” Jason shook his head.

“No?” Dick looked at him. Something must’ve been telegraphed in Jason’s eyes because Dick continued: “Oh, I mean, no. I’m afraid there isn’t.”

“We’re all alone.”

“Totally.”

Tim sighed. “Don’t you have, like, fifteen siblings and a butler? I should just call Wayne Manor; I’m sure that number is on Google or something—“

“Tim,” Dick said very gently. His hand went up to grasp Tim’s. “Stay with us?”

Tim blinked. “That’s. Really unprofessional.” He didn’t pull his hands away, though.

“You’re in our living room.” Jason shifted—it looked painful—and continued: “Pretty sure nothing about this is professional, so…”

“Please?” Dick asked.

Tim inhaled deeply and shook his head. “You two are so—stupid.” They flinched. “Like, what’re you doing, getting injured like that every week? You’re going to get yourself killed, and then I will have to come up with an explanation and it’s gonna be better than any you ever came up with. You’re gonna be so bad for my blood pressure.”

Dick looked crestfallen, but Jason was starting to grin: “So, you’re staying, then?”

“Duh.”

(I’m taking prompts until the end of the year.)

#elareine writes #jaydicktim

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decayandfanfics · 3 years

Text

The great book of sayings

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x FemReader

SUMMARY: He looks at you, his scarlet eyes fixed on yours, burning a hole through your head, every bit the predator he is, but you are as tough as it gets, so, against your better judgment and any well-founded logic, you answer his silent threat, the animalistic look he gives you with nothing less than a fearless smirk, irises burrowing into his pupils.A clever girl. He thinks, finally labeling you inside his head, cursing himself in the very moment he allows his brain to think of you as more than an asset. He is sure (he knows himself enough to know) he’ll think of this moment many times from now on.A clever pretty girl.

Reader is a typical college student until she gets herself tangled with the league of villains.

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, violence, Tomura being Tomura, mentions of murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut.

A/N: I’m trying so hard to write crusty boy here really in character. At least after AfO is taken. Any misspelled words, english is not my native language so i’m trying Helen.

As always, let me know what you think!

_____________________________________________________

Chapter 11 / Chapter 12

Out of sight, out of mind (interlude)

They disappear one night the same way they appeared.

Without a word.

It feels like waking up after a long dream. The way the sunrays enter your little kitchen, splashing your space in golden light looks almost ethereal, no longer their figures staining your white walls, standing out of place in the middle of your living room.

It feels a lot like the mornings after some heavy rainstorm.

It’s over. You think, breathing heavy and tired.

The apartment is quiet and cold, foreign to you. It reminds you a little they way you feel in hospitals. Places without personality, places without any personal touch. Even when everything is in place; the blankets are neatly folded in the closet and your toothbrush is the only one in the bathroom (Toga surely took her time tiding everything up) but you cannot feel at ease in it.

Maybe you are no longer the same person that use to live alone in this place, because it doesn’t feel like you belong inside the four walls that began to close too tight around you now, and even when you know you should run to the next police station and ask for help and protection because you’ve been hostage in your own home for weeks, you can’t get yourself to do it. It feels like a betrayal, somehow. Even when they held you captive, even when they’ve threat you and berated you. Even when there is no guarantee they would not be back to end the job after what you did to Dabi, after what happen with Shigaraki.

He looked like he wanted to hurt you last time.

Sorrow soft and silent start to rise, your heart breaking slowly with realization, smothering you, drowning you gently as you stand alone in the middle of your home, because they will never be back.

He will never be back.

It’s fine…I’m…safe. I’m safe.

You feel the jarring stab of grief, your heart cracking open under the pressure and the loneliness you’ve been trying to keep under control all this time, so you let out a shaking sob, finally admitting to yourself the ugly truth.

This is more than a little crush.

More like falling in love.

And your sweetheart has red eyes like jewels and a starved need for ruin.

So, you curl in a corner of your couch, hugging a pillow that smells way too much like soap and leather, finally allowing yourself to cry because this is painful, the kind of infatuation that can get you killed, that can destroy your life and ruin you. Him never coming back is a gift made of grief and poison, but you’ll take it because you know this is what you get in exchange of an attachment like this for a man who does nothing but harbor resentment inside the dark pit that is his chest.

You cry your eyes out, you cry desperate and lonely, holding tight to the pillow that still smells like him, no longer trying to suppress the nasty wound his gaze carved into your heart the moment his eyes met yours.

You cry because you think he hates you, because he didn’t just decide to go. Shigaraki choose to run away from this just to spite you and your infatuation because he wanted to stab you back. Because that’s the kind of man he is, that’s the kind of man that you allowed to hold grip onto your heart.

So, you stay curled in the corner of your little couch, sobbing and weeping over the painful mess you’ve made, wishing for the kiss you didn’t get the chance to steal and swearing that if you ever see him again, you’ll squeeze that devious grin out of his sharp face with your bare hands because if he wanted to hurt you by leaving without a word, then he should be fucking proud.

_____________________

He wasn’t joking when he asked her if she could handle rough.

“Oh my god” she sobs, inked tears staining her cheeks.

She looks like a mess, but he prefers it that way. He favors that she’s different, a complete opposite with her heavy makeup and revealing clothes, her smudged lipstick painting her chin and her breasts bouncing heavy, scaping her torn little dress. A perfect depiction of ruined and lewd.

She gags when he squeezes her neck hard, his index fingers curled as he yanks her body against the brick wall, too angry to care for his companion. No. He just wants to thrust into her as fast and rough as he can so he can get off the soon.

“Oh my-” she pants trying to hold herself against the wall, but he pulls her neck to him, pressing her back to his chest and then he yanks forward and bites her hard in the shoulder, his teeth leaving a purple mark on her skin.

“Shut up.” He grunts maddened when she sobs and squirms against his body, her smell entering his nostrils, making him gag instantly because he cannot stand the cheap perfume mixed with cigarettes, sweat and sex.

He cannot stand the smell of her hair, nor the shape of her body, or the height difference.

He cannot stand her lewd screaming.

So, he covers her mouth with his hand and shut his eyes tightly closed before resuming his brutal animalistic pacing, trying not to think in the salty flavor of her skin in his mouth. He just needs his release; it’s been a while since he gave himself to this kind of pleasure and for all things he’s ever done, he never fucked this angry before.

Tomura thinks he’s not particularly sexual on a daily basis. He doesn’t go walking around thinking about the next time he gets laid, not when he’s never been that interested in girls anyway, because he just…doesn’t like things nor people. So, his approach on sex is more like a task to be filled if anything else (like eating), rarely relying on another body since he doesn’t want to be touched at all. Now, of course he’s done it now and then, sometimes paying for it, sometimes a nightstand after some vodka in a seedy bar, but always quick to dispatch the person involved.

For Tomura, sex is about him wanting something and obtaining it the easiest way possible to just keep on with his life.

Or at least that’s how it was, but some reason he’s been feeling incredibly starved for it lately, and after being in a heck of a terrible mood and some heated lash out at his crew out of nowhere, he decided to pick his anger and put it somewhere else before killing one of his comrades.

Now, the woman is drooling all over his hand with all the choking, making him feel nauseous so he lets go of her and just digs his fingers on her hip keeping his index up, his long nails clawing at her skin, making her whine, squeezing him tight in reflex.

She tries to catch his wrist to move one of his hands to her breast, but he yanks away to pull her hair, growling a curse against her ear, swallowing hard.

This feels so wrong.

It’s not the right cup size.

It’s not the right smell.

It’s not the right height.

It’s not the right woman.

The mechanic friction is finally working its wonders because Tomura feels his low abdomen tighten before finally getting off.

No, he doesn’t see stars, nor grunts in feverish pleasure. He doesn’t taste her neck nor smiles when he cums. As soon as he releases, he shoves the woman as far away from him, removing the condom with disgust and decaying it (the thought of feeling her bare wet cunt against his naked skin revolving his guts).

He adjusts his clothes before throwing the woman some cash and just walks away, concluding that this was the most unsatisfying fuck in world’s history.

Tomura looks at his hands, feeling the sticky sensation of her saliva and her sweat, troubled because his face it’s super itchy but he feels so disgustingly dirty, that he doesn’t even need to smell them to know that her musky tacky perfume now lingers on his palms.

Maybe if I rub my hands, I can decay it away. He thinks, trying his hypothesis to no avail. ‘kay, that was pointless.

He manages to rub the fabric of his sleeve against his brow until the skin begins to show red dots of blood as he thinks seriously that he could kill for a hot shower, even when he’s not the cleanest guy around (he showers when he can. If he can’t do it, then he just doesn’t think about it), but he can’t stand the way the prostitute’s scent remains on him like a sin, and the thought is so ridiculous, because he’s done plenty of horrible disturbing shit in his life to now feel all guilty and nasty for a “less-than-mediocre” fuck.

So, he walks away, utterly unsatisfied. His anger dragging behind him, leaving a bloodied mess of chaos and longing for something far brighter than a rough fuck behind some lost alley, because he wants more than that. He wants the name, the body and the holy spirit that inhabits the girl with dangerous gaze and healer hands. He wants her violence, her anger and wild bravado, all for him to feaster and be consumed by it.

A violent delight that he can’t afford, not when he’s busy surviving until he finds the doctor or his master’s weapon, so he repeats himself that his infatuation, this sickness will disappear eventually, he just needs to get his priorities straight and focus.

He’ll do it, time will get everything in place again.

Cold creeps into him, the city lights filling the streets between car noises and people returning their homes. All of them busy minding their own lives, completely unaware of the hooded serial killer walking by, quietly sneaking into the fire escape of some old building.

_____________________

III

Internal medicine is one of those courses that drains every bit of life out of you. Arguably the hardest in a career full of hards, you now live under the constant threat of failure because this shit is a monster, and you know the statistics too well to not being aware that this course has the highest rate of reps in all the damn faculty.

So, you enter your uni mode; sugar-rush based diet and coffee like the world is ending to keep your brain functioning like is a nuclear reactor, sleeping four hours at nights and barely dreaming. Of course, it’s not just that class, is that you have three more besides that one, all of them of high difficulty for you to rejoice in your misery, so yeah. You live like a zombie.

I’m going to be rich; I’m going to be rich; I’m going to be rich… You repeat to yourself every morning after showering, watching your body in front of the mirror, admiring the sharp angles and purple eyebags that already began to claim your face.

Oh, and the hair loss due to stress is just the cherry on top of the cake, really.

Yes, your brain is at the brim of collapse right now, but classes start again, and your friends are there to suffer with you and it makes you feel accompanied and secure. Is just another semester of tears, panic, pizza and everything that implies to be a twenty something student, so you are thankful nonetheless, because you don’t have the time to think about the other thing…

You don’t think about it.

You don’t really think about it.

You don’t even think about it.

And you don’t say the name either, you refuse because you’ll do anything to forget about him, anything to erase the memory of his dark figure like a shadow against your white kitchen, too clever and insolent for your own good.

But it’s okay, you don’t think of him, or his slender fingers taking the bishop to strike down your king, and the way his dry lips curve upward before some smartass remark. You don’t think of his lean body towering over you, touching yours in so many places but none at the same time.

No, you don’t think of him while awake, but sometimes he visits your dreams to terrify you with his cadaveric hands and his face hidden by his hair. Ready to strike you down, a hand extended in motion to decay you into oblivion.

Sometimes he hovers over you, kissing your neck while ravaging you, incredibly close and raw and intimate, his mouth snarling dirty words you’ll never dare to say out loud. Dreams where his warm chest press against your naked body and your lips sings lewd lullabies just for him, welcome him to feaster on your skin with your face nuzzling against his scarred cheek, covering your face with his silver hair.

Sometimes he just sits in your kitchen as the sunlight reflects over his milky locks. His hand holding his cheek over the table in serene expression, calling your name to play again as the black king spins between his delicate fingers.

___________________

Tomura has a meeting with this new allied Twice found, like three days from now.

He’s not particularly excited about it, surely, it’s just another capo wannabe with grandeur delusions, but it could be worth it. Maybe he could get some money out of it since the league is completely broken after his sensei’s incarceration. They are in desperate need of a hideout, now more than ever since Kurogiri vanished and he’s sure the heroes must have captured him. (Thinking about this is pointless anyway because he doesn’t have the means to get him back)

Minding his own business, he walks with his hoodie on, passing between civilians like he’s one of them, completely invisible when he sees her.

It catches him by surprise. His heart stopping dead on its tracks, wide eyes and tight lips, uncertainty filling him all of the sudden, but he’s accustomed to make hiding spots out of nowhere, so he gets behind some store sign where he can watch her safely.

She stands outside a coffee shop, animatedly talking with some guy who wears the same clinic uniform that she has on. A school mate maybe? She’s an intern in a hospital so, they are probably on shift. Another doctor like her.

She looks tired and paler, but beautiful, nonetheless. The way her lips move give away she’s talking about something clinic, because her face has that firm expression she always does when she’s being professional.

She already looks like a doctor and God knows he’d gladly be sick every day of his life if she’s the one to treat him.

His feelings betray him. He was sure after a month she would be completely out of his system by now, this stupid illness already cured, but shit just doesn’t go away. It pisses him off to no end because she’s not worth the aggravation. C’mon, she’s just another boring normal civilian, she doesn’t do anything important or interesting. She’s not remarkable in any way that serves him, because not even her quirk is truly useful. Not when it threatens to kill her every time she uses it.

And looking her objectively, she’s not even that pretty, but somehow, he’s torn between his desire to make her see him and get as far away from her he can.

Searing jealousy pierces him, hate raw and jarring dripping from between his ribs when the man leans over and whisper something that makes her laugh and for a moment, he seriously thinks he’s going to kill him right there, no quirk needed because he would just love to gut him out in plain view for her to see what he thinks of her stupid friend.

He hates the man, but he hates her more because she dares to laugh, she dares to enjoy life and people meanwhile he crawls hungry and cold between ruined places.

Like sensing his glare, she suddenly turns her head with her eyes directed to the spot where he hides, her expression changing from joyful to confused in seconds, making him laugh because even when he’s sure she cannot see him, she knows he’s there and it feels like she’s tied to him somehow.

Her face gives away disappoint when she fails to catch him and the thought of her grieving after he left delights him, but he’s sworn to let her behind, so he rejoices for a moment in this little victory of his pettiness over her charms, before turning away from her, fully believing that this is the last time he thinks of her.

Chapter 13

__________________________________________

Hey lovely readers! since English is not my native language and writing Shigaraki is kinda hard because he changes and grows, and because he usually says many things about himself, but then he goes and do completely different things (like when he says he hates everything, but CLEARLY he’s fond of twice and stuff like that) so much in manga, it would be lovely to know what you think of this! I think it’s the only way to be better at something really, So, any questions, comments and concerns, please feel free to comment!

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura #bnha 306 #bnha fanfiction #the great book of sayings

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elizabeethan · 3 years

Text

Where The Love Light Gleams

Killian visits his brother and sister-in-law in Storybrooke, Maine for the holidays and runs into the woman who broke his heart three years ago.

Rated T for language

~9700 words

Read on Ao3

A/N: Merry almost Christmas! I was feeling a little angsty the other day and finally sat down to watch the Dust Storm, then had an idea for a CS AU. This isn’t based strictly on the film and a lot of it’s plot points are different, but it is somewhat similar! With a Christmas twist, of course.

With that being said, there are mentions and brief descriptions of alcohol consumption, abuse, and withdrawal in this fic (although not nearly as heavily used as in the film) so please be aware of that.

Also, the worlds largest snowman (and snowwoman), as described here, is a real thing!! It was built in 2008 in Maine, and fun fact, I was there! I think the record was recently broken in Austria, but whatever. Olympia will always be number one in my heart.

Finally, thank you to @donteattheappleshook for your beta services!!

Tagging: @courtorderedcake @kmomof4 @stahlop @klynn-stormz @laschatzi @emelizabeth88 @lfh1226-linda @kday426 @elisethewritingbeast @timeless-love-story @captain-emmajones @gingerpolyglot @ebcaver @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @superchocovian @itsfabianadocarmo @tiganasummertree @gingerchangeling @jrob64 @onceratheart18 @xhookswenchx @winterbaby89 @swampmedusa @ultraluckycatnd @dancingnancyy @love-with-you-i-have-everything @shireness-says @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @ouatpost @daxx04 @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook

To say that Killian is miserable is a bit dramatic. Sure, he’s in this strange little town with only his brother to keep him entertained, but it’s a blessing to be spending the holidays with him and his new bride. Certainly better than being alone in Boston now that Liam has moved from England, he tries to remind himself. But the fact remains that he hasn’t been in much of a Christmas mood over the past few years, and he would almost rather be back at home getting some work done.

He isn’t a workaholic, honest. And he definitely isn't a scrooge, despite what his brother thinks. Really, he just hasn’t been in the mood to celebrate for a while.

Well, a few years, he supposes.

And it’s not because of a woman. No, it most definitely isn’t because of the fiery blonde who stole his heart and ran as far and as fast as she could once things started to feel real.

(She didn’t steal it; he gave it willingly.)

As the snow falls upon an overly-picturesque Main Street, Killian gets about as close as he possibly can to grumbling without any sound actually coming out. It’s freezing here— although not much colder than Boston— and if he has to spend any more time outdoors this weekend, he may very well lose a toe. It’s as he’s making his way down the slushy streets, avoiding the overly cheerful townsfolk and keeping his head down to avoid getting snow in his eyes, that he suddenly feels the warmth he’s been craving for three years.

It can’t possibly be true. The woman he’s just crashed into, the one with golden hair that smells like mint, fruity shampoo, couldn't possibly be her.

But when he looks up, he sees her.

The woman who ripped his heart out of his chest three years ago and ran off to Phoenix with it.

Bloody Hell.

“Oh my… god,” she says slowly, dumbfounded. “Killian?”

She looks stunning. Even more beautiful than he could ever imagine her becoming. Her hair is longer, a whiter shade of blonde under her gray beanie, her eyes perhaps an even more intense shade of emerald, cheeks just as round and rosy as ever, and he can tell even under the large puffer jacket that her body is even more perfect than he remembers.

This can’t actually be happening to him, can it?

He clears his throat, his hand drifting up to the spot behind his ear as he nods. “Hi.”

She laughs lightly and his entire world starts spinning at the sound he’s missed so dearly. She grounds him, though, the spinning coming to a halt when she springs on him and hugs him tight. “Oh my god,” she whispers against his neck.

He can’t stop himself from hugging her back, the scent of her shampoo back in his nose and conjuring up memories he didn’t even know he had. “Aye,” he chuckles against her hair, taking in another breath. “Long time.”

“How are you?” she asks as she pulls away, a bright smile on her face.

“I’m… fine, I guess,” he says, screwing up his face and making her laugh.

“I mean, what are you doing here in Maine? What the hell? What a coincidence that we’re both here!”

“Aye, it is. I’m visiting with my brother and sister-in-law for the holidays.”

“Liam?” He nods. “He moved here? He’s married?”

He nods once more. “He did. He and Elsa moved here after the wedding two years ago. My, uh…” he clears his throat. “My dad finally passed away, so nothing was holding him there.”

How he’s allowing himself to do this is beyond him. His willingness and ease in opening right back up to her without thought is maddening to him, but somehow so natural. Bloody hell, has he missed her. “I’m so sorry,” she consoles, lightly touching his shoulder. “Would you… would you want to grab a drink with me?”

“Yes,” he says, before he can even consider how stupid his answer is. But it’s snowing hard and it’s freezing and—

And the love of his life just crashed back into it. He sure as hell isn’t letting her go so easily this time around.

~~~~

He doesn’t tell her that he stopped drinking soon after she left. Doesn’t tell her how badly he reacted to her fleeing, turning to rum in hopes of numbing the gash in his chest that she left wide open. He doesn’t tell her that one of their favorite things to do together became the thing that almost killed him.

He ignores two phone calls from Liam.

When she takes him to the Rabbit Hole, a dive, but the only option in this horribly quaint town, she orders what used to be his favorite shot. It sends a pang of nostalgia so strongly through him that he can’t deny her anything, couldn’t possibly say no to a second when she asks. After he’s had three, his lips are so loose that he should probably staple them shut.

“So,” she says, leaning drunkenly towards him as he does the same to her. “Tell me about your life now. What else has changed?”

He laughs, as if anything since she left is the same, and holds up his left arm. “I got this,” he says, sloppily pointing towards the prosthetic.

Her mouth gapes open and she drops the glass to the table with a bit too much force as realization hits her. “Is that,” she starts, but it seems like she’s unable to get any words out.

“A fake,” he tells her, knocking it against the table. “Lost it in the Navy.”

“Oh, Killian…”

He feels nauseous at her pity because he knows exactly what she’s thinking. He always knows what she’s thinking.

“Not your fault,” he shrugs. He doesn’t have to elaborate because he knows that she knows that he joined the Navy full time because she left him. “You tell me something now,” he insists.

She clears her throat and shakes her head, glancing away from him and smiling as she thinks of the thing she wants to tell him. “I’m here because my brother is having a baby. Well, his wife is.”

“David?” he asks. Although she was adopted by David’s mother as a teenager, she still struggled to consider him a brother when the two of them were together, so to hear her label him as such was strange.

“Yes,” she giggles. “My only brother, David.”

“Ha ha,” he chortles sarcastically, bumping into her and laughing for real as he takes another sip from the drink she ordered from memory. “That’s lovely news.”

“Maybe you can come meet him once he’s born.”

“Maybe.”

“Now, what about good news?” she requests.

Good news, he thinks. Since you left?

“I don’t know,” he says with a sad shrug. “My brother got married.”

“Yes, I heard,” she laughs, always able to make any situation feel light despite how miserable he may be. “I meant for you, though. Tell me something good that’s happened to you.”

He laughs, but it comes out more like a scoff. How can he tell her that, since she left him, his life has been shit? How can he still be so hung up on this bloody woman? “I don’t know,” he says again.

She shifts, and he can tell that she understands his meaning. Liam texts him again and he locks his phone without reading it.

She laughs lightly to fill the silence between them, taking another sip from her drink before saying, “dance with me.”

It isn’t a request. It reminds him of how many times he asked her to do just that in the sleazy clubs in Boston, and how many times she was too insecure to say yes. But now here she is, asking him, and he wonders what else has changed about her.

He says yes.

They’re on the dance floor, almost completely alone, dancing to shitty old music because apparently good songs haven’t found their way to Maine yet. And she looks so wild and so free as she swings her hair from side to side, slides her back up to his front, and lifts her arms until they’re reaching behind her to the back of his head and she’s pulling him close. His mouth is so close to her ear that he could nibble on it easily— she likes that. But he doesn’t, because he knows she’ll run.

But then she’s spinning around to face him, dangerously close as she continues to swing her hips with her hands in his hair, and he leans down and kisses her.

He knows it’s a bad idea the second he does it. He’s a fool for doing this, but he hasn’t had a drink in almost two years and he isn’t thinking clearly. All he can think about is the fact that she just started kissing him back.

He’s heartbroken when she pulls away just as quickly, looking confused and torn and broken as she turns away from him. He tries to call after her that he’s sorry, he knows he fucked up, he shouldn’t have done that, but just like three years ago when she left him, she’s gone once more without a word.

As confused as he was when he ran into her, he’s far more confused now.

~~~~

When he wakes the next morning in the room he rented because Liam and Elsa were renovating their house, he’s feeling worse than he has in years. There were many reasons he quit drinking, and the hangovers were certainly one of them. The throbbing in his brain sends it slamming against the front of his skull with each move he makes, and the bright light streaming in through the blinds isn't helping. What he needs is an aspirin and a greasy breakfast sandwich, plus about a gallon of water, but he’s got to get out of bed to get any of those things, and he thinks he may be sick if he tries to stand.

He also needs to stop thinking about the fact that he saw Emma Swan last night. Maybe if he got any drunker he could’ve convinced himself that it was some sort of fever dream. Seeing her nearly killed him because he knows that he would take her back without a second thought despite how badly things ended the last time. The fact is, their relationship needed work, and instead of putting in the effort and communication necessary, Emma simply ran.

What he really, really needs is for his phone to stop ringing and that knocking to go the hell away.

“What?” He calls out, his voice groggy and thick from the dry air and his dehydration.

“Open the door,” she demands, and his heart begins racing at the sound of her voice. What the bloody hell is Emma doing here?

He tries really hard to stand up. He’s barely got his eyes open, the movements sending a rush of blood to his head with each step he takes, but he’s a damn fool and he can’t let an opportunity to speak with her pass him by. When he reaches the door, he leans his blunted, naked arm against the frame and rests his head against it as he opens the door.

She’s bright eyed and bushy tailed when he first opens it, but when she sees the state he’s in, her face falls immediately. She drops her arms to her side, coffee and to-go bags hitting against her thighs as she takes in his appearance. “Oh no,” she says. “You look like you could use some breakfast.”

He couldn’t stay away from her if he tried, truly. He can smell the bagel inside the bag already, and it’s making his mouth water. All he needs is some water and he’ll be as good as new, right?

He moves slightly out of her way so that she can brush past him, sliding gracefully into the room and placing her offerings on the small table by the bed, just beside the prosthetic he doesn’t remember removing and the half-empty bottle of rum he bought on his way back here. He should throw that away.

Once everything is settled, she takes her coffee and seats herself on his bed. Bloody hell. If the sheets smell like her tonight…

“How'd you know where my room was?”

She shrugs. “There's only three rooms here. I took a lucky guess and followed the stench of day-old rum.”

He tries to laugh but nearly falls to the ground, a wave of nausea pulsing through him once more.

“Oh,” she says, moving towards her large bag and pulling out a bottle of water to toss at him. He catches it one-handed, as he does everything, and opens it up effortlessly, gulping the entire bottle down almost instantly.

“Thank you, love,” he says, then wonders if he can still call her that. He still loves her.

“You look awful,” she remarks playfully, giving him a smirk.

“Thanks,” he grumbles. He moves across the room and takes a bagel out of the bag she brought, his stomach singing in anticipation as he takes the first bite.

“I’m only teasing,” she tells him with the soft smile he recognizes. The one he’s yearned for for years.

“Aye, I know when you're teasing. I’m just a bit hungover. It’s been a while since I’ve indulged that much.”

“Really?” she asks, turning towards him once he sits on the edge of the bed as far from her as possible. “How long?”

He clears his throat, buying time by taking another bite and practically groaning at the feeling of his body coming back to life. “Little over two years.”

She stills, her face falling, her shoulders sagging as she clearly and effortlessly puts together the timeline in her mind. “Oh.”

He says nothing in response, taking a hefty swig of his coffee made just the way he likes it.

“I’m sorry, Killian—,” she starts, but he raises his short arm to cut her off.

“No, I shouldn’t have said yes, it’s my own fault.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” she says awkwardly.

“No, not like I shouldn't have said yes, just…” he sighs, dropping his head slightly in defeat. “I wanted to catch up, I just shouldn't have drank, that’s all.”

“You're almost three years sober and I pushed you to drink within fifteen minutes of seeing you,” she says, her tone filled with self-defeat and disappointment.

He attempts to laugh and lighten the mood by saying, “it’s not the first time you've driven me to the bottle, love,” but he can see how bad of an idea that was the minute the words leave his lips.

“I’m sorry,” she nearly whispers. “I should go. I shouldn't have come.” She’s standing, getting herself ready to leave because he’s driving her away again. It’s his fault, again.

“Emma, no,” he tries.

“No, I just… I came to apologize for running off last night. I should've stayed and talked to you and dealt with that, and I'm sorry that I didn’t. So I've said my piece, and now I should go.”

He’s thrown by her words, her statement of wanting to discuss the events that transpired, because that was always the last thing she wanted to do when they were together. All they really did was drink and fuck each other and argue, falling in love somehow despite never having a conversation of substance. Each time he tried, she distracted him with a drink or her body. And because of that, things ended the moment it became difficult between them. The moment he tried to make it real. “You want to… talk?” he asks, his shock clear in his voice.

She laughs, dejected, and responds, “is that so surprising?”

“Yes.”

She clears her throat awkwardly, wrapping her arms around her middle before moving back towards the bed to sit down again. “I just wanted to come here to say I’m sorry and that I shouldn't have run off. Or left you with the bill. That’s why I brought you breakfast, to try and make up for it.”

“You never want to talk.”

“I’m not the same person you knew three years ago.”

“Then what’s changed? Aside from the fact that you suddenly seem open to having a conversation with me?”

“Killian,” she sighs, running her fingers through her perfectly messy hair. “I didn't think I would be having this conversation with you in this ass-backwards town after not seeing you for three years.”

“Well, I didn't think I would be having any conversation with you, ever.” She sighs again, and he knows he’s being unfair. He probably can’t blame her for everything that went wrong.

“I get it, okay? I fucked up. I was fucked up. I still am fucked up. I fucked you up, obviously. I shouldn't have done most of the shit I did when we were together. But right now, I'm feeling nostalgic, and I've missed you terribly and seeing you yesterday… Well, I just missed you, okay?”

He huffs out a breath, taking another generous swig from the to-go cup then running his fingers through his hair. “You think I haven’t missed you just as terribly?”

“So can’t we just enjoy this time we have together? Come to town with me and we can go to that holiday festival they have going on. Something brought us together and I don't want to waste this opportunity to catch up with you.”

And that is how Emma Swan convinced Killian Jones to forget all of the heartbreak she put him through three years ago. Not by offering him a drink, not by using sex as a bargaining chip, but by talking to him. He isn’t sure if this is a horrible idea or a brilliant one.

His phone rings again, and he knows Liam will chastise him if he answers the call.

It isn't as if they talk about anything meaningful. Their conversations throughout most of the day are rather bland and lack any quintessence whatsoever, but that doesn't mean he enjoys her company any less. They were always good at this, the banter and the jokes and the lighthearted conversations. Her sarcasm is infectious, as is her laugh, and he does whatever he can to hear it ringing through his ears again and again.

The winter festival is lackluster, the small and sleepy town providing all that it can but not holding a candle to anything he’s seen in Boston. There’s supposed to be some snowman building event soon, followed by a tree lighting ceremony, but he doesn’t get his hopes up. It’s still snowing lightly somehow, and the flakes that settle on Emma’s lashes are begging to be kissed away, although he holds back. Emma said she missed him, but in what capacity, he isn't sure.

“What about your nephew?” he finally asks as they walk through the overly cheerful crowd watching a couple of children sledding.

“Not here yet,” she responds. “I’ve just been waiting and waiting. I’m glad I ran into you, otherwise I’d have to be sitting with the lovebirds all this time.”

“Ah,” he says with a falsely somber tone. “So I'm simply a means to an end?”

She knows he’s joking and looks up at him with a bright smile that could probably melt some of the snow surrounding them. “You caught me,” she laughs. “I’m using you for your company alone.”

“I am rather good company, I must admit. Who else would buy you a bloody four dollar hot chocolate?”

She laughs again, bumping his shoulder with her own, and says, “no one.”

“Precisely.”

When she starts shivering, he wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her close to him. She doesn’t flinch or pull away, only turning her body slightly so that she fits perfectly under his arm, then wrapping her own around his waist as they continue strolling.

The winter festival doesn’t offer them much by means of entertainment, but apparently, Storybrooke, Maine is breaking a record for the world’s largest snowman, around which the festival is built. Once they reach the center of the park, Emma enjoying her caramel corn and occasionally sharing with Killian, they’re able to watch as the townsfolk put the finishing touches on the stories-high structure. She laughs when the crane carries a giant truck tire to use as the coal eyes and mouth.

“Look at that!” she shouts, pointing at the two trees they plan to use as arms. The thing is at least 100 feet high, and it doesn’t seem like the 30 foot spruce will be big enough. She nearly collapses from laughter, apparently in utter disbelief that this is happening before her. It truly is magnificent to watch, the record-breaking snowman coming together before their very eyes. Apparently, the entire process has taken close to a month, and the festival celebrates the end of construction.

“Quite astonishing, aye?”

“Aye,” she laughs, resting her head on his shoulder as the people around them begin to applaud the final product. The thing is massive, and somewhat horrifying, but it was fun to be there to witness it’s completion. With her.

An announcement is made that the tree lighting ceremony will begin soon and Emma makes a comment about wanting to make this day as cheesy as they can by doing all of the small-town winter activities, so they head that way.

Again, Storybrooke has nothing on Boston in any capacity, but the small and homey feel of a town where everyone knows each other and welcomes the newcomers makes him feel quite at home. Though he isn't sure if it’s the town or the woman on his arm who seems more than comfortable to be there.

Everyone lets out an ooh and an aah as the lights are plugged in once the sun goes down, and Emma lets out a gentle, contented laugh, her smile beaming and blinding him. She glances to him quickly, her grin softening. He knows it must be because he’s unable to hide the look of wonderment on his face as he gazes at her. “It’s really something,” she says softly.

His smile grows and his eyes flutter, and he truly can't believe that he’s here again. He can’t believe that he’s letting himself fall so hard for this woman once more. But things feel so different. Better. When she turns so that she’s facing him completely, no longer paying any attention to the twenty-foot tree before them, he knows there isn't anything in the world that could stop him from falling back into the maelstrom that is loving Emma Swan.

She steps up onto her toes, her nose close to touching his, and threads her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. His own hand and prosthetic find purchase on her hips over her large puffy parka as he tilts his head forward until their foreheads are touching. “I’ve really missed you,” she says, her breath warming his lips as it escapes her mouth.

“Aye,” he whispers back. “Me too.”

“You’ve missed yourself?” she jests. He laughs, although he thinks she has no idea how true her words are.

“Perhaps.”

She doesn’t answer verbally, choosing instead to lean a bit further onto her toes and press her lips gently to his.

This kiss is unlike any they’ve ever shared. It’s unlike the last one because neither of their minds are altered by anything other than the presence of the other. It’s unlike all of the ones they shared during the year and a half they spent together, but he isn't sure why.

She deepens the kiss and he lets her, her tongue sliding against his as she tilts her head. Her lips are soft and sweet like the hot chocolate she was drinking. Her teeth nip lightly on his bottom lip and he sighs into her mouth. Despite the fact that he knows this could very well destroy him, he feels at home.

They kiss for several minutes, or perhaps it’s hours, before she pulls away from him and presses her forehead to his again, breathing heavily as her smile nearly touches his. To say he’s conflicted would be an understatement; every part of him wants to be with her in this moment, to forget the past and make things right with her. But the logical part, the part that his brother practically beat into him, tells him to run.

But when she says, “do you want to get out of here?” there isn't a single part of him that wants to say no.

“As it turns out, I have a lovely room that’s currently unoccupied.”

She hums as she laughs, rubbing her nose against his. “Isn’t that convenient?”

They walk hand in hand to the inn, Emma standing behind him and melting effortlessly against his back as she wraps her arms around his middle. When they get inside, she walks to the small bedside table, picking up the half-empty bottle of rum, and he thinks the worst.

It’s as if she hasn't heard a word he’s said all day. He quite literally quit drinking because of her, and if she offers him rum right now, he knows it will have to be over between them. He knows he would have to leave her now for his own good.

He thinks of Liam's words telling him how bad they were together. How the fact that they never communicated was completely unhealthy, how their excessive alcohol consumption prevented them from having an adult relationship, how their reliance on physical expression made it impossible for them to have any sort of meaningful conversation. He thinks about how close he came to death because of how excessively he drank when she left him. He thinks these things and nearly says them. “Emma, I can’t.”

But she interrupts. “I was just gonna throw this out. We don’t need it if you're sober, right? Is that okay? I don’t want to overstep.”

He feels his shoulders sagging and drops his head back with a smile, relief washing over him. “Yes,” he finally breathes out. “Yes, please get rid of that.” His heart rate starts to go back to normal almost immediately.

She smiles at him as she carries it to the adjoined bathroom, popping open the cork and ceremoniously pouring it into the toilet. She grins at him as she does so, and he smiles back, leaning on the jamb of the door and crossing his arms as he watches. She places the now empty bottle on the counter and turns to him, wiping her hands together three times as if to indicate that all is said and done. “There,” she says.

“Thank you,” he tells her softly, still leaning against the doorframe. She steps towards him, getting close enough to where he can smell the mint of the candy cane she ate earlier, and wraps her arms around him.

“I’m sorry about last night.”

“You don’t need to apologize again, Swan. It was my decision.”

“Would you have bought that bottle if I hadn’t asked you to get drinks? Would you have ordered shots if I hadn’t ordered them for you?”

He wants to lift his hand and scratch behind his ear, but she knows that’s his tell, so he wraps his arms around her in a hug and she lets him. “Probably not,” he murmurs sadly.

“Then I apologize.”

“You didn’t know.”

She giggles against his chest, the air puffing from her nose stirring the hair she leans against. “You could’ve told me.”

He shrugs. She sighs against him, squeezing once more before letting go and moving towards the bed to take a seat, patting a spot beside her.

“We never could talk about things that mattered, could we?” he asks boldly.

Her laugh is sad as she hugs her legs up to her chest, and he thinks she’s probably wishing she had a drink right about now. He wonders if she’s holding onto her legs to stop herself from running. “We weren’t all bad.”

“No,” he agrees. “But we weren’t all good either. What we had, Emma, it wasn’t healthy. I see that now.”

“Then why would you want to see me? Why would you say yes when I asked you to get a drink?” Her tone isn’t necessarily accusatory, per se, but he can see that she’s hurt by him saying that they weren’t right for each other.

“I don’t know,” he answers with a dejected tone.

Emma scoffs, shaking her head as she stands from the bed enthusiastically enough to send Killian bouncing. “So it was a bad relationship because I never communicated, but I ask you one question and you don’t have an answer.”

“Don’t do that,” he starts, though he isn’t sure where he’s going.

“Do what?! Try to actually have a conversation with you? Killian, you told me that you wanted to work on things because we never communicated.You told me you were serious about us, and instead of putting in the work, I left. I’m sorry for that. But now I’m here and I’m trying and you just don’t see that!”

“I do see that!” It’s true. It may not have been long since he ran into her, but he can see the changes in her from a mile away.

“Then talk to me! There’s a reason you said yes to drinks with me even though you’re sober, just tell me what it is. Why would you do that if you knew you would be hurting yourself?”

“I didn’t want to lose the chance to see you!”

“That’s ridiculous,” she chastises, rolling her eyes, and he stands now too.

“It’s because I never got over you. I saw you randomly in the streets after you basically destroyed me and I knew instantly that if I had the chance to be with you again I would take it.” Her face has fallen and she looks so sad and lost that it pains him. “When I saw you last night, I knew I never stopped loving you, no matter how fucked up we were. If I’d said no, I’d never have forgiven myself.”

She’s frozen. He is too. “You love me?” she asks.

“Aye.”

She’s crying. He is too. She wipes at a tear trailing down her cheek and sniffles hard. “After all this time?”

“I didn’t realize how bad we were while I was in it. After you left me, I basically got my ass handed to me by my brother and he helped me to see how toxic we were.”

“Toxic,” she repeats.

“Yes, Emma. All we did was drink and fuck and argue. We never talked. Not about the stuff that mattered.”

“I tried,” she says. “I really did try for you, Killian. You were always just so… so connected and you were always saying these profound things to me and about me, and I couldn’t handle it.”

“Why didn’t you just say that, then?”

“I didn’t know how!”

“So instead you left? Just up and leave one morning without a word? One fight and we were done?”

“There was a lot more than one fight.”

“None of the others mattered. They were over stupid, meaningless shit. The one time I tried to get you to work on us you ran off to Phoenix.”

“That was a bad move,” she admits.

“Then why did you do it?! Why would you do that to me?”

She chokes out a soft sob, dropping onto the bed and letting her face fall into her hands. He feels regretful for making her so upset, but he must admit that there’s a certain catharsis in letting this out three years later.

“I didn’t know how to handle how much I loved you. No one has ever talked to me like that, not before or since. And I thought, if my own parents couldn’t love me enough to even keep me, then you couldn’t possibly either. So a part of me never really believed you. Every time you would say that you loved me, I could tell myself you didn’t mean it.” She sniffles again, blowing her nose into a tissue before continuing. He takes the opportunity to sit beside her once more. “Then that night, you were so honest. You just kept saying how badly you wanted a future with me and how desperately you wanted to make things work between us. And I thought I had done a good job of keeping you at arm's length so that that wouldn’t happen, but I guess I didn’t. And I couldn’t believe I had done that to you. I thought you couldn’t possibly have had a happy future with me.”

“Emma,” he says, hoping to argue with her but desperately unsure of what to say. “How can you say that?”

She shakes her head, still crying although he’s managed to stop his own tears. “I tried, Killian, really. I tried so hard to let you love me the way you wanted to, but I just thought you deserved so much better.”

“You deserve to be loved, Emma.”

She sighs, hugging herself around the waist. “It’s been really hard for me to see that,” she says softly, almost weakly.

“I love you,” he says. “Every part of you. I know it’s hard for you to accept, but it’s true. I only wanted to help you see that.”

“All I did was push you away,” she chokes.

“Aye, that made things rather difficult for me,” he laughs. “And I’ll admit that I ran out of patience and had to insist that we open up to each other. And I’m sorry that you weren’t ready then, but I don’t regret it. I regret losing you, every day, but I don’t regret saying what I did.”

She looks up at him through long, tear-filled lashes and barely smiles. “I know.”

They sit in a soft silence for a moment, the remnants of what was exchanged between them comfortably heavy in the air. Finally she turns to him, still holding a scrunched up tissue covered in her black makeup, and says, “can I tell you about Phoenix?”

He scratches behind his ear, unsure if he wants to hear about the things she got up to after leaving him behind, but says, “sure, Swan.”

Her breath catches in her throat and she smiles at him. “No one has called me that in three years.” He chuckles back at her, smiling and unsure of what to say. He likes this, him sitting here beside her while she talks to him. It’s different, and exactly what he needed all those years ago. “It was miserable. I was so unhappy, I don’t even know why I went. I got a shitty job as a waitress, I barely made enough to support myself, and I missed you so much it hurt.”

“I missed you too.”

She takes his hand and continues on. “Eventually I met this asshole who I thought was good for me, but I kept comparing him to you and I couldn’t get over it. A couple weeks ago he did something really stupid, stole some watches, and I got the hell out of there.”

“So where have you been for the last few weeks?”

“Here,” she shrugs. “Waiting for the baby, using that as an excuse to avoid my problems.”

He chuckles, unfortunately understanding what she means. “Well, I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you there. Never did get that job as a cop you wanted, did you?”

“No,” she hums sadly. “I guess there’s still time.”

“Aye.”

“Can you tell me about Boston? While I was gone?”

“Ah,” he starts, scratching behind his ear and earning a smile from her. “Wasn’t all that great. I started drinking more after you left. I joined the navy full time, then dad finally died, and even though I hated the bastard, I started drinking even more. Then I got to the point where I had to have something in me to even make it to work, and one day I crushed my hand so badly they couldn’t save it. Basically went through withdrawal while I was in the hospital. Liam moved here with Elsa, I got discharged, and then rest is history.”

She’s silent for a moment, taking in a deep breath before she says, “Christ.”

“Aye.”

“I guess neither of us really got our shit together, huh?”

He laughs again. “At one point I thought I had, but then I ran into this woman in the street and suddenly things just started going mad again.”

“Hmm,” she hums lightly, scooting over towards him on the bed. “What a bitch.”

He shrugs. “She’s not so bad now that I’ve had a chance to talk to her.”

“Ha ha,” she fakes. But before she can say anything more to him, she’s perching herself close to him and taking his left arm in her hands, gently stroking up and down the remaining flesh under his shirt. “Are you okay?”

He knows she’s referring to the hand he lost, probably to all the other things he went through as well. He nods, taking the opportunity to lean towards her and meet her forehead with his. “It was a while ago. Over two years now. I’m alright.”

“I’m sorry that it happened to you. And that you lost your dad.”

“Thank you.”

Before he knows what hit him, she’s kissing him. She presses one soft kiss to his mouth and pulls back, as if asking permission to go on, as if he could ever resist her. He’s kissing her back, placing a hand on her hips once she gets into his lap and running his arm up and down along her spine, wishing he could feel her against his fingertips again.

They remain in that position, her hips atop his and her fingers in his hair, for more time than he can keep track of. It doesn’t go any further, they simply enjoy each other as they get to know one another’s mouths again. If he thought he missed her before, he was a fool.

Once they break apart, he moves his arms so his hand slides up into her hair, pulling her into a tight hug and pressing their chests together until he can breathe again. They’re silent for another few minutes as they hold each other, trying to catch their breath. Her nose is pressed into his neck and he can feel the warmth of her breath against his skin. His nose is tucked into her hair and he can smell her familiar shampoo, fruit and mint mixed together.

“I’m tired,” she finally says. “I know it’s not that late, but can we go to bed?”

“I have rather missed sleeping beside you.”

“I haven’t really slept in three years.”

“Well,” he starts, moving to remove his shoes and grab his pajamas from his suitcase. “Lie down, Swan, and we’ll make sure you sleep soundly tonight. Do you want to borrow a t-shirt?”

“Yes please,” she smiles. “Did you bring face wash?”

“Of course, it’s in the bathroom.”

As they get ready for bed together, easily slipping back into the routine, he tries not to stare at her ass in his t-shirt, covered only by her cotton underwear. Once they’ve slid into bed, she slots herself up against him, one leg hitching over his hips as her arm hugs around his waist. He isn’t sure about her, but he sleeps like a rock for the first time in ages.

~~~~

When he wakes to her still clinging to him, he grins. At first, he can’t believe that she’s still here, but when he remembers their conversation, it makes sense. As much as he wants to tell himself that she could still take his heart again and run with it, he doesn’t believe it.

He detangles himself from her grasp, careful not to wake her, and stands to stretch. Once he gets out of the shower, he changes into a shirt and jeans and leaves her a note, telling her that he has to check in with Liam and asking her to meet him at the diner after.

When he finally gets to Liam's house, his brother exits his front door in a rage, marching down the front steps and grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

“Good morning to you, too, brother,” Killian jests lightly, removing his hand from his coat. “I came to apologize.”

He scoffs. “You haven’t answered a single call or text, you don’t show up for the festival like we planned, what were you thinking?”

“I was busy.”

“And you could have told me you wouldn’t be home for dinner. Elsa made extra just for you!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Wait… did you say you were busy?”

Killian smirks, stepping aside from Liam towards the house to let himself in. “Aye.”

“Tell me it’s not her, little brother.”

“Younger.”

“Killian.”

“You mean you knew she was here?” he asks as he turns from the door, releasing the handle before he can get inside.

Liam sighs and moves Killian out of his way so that he can slip inside first. “Yes, I thought it may have been her when she arrived. As you know, she never wanted to meet me, so it was hard to determine from the pictures alone. But I remembered you saying she had a brother, and I knew David’s sister was in town.”

“Bloody hell,” he says as he follows his brother into the kitchen. He’s offered a coffee but he refuses. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“Because, brother, think of who you were when you were with her. I didn’t want you going back to that place.”

“That’s not your concern.”

“You nearly died when she left you! How is that not my concern?”

Killian sighs, taking a seat on the stool at the countertop. He knows his brother is right, and that they still have more that they need to address, but he feels good about their conversation last night. He especially feels good about the fact that it was Emma who initiated it. “We’re both in a better place,” he starts.

“Well, you’re down one hand. What has she lost?”

“Liam,” he warns. “My reaction to her leaving is not her fault. I was the foolish one.”

“And I’m sure she agrees that it’s all your fault?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but we’ve had a conversation about this already.”

Liam laughs condescendingly and says, “really? Emma Swan had a conversation with you.”

“She initiated it.”

He’s quiet. A quiet Liam is almost never good… it means he’s thinking.

“I know you love her,” he starts. “But watching you the last time… well, it nearly ended me to see you go through that.”

“I know, brother.”

“I don't want to see you go through that again.”

“I don’t want to go through it again.”

They speak a bit more, mostly Liam talking at Killian about how concerned he is.But finding out that Emma was the one to reach out and take the first steps must have been encouraging to him. It was to Killian.

Almost an hour later, Killian finally leaves, just before he’d asked Emma to meet him at the diner, and makes his way down Main Street. It’s finally stopped snowing, and now that it’s Sunday morning and the fame-garnering festivities have ended, the town seems a bit quieter. He takes the gentle calm as a good sign. If nothing else, it’s finally showing him that perhaps this sleepy village isn’t as bad as he’d once thought.

He sees Emma sitting at the counter when he arrives, happy to see that she’s taken him up on his offer. But when he begins to walk over to her, something is off. The man seated beside her is sitting a bit too close, and he doesn't just think that because he’s fallen back into his tendency to be protective of her. When he takes hold of her arm forcefully and she tries to back away, Killian rushes towards her.

“Neal, I said stop! Get off me!”

He thinks of nothing but getting to her, grabbing the man by the shoulder and throwing him off the stool he’d occupied. She shouts when he does so, and he rushes to her to take her cheek in his hand and brush his prosthetic over her tousled hair. “Are you alright?” he asks, brushing a tear from her cheek.

“I’m fine,” she says shakily, letting out a breath in a sob. “I’m okay.”

He can only console her for so long before the man, Neal, grabs him by his own shoulder and yanks him away from Emma. He swings towards Killian and strikes his cheek, so he shoves his shoulder into the man’s gut until he falls and collides his own fist to his jaw.

He hears Emma shout his name, but whatever happens next is a blur to him. He doesn't stay on top of the man who attacked her, rising quickly to get away from him and standing in front of her in hopes of protecting her.

He forgets that her brother is the damn sheriff. It’s a small town, of course someone calls.

When he arrives, Emma tells him what's happened, blaming it on Neal and explaining that Killian was protecting her. David takes a statement from the both of them, then arrests Neal, leaving Killian with only a threatening look that he assumes means watch yourself around my sister. It’s not unlike the looks he gave him almost five years ago when he and Emma first began their relationship.

After all is said and done, Emma gets him ice from the kitchen and tenderly places it on his throbbing cheek. She apologizes relentlessly for getting him involved, as if he wouldn’t choose to do the same thing again and again. “It’s fine, love,” he tells her. “I’m alright.”

“This is all my fault.”

“No, Swan,” he insists, placing his hand on her cheek and brushing some hair behind her ear. “Don’t say that.”

She leans into his hand, soothed by his touch, and says, “let me bring you to your room. You don’t want to be out here with everyone watching.”

He finally gets his bearings back on his way up the stairs, the stars behind his eyes fading away and the feeling of her hand in his grounding him. She takes the keys from his pocket, struggling slightly to open the door with her shaky hands, so he rests his chin on her shoulder and pressed a soft kiss to her check and neck.

Once they’re inside, she pulls him to the bed and sits him down beside her. “That was my ex,” she tells him, pressing the glove filled with ice back against his cheek. He flinches away from the cold against his flaming skin and she apologizes once more. “He found me, I don’t know how. But he’s mad that I left him while he was fencing the watches he stole. He was scared I was gonna turn him in.”

“Well, he did a nice job of getting himself arrested, then.”

She chuckles, leaning close to him and pressing a soft kiss to the uninjured cheek. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“Thank you. For just… I mean, we were in a public place and I know nothing could've happened, but… I don’t know. As messed up as it sounds, it felt good knowing you were there for me.”

“‘Course I am. Always.”

She runs her long fingers through his hair lightly, soothingly, and he leans his head against her hand.

“There’s something I have to tell you.” He opens his eyes to look at her once again, urging her to go on. “I’m in therapy.”

He smiles brightly at her and she returns it. “Are you?” It explains enough, her willingness to be open with him especially.

“Yeah. I started about a year after we… after I left you. It’s been going really well.”

“That’s wonderful, darling.”

“Yeah. And, uh, it’s made me realize some things. Like… like how you’re right, I pushed you away because I didn’t think I was worthy of love. And how being abandoned affected, like, every aspect of my life. But mostly my ability to… be vulnerable with the people I love.”

He nods his head, leaning back so that he can sit against the headboard. It’s only around 10, but he’s exhausted. “That makes sense, Swan. I’m glad it’s working out for you.”

“My point is,” she continues as if she didn’t hear him, likely because she desperately wants to get her point across. “My point is that… you’re one of those people. Just like you said everything changed when you saw me, it was the same for me. The second I saw you I knew that I— that I never stopped...”

She’s practically spitting the words out, but it’s so much more than she was willing to do three years ago. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I love you. I always have, I think I always will. And you were right. We weren’t good for each other back then because I was horribly closed off and you deserved someone who would open up to you. But I’ve worked on myself and now, well, now I want to work on us, if you still want that.” He grins at her admission and leans forward to press a kiss to her lips. “And one other thing.”

He backs away just slightly so that she can speak, but isn’t willing to go far. “What’s that?” he whispers.

“I have an interview after Christmas for a position on a police force. I’d just be beat cop but… I’m gonna go for it.”

He laughs and backs away some more because it’s all he can do. He’s happy for her, of course. She’s following her dreams. But he’s also heartbroken to hear that she plans to plant roots in Phoenix.

“That’s fantastic news, love. I’m glad to hear you’ll be following the path you set for yourself.”

“Yeah,” she says. “But you missed the best part.”

“What’s that?”

“The job is in Quincy.”

He’s frozen. “Quincy? That’s—”

“Like, 20 minutes outside of Boston.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I checked a map myself.”

He breaks out of his stupor to laugh, suddenly appreciative of her ability to make light of their situation now that she’s shown her willingness to be open with him. He’s in awe of the steps she says she’s taking. Of course there’s still more to discuss, but her admission has given him something he hasn't had in quite some time: hope.

“I know we haven’t talked about this,” she says in almost a whisper. “But I haven't been happy in Phoenix. I was hoping to move back to Boston soon anyway. And then when I ran into you… Killian, I'm…” she inhales deeply, smiling at him softly before saying, “I want to try again. Really try.”

Every time he thought of her over the last three years, he felt broken and saddened, and yet he still had love for her. Whenever he thought about their relationship and how bad it really was, there was still always a part of him that would have taken her back. Each time he had these thoughts, he knew they were outrageous because he would have needed her to tell him that that’s what she wanted too, that she was willing to work with him to make their relationship something good.

He never dreamed he would actually hear those words from her mouth.

“You’re serious?” he asks, completely dumbfounded by her once more.

“Yeah, I mean… if that’s something you would want.”

Without a second thought, he says, “yes. Yes, Emma,” he laughs. “I always would have taken you back. I always would have and I always thought that would be a horrible idea because I didn't think it would work, but now you’re…”

“I want to make it work.”

He shakes his head in disbelief, standing and moving towards her so that he can scoop her into his arms and hug her so tightly that he lifts her from the mattress. Her laughter rings through his ears joyously, a sound of which he thinks he’ll never tire. “Bloody hell, woman,” he says against her neck. “You've really put me through the ringer this weekend.”

She giggles again, tucking her nose against his pulse and planting a kiss there. “We all need a little drama around the holidays.”

“You’ve certainly delivered.” He releases her a bit so he can look into her eyes, brushing some fallen hair from her face and planting a kiss to the tip of her nose. “You're really moving back to Boston?”

She nods. “The only thing keeping me in Phoenix was my therapist,” she tells him with a laugh. “I can get a new one of those.”

He breathes out in disbelief once more. “I’m very proud of you, you know. All this time I wanted you back but I never thought you would want to put in the work. Not just for us, but for yourself. I’m glad you started seeing someone, love. You deserve to love yourself the way I love you.”

With a smile that seems to never fade, she touches her fingers to his cheek, the one with the bruise forming, and nods her head. “I’m glad I ran into you this weekend. Pretty life-altering.”

“One might consider it a Christmas miracle.”

With a laugh, she takes his hand and says, “yeah. Now come on, I need breakfast.”

They spend the day together again, this time neither of them timid around the other and freely touching and kissing one another. He can’t get enough of her. He’s sure the patrons of the small diner are sick of them reaching across the table to hold hands throughout their entire meal. Well, Emma holds his prosthetic, but the concept is the same, and she doesn't seem to mind. They talk about Christmas and New Years and life when they go back to Boston. They talk about their schedules and when they'll have time to see one another. She tells him she plans to start looking for apartments as soon as she can. She’ll stay with her brother and help with the baby until she finds one.

She gets a call from the sheriff after they've finished their breakfast, more like lunch given the time, and is informed that her nephew is on his way. She tells him that she’s going to meet him at the hospital and asks if her boyfriend can come, too.

The baby is quite cute, as newborn babies go, but what’s cuter is the look on her face when she holds him for the first time.

Killian sits in the waiting room to call Liam while she sits with her brother and sister-in-law, and he asks him to come by for Christmas Eve dinner. He also tells him that he should bring Emma along, and he hopes that she’ll agree. When they were last together, she was too afraid to meet his family. But when he brings it up to her once she’s finished visiting, she happily agrees.

Emma gets along beautifully with Elsa, and Killian can see that Liam really does try to give her a chance. Christmas Eve is special not only because he gets to spend it with the people he loves, but also because Elsa surprises all of them by revealing her pregnancy. When Liam finds out he’s to be a father, he cries.

With a promise to return for Christmas morning, they head out and back to his room at the inn, Emma claiming that the only gift she wants for Christmas is to spend the morning with him.

“So,” he says once they’re seated in the lobby with a fire roaring before them. “I’m your boyfriend?”

She hums, as if considering this, and nonchalantly says, “I guess so,” as she takes his hand and pressed a kiss to his bruised knuckles.

They sleep with her back against his chest, her hips wiggling into his every so often driving him mad with desire. But there’s an unspoken agreement between them to wait before being physical with each other again. The last time, sex was something they used to distract themselves from the things that were going wrong in their relationship. This time around, he wants it to be something more. He wants it to be about them and how much they mean to each other.

He can tell that she’s sleeping as her breathing shallows, and he reaches his hand onto her hip to hold her a bit tighter. When he does, she takes his hand and pulls him over her so that every part of them is touching. It’s perfect.

~~~~

When he wakes on Christmas morning, he’s alone. She’s tossed the sheets away so that they were folded over on top of him, and when he reaches for her pillow, it’s gone cold.

A part of him panics. Could she really leave him again? The last time, he woke and she was gone, leaving only a note that said ‘I can’t, I’m so sorry’. This time, there’s no note, and he isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not.

The difference now is that he isn’t as worried as he could be. Sure, she isn’t here, but he trusts her more now after just two days than he thinks he did for much of their relationship three years ago. So when he collapses back onto the bed, slightly worried, he finds himself also embraced by a sense of unexpected calm.

She’s opening the door just a few moments later, and he knows his face brightens by several shades once he sees her carrying a tray of drinks and pastries. A bear claw for her and a donut for him, plus a coffee and what he’s sure is a hot chocolate. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to convince Granny to sell these to me.”

He sits up in bed slightly, reaching his arm behind his head as he grins at her. “Happy Christmas, Swan.”

She places the tray on the table beside the bed and tosses her shoes off before climbing into bed and onto his lap, her legs straddling his. “Merry Christmas.”

“There are some things you just won’t be able to change, my love.”

“That’s alright,” she laughs, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his lips. “I like you the way you are.”

It’s enough, he thinks. It’s perfect.

#tw alcohol #Captain swan #captain swan fanfic #cs ff #captain swan AU #cs au #once upon a time #once upon a time fanfic #ouat ff #ouat au #dust storm au #angst #fluff #angst with a happy ending

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thebibliomancer · 2 years

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Flames of the Dark Crystal liveblog pt 26

Flames of the Dark Crystal by J.M. Lee because hey is that Rian?

Last times on book: Team Naia has lit the sixth fire of resistance with the Drenchen. As new maudra following her mom’s death, Naia leads the Drenchen warriors and half of the Drenchen healers to unite with the other Gelfling. Maudra Mera sends Landstriders to help the Drenchen cross the distance. The Drenchen, Spriton, and remains of the Stonewood join up and head to Stone-in-the-Wood to light the final fire.

Chapter 26

ALL THE FIRES HAVE BEEN LIT!

Only ruins remained of the once mighty village, lasting proof of the day Maudra Fara had declared war against the Skeksis. Naia gasped, holding back involuntary tears of emotions as she took in the crumbled houses that lay in shambles among trees blackened and spindly from fire. The only thing that looked untouched was the rise at the back of the clearing, a mound of boulders that had given Stone-in-the-Wood its name. Now it gazed across the remnants like the marker of a hundred graves.

He was where she knew he’d be. In the center of the village, sitting with a single companion in the dirt near a pyre of black stones that made up the Stonewood hearth. His cheeks were scratched and bloodied, his tunic torn. He was with a girl with pale skin and big black Grottan eyes.

Rian has had a hell of an off-page parallel adventure. I do wonder how its gone. And I know that broad strokes, its the show. The show is Rian’s adventure and the books are Naia’s. But still I wonder.

Also, he has a Grottan girl with him. I’m pretty sure I know who this is but I’ll let the book introduce her.

Which will not be for a bit. There’s Plot going on.

When Rian sees everyone approach, he seems unsure. Especially with where he stands with Maudra Fara, since she kicked him out of the village before it then got destroyed.

But he holds up the Plot sword for everyone to admire.

It was Gelfing-size and asymmetrical, a double-edged blade that reflected the light of the flames like sunlight on polished iron. This was the sacred artifact Aughra had sent Rian to find in the Tomb of Relics. The answer to their questions, the object of their many dreams, though how such an instrument of war could help them heal Thra, Naia didn’t know.

I’m amused that its not explicitly identified as the Dual Glaive.

Which makes sense. If Aughra sent Rian to find it, he may never have gotten the exposition dump from skekGra and urGoh. But what a poorer life he lives if he missed out on the puppet show.

Also, I’m pretty sure that some of that had to happen since its implied that urVa and skekMal have their showdown, hence urVa getting horribly injured.

I’m getting off topic.

Anyway, if Aughra just vaguely sent Rian to find something, no wonder he doesn’t know its name. Tomb of Relics wasn’t big on labels.

Maudra Fara apologizes to Rian for not believing him, for turning him away.

“And because I did, so did everyone else... But all that was a mistake. Now I am here, even if I may be too late.”

Rian doesn’t have anything to say to that until Grottan girl nudges him and he hugs Fara and tells her it’s never too late. Aww.

And apparently this is what it took to light the Stonewood fire of resistance. Dang, two pages into the chapter. The heroes are getting better at this.

So with the Drenchen, the fire lit when they (metaphorically) laid down their weapons and committed to resistance, to protecting Thra, and to healing the Crystal. Because their hangup that kept them from joining up was the warrior tendencies and how Laesid just super wanted to beat up some Skeksis? I think. It’s something like that.

The Stonewood fire is different. It seems more internal than external. The other clan fires were lit when the clan addressed some issue that kept them from uniting with the others. Probably? We still don’t know how the Grottan fire happened. But point being, the Stonewood clan is lit when there’s an internal reconciliation. When Rian forgives Maudra Fara.

I don’t know how that fits the pattern but maybe the pattern was in my brain.

Anyway.

The fire burned in its thousand colors, longer than it ever had before, louder with its drowning song. It reminded Naia of the dream-space that Aughra had awakened in them. So many hearts and minds, almost dreamfasted with one another, despite the distance between them. All together for the first time, in a place that had been destroyed by war. The menders, all there, listening.

Naia forced herself to breathe again, though every crackle of brilliant flame took her breath away. The warmth showered her cheeks and dazzled her eyes, the embers landing within her heart and revitalizing her. They had done it. After so long fighting with only hope as their guiding star, they had done it. The fires of the Gelfling had been lit.

The work of two books!

Onica and Tae had to convince the Sifa not to abandon continent, they had to restore the Wellspring Tree of the Dousan, Tavra had to rekindle hope in the Vapra after the death of the All-Maudra, Kylan had to sing his heart out to convince the Spriton to believe in a better future than subservience, Rian mmblegrmble Grottan, Naia recommitted to Resistance even after losing her mother, and Maudra Fara reconciled with Rian.

The last two took less effort but the Gelfling had gotten good at lighting fires by that point.

Yet unnamed Grottan girl nudges Rian and tells him speech speech speech speech.

I like how the two things she’s done so far has been to nudge Rian into gear.

And when Rian doesn’t know what to say, Naia tells him to tell his truth. This all sorta started with him being outcast and deemed a traitor but now all these Gelfling present and through fire Skype want to hear what he has to say.

“Gelfling of the Seven Clans,” he began, awkwardly at first. “My name is Rian. If you’re gazing into these fires now, then you already know what I am about to tell you. But it needs to be said, so I will say it again. And again, until I cannot say it any longer.

“The Skeksis have betrayed us. They killed the All-Maudra. Broke the Crystal and caused the darkening. Have been feeding on our essence. I was sent by Mother Aughra to retrieve this sword, foretold to hold the power to overturn the Skeksis.”

Blue flame rolled along the gleaming metal of the golden-hilted sword. As he held it before the flames for all to see, it began to ring. Quietly at first, then rising so loud it was howling, vibrating with the song, its glimmering intensifying until it blazed so white in his palm it cast their shadows long and hard across the crumbling stone walls of the village.

“The Skeksis have kept us divided for a thousand years because they fear what would happen if we were united. Because they know that it is our calling to protect Thra and the Crystal that they have corrupted. And they were right to be afraid. You, the Gelfling of the Seven Clans, have lit your fires of resistance. I stand here in Stone-in-the-Wood, at the hearth of the seventh fire. As proof of our promise that we will resist the Skeksis and heal the Crystal... not as many, but as one.”

And all seven clans cheer!

Woo!

This is spoilers, provided the unnamed, important plot sword works like it did in the show but I like the very double meaning of what someone told Rian about the sword. “Foretold to hold the power to overturn the Skeksis.”

Well, dang, bud, it sure does! Just in a different sense than the sense you’re thinking.

Also, a years snuck in there instead of trine. Took me aback but I know what was meant.

Anyway, someone always has to rain on the parade slash giant Gelfling group call and that someone is skekSo the Emperor.

Who silences the hundreds of cheering Gelfling with just the word “interesting” said as contemptuously as Skekishly possible. Which is much.

Rian questions how skekSo is poking into their giant Gelfling group call.

“How?” skekSo scoffed, the word dripping from his tongue like poison. “These fires were given to you by the Crystal of Thra, which has given itself to us. To me.”

“It didn’t give itself to you,” Naia spat into the fire. “You took it. Just as you take from it even now!”

He ignored her as if she hadn’t spoken.

Rude!

She’s the POV character!

“Rian. Rebels. Gelfling traitors,” the Skeksis bellowed. “Give up this farcical resistance. If you do not, we will crush you. All the Gelfling songs -- if any Gelfling are remaining to tell them -- will tell how you were responsible for destroying your own race. Do you understand?”

I think skekSil tried a similar argument on Rian in the show. Except skekSil was better at it and made Rian think for a hot minute that the best course of action was to just let the Skeksis do whatever they want.

Also, it happened in the middle of the journey. Here, with all the fires lit and the plot sword in hand, Rian tells skekSo that the Gelfling will rise against him until the Crystal is returned to Thra.

Which skekSo responds simply enough “We will see you soon, Rian.” And... hangs up the fire? It goes out as soon as he’s done talking.

Guess he wasn’t in the mood for a long discussion.

Geez. So much for Naia’s thought from.... ehhh some chapters ago? That the fires of resistance would allow the Gelfling to secretly organize the seven clans.

Not only can the Emperor eavesdrop on their calls, he can also extinguish the fires

They could still be useful as a misinformation campaign. Say so much plausible stuff over the fires that the Skeksis are stretched thin trying to respond to all of them. Keep the Emperor or another Skeksis busy extinguishing magical communications fires, maybe.

Except I don’t think anybody knows how to summon them on cue.

What good are you, the flames of the Dark Crystal?? So much plot ink was spilled on making each fire lit feel like an accomplishment compared to it just being a thing the sword does in the show. There’s gotta be more to it.

Naia is also bummed that it all seemed to be for naught but Amri reminds her that the effort of getting all those fires lit has united the seven clans.

The Sifa would be halfway to... wherever... by now if you hadn’t. The Dousan would be dead. The Spriton and Drenchen would be at war. The Vapra would still be firmly under the Skeksis’ thumb. The Grottan would have some situation happening to them that is less desirable then whatever situation they currently have occurring.

(I will continue to joke about how the important plot point with the Grottan happened off-page but if I had to make a guess? I would guess that the Grottan flame lighting moment corresponds to Deet making peace with the Arathim. I’ll have to see whether they show up in the battle or not. But that’s my best guess.)

Despite this probably being Maudra Mera’s worst nightmare, she’s calm. The Gelfling did what Thra tasked them with. If there’s any follow up, Thra can let the Gelfling know.

Practical Maudra Fara even suggests that since there’s nothing they can do about the fires not being password protected, they should focus on what they can affect. Like making a stand at Stone-in-the-Wood.

It’ll be great symbolism.

Also, sure the Skeksis know they’re there. But that means they know the Skeksis will be coming there. Plus, every Gelfling clan has already been told that Stone-in-the-Wood is the place and there’s no way to contact them all to reschedule.

It’s gotta be Stone-in-the-Wood.

With Rian’s experience as a castle guard, he estimates that if the Skeksis left immediately and took armalig carriages, they could arrive at Stone-in-the-Wood in a day. But since they drank all the help, they’ll need to get prepared for battle without any help, which will give the Gelfling more time to prepare.

Potentially undone by their own ravenous, vampiricesque thirst.

Naia comes up with a plan. Or the outline of a plan. Lets say a task list.

She and the other Drenchen healers will heal the Stonewood refugees who are not in great shape overall.

Rian and Gurjin, experienced castle guards, will brief the warriors on what kind of armor the Skeksis wear and how they can use the terrain to Gelfling advantage.

There’s several dozen warriors, spread out over Drenchen, Spriton, and Stonewood. Naia reflects that number had been enough against one Skeksis, skekSa in the Sog. But the Emperor is going to bring friends.

(Granted, most of them aren’t as fighty as skekSa.)

Amri interrupts Naia’s doom spiral to introduce her to Rian’s Grottan girl who, yes!, is Deet!

Hi, Deet!

Last stretch of the last book and you managed to make it in!

You are a very important character in the show so I was wondering if you’d show up.

As in the show, Deet has brought not just her Rian inspiring powers but also her love of explosives. She is making a PILE of bombs which cheers Naia up nicely.

Naia next goes looking for Rian, who is on a break from discussing strategy with all the warriors.

She wants to talk to him, get him to agree not to kill any of the Skeksis. He guesses its because of their link to the Mystics but Naia has prepared a more involved answer.

“Yes, but not just that. The Skeksis have divided the Gelfling and pitted us against one another for a thousand trine. Just like you said. They did it to keep us weak. But the weakness came not just from being broken apart, but from the rivalry it caused. The corruption of the Crystal is because of its wound and the missing shard, and that wound has been deepened by the hatred and greed and fear of the Skeksis. They want us fighting -- against them or against each other, it doesn’t matter. But we can’t give in to that.”

Rian curled his lip in, eyes going far away. “So they’ll come here and we’ll be martyred.”

“No,” Naia said. “But that’s our challenge. To stand before them and to prove we are stronger. That we can persevere. To do all that without succumbing to the darkness in our hearts, and without losing our lives.”

“I hear what you’re saying, Naia, but it’s just...” He shook his head, eyes locking on to the sword. “Aughra sent me to find that, you know? A sword. A weapon. What else is there to do with a weapon but harm?”

Hmmm, I don’t quite get it.

I know No Kill Challenge Run is the moral stand the story is taking. I can understand it when it’s the Mystics’ lives at stake.

Of course, that raises the question of how many lives their lives are worth.

But the argument that killing the Skeksis will worsen the corruption of the Crystal or corrupt the Gelfling with darkness or whatever, I don’t really follow on that.

I also don’t really get the idea that the Skeksis want the Gelfling to be fighting them. The Skeksis don’t subsist on conflict. Except in being gluttons for drama. They kept the Gelfling divided and suspicious of each other because it made them easier to control, prevented them from uniting against the Skeksis.

Maybe when Naia almost got eaten by the Crystal, she should have had an epiphany that rejoining the Skeksis and the Mystics was in some way necessary to heal the Crystal.

Sure, it’d come out of nowhere but it’s a humdinger of an argument against killing the Skeksis even if you were willing to sacrifice the urRu in the process. Plus, it fits in with other stuff Naia has been saying throughout the book, about how going to war with the Skeksis is contrary to healing the Crystal which is what should really be focused on.

Ah well.

Later on at night, Kylan replays his greatest hit, the ballad of the Gelfling Gathering, for the Drenchen and Stonewood who didn’t get to hear it the first time.

Naia marvels at how the first time, the song seemed just a sweet dream but now it has all come true.

Good songwriting, best boy!

Naia is prepared to work all through the night but Amri tells her that there’s no sense being exhausted when the Skeksis show up. Especially since she’s going to be leading. As a maudra. Naia.

“I’m not sure I can sleep even if I try.”

“Even if you can’t, at least give your body a rest. Just for a little bit. Come on.”

He held out his hand, and Naia realized she couldn’t say no.

They found a bed of moss below a tree on the border of the village ground. The stars were out and were it not for the ghostly silhouettes of the collapsed buildings all around, it might have seemed like any other night in the Dark Wood. They sat together, and Amri fluffed his cloak on his knee.

“I’ll keep an eye out in this dark for you, and I promise to wake you if anything stirs.”

Naia had never laid her head in a boy’s lap before, but it was surprisingly comfortable. His cloak smelled like fresh earth, familiar and soft. She closed her eyes when she felt his hand rest upon her shoulder. Thra’s endless turning seemed to slow, the rest of the world and all her worries vanishing. There were no Skeksis here. No darkening between them. For once, it was just the two of them, and in the safety of that moment, she fell asleep.

Aww, cute moment.

Cute calm before the storm.

#dark crystal #the dark crystal #Flames of the Dark Crystal #liveblog #Naia #Amri #Kylan #Gurjin #the titular flames #Maudra Mera #Maudra Fara #Rian #Deet #HI DEET!#skekSo #the Emperor

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drops-of-jupiter-on-a-ravenclaw · 3 years

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Queer!Sam headcanon

So basically Sam always knew he was different from Dean in how he views people and relationships. In college, he learns about different labels and has a bit of a moment when he realizes that that's the thing he felt that made him different

He doesn't find the label that fits him best but he knows he is more than open to being in a relationship with a man. He's just content to have figured it out so he can feel more normal about it. Anyways, he has Jess and he loves her so it doesn't matter much.

Only that before he knows it, he doesn't have Jess anymore. She accepted and loved him and he doesn't think he'll ever be that happy again. So he's back on the road with his brother. His brother who doesn't know.

He still doesn't have a label and he is so caught up in his grief for Jess that saying anything to Dean would just be unnecessary and complicated. So he doesn't.

And they are on the road for a while. It's just easier for him to pick up women as it is, he tells himself. It doesn't help that he still doesn't have any experience with men and it feels kinda late to start now. (He knows Jess would call him a dumbass for thinking that way. He misses her.)

Anyways, he doesn't look stereotypically queer and only rarely gets a second look from some gay guys who must have outstanding gaydars. He always freezes before he can smile back.

Dean only notices on a subconscious level. He even makes fun of Sam by calling him gay for being too emotional. Sam almost laughs every time, he's not emotional cause he's gay. He's in touch with his emotions because he had to do a lot of soul-searching to figure out that he's gay. So yeah, Dean is spot on and oblivious at the same time because Sam doesn't fit his image of 'queer', he never really sees it.

This goes on for ages. Sam had already resigned himself to never saying anything about that part of himself when they get a case in the middle of nowhere and run into a guy Sam knows from College. Worse than that, a guy who was in the lgbt group he and Jess joined for a few meetings. A guy with dimples and a smile to die for who is smart enough to give Sam a run for his money.

Naturally, Dean won't stop teasing him for freezing up when the guy talks to them while simultaneously thinking it's probably just because Sam is embarrassed that he never actually finished law school.

Meanwhile the guy, let's call him Sebastian, is just delighted to see Sam again and won't stop talking to him, no flirting with him, Sam realizes. Dean is having a field day just watching the whole interaction and Sam is praying to the universe itself that Sebastian won't accidentally out him.

Thankfully the guy wasn't in Stanford for nothing and gets the hint. He doesn't out Sam, but he keeps flirting to keep him on edge. At first, Sam kind of resents him for what he represents.

They keep working the case, Sam wants to skip town as quickly as possible but he also kind of doesn't which is objectively worse. Dean won't leave him the fuck alone and he is really not having a good time anymore. Everything about him he had buried a while ago threatens to rise. They just keep running into Sebastian who is working on their case but as a lawyer. He suspects something is up and keeps trying to follow them.

Sam is torn between wanting to see him and wanting him gone, flattered by the attention and uncomfortable with it. Once, Sebastian catches him alone and asks him why he doesn't want to come out to Dean. He assures Sam that living as one's true self is always better, even if it's complicated sometimes. And Sam believes it because he knows it's true. He doesn't get a chance to answer because Dean interrupts them but now Sebastian is firmly on his mind and won't leave.

The case turns a little heated, law enforcement figures out that they aren't actually cops. Sebastian is there as they get questioned. He suspects that something weird is going on and manages to request a minute alone with the brothers.

He wants to hear them out on a gut feeling, even though he doesn't really trust them anymore. He also still flirts with Sam despite not having gotten a response so far. Only that now there is a certain bite behind it rather than the usual charm because he does think that Sam might be guilty despite not wanting to believe it.

Only that then, Sam has officially had enough for the week. He sits up straight and holds eye contact, and he flirts back.

Dean's jaw is practically on the floor at this point. Sebastian just gets kinda pissed off that after all his chances Sam chooses to take him up on it now of all times. It's enough to make him listen to Sam who swears they are innocent and that they can prove it. The Cop hears the last part as he walks back into the room and is visibly not impressed.

Sebastian believes him enough to call in a couple of favors though, he gets them out temporarily and swears he'll lock them back up if they can't prove their innocence but Sam just genuinely thanks him and doesn't react to any show of emotion, again.

They drive to the crime scene. The entire time Sam hears Dean's comments from the police station ring through his head. 'The one time you are the one to flirt us out of a situation and its with a dude. Seriously don't you feel kinda dirty?' He had said it jokingly enough, mostly trying to stifle his awe at Sam's sheer audacity and the ridiculousness of their situation.

But it hadn't made Sam feel bad. Like at all. The fact that Sebastian trusted him enough to give them that chance left him feeling warm and fuzzy even though the man's expression at the moment was anything but.

It had felt good to answer rather than just permit what was happening to him, it had felt good to see Dean's smug expression knocked off his face, it had felt good to say what he'd been thinking since they first ran into Sebastian. And if Sebastian looked just the slightest bit flustered in his surprise then that was just another bonus.

"Handcuffs look good on you, Sam. It's a shame the circumstances aren't different or I'd appreciate the view a lot more."

"Well, I'd say let's have dinner first but as you can see, I'm a bit tied up at the moment. If you get us out of here, however, I think you could enjoy more than just the view."

He wasn't entirely sure what had possessed him but he didn't regret it. Dean seemed to have decided it was a purely tactical move on Sam's part and Sam was okay with that. Though obviously it just added fuel to Deans teasing. His suggestive comments reaching new heights, no matter how murderous a glare Sam shoots him.

Finally, they get back to the crime scene but the monster is there too. They are just done explaining their proof to a skeptical Sebastian when it attacks again. Obviously, a desperate and bloody fight ensues. The thing attacks Sam and Sebastian shoots it, which just makes it angry. It turns to attack him instead, Dean tries to stop it and gets thrown around. At the very last second, Sam figures out what to do and kills the thing (by, idk, stabbing it with the bone of a previous victim?)

Whatever happened in the blur of the fight, by the end of it they all are thoroughly shaken. Sebastian got hurt pretty badly and Sam ends up half carrying him outside. Dean got away with a sprained ankle, he and Sam were both covered in scratches and bruises though. Naturally, Dean jokes right away that Sam should start thinking of ways to make what happened up to Sebastian, Sam just shoots him a look.

Once they had brought a safe distance between them and the chaos, Sebastian had started to feel better. He thanks them but he also demands further explanations, this time they give him full truth. He is also still clinging to Sam, going for more physical contact than necessary even though he stopped with the flirting. Sam just lets him and quietly figures that the guy won't be interested in him anymore after what happened. He lets himself enjoy the closeness while it lasts.

Dean is watching them with an unreadable expression but he doesn't call Sam out on it. After a while of just sitting in his car with them in the backseat, he starts to get uncomfortable with all of their staring. He asks Sebastian where they should drop him off and quickly makes it clear that he intends to skip town early the next morning. Sam feels dread settle over him.

They reach Sebastian's place and watch him get out. The car door had just closed behind him when Dean made one last joke, telling Sam to kiss his damsel in distress goodnight before they move on. Similar to how he felt in the police station, Sam has had enough. His jaw tenses and the last of his resolve melts away. Dean will just have to deal, he decides.

With one last glare at his brother, he gets out of the car in a split second and decides to do just that. He stops Sebastian just a few steps further down the sidewalk. His brain hasn't really caught up to what he is about to do just yet, stuck again on what Sebastian had said about being true to oneself and on how pretty the man's sharp features look under the streetlight as he glances up at Sam, eyes wide with surprise.

"I don't want to hide anymore," Sam blurts out. Quickly followed by, "I'm sorry I didn't flirt back sooner, for what it's worth, I really really wanted to." That earns him the biggest smile he could have hoped for and before he knows what's going on, he is being kissed by soft lips and his hands are pulling somebody elses' suit jacket closer to him. It's soft and desperate at the same time, they both still have blood on their faces and fear in their bones and it's perfect.

Just as Sam finds himself thinking how well worth the wait this was and how he never wants it to end, somebody presses down on their car's horn. Hard. He sighs and pulls away, already knowing it's Dean who is having his world view flipped. Sam refuses to feel bad.

Foreheads resting against one another, Sebastian asks him to come inside with him. Sam agrees.

Fighting the urge to flip off his brother as they approach the house, he shoots him a self-satisfied smirk over his shoulder instead. There's still time to face the consequences in the morning, he decides.

It's more than just a momentary attraction though, this man is somebody who understands Sam, who knew Jess. Weirdly enough, he thinks Jess would have approved.

He thinks about how Jess always swore bookclub was boring and went every week anyways. He thinks about how Sebastian did the same, up until Jess died he knows now, insisting that it was no fun without her sarcastic commentary. Sebastian didn't mention how he still can't pick up a copy of pride and prejudice without tearing up.

He thinks about how they had so much in common back at Stanford and how much his life has changed since then, but he hasn't changed. Not in the ways that had made them connect in the first place at least.

That's probably another reason for him to go with Sebastian. Had it just been anybody, he would have let it all slide in favor of not coming out to Dean but it's been too long since he felt a connection with anybody. Something tells him Sebastian feels the same and he wonders how the other mans life has changed, if he too sometimes felt like nobody knew him.

When you fight one apocalypse after the next, there is no need to discuss whether you prefer reading Hemmingway or Wilde. But that was what Sam has always wanted, the privilege and freedom of having genuine discussions about trivial things and essentially the time to care about them.

Of course Dean knew him, they knew each other, they'd go to the end of the world for each other. They just don't have particularly much in common beyond that. If he attempts to discuss books with Dean, he will get smacked over the head with the book he's talking about. And really he can't even blame Dean for not having the energy it takes to pretend to care. It's just how their lives are but Sam can still want something more.

He texts Dean to pick him up in the morning and quickly loses his jacket, eager to get his hands back on everything he knows he can't have.

It wasn't until almost fifteen minutes later as Sebastian was pushing him down on his mattress (with the lights on and in perfect view of the window, he realized the next morning) that he heard the rumble of the Impalas engine as it left the driveway behind. Then and there, he really didn't give a damn.

________________________________________

(Part two coming soon)

Part two will focus on Deans reaction and the morning after btw

I know there is only a really small fanbase for this kind of ficlet but damn I had fun writing it. No wonder it's much longer than it was supposed to be *sigh*. Feedback is more than welcome!

#queer!sam #sam winchester #sam winchester x male oc #sam winchester x oc #dean winchester #spn hcs #spn headcanon #ficlet #i tried

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wantlongera · 5 years

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@elastixhearts asked: ‘ you can lie , but i know that you’re not fine . ’ ( FROM VI )

❝ i don’t know what you’re talking about, honey, ❞ oh, but she does ! ‘cross a fog ( enough to cover the pacific across california’s coast ) and buried deep, deep beneath MOUNDS of dirt: the bride is an unhappy spirit. not as miserable as her other company within the home, no, but is ANYONE that pretends to be joyful, all the time, day in and day out, is not truly happy ? she will never admit it, of course. to admit it is the let the layers crack, to lift the fog and face the truth within herself. that is a reality dolores cannot bear -- so she hides in MAKE-BELIEVE instead, of a time long gone by; ❝ i’m as happy as a clam. ❞

#⊱ ❛ the sacrificial lamb ❜ main: ghost verse .#elastixhearts #⊱ ❛ the label is torn and bloodied ❜ answered .

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jeoseungsaja · 3 years

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Who is the lonely guardian?

The wind would ask and centuries would answer. Ages riddled with stories; tales of hushed whispers. Some would describe him with thrill, practically enamored with the idea of a cursed hero; whilst others would tremble by the concept alone. A deity, once human; given power by the bloody sword which accompanied him to dense battlefield. A General, once fervently loyal, betrayed by words that were sharper than the fatal stab of his first and last death.

He hadn’t heard the stories until later on, amid merchants who’d attract customers by spilling ancient legends of fantastic creatures; mythological entities that were seen as fascinating yet intimidating. He’d deem them all lies; words to attract a few trades, empty sentences that didn’t even apply to him, regardless of being nothing but a nine-tailed fox. Amusing, how some souls were so greedy, they’d bleed lies as to tranquilize their craving.

Who is the Goblin roaming Earth, as to end his punishment?

Yeo didn’t think too much of it. All the stories, all the torn pages; all the voices that’d distort narrative as to make it more appealing. Yeo didn’t think too much of it, no...not until diegesis started to follow him almost everywhere as time passed by. He’d constantly collide with Dokkaebi’s history, in one way or the other; dismissive at first, but later inquisitive, especially when a creature of yore told him descriptions others would not.

‘Why are you telling me this?’ Gumiho asked once upon a time, for Bonghwang came to him so out of the blue; sitting nearby only to spill the legendary story of a man who turned into a Goblin out of God’s whim; the prayers of his people flooding their ears, enough to bring both virtue and jinx.

‘I don't know,’ phoenix answered, ‘I do that all the time. The stories come to me at a specific time, sometimes with specific people, like yourself, hoping one day, they'll make sense.'

And it didn’t make sense. It didn’t, not at all...until he met him.

Him, the lonely guardian. Him, the Goblin roaming Earth. Him, Kim Shin.

Who is Kim Shin?

The wind would ask again, and Yeo would answer this time. He’d answer, because the stories told are simply too short, too meaningless, too meager, compared to who Kim Shin really is. He is not just sword and curse; he’s not the dull meaning of crimson nor a vile traitor. Wang Yeo would know this, and he’d scream it if need to, for Dokkaebi cannot be labeled a curse; he cannot be classified as ashes that were once important but now have faded as to become walking fable.

He is spring in the middle of winter. He is flame when all candles have dwindled. He is rain when the lands are dry and eclipse when the sky’s too colorless. He is light that rescues from death; saving grace when chaos arises. He’s everything others say he isn’t; he’s a contradiction that’s worth understanding. He’s the one who’d wait a million years when time is so infinite for him; the one who’d express a thousand stories just by a glance alone. He’s soft hands despite tough feats; kind eyes despite sadness in them. He’s all this and much more. And this, this doesn’t come from empty words, or tales to enchant others.

This comes from heart; a heart that’s been conquered by this guardian most call lonely, a heart that fervently wishes to change that, a heart that’s pressed boldly upon his palms, as to reassure him he is no longer by himself.

This comes from Wang Yeo, a sinful gumiho who feels virtuous when being by his side.

This comes from me, to Kim Shin.

Sword and ash is not what you are, you’re the blue flame that’s swallowed my heart.

@mythvoiced :3c

#Me: I HAVE A SMALL BREAK I SHOULD DO DRAFTS #Also me: writes this instead #I------#does this even make sense I feel I just blURTED OUT stuff---#have this small love letter (because he could...go on) of Yeo to Shin g'bye #LENA I HOPE IT'S OKAY THAT I TAGGED YOU IN THIS BECAUSE...WELL...#THERE'S NO OTHER KIM SHIN BUT YOUR WONDROUS PORTRAYAL #THANK YOU HAVE A GOOD DAY #gotta go back to real life shenanigans---#♔ || sword and ash is not what you are; you're the blue flame that's swallowed my heart (kim shin / verse four).#♔ || verse four.

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yamisnuffles · 4 years

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Let Them Eat Crepes

Crowley suffers through Aziraphale eating crepes after the rescue at the Bastille.

Rated M. Read on Ao3

A very silly thing written as a gift for @racketghost to hopefully bring her some cheer. - - - - -

When Crowley had taken up residence in Paris, it hadn’t been to play host to a fussy angel with a death wish. He’d thought of the angel. Of course he had. Any time through history when he kept a room with a bed, he took some time to imagine said angel in said bed. But Paris was a nightmare and he was only there to keep up appearances, maybe scrape up the occasional detail for a report. He hadn’t thought Aziraphale would ever actually appear. Not in the middle of a bloody revolution. Certainly not dressed like that.

“What good fortune they offer crepes at the very same inn where you are keeping a room,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley sipped at his cider. It was supposed to pair well with the crepes. Not that he was eating any himself, despite having ordered food. Somehow his plates always ended up in front of Aziraphale.

“Yeah, fortunate.”

Aziraphale wiggled in his seat and speared another bite on his fork. “And such good ones, too.”

He punctuated the statement with a moan that sent Crowley’s blood on a trip south. He took a much larger gulp of cider. Alcohol tended to at least postpone the inevitable reaction to watching the angel eat. At this rate, he’d probably be better off asking for a whole cask. They were only two plates in and hadn’t yet reached the cruelest part of any meal.

Crowley was fairly certain Aziraphale resented the creation of forks. Sure, he would use them, but there always came a moment in any meal when he abandoned his utensils in favor of more natural options. Whether it was licking the last bit of broth from a bowl or chasing some spot of cream with his fingers, it happened without fail and it was hell. Literal hell. Well, maybe not literal but Crowley thought it came close to anything they’d come up with Downstairs.

He was, at present, using a torn off scrap of crepe to sop up a bit of golden yolk. He swept the delicate pastry across the plate and let it drag through gooey Gruyère that clung to his thumb and forefinger. Once this process was complete, he would pop it all into his mouth with a moan and suck his fingers clean. He continued on with a single minded focus until the plate was absolutely spotless and Crowley was on the edge of breaking his tightly clenched jaw.

Aziraphale stopped short of putting the final bite in his mouth and looked up at Crowley, as if only just remembering he wasn’t alone. “I know you said you didn’t want any, but maybe just a taste? It really was divine.”

He held out that final scrap on the tip of glistening fingers, as though he expected Crowley to simply nip it away.

Hell. It was hell and Crowley was going to die.

He licked his lips. “Nah. No. M’fine.” He coughed and looked at the empty bottom of his mug. He considered getting more but he needed more than just alcohol at that point. “I’ve got a few good bottles in my room. How about we head up there.”

Aziraphale ate the rejected scrap of food and licked away the grease that had coated his fingers as he held it. “But I haven’t finished yet,” he said with a frown. “It would be a shame to go through all that nasty business at the Bastille without at least eating my fill.”

Wide blue eyes drifted toward the kitchen and then back at Crowley, widening further as they went. Eyebrows lifted up. A bottom lip made its appearance and wobbled for good measure. It really was a marvel, looking back, that it had taken Crowley so long to suggest Aziraphale take on temptations. The angel was a natural at it.

Crowley ran his tongue over the sharp edges of his teeth and considered his options. “Ehhh, it’ll be fine. They’ll bring the food up.” They might not know why, but given they’d only started offering crepes an hour ago, it was hardly the most confusing thing they’d been through that day. “We can finish up in my room.”

“Oh, good.” It was clear the moment Aziraphale was appeased because his pout was instantly replaced by a smile. “Well then, lead the way.”

Crowley risked a surreptitious glance downward that he hoped his glasses blocked from view. Despite the growing tension in his abdomen, it didn’t look like his trousers were in a state to give him away. If he walked a little oddly, he had to hope Aziraphale was too focused on the promise of future crepes to notice.

When they got up to Crowley’s room, Aziraphale gave it all an appraising look. He wrinkled his nose at one of the chairs, removed his hat, and used it to wipe the offending furniture off before he took a seat. “Charming place you have here.”

Crowley shrugged with as much disinterest as he could physically muster and went into the small bedroom off the main room. The wardrobe had been repurposed as a wine cabinet. “Doesn’t need to be charming. I’m a demon. It’s supposed to be dark and dank and gloomy,” he called back as he ran his fingers over the labels of some of the wine he’d liberated from now deceased nobles. He grabbed two bottles of Chardonnay and glasses for the both of them and, after a moment of chewing on his lip, a bottle of Champagne. “Besides, not like I’m planning on staying much longer.”

When he returned, he found two large platters of crepes had been delivered. Aziraphale had a fork in hand but seemed unable to decide which to sample first. He settled on one dusted in sugar with sliced lemons on top. His lips puckered slightly around the lemon before relaxing back to a smile. Crowley wanted to lick into his mouth and see if the tartness of the lemon remained or if it would be all Aziraphale. Instead he uncorked a bottle with his teeth and drank a hearty swig of Chardonnay.

“If dark and dank is what you were going for,” Aziraphale said, “then well done, my dear. It’s good to hear you won’t be lingering, though.”

Crowley swallowed down more wine. Between that and all the cider before, he could feel his limbs loosening. He stretched out his legs, forgetting why he’d been keeping them crossed in the first place. “Not much more to do here, really. Can only write, ‘the humans have chopped off more heads’ so many times. Got my commendation, anyway. Might as well head out before Downstairs starts expecting something new and exciting.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Seems prudent.”

He picked up a stray slice of lemon, dabbed it in sugar, licked it clean, and then did it all over again again. Crowley watched the whole thing, entirely enraptured, especially when Aziraphale’s thick, pink tongue would make an appearance to remove any lingering sugar from his lips. Warmth that had nothing to do with the copious amounts of alcohol Crowley had imbibed settled firmly between his legs. His feet had wandered dangerously close to enemy territory. He pulled them back and threw one foot over a knee in an attempt to disguise the growing tenting in his trousers.

“Those worth losing your head over?” he asked, nodding his head toward the food.

Aziraphale took the bottle from Crowley and poured himself a glass. “Sometimes you miss life’s little pleasures and you have to take a risk to get what you want.”

Pink blossomed high on his cheeks. Crowley tilted his head.

“But death? For crepes?”

Aziraphale smiled around another bite. “Yes, well, it would have only been discorporation and they’re really rather good, if a bit clueless.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Are we still talking about crepes?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer beyond a small huff of laughter. Silence settled in while he continued on eating. Crowley was certain he was missing something but he was too distracted by the sight in front of him to think straight.

It was odd to see the angel in red. Some secret part buried deep in his chest liked it, loved the message of rebellion that it shouted to the world. He'd never admit to it but, as much as he liked it, he'd loved every last gold thread on the absurd outfit that had come before. He could still see heavy manacles around delicate, lace covered wrists. He could practically feel the ghost of curved calves wrapped in sumptuous stockings. His fingers ached from the memory of feet clad in ostentatious silk. How he'd wanted to take it all off, piece by ridiculous piece.

And there Aziraphale was before him, with a view of the bed just beyond. Maybe he would wear those chains again. Or, better yet, perhaps he’d put himself entirely in Crowley’s hands. Crowley could spread him out on the mattress and peel it all away until only pale skin and paler hair remained.

Aziraphale dropped his fork with a clatter. “Oh.”

Crowley’s eyes widened. It wasn’t just that he could imagine it all perfectly, Aziraphale really was back in all his finery. Only, it wasn’t identical to what he’d been wearing before. Gold had been replaced by silver and a vein of deep scarlet ran through the embroidery on the sleeve.

“Well, that was certainly frivolous of me,” Aziraphale said, oblivious to Crowley’s growing distress, “but Heaven can hardly fault me if I didn’t mean to do it. I had been thinking about how much nicer silk was against the skin but… no, I certainly don’t remember actually willing it back.”

“Right, unhhhh—” Crowley’s voice came out as a choked squeak. He opened another bottle and, in a maneuver not recommended to those without demonic serpentine attributes, downed half of it in one tremendous gulp. He tried not to consider the way the angel’s eyes were trained on his neck as he ran the back of his hand across wine stained lips. “Sometimes these things just happen. You know. No use worrying about it. No one will see you here, so just eat the rest of your crepes.”

The corners of Aziraphale’s mouth tugged down slightly. “If you’re impatient to be somewhere, don’t let me keep you.”

“Not impatient just…” Crowley switched the cross of his legs in search of some relief. He had to use one hand to still the other in order to keep from palming away the ever building tension. “You know.”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I do. Are you alright, my dear? You seem uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, I’m, er…” Crowley tugged at his collar. It was too tight. He could feel himself swallowing and every swallow sent his mind elsewhere. “Hot. Should probably open the windows.” He was halfway to his feet when he remembered why getting to his feet under Aziraphale’s watchful gaze was probably not the best idea. It didn’t seem likely the angel would be secretly ecstatic to find out that he was hopelessly hard just from watching him eat. “Actually, nah. Would need to open the curtains and with your clothes… best to keep things shut. I’ll be fine. Really. Get back to your crepes. You said it yourself, it would be a shame not to finish after everything you did to get them.”

Aziraphale picked at his final crepe. His whole body melted with a moan as soon as it touched his tongue. All the while, his eyes were still locked on Crowley.

“Oh, but it wasn’t just me who went through a lot for these.” He carefully cut another portion of crepe and nudged the sliced tip of a strawberry onto it. He then swirled it through a cloud of rich cream and held up the fork. “Strawberries and whipped cream. Try a bite. For your troubles.”

The whipped cream lost its structure against the warm crepe. A rivulette of white travelled down the length of the fork and onto Aziraphale’s fingers. Crowley licked his lips. He couldn’t possibly take that bite or he would never be able to stop. But Aziraphale was looking at him so expectantly and he couldn’t think of a good reason to refuse.

He leaned forward and took the fork into his mouth. It was alright, as food went, but he barely registered the taste. He was far too focused on the way his cock pressed to his stomach when he was bent forward. And then there was proximity of those white, sticky fingers. His head swam with visions of grabbing Aziraphale by the wrist and licking the cream away.

It was all a mouthful too far. He’d tried. He really had. His eyes shut as a desperate groan tore up from his throat and his trousers became a mirror of Aziraphale’s fingers, wet and sticky and warm. He wasn’t sure he could bear to open his eyes again. He fell back into his seat and dared to crack open one eye.

Aziraphale was smiling. “I told you it was good.” He pushed the plate forward. “Would you like to share the rest?”

Crowley sighed and leaned his head back. “Nah, you eat it. I’m good for at least a couple more hours.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #fic #my writing #racketghost

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